The only problem is that I'm not sure what I ought to do, now that I'm here. I spend Tuesday night poring through my guide books in an effort to figure out where to go hiking, and it's not until I pick up my Rough Guide: USA (the same one I bought back in 1997) that I am inspired to go to a place called Calf Creek Canyon. Apparently, you can hike through the canyon for a few miles until you reach a 150 foot waterfall at its boxed-up end. I figure I'll have plenty of time to do that in the morning before driving through Capitol Reef National Park, possibly visiting Goblin Valley State Park, and then making it to Dead Horse Point, near Moab, in time for the sunset at the end of the day.






I have to scramble up a few rocks to get the perspective on the pictographs that I'm looking for. They're actually perched so precariously at the bottom of the canyon wall that I don't even try to get close enough to touch them. I just stare at them for awhile from underneath the shade of a tree. I couldn't tell from across the canyon that there is a small, many-tentacled creature below and to the right of the three main, trapezoidal human figures. There is also an unadorned trapezoid to the left of the three compatriots, hiding amidst the smears of red on the wall. And--weirdly--there is a fourth human figure directly in front of the larger human figure on the right.
It occurs to me, as I'm sitting there, noticing all of these things, that these pictographs are a work of art that is not a thing-unto-itself, but rather, an inextricable part of this place.

While I'm over in this garden, resting in the shade of the trees, I hear human voices back over by the pictographs. I listen for them twice to make sure that I'm not just being fooled by the sound of the trickling water. Once I'm done taking pictures of the cottonwoods, I go back across the creek to the trail on the other side of the canyon, but I can't see anybody by the pictographs. And there are no other footprints besides mine on the trail that leads away from the water.
As I start heading back up towards the waterfall, I wonder what, exactly, I heard. Echoes from the other side of the canyon? The ripples from the trickling water? Or the ghosts of the Fremont Indians, disturbed by my presence at the pictographs?