Step into another life
Hundreds of years vanish in Moon House, which is so intact it seems almost still inhabited. How much longer can this place hide?
CEDAR MESA, Utah — It was a balmy March morning, and I was speeding down a glorious stretch of Utah highway alongside soaring red-rock cliffs and the churning Colorado River.
I cruised through frenetic Moab, heading south past the tidy Mormon hamlets of Monticello and Blanding toward a remote canyon on Cedar Mesa that holds one of the country’s least known but most tantalizing treasures.
I’d been dreaming of Moon House since learning of it on a trip to southeast Utah a few years ago. Images of the ancient, nearly pristine Anasazi compound, with its 49 buildings and cosmic artwork, loomed in my mind like some American El Dorado.
And then there was the shroud of secrecy hanging over it all.
Keepers of a secret
Facebook pages dedicated to Southwestern archaeology chide posters who reveal too much, and stories abound of locals deliberately obscuring the route. The Internet, of course, has rendered all of that moot.
For its part, the Bureau of Land Management issues just 20 permits a day for the site. And there are calls for federal action to designate Cedar Mesa, home to one of the largest concentrations of pre-Columbian ruins in the U.S., a national monument or national conservation area, restricting access even further.
But I still had time to experience it in the wild. So after spending the night in Bluff, I rented a Jeep for the rugged last leg of the trip.
Motoring along Highway 163, I cut across the Valley of the Gods, a wondrous collection of crimson spires, and ascended a twisting road to Cedar Mesa. From there, I turned onto a narrow dirt path that devolved into broad, uneven slabs of sandstone. After eight miles of peaks and plunges, I bounced to the edge of McLoyd Canyon, where I found myself alone.
I stepped unsteadily into the bright desert and followed a steep 11⁄2- mile trail to the canyon floor before heading straight up the other side. A great fortress-like building abruptly appeared near the top, a huge snake painted above it.
I moved closer, spying a small doorway in the 90-foot-long wall. I crawled through, emerging inside a cool, dark hallway with window-like openings on top.
The walls, maybe 6 feet high, were like nothing I’d seen in other ruins. They weren’t mortared stone but sticks smoothed over with mud, forming a kind of plaster. The fingerprints of those who worked it centuries ago were still visible. A white banner with dots and triangles was painted across the wall.
Five other doors led into separate, empty rooms.
I illuminated the largest with a flashlight. There was another white banner, but this one held the image of a full moon on one wall and a crescent moon on the other. The preservation was stunning. Some scientists believe the Anasazi were depicting a solar eclipse.
Another room had rounded peepholes that allowed surveillance of both sides of the canyon.
I sat inside the hall considering the vanished world around me. Humans inhabited Cedar Mesa for more than 10,000 years. They chronicled their lives in petroglyphs, farmed this arid desert and worshiped in kivas.
I imagined ghostly figures filing in and out carrying grain or crafting pottery. Sometimes in that spooky silence, I thought I could hear their voices.
I shook off the reverie and ducked outside to inspect rows of homes, granaries and kivas lining the cliff edge.
Then I spotted a perfectly preserved set of toddler footprints in plaster. I traced the outline with my finger. That’s when I realized the magic of Moon House — a wilderness without fences where a 21st century man could reach across the centuries to touch the tracks of an ancient child.
Creating a timeline
But what was Moon House, anyway?
I asked renowned Southwestern archaeologist William Lipe, who mapped the site in 1974.
He said Moon House was probably a small community in the late 1240s and 1250s at a time of dramatic change. Constant raiding and perhaps the lure of new religious and social movements had sparked an exodus from Cedar Mesa to more secure areas in Mesa Verde and the Montezuma Valley of Colorado.
By 1260, the mesa was largely empty except for Moon House, converted to a defensive redoubt and grain depot for a few remaining farmers. Eight years later it too was empty, perhaps the last place on Cedar Mesa abandoned.
“People don’t realize how fragile it is,” Lipe said. “They can damage it by walking in the wrong place, leaning on the wrong wall. Some of the paint has already been eroded.
“Moon House needs to be taken care of. It’s a national treasure.”
As I hiked up the canyon, I found smashed kivas along with storage bins and crumbled homes. Strange human-like figures were chiseled into rocky alcoves. I hopped to the canyon floor, crossed a stream and discovered grinding stones and more petroglyphs beneath an overhang.
As the ruins went on and on, I explored with childlike abandon, wondering whether another Moon House lay undiscovered around the next bend. A thrilling, if unlikely, proposition.
Hours later, I watched the waning sun cast shadows across the canyon. A golden eagle soared overhead, harassed by jabbering ravens.
When I finally wandered back to Moon House, I found Ted Wood. He saw my notebook. “Don’t tell people how to get here,” he said, half-joking.
Like others Wood, a photojournalist, feared more visitors would lead to more regulations, damage and perhaps closure of the site.
“There’s still a mystery to the West, and that mystery feeds the imagination and the soul,” he said. “A lot of that has already been lost. I don’t want to lose this.”
Protective visitors
Neither does Rob Gay. Gay first visited Moon House nearly a decade ago and was so smitten that he had the snake pictograph tattooed on his arm. Then he wrote “The Marauders,” a fictional account of eco-saboteurs battling plans to make Moon House a national monument.
“Moon House was the first time in my exploration across the Southwest that I felt a real, genuine connection to the land and people who built these ruins,” Gay told me when I reached him at his Arizona home.
The dialogue in his book illustrates the dilemma of trying to safeguard such sites.
“Places like this are best protected by their secrecy. …The more people know about a place, the more people treat it badly and steal … from it!” one character says.
“Yeah, secrecy has obviously worked great for it so far,” the other retorts. “Almost no artifacts left, known mainly to pot hunters and anyone who can surf the ... Internet! Stop the bleeding and give it the protection it deserves!”
It was late afternoon when I climbed out of the canyon, a moderate 30-minute hike, and drove a rough but beautiful dirt road through the desert toward Bluff.
A warm wind blew fine red sand through the Jeep window as I passed sculpted rock towers glowing like rubies against the dying sun.
Still, I felt oddly torn by my unfettered adventure.
How long could unprotected sites such as Moon House endure?
And if the price of new restrictions is less mystery, what is the price of doing nothing?
I suspect the days of exploring ruins such as Moon House without ropes or guards are numbered. And that may be a good thing. But I’m glad I saw it when I did.