The Legacy of Mesa Verde

Sunlight and shadow play tag across the ancient rooms and kivas of Balcony House—proof that the original architects knew a thing or two about dramatic lighting.

1 – Frog Cupcakes

A cool breeze whipped through my shaggy blond bowl cut, a miracle of air-conditioning courtesy of my top-speed bike ride. It wasn’t even actual wind—just me pedaling like a maniac. It was early morning in the middle of a muggy Colorado summer, and this self-generated breeze was the only thing keeping me from melting into a small, sweaty puddle.

The year was 1978. I was ten years old, living with my family in Arvada, Colorado, and riding a bike that was basically the Batmobile of the suburban kid: banana seat, ape-hanger handlebars, and a coaster brake. This wasn’t just a bike—it was freedom on two wheels. Every kid had one. Helmets? Never heard of them. Stranger danger? Not on our radar. Our biggest concern was running out of Kool-Aid or being the last to call “not it.”

Aside from the one time I got pelted in the head by a rogue water balloon launched from a passing car (a very precise hit, by the way—props to that delinquent), my childhood was a blur of long-distance pedaling and zero consequences.

That morning, I had a few bucks in the pocket of my green Toughskins jeans—premium babysitting cash—and I felt like a Rockefeller. A tiny, sweaty, sugar-fueled Rockefeller.

The trail to the King Soopers Plaza was a sacred route: 1.2 glorious miles from our cul-de-sac, hugging the south side of Pomona Lake Number 2, and leading straight into the plaza without having to cross the busy roads at 80th and Wadsworth—a blessing for a kid with no concept of traffic laws.

My mission? Three essential stops.

First, King Soopers. I was there for one thing: the neon green frog-head cupcake. These mutant confections were about 90% frosting, 10% cake, and probably illegal by modern food safety standards. Only a kid—or a goat with a death wish—could digest one.

Next, the pet store. I wasn’t there to buy anything—I was there for Binky, the monkey. He lived in a wire-mesh cage and smelled like old sour fruit and regret. I’d poke my finger through the mesh, and he’d grab it with his tiny, sticky hand. We had a connection. Binky was my homie.

Finally, the bookshop. I’d been saving for something big: an oversized guidebook on Colorado ghost towns, complete with histories and hand-drawn maps. This wasn’t just a book—it was an obsession waiting to happen.

Over the next couple years, I wore that thing out. I’d flip through its pages like it was ancient scripture. On weekends, I’d beg my parents to take us out—me and my four little brothers packed into our avocado green station wagon, bouncing along mountain roads to visit long-forgotten mining camps with crumbling cabins and rusty old tools.

To this day, I’m not sure what lit the spark. Was the fascination already buried somewhere inside me, just waiting to be unearthed by a dusty book? Or did the book ignite something I didn’t even know was there?

Either way, that morning ride—with frosting on my breath, monkey germs on my finger, and a ghost town guide stuffed in my school backpack—was the start of something that never really ended.

Cliff Palace: proof that real estate was all about location, location, location—even in 1200 AD.

2 – I’ve Got a Thing for Ruins 

I mean actual world-class ruins. Crumbling walls, sun-bleached timbers, temples swallowed by vines, and the musty, earthy smells of that land slowly claiming back its own. Ever since those early ghost town escapades, I’ve been hooked. My interest has grown into a full-blown personal quest for decay. Beautiful, mysterious, story-soaked decay.

I’ve wandered the globe chasing it, too. In my head, I’m always in character: a whip-cracking Tomb Raider prowling through Angkor Wat. A weathered, long-bearded Klondike prospector in the abandoned mining town of Kennicott, Alaska. An ancient Anasazi scout slipping silently through the cliff dwellings of Mesa Verde. A bald, sagely lama gazing out in the thin air of high altitude, over a Himalayan valley from the windows of a half-crumbled monastery.

(Okay, maybe the old, weathered part isn’t just in my imagination anymore.)

But is this fascination uniquely mine? Not even close. I think most people feel the same tug when they stand in a ruin. There’s something primal and poetic about old, broken things.

So why do we love them?

Level 1: They’re mysterious. Stepping into a ruin is like cracking open a real-life mystery novel. You don’t know what happened, but something did—and your imagination is already spinning the sequel. It awakens that little Indiana Jones inside all of us.

Level 2: Ruins make us reflect on creation, on legacy. Someone built this place. Someone lived here, worked here, laughed here, maybe yelled at their kids here. And now we’re standing in the skeleton of their world. It reminds us we want to leave something behind, too—preferably not just a pile of mismatched Tupperware lids.

