Grand Canyon

Post by Kristy McCaffrey     

            The amazing spectacle that is Grand Canyon, located in northern Arizona, has long defied description. And yet, there’s no shortage of writers who’ve attempted to convey the vast contours and depth of its landscape. Arizona author Leo W. Banks says, “All the descriptions written over the decades land with a dull thud next to the real thing. It’s because the Canyon is overwhelming. It is so personal, yet a beauty beyond us—a far world, unknown, and unknowable.”

            The first written accounts of the canyon date back to the 1500’s when the Spaniards entered Arizona and New Mexico in search of treasure. Garcia Lopez de Càrdenas, with the help of Hopi guides from the nearby mesas, became the first European to see Grand Canyon. Unable to cross the impassable void, however, he left frustrated.

Native American tribes have long occupied the area in and around the canyon, including the Anasazi (the early ancestors of the Hopi), as well as the Hualapai and Havasupai tribes, which occupy reservations in the western canyon. On the North Rim Paiutes worked closely with the Mormons who colonized southern Utah and the Arizona Strip in the 1850’s. The last American Indians to arrive at Grand Canyon were the Navajo, or the Dine (Athabascan people related to the Apache), who moved there from the Northwest around 1400 A.D.

            In 1857, Lieutenant Joseph Ives explored the area as part of a U.S. Army survey party, stating pessimistically that “the region is of course altogether valueless. Ours has been the first, and will doubtless be the last, party of whites to visit this profitless locality.” Ives was soon proved wrong.

John Wesley Powell

In 1869, Major John Wesley Powell, a Civil War veteran with only one arm, and nine companions became the first men to journey 1,000 miles on the Colorado River, part of it through Grand Canyon. They braved rapids, heat, plummeting morale, and the loss of three men. Powell’s account of this expedition, Exploration of the Colorado River of the West and Its Tributaries, made him a national hero as well as brought the canyon to the attention of the country. The Paiutes called the plateau that the canyon cuts through “Kaibab” or “Mountain Lying Down,” but it was Powell who first consistently used and published the name “Grand Canyon” in the 1870’s.

El Tovar Hotel

            Mining soon became popular but proved unprofitable due to the difficulty of extracting and transporting ore from the canyon to the rim. A more lucrative, and less dangerous, option presented itself in the form of tourism. In 1905 the famous El Tovar Hotel opened on the South Rim. In 1908 President Theodore Roosevelt declared Grand Canyon a national monument.

            Many stories and legends, some true, some exaggerated, have been told of Grand Canyon and the people who’ve entered its depths. Poet, wanderer, and writer Everett Ruess disappeared in the canyon at the age of 20 in 1934. He’s still searched for today and sung about by medicine men. His legacy is his writings: “I descended alone to the depths, to submerge myself in the steep silence, to be overcome by the fearful immensity, and to drown everything in the deafening roar of the Colorado, watching its snaking writhings and fire-tongued leapings until I was entranced.”

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My mom, my daughter Katy and I on the South Rim.

My book The Sparrow takes place in Grand Canyon in 1877. Texas Ranger Nathan Blackmore accompanies Emma Hart in a wooden dory down the Colorado River.

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Scotland, 4 Teenagers, and Swearing

By Kristy McCaffrey

The Ring of Brodgar, Orkney Islands

My husband and I recently took our four children on a family vacation to Scotland. My goal was to see the Ring of Brodgar, a neolithic rock henge in the Orkney Islands and one of the most well-preserved prehistoric monuments on the British Isles. (See my previous blog post “The Earth: Power Points and Ley Lines.” These standing stones are located on a ley line.) My husband’s (Kevin's) goal was to visit the church where his great-grandparents were married, and to not hear how much this was costing him. The goal of each of my children varied. Ben (17) hoped to drink lots of beer in local pubs, which is allowed as long as he’s also eating. Katy (almost 16), our budding photographer, anticipated endless opportunities to add to her portfolio. Hannah (13) packed 3 sweatshirts with the goal of purchasing more, aided and abetted by my faulty memory, hindered further by jet lag. Upon our return home I found a total of seven in her suitcase. Sam (19) tried not to mope in misery at being away from his girlfriend. He succeeded half of the time. Our solution was to urge him to drink beer.

