Seligman | Finding footprints in the sands of deep time

The town of Seligman, Arizona clings like a tenacious lichen to what little prosperity can be extracted from the gritty desert and sandstone buttes of its eroding circumstances. It sits in quiet desperation on the western edge of the Coconino Plateau amidst the high desert country south of the Grand Canyon. The town got its start in the 1890s as a reliable water stop for steam locomotives heading west out of Flagstaff. For about 30 years Prescott Junction – its original name – blossomed. But in the 1920s the conversion to diesel engines suddenly made Seligman and its water resource obsolete. The trains no longer needed to stop, and they didn’t. Even so, for several years the railroad kept a depot for workers in town and that provided enough local economy to keep things afloat, if just barely.

Just when it seemed Seligman was headed into the desiccating pages of a once-was guidebook, along came the magical ribbon of pavement called Route 66. The pioneering Mother Road of America ran right through the middle of town and fired up the party like a nonstop Fourth of July. Tourists came a-motoring – in droves. Motels, bars, restaurants, and gas stations sprang up along Main Street. More cars, more tourists, more commerce. Soon there was a barber shop, hardware store, and two grocery stores. A town hall. An undertaker. Then came more cars, and more tourists. Eventually the true signs of municipal prosperity appeared: a real estate office and a bank. Seligman had arrived – the times they were a-booming.

Alas, the boom went bust again about four decades later. In 1978 new Interstate 40 replaced Route 66 and bypassed the town. The cars and trucks raced right on past it, just as the trains did. Once again Seligman’s fortunes were scattered to the four winds. In a few years the place had become a ghost town in all but official status. Buildings were abandoned, businesses boarded up. When I arrived in the early 80s, the town was a mere shell of its former self. At the time, you could buy a four bedroom, two bath house in decent condition on a large fenced lot for $10,000, – roughly 1/10^th the cost of the materials used to build it. Even the ghosts, it seemed, had left.

There was still a bank – if you could call it that – which shared a building with the bus station and was open half days on weekends or by appointment. At one time the bank had an ATM. But within a week of installation, it had mysteriously disappeared into the night. Legend has it that some cowboys rode into town on horseback, lassoed the machine like a cow in a rodeo, pulled it off its footing like a cow in a rodeo, and dragged it out into the desert, probably not like a cow in a rodeo but more like what you’d expect for an ATM in a rodeo.

Despite the many insults to its livelihood, Seligman has always made the most of its situation. Today it relies heavily on promoting the historic Mother Road. Birthplace of Historic Route 66! proclaim the billboards, brochures, and entry signs at the town line. One would have to be asleep at the wheel to not realize this claim is a little AQR (ain’t quite right). Why would anyone start a transcontinental highway in the middle of the Arizona desert?, you might rightfully wonder. Well, they didn’t – Route 66 actually started in Chicago, some 1700 miles and years before it ever got to Seligman. But that inconvenient fact was casually paved over as the need for some original advertising copy was more pressing. And what better way than to cash in on the popularity of good old Route 66?

Strictly speaking, however, if you read the fine print – not that there’s any fine print on the billboards – the truth of the matter is the town actually can claim a birthright of sorts, albeit not exactly what the signs imply. Seligman can, in all honesty, say it is the Birthplace of the Historic Route 66 Association of Arizona, a charter it secured in 1987. The association motto is… drum roll… Birthplace of Historic Route 66! So you gotta hand it to the town showmen – they made lemonade out of… well, nothing! And really, who cares? If it helps the town gain income, I’m all for it! I’ve grown to love this unique little town.

North of Seligman abide a series of mesas which hold extensive outcroppings of Coconino Sandstone. During late Permian time, some 280 million years ago, this area was a huge sand dune environment – very similar to the Sahara today – with sediment layers piling up thousands of feet in thickness. The Coconino Erg (giant dune field) was vast: It covered all northern Arizona, southern Colorado, and parts of Utah, New Mexico, and Nevada. The sand of which the Coconino Formation is comprised is extremely fine – much finer than typical beach sand – and this is the basis of its notoriety in the world of paleontology.

