El Malpais, part two

As we saw in part one, El Malpais is a dramatic and beautiful landscape. Part two will provide further evidence, if any is needed:

[The snow-covered mountain behind this rock formation appears on most maps as Mount Taylor. I don't know the Acoma name, but Navajos call it Tsoodził, Turquoise Mountain; it marks the southern boundary of Dinetah, the Navajo homeland.]

[La Ventana Arch.]

But pretty as this country is, you can't eat scenery, at least not much of this sort. Malpais means, literally, badlands. Life out here is tough, and I mean that in two different but related senses: existence is difficult, and as a result the life that does exist is tenacious. Lichens clings to the rocks; cholla and prickly pear shield themselves with thorns; conifers and oaks grow short and shrubby, twisting in response to the constant wind but not yielding; the seeds of flowering plants may lie dormant for years, awaiting a spring wet enough to germinate, then grow, flower, and set seed themselves before withering and dying.

It probably helps to be born here, to be a raven or an Acoma Indian. The Acoma, some five thousand strong, have lived here continuously for at least two thousand years and likely longer. One cannot live on scenery, but the Acoma know how to make a living here. As do the ravens.

One of the most incongruous things we saw in the Malpais was this foundation, all that is left of a homestead built in the 1930s. Difficult as it is to believe, a substantial number of Anglos tried to homestead here in the wake of the Dust Bowl. How bad must things have been in Oklahoma to make this look more promising?

Of course, there would have been worse times to live here. Parts of the Malpais were used as a bombing range during the Second World War, and signs still warn visitors about UXBs. The Malpais was even considered by the Manhattan Project as a possible location for the first atomic bomb test; that, of course, ended up being the Trinity Site further south, at White Sands.

Life at the Malpais has occasionally been extinguished—not by bombing, but due to volcanic activity. (I am barely literate geologically; link highly recommended.) Remember the basaltic scabland I mentioned in part one? And maybe you saw it on the valley floor in one or more of the pictures from the sandstone cliffs? Well, that's what we're talking about here, molten rock flowing for miles over the landscape, incinerating everything in its path (though some trees lasted long enough to leave casts of themselves). 

These ropy structures, along with smoother surfaces, are pahoehoe, signifying very hot, very fluid lava flows.

"Clinker", on the other hand, is the surface of aa; solid underneath, aa represents a more viscous, chunkier flow. It also makes for difficult walking, and an oddly squeaky sound underfoot.

Jessa and I went for a brief hike on one of the lava flows, an hour or so surveying a newmade land. The rock here has been—is still being—colonised by grama grasses and little bluestem, cacti, and conifers, but even after a few thousand years the landscape is eerily depauperate.

Some of these pines are hundreds of years old, but only about head-high.

We saw a few insects and spiders, but otherwise the only sign of animal life on the lava flow was this evidence of woodpecker activity. Mind you, this was early March; in warmer weather, there would likely be plenty of rattlesnakes.

After our hike, it was time to hit the road again. Farewell to one of the stranger places we've ever been...