The Dollhouse

The Dollhouse

Noel Laflin

9-11-14

Breakfast was a feast consisting of bacon and eggs, toast with orange marmalade jam, sliced tomatoes, hash browns, sausages, orange juice, and hot coffee.  

“Eat hearty.” Will said, cracking a half dozen more eggs on the griddle. “Hard climb today.  Beverly’s going to pack some sandwiches for lunch up there.  Bring extra water - you’ll need it.” 

An hour later, Will led the four of us a quarter mile downstream from camp and pointed up at a steep dry wash leading to the escarpment high above – a stretch along the Colorado River near Spanish Bottom, Canyonlands.  The vista of tall, silent stone sentries far above us was known as the Dollhouse.  

He and Beverly led off.  We picked our way carefully over and around giant boulders and slid backwards on slippery patches of loose gravel and baseball- sized rocks.  Intrepid guide and girlfriend unintentionally loosened stones of all sizes, which came tumbling our way.  A sudden shout from above usually gave me time to signal to Jeremy to scramble out of the way of the mini-landslide.  Dust would settle and the climb continued.  Will led the way, ever upward, like some kind of stealthy Indian guide.  The warm sun enticed us to remove shirts and tank tops and take frequent water breaks.  Jeremy had done in half of his water before we even crested the ridge.  I warned him that peanut butter sandwiches would be hard to swallow without fluids at lunchtime.  He sadly capped his canteen and pushed on.  Within the hour we had reached a semi-level plateau. 

Crossing this area we came to a twenty-foot-high wall of rock, which seemed to run on forever.  Will walked purposefully to one shadowed section of this barrier, turned sideways and disappeared. Beverly did likewise.  A three-foot-wide fissure perfectly split the rock for some fifty or sixty feet.  We could see the other two half way down this strange stone tunnel, daylight clearly visible at the other end.  With Egyptian-like moves, we entered the secret door.  Some terrific force of nature had split this giant slab of rock.

  

On the other side of this lay a magnificent plain.  Small caves dotted the walls, some at ground level, others six, ten or twelve feet up the rock’s surface.   

“These are burial caves,” Will informed us. 

We followed our guide for some distance while he checked his bearings.  A small cave was perfectly hidden by shrub and shadows.  We knelt down while Will sifted through the fine sand.  He pointed to an ancient sleeping mat, meticulously woven and although fragile, in remarkable shape.  Shards of pottery were also buried in the sand, as was a beautiful white arrowhead.

“This weapon is old, pre-Anasazi,” he said.  “Maybe fifteen hundred-to-two thousand years old,” Will continued.  “Not sure how it got here, as this type of rock is not natural to the area.  I found it buried with the other things a year ago.”   We left the mystery to the shadows and moved on respectfully.

We spent the better part of the next two hours exploring every nook and cranny which gave even the slightest indication that it could be a new treasure trove of some sort. Sun-bleached logs had been placed against some of the walls and used as makeshift ladders in order to peer into some of the highest caves and former crypts.  We had the entire valley to ourselves (as well as whatever spirits still lurked about).  As it neared lunchtime, Will led us on to a large cliff dwelling that commanded a terrific view of the surrounding countryside.  It was an ancient home, still containing crude grain bins and bricked-off sleeping rooms.  It was a perfect sanctuary by which to hide from the sun, sit, eat and imagine.

                                                  

 After lunch, Beverly brought forth a little mother nature tightly rolled. She lit it and passed it about.  The four of us became spiritually enhanced as we stared at the river below and a range of mountains far off in the distance.  Time was on a new continuum it seemed.

Dark clouds had moved in during our break and the wind began to pick up.  Will said a storm was moving in fast and that it was time to head back.  We would return to camp by way of a different route, he added.  As long as it did not involve narrow crevices through which to squeeze, I was in full favor of the new path. 

I looked at Jeremy through bloodshot eyes. He had a very happy grin spread across his face.  He was signing and finger spelling to himself.  Reality was a little goofy at this point for both the deaf and the hearing.

So down and down we trotted.  The wind was growing fiercer by the second.  Fine sand from the river was nearly blinding.  Tiny shards stung both skin and eyes.  It was hard to breathe without chocking on the flying grit. We removed head and sweat bandannas and covered our faces.  We took on the look of river-rat bandits.  I grabbed Jeremy’s hand and ran with him down the trail of switchbacks.  I had seen neither hide-nor-hair of our two companions for a bit now.  But as I felt that I was in some sort or primitive time warp, I did not care.  I only prayed that we were on the right trail. Flying sand and fresh rain was obscuring our view.  It was one hell of a blind run. We were laughing despite it all.

 “This is living," I screamed above the howl of the wind to my deaf companion.  He looked at me, questioningly, not comprehending my masked lips.

“Live and remember!” I signed.  He smiled and nodded.  We fled down the trail into the raging sand storm. 

Post Script: 

Some twenty-five years later I found myself on the very same trail. My sixteen-year-old daughter was my companion for the week - along with a host of other river rats testing the limits of Cataract Canyon.

When we had pulled into Spanish Bottom to break for lunch, I had talked the group into making the climb.  I was the last one up the steep trail once more.  

As we headed back to the rafts, the wind picked up and a storm suddenly blew in.  Rain pelted us as we ran down the trail.

"I remember!" I slowly signed to myself - and smiled.