"When I had gone up the canyon for a mile or so, I came upon another, opening out to the north - a box canyon, very different in character. The walls were perpendicular, anywhere from eight hundred to a thousand feet high.
In stopping to take a breath, I happened to glance up at the canyon wall. I wish I could tell you what I saw there, just as I saw it, on that first morning, through a veil of lightly falling snow. Far up above me, a thousand feet or so, set in a cavern in the face of the cliff, I saw a little city, of stone, asleep. It was as still as sculpture - and something like that. It all hung together, seemed to have a kind of composition: pale little houses of stone nestling close to one another, perched on top of each other, with flat roofs, narrow windows, straight walls, and in the middle of the group, a round tower.
It was beautifully proportioned, that tower, swelling out to a larger girth a little above the base, then growing slender again. There was something symmetrical and powerful about the swell of the masonry. The tower was the fine thing that held all the jumble of houses together and made them mean something. It was red in colour, even on that grey day. In sunlight it was the color of winter oak-leaves.
A fringe of cedars grew along the edge of the cavern, like a garden. They were the only living things. Such silence and stillness and repose - immortal repose.
village sat looking down into the canyon with the calmness of eternity.
The falling snowflakes, sprinkling the pinons, gave it a special kind
of solemnity. I can't describe it. It was more like a sculpture than
anything else. I knew at once I had come upon the city of some extinct
civilization, hidden away in this inaccessible mesa for centuries, preserved
in the dry air and almost perpetual sunlight like a fly in amber, guarded
by the cliffs and the river and the desert."