Buckhorn Draw

About This Experience

The Dog Site in Buckhorn Draw was one of those small rock-art locations that we might easily have passed without realizing how memorable it would become. Unlike the enormous anthropomorphic panels and dramatic hunting scenes we had been searching for elsewhere in the San Rafael Swell, this site was dominated by a single, wonderfully unusual figure painted in red pigment on the sandstone. From a distance it looked almost insignificant, just a small patch of color against an immense wall of warm desert rock. But once we approached and the shape became clear, it was impossible not to smile. The figure looked unmistakably dog-like, with a simple body, raised head and an extraordinary posture that gave it the appearance of kneeling or sitting in some strangely solemn attitude. Someone had given it the nickname “Praying Dog,” and the moment we saw it we understood why. Its front portion seemed almost lifted while the body remained low, creating the impression of an animal caught in a moment of devotion. Of course, that interpretation belonged entirely to us. We had no way of knowing whether the ancient painter intended to portray a dog at all, much less one engaged in something resembling prayer. It could have represented another animal, a mythological creature, a symbolic being or something whose meaning depended on stories that disappeared long ago. But whatever its original identity, the figure possessed an extraordinary amount of personality for such a simple pictograph. Getting there had already provided us with a little adventure of its own. We were travelling through the rough desert roads of the Buckhorn Draw area in the Jeep, enjoying exactly the kind of terrain for which we had brought it. The road alternated between relatively easy dirt and sections cut by erosion, loose sand, embedded rocks and deep ruts left by previous vehicles. Most of the time the Jeep simply climbed over everything without complaint, and that probably made us a little too confident. At one point we entered a particularly soft and uneven stretch where the tracks narrowed and the surface looked firmer than it really was. Almost immediately the Jeep sank farther than expected. One wheel dropped into a rut while the opposite side climbed onto softer ground, and for a brief moment we felt that unmistakable loss of forward momentum that makes you wonder whether the next few minutes are going to involve shovels, recovery boards and a great deal of embarrassment. We stopped before making the situation worse. The Jeep was not deeply buried, but continuing to spin the wheels would have been the quickest way to change that. We got out, examined the ground and realized that the problem was manageable. The tires had simply lost the best line through the soft section. After clearing a little loose material and choosing a better angle, we engaged the appropriate four-wheel-drive setting and eased back onto firmer ground. There was no drama, no desperate recovery and fortunately no audience. Within a few minutes we were moving again as though nothing had happened. It became another reminder that even with a capable vehicle, the desert always deserves respect. The Jeep could handle far more difficult terrain than this, but only if the people inside it avoided making unnecessary mistakes. We laughed about how close we had come to turning a simple rock-art excursion into an afternoon of vehicle recovery and continued toward the site considerably more attentive to the road ahead. By the time we reached the sandstone shelter, the little incident already felt like part of the adventure. The surroundings were wonderfully quiet. Buckhorn Draw is famous for some spectacular rock art, but smaller panels like this one can feel far more intimate because there is so little to distract from the individual image. The red dog-like figure occupied a relatively modest area of the sandstone, surrounded by natural stains, cracks and changes in the color of the rock. At first glance the pictograph seemed almost childishly simple. There were no elaborate internal decorations, no complex headdress and no crowd of surrounding figures. Yet the longer we looked, the more expressive it became. The position of the head gave it an alert quality, while the unusual arrangement of the body and limbs created that unforgettable impression of an animal kneeling before something unseen. We moved from side to side trying to understand exactly how the painter had constructed it. From one angle it appeared playful, almost like a dog waiting expectantly for its owner. From another it looked strangely ceremonial, as though the animal had deliberately lowered itself into a devotional posture. The sandstone surface contributed to the illusion. Natural contours in the rock seemed to interact with the painted form, and slight differences in light changed the way the body appeared. The red pigment was still clearly visible, although time had softened its edges and blended parts of it into the surrounding stone. We tried to imagine how vivid the figure must have looked when it was freshly painted. Against the pale sandstone, the red animal might once have stood out dramatically, perhaps visible from much farther away than it was today. Why anyone chose to paint this particular animal here was impossible to know. Dogs almost certainly played practical roles in many ancient communities, accompanying people, guarding camps and perhaps helping with hunting or transport. If this really was a dog, perhaps it represented an individual animal that was somehow important. Maybe it appeared in a story. Perhaps it had ceremonial significance. Or perhaps the animal was simply painted because someone wanted to record something familiar from everyday life. We liked that last possibility because it made the figure feel wonderfully ordinary. Not every ancient image needed to represent gods, spirits or cosmic events. Perhaps someone centuries ago simply knew a dog with a peculiar posture and decided that it deserved a place on the wall. Naturally, that was pure imagination, but the pictograph encouraged exactly that kind of speculation. Its apparent personality made it difficult to treat as just another archaeological motif. The name “Praying Dog” was particularly irresistible. Once someone points out the resemblance, it becomes almost impossible to see anything else. We found ourselves inventing increasingly ridiculous explanations for what the animal might have been praying for: water, food, a successful hunt, perhaps simply that its owners would stop painting it on sandstone and give it something to eat. The humor somehow made the site even more enjoyable. Some rock-art panels inspire silence because of their scale or mystery; this one made us smile. Yet beneath that playful reaction remained the same profound uncertainty we encountered everywhere in the desert. We could see the image clearly, but we could not hear the story that once accompanied it. The people who understood its meaning were gone, leaving behind only pigment and stone. We spent some time examining the surrounding wall for additional figures. Faint marks appeared here and there, but nothing drew our attention quite like the red animal. Its isolation actually increased its presence. There was something almost theatrical about it, as though the sandstone wall were an enormous empty stage and this single little creature had been placed at its center. The scale of the desert around us made the image seem even more fragile. Beyond the shelter stretched miles of canyon country, cliffs, washes and rough roads, while here a few carefully applied lines of pigment had survived century after century. Eventually we stepped back far enough that the dog began to merge again with the sandstone. From only a short distance away, its body became less obvious, and the rock resumed its natural appearance. That disappearance made us appreciate how easily these small pictographs can be overlooked. Without knowing what to search for, someone could pass nearby without ever noticing that a little red animal was watching from the wall. Before leaving, we took a final series of photographs and stood quietly in front of the figure one last time. The strange posture remained impossible to explain. Perhaps it was really a dog. Perhaps it was praying. Perhaps neither idea had anything to do with what the ancient painter intended. It did not matter very much. What mattered was that the image had survived, carrying enough character across centuries to make two modern visitors stop, smile and wonder about the person who created it. The drive back through Buckhorn Draw was uneventful, although when we reached the difficult section of road where the Jeep had nearly become stuck, we approached it with considerably more respect than before. This time we chose the line carefully, maintained steady momentum and crossed without the slightest problem. A few minutes later the troublesome patch of sand and ruts was disappearing behind us, just as the little red pictograph had disappeared into the sandstone when we walked away. By the end of the day, the near-stuck Jeep and the Praying Dog had become inseparable parts of the same memory: one a reminder that the desert can challenge you even when you think you are prepared, the other a tiny and mysterious image that had somehow survived in that landscape for centuries. Of all the extraordinary figures we encountered in the San Rafael Swell, the little red dog was among the simplest, yet it was also one of the hardest to forget. There was something wonderfully human about standing in that immense desert and finding, carved into its silence, an animal that seemed for all the world to be patiently asking the heavens for a little help.