It's last summer and I'm standing in northern Utah's Logan Canyon. A light breeze carrying the scent of scrub oak and evergreens touches my face. I breathe deeply, taking in the canyon's thick smell. Looking at the large limestone wall dotted with small metal bolts, I prepare myself to dance with the mountain. The stone speaks and each climb has a personality of its own. This could be why climbs are given names. The climb I am about to start is named Shakis. Shakis means friend in Navajo, and this makes me think. I think about the people who lived on this land (Shoshones not Navajos). I think about this canyon, a refuge into nature, an escape into their world and feel a connection to them I can't explain. Its an idea floating at the edge of my mind, just beyond the grasp of comprehension. It taunts me - its there but doesn't care to acknowledge me.

In hopes of better understanding this connection I plan a trip to Ferron Box in eastern Utah with a group of Native American rock art junkies. It's early; the air is a crisp cold. The sun reveals the passion of the land as we step over the desert hills. This is the time of day, while most people are still asleep, that the desert opens to a hundred shades of pink and gold.

Climbing down a small gully into Ferron Box I find myself surrounded by high stone walls. It's hard to scan the walls for glyph panels; my mind wants to invent routes up and over them. On one stone panel there appears to be nothing more than a natural red blotch. I'm drawn to this spot. As I stare at the cliff face, a figure takes shape. A man slowly rises from the blotch. He has no arms and a circular head. His body is rectangular and narrows toward his waist. His ghostly eyes are the natural sandy tan of the stone. There are a handful of more impressive pictographs and petroglyphs in this canyon, but as we leave he stays with me, a ghost held in stone.

We drive out of eastern Utah on Highway 10. The sun has already left, taking its shades of pink and gold. Looking back on the day, wondering about the ghost of stone and its creator - its message and the family it might have been left for - I think about my own family and history.

Jason, my brother in-law, taught me how to climb when I was eighteen. We spent many weekends getting to know each other while pulling on stone. Since that time I have spent many sunny afternoons feet in the dirt, hands gliding over rope, and eyes on others on the stone while I passed to them the lessons Jason taught me. You carry a sense of responsibility for those you teache to climb; your guidance can save their lives or put them at great risk. This sense of stewardship creates a feeling of family. The lessons we share become a heritage passed on from climber to climber. In this light Jason is my father, and those I have taught, his grandchildren. We create our own history with a family tree etched in stone.

NAME
ADDRESS 1
ADDRESS 2
CITY
STATE & ZIP
EMAIL (req)

NAME
ADDRESS
ADDRESS 2
CITY
STATE & ZIP
EMAIL (req)