First stop of the day was Shady Acres Gasoline and Groceries in Green River, Utah. I gassed up while Jay went inside to get ice and a 5 gallon jug of water. When he came out he told me that the shopkeeper wouldn’t talk to him, even when directly asked a question like, “Where is your water?” I didn’t understand. Jay’s white, dressed like any normal guy during the summer, a shirt, shorts, socks and shoes. Could it be his overgrown hair?

We went back on Route 50 East and exited to Thompson Springs. I felt excitement pounding in my chest. Jay had been telling me about this place for a long time.

He and his college buddy found Sego Canyons over 20 years ago. He told me they had to drive off the road through a dry river bed to get to the canyon walls made sacred by Native American paintings. Any sign of rain is time to get the hell out of there.

We weren’t quite sure where to begin. There were no giant signs for tourists. We stopped next to a railroad worker and asked him. He didn’t know anything about the Native American Petroglyphs, but he share his detailed utility map of the area with us. It was enough to get us started toward the right path.

An abandoned hundred year old one-room schoolhouse had a sign that pointed to the petroglyphs 2 1/2 miles ahead. There is now a paved road toward the canyons, a straight path rising with the hills and dipping low on the winding river bend that was just a stream on this clear sunny noontime in July.

We saw the Fremont style of petroglyphs, the kind that is etched into the rock wall. They were high up and quite a distance from our car. Since we were traveling with our 4-year-old, we stayed close to the car and I photographed with my Nikon using a zoom lens. Experts estimate they were created between 2000 to 8000 years ago.

There were also the Barrier style of petroglyphs, the kind that is painted with a red substance, which could be iron oxide from the iron-rich soil in Utah. Although, given the content of the paintings which seem to be depictions of their ancestors, mummified or not, the red substance could be blood. No one is sure. The Barrier style is not as old as the Fremont style. The paintings are more developed, perfectly symmetrical, drawn by a master, perhaps the tribe’s shaman.

I find these Native petroglyphs so mysterious and so engaging. The images inspire science fiction fantasies of aliens appearing to the Natives thousands of years ago and helping them develop civilization, language, art and early technology. More than likely, though, these are paintings of the tribe elders who have died, the horns and antennae depicting their elaborate headdress when they were alive, or the way their bodies were wrapped artfully in mummy bundles. I imagine the tribe sitting by the fire looking up at the flickering images of their ancestors, immortal on the canyon walls.

We drove further to see more, but started getting spooked by the ghost town, buildings from the 1890s when there was coal mining going on in these parts. I also started to feel very vulnerable. My phone had no signal whatsoever. The canyon walls felt increasingly claustrophobic. Two other vehicles passed us, both SUVs. I suddenly felt like our 10 year old not-SUV was not fit for the terrain. So we turned around and headed back out of the canyons.

On our way out we found another painted canyon, and the paintings were lower to the ground than the ones we had previously seen. We stayed another hour looking at the paintings up close. I spotted graffiti dated 1881, 1947 and 1957, among others. Bullet holes dot some of the images – cavalry practice-shooting at the Indians or Christian zealots shooting at the devil or both.

There are a million stories in these canyons and my head filled with them. When we finally got back on Route 50, we realized our 5 gallon jug of water had pressure popped and leaked water all over our bags in the back. Tempers flared in the Utah desert. Even my car’s tires emanated the burning smell of rubber.

I drove furiously through the breathtaking desert mountains of Utah and doused my temper in the greener mountains of Colorado. While driving the winding White Water Mountain road, I slipped my hand into Jay’s shorts, “I’m hungry. I wish I had something to suck.” He laughed and handed me a juicy pear. We shared it while I drove.

We stopped at Eagle, Colorado close to dusk. The sun had dried most of our stuff, and the remaining wet things we laid on the dashboard for the next day’s morning rays. We found a really nice grocery supermarket near the Holiday Inn and bought organic fruit and groceries. We all felt at home. It was the closest to California we’ve felt since we left.