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MESA VERDE: The snow drifted down amongst the pinon trees. An icy wind blew. Bent over his saddle, he followed the trail left by the wayward steers. Finally, he came to the edge of a mesa. He urged his horse forward, looked down into the red stone canyon, and rose on his saddle transfixed, mute, spellbound. He had found the city of the living dead.
Below him stood a cliff dwelling sheltered by a cave more than 300 feet wide and seemingly clinging to the very edge of the canyon wall. Now at last young Wetherill understood the references Ute Indians had made in his father's trading post. Before him lay one of the lost cities of the Anasazi, the ancient ones, the people who had come before. |
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Wetherill would never
be the same man again. He devoted his subsequent years to archeological
research into the American Indian past. Ironically, he was fatally
shot by a renegade Indian some 30 years later, at about the same time
as the land he loved was proclaimed Mesa Verde National Park. |
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A mere million visitors a year have enough curiosity about the
pre-Columbian Indians to drive the 21 miles of steep grades and
sharp curves that lead from the park entrance to the ruins. Those
who do are as awestruck as the first archeologist when they finally
believed the stories they were hearing and came to look for themselves. |
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