Edinburgh Castle

We began in Edinburgh, exhausted from an overnight flight and our inability to check into our hotel rooms. This would be a recurring problem throughout the trip—my propensity for booking early morning flights that left us without lodging until the afternoon when the rooms were ready. Already my family was loving me. Not. So a little swearing ensued, mostly from me. I will admit up front that my Irish temper (maiden name Kearney) gets the best of me at times and my children have learned most of their swearing from me. Never mind that my husband works in the steel industry and the kids have often eavesdropped on phone conversations he has with customers. I’m not pointing fingers.

Katy at Edinburgh Castle

Rosslyn Chapel

We have a nice time exploring Edinburgh Castle. Scotland is so different, with old buildings, overcast skies, and funky accents. Smashing! We visit Rosslyn Chapel, just outside Edinburgh, made famous by the book and movie “The Da Vinci Code.” It’s worth a look. In fact, if you check out Hannah’s Instagram account you can see illegal photos she took with her phone while inside. The building is very different than portrayed in the movie and as opposed to the hypothesis that Mary Magdalene was buried within, one theory suggests it was built as a reliquary to house the skull of St. Matthew, apostle of Jesus and gospel writer. That said, you’ll never see the inside of a chapel that looks like this one. The barrel-vaulted roof is covered with stars in relief, the faces of the Green Man (an important character from British folklore) peep at you from all sides, large pillars are wrapped in spiraling vines, everywhere are strange masks, dancers, musicians, and characters from the Old Testament.

Hannah on the train to Inverness
Photo by Katy McCaffrey

Loch Ness
Sam, Kevin and Ben (back)
Katy, Kristy and Hannah (front)

We leave Edinburgh by train to Inverness, the capital of the Highlands. This is the Scotland I imagine—rolling mountains amidst green farms, sheep, cattle, and that mist. The faerie mist. Why does Scotland make you believe in magic? Maybe it’s because it never gets dark here. Night falls from 11pm to 2am. If we don’t draw the shades we can’t sleep. It confuses further our already confused internal clocks. We tour Loch Ness, which I love. The story of the Loch Ness monster is over 1500 years old, the recent hoopla simply a marketing cash cow. Urquhart Castle, dating back to the 13^th century, sits on the lake’s edge and is one of the most visited castles in Scotland.

Urquhart Castle
Ben, Katy, Sam and Hannah

Kevin and I at Urquhart Castle

We fly to the town of Kirkwall, in the Orkney Islands, in a small propeller plane. While the Orkney’s are now a part of Scotland, prior to the 15^th century they were governed by Norway. This is Viking country. Perhaps this is why my children come to blows here. At each hotel we have three rooms—one for my husband and I, and one each for the boys and the girls. But Sam, who has so far resisted our beer-drinking attempts, is fed up with Ben. He swears too much, Sam says. Sam is sick of it. (Not to defend Ben’s colorful language, but in addition to having me as his mother he has also attended an all-boys boarding school for the past three years. Within the span of a week he began speaking like a sailor and hasn’t stopped since.) Turns out Katy is also unhappy with her roommate. It would seem that Hannah has been known to fling an invective at her sister from time to time on the trip. Sam wants to room with Katy and begins negotiations in earnest. I frown. Should brothers and sisters be sharing rooms? But teenage logic prevails. This is a philosophy coined by my husband to explain the smart, insightful decisions that teenagers make, such as claiming that 90mph on a motorcycle is a perfectly acceptable speed, or showing genuine shock when a window is broken after playing lacrosse in their bedroom, or wondering why the competitive team never called after repeatedly blowing off soccer practice.

