For all its glorious excess, and despite the worn spots on the edges, Las Vegas is, well, new. Yesterday afternoon we visited the Valley of Fire.
Fifty miles from the Strip we saw 3000-year old petroglyphs and rock formations whose sandstone layers were laid down in the time of the dinosaurs, 150 million years ago. Early Basket Makers people, as Michael Pollan described in Cooked, made grain-seed-small animal and fish porridges in water-filled baskets by dropping in hot stones. Goats and even tortoises were other sources of food.
The Anasazi lived here for a time but eventually moved on, leaving the Paiutes who remain today. Earlier this week we visited a ranch originally owned by a settler who married a Paiute woman and adopted her children, a very confused family tree.
Only in the 20th century did invaders enter the valley. Mormon settlers kept going because there were so few resources. Aside from the road and a visitor center, even today it’s not hard to imagine you’re sharing the space only with Gila monsters and tarantulas.
I usually avoid the the “pano” setting on my i-Pad, but everywhere I looked there was a panorama:
We arrived fairly late, after dropping my daughter at the airport, and as a result of that happy accident we were in the park as the sun set.
Finally (reluctantly) we headed back to downtown Las Vegas, where the light show at the Fremont Experience was a bit of an anticlimax. I won a few dollars in the slot machines at the Four Queens and we watched rodeo on the televisions over dinner at the Golden Nugget, but it is the Valley of Fire I will remember forever.