It would be unwise, you cautioned me, to ask the wind how old it is, unless we wanted to hear a tale that takes an age to tell.
This much we knew: The wind is old enough to remember the rivers that carved a barren plain into these towering monuments. But the land-cutting rivers are gone. They flowed back to the sea long ago, carrying away the debris and leaving dry streambeds behind.
Water that falls now as sparse desert rain lacks the vigor to wear away rock. So the finishing touches have been left to the eroding wind, which shapes with sandblasting gales and chisels with precision gusts to complete the red-stone sculptures.
I just wish it wasn’t at work the day we were there.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me as we hiked toward one of the formations. “They could have put up a sign: Under Construction. Opening Soon.”
You looked back at me. “It won’t be done soon, not by a long shot.”
“I was thinking in geologic time.” It can make the days less troubling. Dramas of the world signify little when measured against the ages of rocks.
Yet even at this stage of completion, the monument was impressive. Imagine what it will be like when finished, I thought…
This rock sculpture will make a fine addition to the collection of any savvy admirer of the artistic team of Water & Wind. Millions of years in the making. Locally crafted from locally-sourced materials. Bidding starts at—
“What are you mumbling about?”
“I was just…” Um. “We’ve come a bit too early then.” Again, in geologic time.
“We might as well see it while we can. They don’t make them like this anymore.”
True. Monuments today are cobbled together with bronze or concrete or twisted sheets of avant-garde steel, then proudly displayed in a city square or manicured park, where they’re politely ignored for a few generations before suddenly being denounced as not sufficiently enlightened for the moral fashions of the times.
But long after that fashionable generation has degenerated to dust, these magnificent desert monoliths will still be standing, far removed from outcries over once-cherished statues now lying forgotten and crumbling in dark museum basements.
The works of nature are rarely controversial. Perhaps because they’re commissioned by vested interests no one dares to question.
The wind eased up, blew a few dirt-clearing puffs, then stopped, taking a break from its labor. In the silence and calm a lizard skittered across a rock. A buzzard took flight to look for a meal.
You guided my eyes to the sky-notch in the formation. “We start our ascent there.”