Maeshowe, Orkney Islands

In Orkney we visit Maeshowe, a neolithic chambered tomb built 5000 years ago and lined up to the winter solstice. What’s intriguing about this one (a similar mound, Newgrange, exists in Ireland) is the Viking graffiti, carved about 1000 years ago and comprising the largest collection of runic inscriptions found outside Scandinavia. With witty one-liners like “Otarr carved these runes” there are also more vulgar descriptions. I have an epiphany. Vikings must have been teenagers. We’re in good company. Swearing spans the ages.

From atop Stirling Castle
Hannah, Kristy and Katy

My husband at
St. Joseph's Church in Blantyre

We finish the Scotland portion of our trip in Glasgow, taking a very touristy bus ride around the city. We return to the University of Glasgow twice because Hannah really needs another sweatshirt. In the suburb of Blantyre we find the church where my husband’s great-grandparents, Robert Gaitens and Jeanie Dobbin, were married in 1897. Well, kinda. This church was built in 1908 so the original is no longer standing. Close enough. The purpose for my husband visiting Scotland is complete. We take the kids to Stirling Castle, north of Glasgow, perched on a high volcanic crag. With unimpeded views in all directions of the countryside, it’s no wonder this was the seat of Scottish kings and queens for centuries.

The final leg of our journey takes us to Dublin, Ireland. Ben, with true teenage logic, plans to apply to Trinity College (aka the University of Dublin), because, well, it’d be so cool to go to college in a different country. So one afternoon we have a nice chat with a professor from the Computer Science Department. We also take the kids to see the Book of Kells, a lavishly decorated copy of the four gospels in Latin, likely produced early in the 9^th century. I have another wonderful teenage interchange with Katy.

“Why are we here?” she asks.

“To see the Book of Kells,” I say.

“Just tell me why we’re here.”

“To see a book.”

“But what is it?!”

“It’s a BOOK!!”

Just as I’m on the verge of swearing—what part of this does she not understand?—my husband steps in. He points out that books are no big deal to her generation. Ahh. Okay. I explain to her that back then tomes such as this had to be hand-written and were few in number. This is one of the most beautiful works ever created. She still seems unconvinced and blows through the exhibit. I purse my lips—it’s so unattractive if I stand there uttering profanities to myself—and attempt to enjoy this wondrous presentation while calming my blood pressure.

Urquhart Castle on Loch Ness

On our last evening we dine together at the hotel restaurant. It’s not often we’re together as a family. It’s one of the reasons I planned this trip, why I spent my husband’s hard-earned money, why I endured teenage griping about everything from the weather to why we had to visit yet another old church. As my children have grown, one of the best aspects is getting to know them, to hear their viewpoints, to watch their intellect blossom. When they were toddlers family conversations often turned to poop and farting. It’s rather comforting to know that as teenagers their repertoire still encompasses poop and farting, only now there’s a nice dose of cussing in the mix. As the conversation becomes littered with colorful language my husband decides he’s had enough. He sends everyone to their rooms—boy and girl, boy and girl. I can’t stop laughing. I’m tired of living out of a suitcase and eating hotel food, I’m glad I don’t have to flush another Scottish toilet (seriously, I could never get them to work), I’m glad I can stop waiting and waiting for the check at the end of a meal (a waiter feels it’s rude to bring the bill, you must ASK for it), I’m glad to know that lemonade is code for 7-Up (can’t they just call it 7-Up?), and I’m glad that soon I’ll be able to find a nice glass of ice tea (nonexistent here). Still, I’m sorry to see the trip end, swearing and all. It’s the stuff of memories.

A Houseboat On Lake Powell

By Kristy McCaffrey

Last July my husband and I took our four children, mostly teenagers at the time, on a houseboat trip on Lake Powell for seven days. Located along the Arizona/Utah border, this unique area is an outdoor and boater’s paradise. The lake, created by the completion of the Glen Canyon Dam in 1963, offers breathtaking views of buttes, pinnacles and natural arches, encompassed by towering walls of red sandstone. Naturally all of the kids complained that this wasn’t the vacation they wanted. There would be no cell phone service and no internet. How could they possibly last an entire week without texting or Facebook? I secretly smiled, but even my husband worried about no connection with his work contacts. We rallied forward anyway.

