Seven Kivas and Fallen Roof Ruins

We stood on the edge of Road Canyon on Cedar Mesa, peering down at the bottom. It was mid-April, and the brilliant claret cup cacti were blooming.
The short-cut to the Seven Kivas Ruin didn’t boast an official trail, but rock cairns marked the way. I’m not sure why, but I feared I would die on this outing, perhaps because Ted had spotted the kivas on our way back from the Citadel the week before.
I’d chosen not to complete that hike since the ancient stronghold lay on the other side of a land bridge with a “sketchy” trail according to some hikers.
Now, a week later, I couldn’t tell if the fear came from my catastrophizing mind or a true premonition, so I kept my anxiety to myself.
Experts rated the hike to the Seven Kivas as moderate, but as I stumbled along after my hubby and little dog, slipping down steep talus slopes and clambering around huge boulders, my feet felt huge, awkward, and unsure.
I slid one time and lost my balance, but somehow regained my footing before I fell. Much to my relief, once we reached the canyon floor, 500 feet below, the path became easier as it wound through vegetation, around waterholes, and up to the ruins.
An unusual number of small kivas ringed the floor of an alcove and on the ledge beyond. A few of them retained their roofs with the square roof-top entrances still preserved, but we saw no evidence of dwellings nearby.
I know kivas served as social, political, and ceremonial centers including ceremonies involving the sipapu. That small hole in the floor was also still present in some of these kivas, symbolizing the People’s and Kachinas’ emergence from the underground.
The Ancestral Puebloans took great care in constructing kivas, often building one for each family or clan or even for different ceremonial purposes, but no one seems to know why they built so many at the Seven Kivas site, making the ruin one more mystery we’ll never solve in this lifetime.
Whatever the answer, even after a millennial, we could sense the power in that small alcove.
The hike out, though not easy, seemed less challenging than the descent, and once we made it back to the Jeep, peace washed over me. I was still alive.
The next day, we hiked to the Fallen Roof Ruin also located in Road Canyon. This is a popular site, especially for photographers, but we’d never made the trek to it.
My fear of dying, though more subdued than the day before, still haunted me. Fortunately, this trail is well marked. We followed it to the main tributary of Road Canyon where we meandered past a large hoodoo.
The nearby ruin was situated on a ledge about 100 feet above the canyon floor, requiring a shimmy up slickrock, which Kenidee and I managed with the help of Ted’s strong hand.
It was worth it. We’ve been to the House on Fire Ruin in Mule Canyon, but this ruin seemed every bit as spectacular — if not more so. The Fallen Roof’s name came from an enormous sandstone slab shearing off above the well-preserved adobe rooms, exposing brilliant orange and white minerals. Huge chunks of the ceiling still lay in front of the ruin.
After we explored and photographed, it was time to return to the canyon floor, but I saw no way off the ledge even after Ted and Kenidee safely slipped and slithered down to the wash.
I knew I couldn’t stay where I was, so I went down on my bottom and started inching my way over the edge of the sandstone. As I slid, I desperately gripped the smooth surface with my fingertips and soles of my shoes, feeling more and more out of control. When I got close enough, my hubby said, “Let go. I’ve got you.” He reached above his head and grabbed the bottoms of my shoes.
I let go, and with nothing to hold onto, I felt I was free falling. My stomach clenched and my entire body contracted. I’m usually a quiet person, but I shrieked as Ted guided my feet into the wash.
I’m quite certain if the Ancestral Puebloans’ spirits had been present, they would have been hooting and hollering, but Ted didn’t crack a smile. I hugged him as he dryly commented, “You weren’t in any danger.”
Taking a deep breath, I bent over to pet my little mountain-goat dog and gathered myself enough to follow them back up the canyon.
We went off trail to eat and rest, and it was then, at the bottom of Road Canyon, that gratitude washed over me, more powerfully than any tidal wave.
I practice gratitude daily, especially when I walk in Westwater, but this was different. This was spontaneous, and I fell in love with every aspect of my life:
My awkward feet and my patient hubby, my chronically dusty house and my beloved grandchildren, my wrinkled skin and my little dog, my weedy flower beds and the light streaming down into the canyon, even the dreaded drought and the glorious claret cups blossoming in the desert. Everything—the good, the bad, and the ugly—seemed a luminous gift.
I don’t remember the hike out of the canyon, but I remember sliding into our dusty Jeep, in awe of still being alive.