Level 3: The deepest level—connection. These places are time machines. They connect us with people who lived centuries or even millennia ago. Somehow, we feel them. We sense their presence. And sometimes, in the quiet, we feel like they can see us too.

All those levels stack together into something sacred. That's why, instinctively, we speak in hushed voices among ruins. We tread carefully. We listen.

Because somewhere in those broken stones and hollow doorways, the ancients are whispering. And if you’re still enough, they might just speak to your soul.

They had dreams and disappointments. They knew love and loss. And maybe—just maybe—they’ve got a little wisdom left for us, waiting in the dust.

Leslie, caught red-handed ghosting the ranger tour. To be fair, if you’re gonna get in trouble, make it in a 700-year-old corridor.

3 – Cliff Dwellings Hit My Radar

Cliff dwellings—especially the ones in Mesa Verde National Park—are firmly at the top of my “insanely cool ruins” list. But the seed of that obsession? It sprouted in a pretty unconventional—and, honestly, ridiculous—way.

Flashback to 1993. I was a poor college student at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. One of my younger brothers, Jim, was equally broke, so naturally we did what any cash-strapped duo would do: we decided to go camping in Moab. This was back before Moab turned into the adventure capital of the universe. Back then, if you went in early spring, you basically had the place to yourself—just you, the rocks, and your own poor planning.

Our gear was… let’s say “minimalist.” We had:

• Old newspapers (dual-purpose: fire starter and mattress)

• A handful of matches

• A sack of potatoes to cook in said fire

• A couple of ultra-thin jackets

• And the crown jewel: two child-sized, off-brand Scooby-Doo sleeping bags—probably with warning labels like, “Not suitable for human survival.”

We hiked up Grandstaff Canyon for a bit, built a fire, and threw the potatoes in. They turned completely black on the outside, but once cracked open, the insides were magma-hot, fluffy perfection. Gourmet dining for broke college kids.

Then the clouds rolled in. Fast. Big, brooding, “you're-about-to-get-drenched” clouds. I looked up at the cliffs on either side of the canyon and noticed something—small alcoves carved into the sandstone. They weren’t huge, but maybe 6 or 7 feet long, a couple of feet high, and deep enough to crawl into. They looked… promising.

So, like two squirrels fleeing an oncoming storm, we scrambled up the rock face to claim our shelters. We found two cozy alcoves side by side—each just big enough for one desperate camper. The floors were a lovely blend of dirt and rabbit poop. Undeterred, we grabbed branches and swept out our luxurious accommodations, laid down sheets of newspaper like they were Egyptian cotton, and climbed inside.

Then the skies opened up.

Rain poured in sheets all night long. Water streamed down the cliff face and over the openings of our alcoves like Niagara Falls. From inside our little sandstone pods, we shouted back and forth, laughed, cracked jokes, and tried not to think about the scent of damp rabbit droppings mingling with burnt potato smoke.

But we stayed dry. And when the morning sun came out and lit up the canyon in that post-storm glow, I realized we’d just had an unforgettable experience.

That’s when cliff dwellings went from “interesting” to “fascinating” for me. When I later heard about the legendary Cliff Palace at Mesa Verde—a vast, intricate network of ancient homes built into cliffs—it rocketed to the top of my must-visit list.

Turns out, all it takes to spark a fascination with cliff dwellings is a rainstorm, a potato, and a sleeping bag meant for a third grader.

A four-story prehistoric apartment complex with zero elevators and all the charm. Eat your heart out, Zillow.

4 – A Historical Download on Mesa Verde

There are entire libraries filled with books unraveling the history and mystery of Mesa Verde. But if you're short on time—or just not up for a decade of academic deep dives—here’s my “Cliff Notes” version. You’re welcome.

Around 600 AD, the Ancestral Pueblo people moved onto the high, forested plateau of Chapin Mesa, 7,000 feet above sea level, in what’s now southwestern Colorado. Surrounded by fragrant piñon and juniper, it was a smart move. Good land. Good views. Good vibes.

Then, in the late 1190s, someone—visionary or madman—decided that building entire communities into the cliffs was the next big thing. I imagine that, at the time, plenty of people thought this was a terrible idea.

Regardless, the Ancestral Pueblo got to work. They carved hand- and footholds into sheer sandstone walls, hauled stone blocks down precarious cliff faces, and built stunning multi-story structures. Adobe mortar held it all together. The walls were plastered smooth and painted with bold, bright pigments.