Upper deck of the houseboat

We arrive on a Wednesday morning to check-in at the Wahweap Marina, just north of Page, Arizona. Several hours pass before we’re ready to launch our 75-foot rental houseboat. A palace on the water, it’s replete with five bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen with a full-size stove, microwave and dishwasher, a dining area with a big-screen tv, and a hot tub on the upper deck. The kids—Sam (18), Ben (16), Katy (15), and Hannah (12)—are awed by the accommodations. We all are really. After a lengthy orientation on how this floating mansion works we’re set loose. Thankfully my husband has a working knowledge of circuit breakers, generators, and how to deal with septic tanks, as well as a dose of “this thing doesn’t scare me” because we soon realize that driving a giant boat on a lake crowded with other giant boats is not a task for the faint of heart. Sam follows us from the marina dock driving our 19-foot Bayliner boat while towing two rented jet skis. We were told not to drag any additional watercraft behind our houseboat, despite the fact that everyone else on the lake is doing just that. Once out-of-sight from the marina, my husband ties each jet ski off the rear of the houseboat, to give the Bayliner back the speed it was losing while hauling the smaller craft. This turns out to be a mistake.

To gain access to the interior of Lake Powell we must traverse a narrow, shallow inlet. Let’s just say there was traffic and it’s never a good idea to hit reverse while pulling anything. If the rope on one of the skis hadn’t snapped (after wrapping around the starboard propeller) we would’ve crushed the watercraft beneath the back deck. Instead, it drifts away, forcing myself and Ben onto the remaining jet ski to retrieve it. After that fiasco we feel relieved that nothing really catastrophic occurred, but soon the houseboat experiences steering problems. We discover power steering fluid leaking, quite a bit actually, and are forced to an early campsite to await a mechanic from the marina. Feeling sheepish about the jet ski incident, we hope the two aren’t related. The mechanic, who must do the repairs in two trips, lets us know we can pull boats and jet skis behind the houseboat, just make sure the ropes are long and the knots tight.

My husband and I and Katy. Photo by Katy McCaffrey.

The following day we drive deeper into the central canyon of Lake Powell, the red sandstone cliffs dominating the landscape, lending a postcard quality to the desolate surroundings. I feel almost gluttonous enjoying the view from the luxury of a traveling hotel, imagining how difficult it must have been for early explorers. Major John Wesley Powell, for whom the lake is named, first came through the region in 1869 using wooden dories. He and his comrades spent over three months exploring and mapping Cataract, Glen, Marble and Grand Canyons, and his writings are still read and respected today.

We park ourselves on a beach at the mouth of West Canyon, having covered about 27 miles since our launch. We discover that wide, sandy coves don’t always make the best anchoring spots—the next morning we’re stuck. Fortunately we use our Bayliner to pull us free but our neighbors aren’t so lucky and must call for help from the marina. But getting farther away from Wahweap means less traffic and we enjoy wakeboarding and jet skiing on calmer waters.

The next morning, once we free ourselves from shallow waters, we head for Dangling Rock Marina, a dock only accessible by boat. This marina, open April through October, is entirely supplied by barges. The workers live all summer in housing powered by solar panels. We must get gas and $700 later our tanks are filled. Our energy consumption would never make it on solar. We like being near the local mini-mart so park our houseboat not far from it, at the mouth of Wetherill Canyon, among a rocky inlet, thus avoiding those sandy beaches. Another bonus is that we occasionally gain line of sight with Navajo Mountain, southeast of the lake, and with it spurts of cell phone reception. Sam and Katy clamber all over the sandstone boulders in search of  “Can you hear me now?” We stay here for three nights.