Way back when – on particular fine and beautiful Permian days – conditions sometimes aligned just-right where, for reasons not fully understood, the extra-fine surface on particular dunes became sealed and preserved like pictured pages in a prehistory book. In some of those pages, the fossil record shows remarkable detail of what took place. The weather and the inhabitants left their mark on these surfaces with incredibly precision. Crisp, clear traces of prints and talon marks look like they just happened. There are finely-detailed footprints of ancient reptiles and insects. There are heel marks pushed into the surface, and scratches made by claws. There are even preserved wind ripples and, astonishingly, fossilized raindrop patterns. Yes, fossil rain drops.

I was introduced to the fossilized curiosities of the Coconino Sandstone by my friend George Ast, a schoolteacher in LA. In an inexplicable hijacking of my mental faculties, I became fascinated – some might even say, obsessed – with the study of Paleozoic ichnology – footprints from the first creatures to walk on land. There is something altogether ethereal, tangible, and otherworldly thrilling about pressing your fingers into the exact spot impressed by the hand of a creature who predated your life by 3 million centuries. It’s time travel and this Time Machine works!

For the first few years I explored the Seligman area solo, camping among the sandstone canyons carved into the mesa escarpments and searching for footprints to study. I discovered and mapped several locations that showed traces worthy of further investigation. After Hal joined Potomac Museum Group (PMG) in 1989, we really cranked up the field research, spending weeks at a time in the Seligman area each winter. Over the 25 years we studied and explored the region, we collected hundreds of excellent paleoichnofauna (fossil footprint) specimens. We donated the bulk of our collections to the Science Museum of Minnesota and wrote several research papers with its intrepid head of Paleontology, Bruce Erickson.

The most curious thing about these enigmatic fossils – and the Coconino strata in general – is the complete lack of bones or body fossils. For some undiscovered reason the only things found here are “trace fossils” – no bones, no teeth, no wood, no shells – only footprints, tail drags, and other markings left by the animals, along with environmental influences of wind, rain and possibly even sleet and hail. Have you ever heard of fossil sleet? Neither have I. But there is good evidence that the Coconino has it. Yet, despite the thousands of square miles the Coconino Formation covers – not to mention its thousands of feet of thickness – there has never been a single bone come from it. Tiz a geologic mystery.

Most of the larger trails in the Seligman area are from the ichnogenus (footprint genus) Laoporus. Think of an average iguana or monitor lizard, shorten the tail, and you’re close – at least as concerns the size and shape. Laoporus animals were unique and important – they had characteristics which were part reptile, part mammal. The loose-knit group to which they belong are called Pelycosaurs, of which Dimetrodon – the famous fin-backed, non-dinosaur – was one. It may seem unfathomable, but mammals likely descended from this ancient group. It’s therefore possible – strange as it may seem – that these were our ancestors. Like I said, this Time Machine works.

One can learn a lot about creatures simply from their footprints. We know, for example, that Laoporus members were gregarious creatures. They lived and traveled in herds: We’ve unearthed large sandstone slabs whose entire surface is trampled by footprints all heading the same direction in what looks to be a stampede. We also know they ate insects whose tracks are called Permichnium. In a truly startling discovery, I found a two foot slab that clearly shows a Permichnium trackway which ended in a scuffle and was “terminated” by that of a Laoporus. It was a bad day for the Permichnium fellow.

On one of our expeditions, just before the big gem and mineral show in Tucson, Hal and I split up and systematically traversed the south flank of a large mesa, keeping about a mile apart, while making notes on our topo maps. It was a cold January morning, but clear sky and calm winds allowed us to keep warm while hiking mile after mile over rugged, sloping ground. We kept in touch via hand-held radios.

Late in the morning, while crossing over a small canyon cut into the mesa, I came upon a sandstone slap about 18” in diameter. From a distance I noticed it was punctuated with periodic markings on an otherwise smooth surface. As I got close, my pulse quickened – Yes! they were footprints! The piece had beautiful detail – it looked like the animal had just run across the sand ahead of me. When I examined it closer, I found signs of a fresh break along one edge.

“Fresh” is a relative term in this environment. The break could have happened 10 minutes, or ten years, prior. Time crawls very slowly in this arid desert and most of its geologic processes are nearly imperceptible. There was just no way of knowing when the break occurred. But, unquestionably, the slab originally had more to it. I searched the immediate area for the rest. No luck. But I got an idea.