At the heart of each dwelling was a kiva—a round, semi-subterranean ceremonial room. Each had a central fire pit, a ventilation shaft, and an opening in the roof that served as both skylight and doorway. You’d descend into it via ladder. Kivas were spiritual centers, much like modern-day churches, used for rituals, storytelling, and gatherings.

For a long time, historians believed these cliff homes were built out of necessity—for protection from hostile tribes. But newer theories suggest otherwise.

Personally, I like to think someone just had a genius idea: “Hey, wouldn’t it be amazing to live in a cliffside condo with panoramic views of the San Juan Mountains?” Total cool factor. Honestly, it beats a beach bungalow or a treehouse in the Redwoods. And like any good idea, it caught on fast. Once the Running Bear family moved in, everyone else wanted one too.

At its peak, Mesa Verde was home to around 24,000 people spread across more than 600 cliff dwellings. A thriving civilization. A marvel of engineering and culture.

But the cliff-dwelling phase didn’t last long. Construction ceased around 1250. From 1276 to 1299, the region was gripped by a devastating drought. By around 1290, a mass exodus occurred. The people were gone—leaving behind over 600 dwellings and 5,000 archaeological sites on the mesa tops.

I remember hearing stories that they’d been wiped out—by plague, war, or catastrophe. But the drought theory holds more water (pun fully intended). Still, no one knows for sure.

My theory? Teenagers.

At some point, I’m convinced the teenagers started to complain.

Too much climbing. Too much schlepping sacks of corn up and down the cliffs like Alex Honnold in Free Solo. Too many babies crying in a natural amphitheater with no escape.Too much pottery. Too many sunsets. Too much boredom.

“All the other tribes get to ride horses! And remember when Sitting Rabbit fell off the cliff last year!?”

Eventually, the elders gave up. Packed up. Moved out. And probably regretted it the second they realized they were now living in hot, flat, horsefly-infested country with zero scenic value.

Fast forward to December 18, 1888: Richard Wetherill and Charles Mason, out searching for cattle with a Ute guide, stumbled across the astonishing ruins of Cliff Palace. It’s the largest cliff dwelling ever discovered and remains the crown jewel of Mesa Verde today.

• 150 rooms

• 21 kivas

• Estimated population: around 120 people

Word spread fast. And so did looting.

Fortunately, President Theodore Roosevelt stepped in. On June 29, 1906, he designated Mesa Verde a national park—specifically “to preserve the works of man.”

Today, you can explore Cliff Palace, Balcony House, and other stunning ruins through ranger-led tours—and I highly recommend that you do. It’s unforgettable.

But remember: these places are sacred. Treat them with the respect they deserve. Yes, that reminder goes double for the teenagers.

A rare inside-the-donut shot of Cliff Palace, where the buildings are the filling and the canyon alcove is the pastry.

5 – We Are All Travelers in Time

We are all travelers in time.

This earth is a stopping place.

Why did they leave?

Where did they go?

The mystery of it all is part of what draws us to ruins—and what draws us to them.

In most ruins, the ancients didn’t disappear.

They simply moved on.

Travelers in time, continuing to the next stop.

Their legacy remains.

John Steinbeck, in Travels with Charley: In Search of America, captured this idea:

“A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Who has not known a journey to be over and done before the traveler returns?The reverse is also true: many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased.”

When we visit ruins, we think about their journey—the people who once lived there, loved there, struggled there.

And naturally, we begin to reflect on our own.

What journey are you on?

Where is it taking you?

What’s next?

Facing those questions—really sitting with them—is part of the adventure of this thing we call life.

So yes, ruins call to us for a reason. Not just for the mystery or the photo op or the thrill of discovery. But because there’s something deeper and essential in them.

Taking time to dig in, to understand, to research, and connect with the ancients—it’s worth it. It means something.

Mesa Verde teaches us that the cliff dwellings were never the end of the story. They were a stop along the way. Not a break in history, but a link in the chain. The people didn’t vanish.

They moved on. They evolved.

Movement is part of life.

And today, 26 tribes and pueblos still claim ancestry and connection to those ancient dwellers in the cliffs. Proud people. Spiritual people. Still here.

So, the next time you stand in a ruin and ask, “Where did the ancient people go?”—

Listen.

You might hear them say:

“We are still here, watching over you. Learn from us. Do a little better than us. And leave your legacy.”

Ancient architecture meets early OSHA violation. This crumbling balcony was once the Ancestral Puebloan version of an open-concept hallway.

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