My husband and I at Rainbow Bridge

On Saturday we set out in our Bayliner for a chance to view Rainbow Bridge, the largest natural spanning bridge in the world. Four of us embark first thing in the morning (two of the kids decide sleeping is more important than seeing natural wonders). Located fifty miles from Wahweap it’s the farthest into the lake we’ll go. There’s a dock, park rangers, and well-marked paths. We take many pictures and my husband teases me for carrying a pack filled with food and water since the roundtrip hike is only about 1 ¼ miles, hardly enough to break a sweat. Many Indian tribes have long held this place to be sacred and it’s only through an agreement with the Navajo Nation that tourists are allowed to visit. It’s requested that no one walk beneath the bridge out of respect for these spiritual beliefs, but this can’t be enforced. We decide not to venture under the thick arch.

Hannah and Sam wakeboarding

We spend our days at Wetherill Canyon exploring narrow slot canyons (this is where jet skis come in handy), wakeboarding, water skiing, visiting the marina for candy and milk, and watching movies (I brought dozens of DVD’s). We enjoy the water slide off the back of the boat and all overcome our fear of dropping into the lake ten feet. Katy and I sleep on the upper deck one night, huddled in our sleeping bags while rain sporadically pelts us. We take a fabulous family photo with the lake and sandstone behind us that later graced our Christmas card. We feed pancakes to three ravens stalking our campsite and realize that the bats we witness each evening actually live on our boat, in the canopy up top.

Our fabulous family photo. Photo by Katy
McCaffrey and her tripod.

On Monday morning we move the houseboat 30 miles back toward Wahweap Marina, in anticipation of ending the trip the next day. We find a beautiful placid cove in Warm Creek Bay but it soon turns into a nightmare of chop when the wind kicks up to such a degree that we think we’re on the ocean. We spend the night trying to sleep on a seriously rocking boat, messing with our equilibrium so much that it will take us three days after the trip to stop feeling the ground move beneath us. My husband resets the anchors several times, fearing we’ll unhinge during the night, but thankfully we’re still in place come morning.

Despite having gained valuable experience all week driving our behemoth lodging, we request a worker from the marina to board our boat and drive us into dock. We already fear our hefty deposit won’t be entirely refunded, so best to cut our losses where we can. We send Sam and Ben off in the Bayliner to retrieve vehicles and deposit the watercraft onto trailers for transport home while the girls and I clean up the houseboat. Okay, while I clean the houseboat. It’s enough that they gather their belongings. Soon they’re off to the marina gift shop for ice cream and souvenirs. This wasn’t the vacation the kids wanted but, if only for a few days, those phones and computer gadgets were replaced with deep red chasms and towering cliffs, all amid an endless water playground.

Katy and Hannah

Gematria ~ Hebrew Numerology

By Kristy McCaffrey

Ancient Academies and Mystery schools taught the concept of sacred numbers and the corresponding idea that everything in the Universe can be associated with a numerical value. This proved useful in storing secret information, especially in the form of stories or narratives. Within the Jewish tradition this is known as Gematria—assigning mystical meaning to words based on numerical values.

Today, the modern term would be Numerology, but this has retained negative connotations. This dates back as far as 325 A.D. when the First Council of Nicaea, a gathering of Bishops that resulted in the first uniform Christian doctrine, classified any departure from the beliefs of the state church as a civil violation. Numerology fell into this category, along with astrology and other forms of divination.

 

The practice of Gematria is found throughout Greek gnostic texts (gospels not part of the standard Christian Biblical canon) as well as the Qabalah (a western esoteric mystical tradition). One popular example is related to 666, the number of the Beast. It first occurs in the First Book of Kings in the Old Testament, referring to the amount of wealth that came to King Solomon. The root of the superstition associated with this number, however, can be traced to a passage from the Book of Revelation:

            Here is wisdom. Let him that hath

            understanding count the number of the beast;

            for it is the number of a man; and his number is

            Six Hundred Threescore and Six.