About 12 feet above was a ledge. I could get a pretty good look at all the rocks below by standing on the ledge and scanning the immediate area with my binoculars. I climbed up and brought out the binocs, sweeping back and forth. When I saw something of promise, I dropped down and checked it out. But I always came up empty. After about a half a dozen trips down and back I finally had to admit the other parts to this fantastic piece were nowhere to be found. They likely were buried or pulverized over time.

Before leaving the ledge, I decided to take a break. I sat atop the layered sandstone shelves and pulled out my lunch. The scenery here is beautiful. Small pinion pines dot the slopes, intermixed with cactus, sage, and juniper. The ledge jutted out from the mesa slope and afforded a sweeping view to the south and east. It was a beautiful clear day – you could see the snow-capped peaks of Flagstaff some 70 miles distant. I plucked and ate ripe fruit from the prickly-pear cactus next to me and scrounged the ground under a pinion pine for the famously sweet nuts.

I checked in with Hal. Find anything interesting?, he asked. I told him about the nice slab of footprints in my hand. While it was a great prize in its own right, I was frustrated to not find the rest of it. We signed off and I carefully tucked the slab into my pack. I gathered up my gear then picked up the water bottle. The bottom was wet and dirt clung to it. As I was wiping it off, I glanced down to the ground where it had been. On the rock, outlined in the wet ring from the bottle, was a small, indented feature. I got down and brushed away the sand – footprints! I swept more sand and began pulling rocks away. More prints! My pulse and pace quickened together, frantically pushing aside dirt. A long series of prints – a trackway – appeared. As I cleared more debris, I realized the ledge I had been sitting on for the last half hour was full of footprints. Eventually I found the place where the piece in my pack had come from: it had broken off this same ledge. Excited, I called Hal. By the time he got there I had exposed a broad area that showed three separate trackways from animals walking close to each other and traveling in the same direction, side-by-side. It was amazing – and amazingly – was only the beginning!

Holy cow, man! Look at that! Hal exclaimed as he came up to the Ledge – which had become a noun by this poin: The Permian Ledge. We got to work. Over the next two days we dug the bed out, exposing an area about 12’ x 36’ with five major, and several minor, reptile trackways. There were prints everywhere, and many trails from insects. At the end of the second day, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, we photographed the piece in situ. We knew there was more, but we had to leave the next morning, so we covered it back over to protect it. We had no idea when we’d be back but as we drove to the show, we wore perpetual smiles: we had discovered something truly extraordinary.

In those days the Tucson Gem Show was a rowdy affair, with every sort of gem, fossil, rock, and jewelry-toting entrepreneur crowding into small rooms and schlepping treasures of the Earth. Year after year PMG occupied Room 149 at the Pueblo Inn along the frontage road of I-10. We removed the furniture to make way for our exhibits and in the evenings crammed up to a dozen smelly, snoring bodies into every square inch of floor space. Larry, who was the shortest, slept in the bathtub, George in the closet. Hal, Janet, Doug, Dave and other PMG staff slept all catawampus in the main floor area. I dare say I slept the best of all – I had my own private room: my van parked out back.

Our trackway discovery became a sensation amongst the prehistory crowd at the show. People from around the world flocked to our room to see the photo enlargements, samples, and the map we had drawn of the Ledge. The only piece we brought from the site itself was the original slab I had found in the canyon. But it was clear proof of the details preserved by the 280 million year old time capsule we had just opened. The footprints were exquisite, the Time Machine was running smoothly.

Eventually a contract was secured with a museum in Northern Ireland. The game was on to remove and transport the specimen from Seligman to Belfast. But first, we had to dig it up and carry it by hand more than a mile over trackless, rugged, thorny, unforgiving desert, to the nearest point we could get a truck. Then we had to haul the pieces to town, wrap and crate them up, then ship them out. It would be a huge operation. We had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into.

After the show we flew in our field team from Minnesota and brought them to Seligman for a major excavation over the next 5 weeks. Originally, we had planned to camp in the desert near the site, as we always did on field excavations. But before we could get the team out to the mesa, the rain, sleet, and snow came. The dirt tracts became impassable mudholes, the mesa shrouded in white.

