Monument Valley
Some say that the Monument Valley area on the Arizona/Utah border is so arid and desolate as to be worthless. Nevertheless, as I sit on the narrow rock ledge more than a hundred feet above the valley floor, I cannot help but be awed by the stark beauty and majesty of this land. Far below me a lone Navajo in dirty work-worn blue jeans, a red plaid shirt wearing a beat-up, sweat-stained straw hat watches patiently over a flock of sheep as they search for the almost nonexistent vegetation upon which to graze. Around the flock several dogs chase after sheep that wander too far from the rest. Farther away, across the valley, The Mittens rise out of the valley floor like huge red rock hands reaching for the azure desert sky. Below them can be seen the occasional dust cloud following the car of a tourist here to see the splendor of this ancient valley. Too few realize that, while this valley can be seen from their car, it cannot be truly experienced surrounded by metal, glass and noise. To the left, Elephant Butte stands defiantly against the ravages of time, its pocked, reddish brown rock face showing evidence of centuries of wind, dust and rain. Across the valley from Elephant Butte stands the Three Sisters, a very fragile looking rock formation with three delicate rock spires rising out of it like the unequal tines of a giant fork silhouetted against the Southwestern sky. They seem far too fragile to stand against the elements, and yet, at the same time, too regal to fall.
Man is the intruder here in a land that God created to His scale. The awesome size of the formations makes me feel very small and fragile indeed. It is easy to look out at the Valley and see why legend says that the Gods used the mesa tops as steppingstones when they walked the earth.
There is timelessness here, for this land has remained virtually unchanged since long before man walked upon the earth. Looking out over the timeworn landscape it is quite easy to forget the transformations done by man to so much of the earth. As dramatically as some things in the world have changed, this valley remains the same, stubbornly defying mans’ “progress,” a mute testament to the unyielding power of nature.
As I settle back against the cool, rough rock face behind me, I'm startled by how loud the sound of my own movement seems in the overwhelming quiet of this land. The only sounds are the mournful bleating of the sheep and the occasional bark of a sheepdog diligently doing his job, even the faint breeze I can feel on my face makes no sound. Overhead, a lone hawk glides effortlessly on the air currents as silently as its shadow ghosting across the valley floor. White puffy clouds fill the sky above me, chasing each other to the northeast and occasionally blocking the late spring sun, which is about halfway down the Western sky. Far back to the southwest, a storm is approaching with layers of ominous angry-looking clouds shot through with sporadic flashes of blue-white lightning. Beneath the clouds the dark gray, streaks of rain can be seen reaching to the thirsty desert landscape below. Even the storm, with all of its violence and driving rain is beautiful and awe inspiring. But, not wanting to be caught in the approaching rain, I take one last long look around and, with a sigh, get up and start back down the narrow, rock-strewn ledge to the tiny spot of bright color against the russet earth that is my car far below. Pausing only partway down, I have to stop for one more look at this incredible place. As my eyes scan the panorama around me, I am aware of a feeling of contentment, of peace, and I cannot stop a smile that creeps unbidden across my face; this place has found its way into my very soul, and I am suddenly incredibly sure of one thing, I will be back.
Comments