                                    [Revelation, 13:18]

For Christians this number has come to symbolize the Antichrist, or the one who is opposite of the teachings of Jesus. At different times this has included Genghis Khan, Napoleon, and Hitler. But the root of this association likely originated with the Roman Emperor Nero, a tyrannical ruler from 54 to 68 A.D. who persecuted early Christians. The emperor Nero (Neron Caesar) in Hebrew Gematria carries a value of 666. But it’s interesting to note that this number not only represents the numerical value of the Sun but also references the carbon atom, the basis of all life. Carbon-12 (a stable, naturally occurring isotope) forms 98.93% of the carbon on Earth and contains 6 protons, 6 neutrons, and 6 electrons.

Could Revelation have been referring to the number of man, the very building blocks of humans, and not to a beast bent on leading mankind away from God? In numerology, 666 adds up to 18, which adds up to 9—the number of man. Perhaps “beast” refers to the physical aspect of man as opposed to the spiritual.

Works Cited

Nozedar, Adele. The Element Encyclopedia of Secret Signs and Symbols. Harper Collins, 2008.

Silva, Freddy. Legacy of the Gods: The Origin of Sacred Sites and the Rebirth of Ancient Wisdom. Hampton Roads Publishing Company, Inc., 2011.

Wikipedia. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbon>.

Wikipedia. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbon-12>.

Wikipedia. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Numerology>.

Peru and Inca Ruins

By Kristy McCaffrey

“It pays to keep an open mind, but not so open your brains fall out.”  ~  Carl Sagan

View of Andes Mountains
from Macchu Picchu.

I must confess that a favorite television show of mine is “Ancient Aliens” on the History Channel. I’ve been known to watch hours of it at a time. Luckily my husband has an open mind on these subjects; it’s one of the reasons I married him. (That, and he has fabulous-looking feet. But I digress.) Common interests are important in relationships. So it was with great anticipation that I traveled last week with him to Peru. Our goal was Macchu Picchu and along the way other significant Inca sites. These are places which my favorite show suggests may have been built by aliens long ago while inhabiting Earth.

A side note—the original term Inka meant ruler in Quechua, the local dialect. It referred only to the ruling family. It was the Spanish who used the term Inca as an ethnic reference to encompass all subjects. Consequently it was the Inca Empire they encountered and conquered in the 1500’s.

The stone walls of Sacsayhuaman.

First stop is Sacsayhuamán (yes, it sounds like “sexy woman”), overlooking the Andean city of Cusco, the former capital of the Inca Empire. Cusco sits at 11,150 feet so despite all that time spent at the Y working out, I found myself dizzy and nursing a low-grade headache as I huffed and puffed up the hillside to the ruins. At the height of its power in the 15^th century, Sacsayhuamán was likely an important military fortress. It took thousands of men over fifty years to complete three ramparts of zigzag walls. Blocks of limestone—some as large as 361 tons—are fitted together without mortar so perfectly that even a piece of paper can’t be inserted. How this was accomplished is still up for debate, hence the popularity of fringe theories such as extraterrestrial technology.

The Sacred Valley.

Next stop are the ruins at Pisac. I will preface this first by stating that the Sacred Valley, through which you must travel to reach all these sites, is an idyllic and imposing place, buffeted by the Andes Mountains on both sides.

More than once the words paradise and shangri-la cross my mind. The citadel at Pisac sits high upon a hill (these Incas never built low) and controlled a route which connected the Inca Empire with the eastern jungles. It features all types of architecture—agricultural, hydraulic, military, residential, and religious.

The terraces at Pisac.

The ubiquitous terraces are everywhere as well as an interesting cemetery on the side of a mountain. Bodies were lowered by rope to be placed inside caves.

My husband at Ollantaytambo.

