And, indeed, we soon agreed that one who wishes to see the real wonder and beauty of the petrified forests may well devote most of his time to the third, or Rainbow Forest, as it is known locally. Here are hundreds of huge stone trunks, many five or six feet in diameter, and over two hundred feet long, lying as they fell, but broken by some mighty convulsion into sections a few feet in length. Every detail of the bark is preserved, in some cases in apparently its original colors, so that except for the fractures one might imagine before him a great redwood log of comparatively recent date. But the great marvel of color is seen in fractures—every tint of the prism, with blood-red and golden yellow predominating, combine to astonish and delight the beholder. The grain and annual rings of growth are plainly marked on many of the gigantic blocks, enabling scientists to judge pretty accurately of the age of the trees when destruction overtook them—and some of them had surely attained their millennium. Everywhere on the sands were scattered millions of jewel-like fragments, glittering in the sun and exciting our cupidity to possess specimens of these curious prismatic gems. We picked up what seemed the most beautiful specimens only to discard them for others that happened to strike our fancy more forcibly, and in the end we had stowed away several pounds of the wonderful stone-wood in Gulliver’s Ford. Of course we knew that only the smallest fraction—a few glistening chips—could be taken with us, but Sinbad the Sailor in the valley of diamonds must have experienced much the same feelings as ourselves amidst these exhaustless jewels. For there is no danger of the tourists depleting the supply. Millions of tons, covering square miles in area, are scattered about on the surface and perhaps as much more is buried just beneath it. Commercial exploitation of the wood was prohibited since December 1906, when the forests were made a national monument and the preservation of these wonderful deposits is thus assured for all time to come.
Many solutions have been offered to the question, How did natural forces operate to produce this almost incredible spectacle which our eyes behold? “The wise guys say that these trees grew hundreds of miles from the place,” said Gulliver, “and some big flood washed them here and buried them under a half mile of sand. There they laid a million years or so, changing into stone, and then along comes another flood and washes the sand off from ’em.”
There are other explanations in the books, but perhaps this is as good as any; it all must have happened before the advent of the human race upon earth and before the surface of the earth had assumed the definite shape which now confronts us. Some declare that a great inland sea overwhelmed this prehistoric forest and the petrification took place beneath its waters, which deposited deep layers of rock and sand over the trees. But however it occurred, the great marvel is before our eyes, acres and acres, profusely covered with chalcedony, agate, onyx, cornelian, and amethyst, for all of these are here in color if not in actual composition. Though no habitation now greets the eye—the only structure being a covered platform on a little eminence affording a view of a wide area of this strange prostrate forest—human beings once lived among these weirdly-colored stone trees. Skeletons and rare old potteries are often unearthed and ruins of Aztec villages are found in this vicinity. How these primitive men subsisted here is hard to conjecture, for it would be difficult to imagine a land more inhospitable for the support of animal life.
When we were preparing to return, I asked Gulliver if it were not possible to visit the Blue Forest, to complete our round of the wonders.
“The Blue Forest,” he snorted in disgust, “that’s one of John Muir’s fakes. Nothing there worth seeing and would take you another day; have to make the trip with a team.”
The latter assertion was sufficient to quench our desire to visit the Blue Forest and the question whether it was one of John Muir’s fakes or not became a matter of indifference.
“There’ll still be time for you to visit the hieroglyphics after you get back if you want to,” said Gulliver, “but that’s another trip that even a Ford can’t make; it’s only a four-mile round, though, and the team can do it in an hour. No, I don’t drive the team myself; I just officiate as chauffeur. Alkali Ike will do it about right, though, and he knows more about them hieroglyphics than the fellers that scratched them on the rocks. They’re mighty curious, and you’ll miss it if you don’t see them.”
We didn’t propose to miss it and a small charabanc was ordered forthwith on our return to the hotel, as several others proposed to join our party. The wind was raging stronger than ever and the whole river wash was hidden in clouds of driven sand. Through this we had to pass at a snail’s pace, for it was heavy going. We could scarcely see a foot ahead and the stinging sand filled our eyes and hair and when anyone tried to speak he got a mouthful of it. The driver bowed his head and let the horses wallow along at their own pace until they finally scrambled up the opposite bank.
A few rods beyond the river the driver asked us to dismount and led us among the huge sandstone ledges which overlook the valley. He first conducted us to the prehistoric ruins of an Aztec community house, where walls of rough stone about a foot in height laid in mortar mark the outlines of numerous dwellings which fronted a plaza one hundred and thirty feet wide by two hundred and ten feet long. Near the center of this court has been found a small “kiva” or underground ceremonial chamber similar to those of the pueblos to-day, and the flagstone pavement is still in good preservation.
Near this ruin the hieroglyphics may be seen; they are cut in the stones of the cliffs along the river for the distance of more than a mile. The “cutting,” however, of the smooth sandstone has been done with some hard substance, probably bits of petrified wood, rather than any metal instrument. Some of the carvings are probably symbolical, and the meaning is not easy to decipher. Others, however, tell their story plainly enough. The most ambitious effort is supposed to represent a royal wedding. The figures indicate dancing and rejoicing and the priest may be distinguished by the symbolic “bird of wisdom” which he holds in his hand. There are also representations of flocks and herds and many individual birds and animals, some quite cleverly done. There is a long-legged stork, and what he holds in his bill is evidently intended for a frog, though it might pass for a baby by a stretch of the imagination. Altogether, these strange carvings are as interesting as they are mysterious. Their age can only be guessed at, but few authorities put it at less than a thousand years. No history exists of the people whose lives are represented here; even tradition is silent.