Ollantaytambo is another important Inca site. Located at the confluence of two rivers (the Patakancha and the Urubamba), it was the location of a royal estate for the Inca Emperor Pachacuti. It is one of the finest archaeological complexes in Peru, containing religious, astronomical, administrative and urban areas. It’s here that we take the Inca Rail to the town of Aguas Calientes, the launching point for entry to Macchu Picchu. (Unless you’re hiking the Inca Trail—anywhere from a 2 to 5 day trek that begins outside Cusco. The Trail leads directly into Macchu Picchu.)

The stonework at Ollantaytambo.

Macchu Picchu.

The next day we awake at 4am. Hotels begin serving breakfast at 4:30am. By 5:15am we walk to the bus station and already there are at least 500 people from all over the world in line. The buses drive much too fast on a switchback road to the entrance of Macchu Picchu but we arrive in one piece. 

Hyuana Picchu.

The first order of business is to climb Huanya Picchu, so we must hurry to the control station on the other side of Macchu Picchu. Only 400 people are allowed to climb this peak each day, famously visible in most Macchu Picchu photographs. The guidebook states that Huanya Picchu is a short, steep hike. That doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s straight up the mountain. My vertigo presses in and I do my best to keep it at bay; I really don’t want to ruin this. 

From atop Hyuana Picchu. Macchu Picchu is in the
background.

The reward is a breathtaking view of Macchu Picchu from atop Huanya Picchu. Also breathtaking are the surrounding peaks, the clouds rising and falling, the silver line of the river far below, and the lush foliage, courtesy of the just-ended rainy season. Walls and foundations sit atop Huanya Picchu. The Incas love of construction in high places brought them closer to their gods, notably the Sun God Inti.

Climbing Hyuana Picchu.

Macchu Picchu.

The remainder of the day we spend exploring Macchu Picchu itself. It’s a most magical place—simple, elegant, and pristine. The current theory for its existence is that it was simply a winter getaway for Inca royalty. The Spanish never ransacked it because the Incas quickly abandoned it, moving up the valley to another location. Macchu Picchu was discovered in 1911 by Yale historian Hiram Bingham, although the locals had long known about it. In fact, it was a local boy that led Bingham to the area. We wander around, follow our tour guide for a while, enjoy the local llamas grazing, and absorb the wonderful energy present.

The llamas of Macchu Picchu.



It’s here that our guide describes a technique used to cut the impossibly large pieces of stone. Several holes are bored into the rock and a piece of wood inserted. Water is added to the wood, thereby causing it to expand. Because there is quartz in the rock, it breaks along a plane. Polishing tools are used. My husband inspects some of the exposed pieces, finding notches that allowed two rocks to be locked together. The shape suggests that the builders used a margin of error in their measurements; the rocks didn’t have to match exactly. (Both my husband and I have backgrounds in engineering; all this means is that we’re curious about how things work.) Of course the polishing and rounding of the edges would have required proper tools, skills, and endless labor, but there was no doubt in my mind the Incas could have accomplished this. The alien theory simply doesn’t hold up under the most basic scrutiny. An open mind shouldn’t be an unhinged floodgate. But I’ll still enjoy my show and the fantastical extraterrestrial theories. I’m a fiction writer after all.

When it’s finally time to leave I’m reluctant. Macchu Picchu is special; you can’t help but feel it. For the first time, in crossing a destination from my bucket list, I add it again. This is a place to visit more than once. 

Las Vegas, New Mexico

Post by Kristy McCaffrey

When you hear Las Vegas you immediately think of the gambling mecca in Nevada, but there is another. Las Vegas, New Mexico—located east of Santa Fe—was established in 1835 on the Gallinas River, near the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. It prospered as a stop on the Santa Fe Trail and was 30 miles from Fort Union, a large Army outpost.

Fort Union



Las Vegas had a unique combination of Spanish and Anglo traditions, known for the balls and church socials held by the Anglo families and the fandangos, or neighborhood dances, and fiestas held by the Spanish community.



Las Vegas Saloon



The railroad arrived in 1879 and Las Vegas soon became one of the largest cities in the American southwest. The sophisticated town supported an opera house, social and literary clubs, an orchestra and a theater. But Las Vegas also had a reputation for rowdiness, and had its fair share of gamblers, hoodlums, and fallen women. Infamous characters such as Doc Holliday and his companion Big Nose Kate as well as Billy the Kid, Jesse James and Wyatt Earp all passed through in the late 19^th century. The area later became known as a resort town because of its dry, temperate climate and the hot springs north of town, attracting wealthy patrons from as far off as Europe. These luxury resorts flourished during the 1880’s and early 1890’s.



Many movies have been filmed here beginning with silent western films (1913-1915) to Easy Rider, Convoy, Wyatt Earp (starring Kevin Costner), All the Pretty Horses (with Matt Damon and Penelope Cruz), No Country for Old Men (with Tommy Lee Jones and Javier Bardem) and Paul (with Simon Pegg and Kristen Wiig).

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Kristy’s second book THE DOVE takes place in Las Vegas, New Mexico in 1877. The heroine, Claire Waters, lives at The White Dove Saloon with her mother and young brother. When the hero, Logan Ryan, finds her he mistakes her for a saloon girl, but her real desire is to become a doctor.

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Works Cited

Gottschalk, M.C. Pioneer Merchants of the Las Vegas Plaza. Local printing, 2000.

Wikipedia. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Las_Vegas,_New_Mexico>.

A Word About Colons

Post by Kristy McCaffrey

I’m here to write about punctuation, not the human intestine. Just wanted to be clear up front.

I’m really not a fan of the colon. And I’m really not a fan when a writer uses it ad nauseam. I recently finished a book in which the author used colons with such abandon that at times I was confused about what I was reading. Every paragraph contained at least 4-5 of the buggers and it was a very long book. I won’t reveal the work because despite my punctuation frustration I REALLY liked this book. The writer told a fabulous story and, for the most part, used colons correctly. But I believe that authors should try to be as invisible as possible, and anything that draws attention to the fact that ME THE AUTHOR was here should be removed. The colons were a huge distraction, and the author’s love of them even more so. Periods and commas work very well; never underestimate the power of simple writing. Here’s a sentence that had me throwing my hands in the air:

The home page of shaadi.com exhorts the unmarried to have faith: “20 million miracles and counting: Register free.”

Yes, grammatically this is correct, but two colons in one sentence? Really? I suppose this wouldn’t have irritated me if hundreds of colons hadn’t already preceded it. I should note that I used a colon to set off the quote. Applied sparingly they’re as invisible as any other punctuation should be. Strunk and White define that a colon should be used “after an independent clause to introduce a list of particulars, an appositive, an amplification, or an illustrative quotation.”

I’m currently reading another book in which the author uses colons (and semicolons, periods, commas and quotation marks) incorrectly. It’s a pre-publication copy given to me in exchange for a review. The author conveyed to me that the book is still being edited, which is a relief because this is the most unpolished manuscript I’ve ever seen. What I’m reading is a first draft, and no one but the author should ever see this. She drops colons into her dialogue and sentences like they’re commas or periods, clearly smacking the colon button whenever the mood strikes. I’ve nearly thrown this book at the wall too many times to count. However, like the first book mentioned, the story is quite good. And so I persevere in deference to the Story God.

As an author, am I too severe on the work of others? Possibly. In some ways becoming a writer makes reading less enjoyable. It can be a challenge to simply enjoy a story without critiquing it. With therapy and medication writers can overcome this. (Okay, I’m kidding.) I try hard to appreciate storytelling even if the mechanics of writing don’t line up. However, there’s no excuse for a sloppy format, and every author should strive for excellence in their work.

If you find that you have a deep infatuation with the colon then it might be time to create distance in the relationship. Stop hanging out together and rewrite sentences so the cute double dots don’t creep their way in. Save the spotlight for when it’s truly needed—and that would be the emoticon, of course. :-)