In town we found the last motel still operational. The Romney was a crumbling, dry-rotting, two-story ramshackle collection of rooms worthy of nothing if not complete abandonment and condemnation by both the health department and zoning inspector, excepting for the fact that the county was too busy with real towns to be bothered with making an all-day excursion way out here. Stay at your own risk.

While we had little choice in accommodations, we nonetheless inquired if the facility had electricity and running water – including, hopefully, of the warm variety. It did so, we were enthusiastically informed by the managers – Rom and Patel – a couple of East Indian transplants trapped in servitude to an owner who lived in Bombay. They soon proved to be much more than accommodating hosts. Renting us three rooms for the price of one was only the start of their magnanimity. It was a welcome treat to have a warm, dry room while waiting out the weather, not to mention the luxury of a hot shower at the end of a long day digging in the dirt. We stayed.

One advantage of this arrangement was the empty parking lot. Over the next month Rom and Patel allowed us to fill the parking spaces with trailers, tools, crates, and literally tons of rock excavated from the Ledge. Another plus of staying at the Romney was its convenient location right in the middle of town – the only part of town still alive at that point. Across the street was the Copper Cart, Seligman’s only functioning restaurant, and next door was the town’s only bar, a roughhouse cowboy hangout called The Back Cat.

Without question, the greatest perk to staying at the Romney was the authentic East Indian cooking provided by our hosts. Every morning at dawn, while we warmed up the trucks and chiseled frost off the windshields, they brought us rich Indian Tea and little cardamom pastries. I cannot tell you how much the team looked forward to the start of each day as a result of Rom and Patel’s hospitality. I couldn’t get out of bed if it wasn’t for their tea, Clayton declared.

When they realized that Hal and I appreciated Indian cuisine, they added a weekly dinner to the Romney benefits. Each week Rom would drive to Flagstaff to stock up on foodstuffs from a small India grocery. Then, on Saturday evenings they cooked up a huge Indian dinner for the crew. We ate like royalty. They refused to accept any money for the added attention, so, on days when the weather kept us in town, the PMG crew performed much-needed maintenance on the buildings and mechanical equipment. I’d like to think our efforts helped keep the business afloat.

We soon realized the task we had set before us was too daunting to carry off without help. Through a waitress at the Copper Cart we met a local fellow named Monty Shawver. He became a lifesaver – pulling in friends and family to help with the work. Monty was a Vietnam Special Forces vet suffering from PTSD. He said he had it under control. But his wife, Ernestine, told us in confidence he still sometimes awoke screaming in the jungle. As the years passed, Monty opened up to Hal and I about his traumatic experiences in Nam. He said it was therapeutic to talk about it. His stories were graphic, gut-wrenching, and terrifying. I’ll leave it at that. To see the caring, gentle soul that was Monty Shawver and to know what he went through makes one ashamed of how we humans exist – warring as we do against one another, destroying lives present and future. Surly we’re the only species that can be so incredibly cruel to each other.

Another hired hand we met was through Preacher Muldoon, who ran the Grand Canyon Bible Camp 30 miles north of town. Lord knows how a Bible Camp survived in what can only be described as the Far Outback of the Middle of Nowhere. Preacher said his disciples were given a few weeks off after 4 months of study and it just so happened that this was good timing for us to hire Glen, his one-and-only study at the time. He warned us, however, that Glen was a proper God-fearing-Christian man following the righteous path of the Bible. Before he’d consent to us hiring Glen, Preacher Muldoon insisted on an “orientation” for the crew. This consisted of a primer on how to: not smoke, not drink, not curse, not do drugs, and not to do anything un-Godlike in Glen’s presence. We all agreed and the next day we met Glen at sunrise.

We spent the first week exposing the rest of the Permian Ledge, following the fossil layer into the hillside. As we dug, there came a point where a large 4’-diameter boulder of limestone was sitting directly in our way. The only option was to roll it down over the Ledge. But to do so would crush the layers it rolled over. To mitigate the impact, we brought in wood and built a small ramp for the boulder to roll down. Even so, we filled in the Ledge with sand and rock to protect the fossils as best we could. When the time came, we pried loose the stubborn boulder and it went crashing down the canyon as planned, ping-ponging from side to side.

Monty was a workhorse, always eager to dive into the dirt and help with whatever task was next. Glen, on the other hand, was strong and congenial, but seemed rather lazy. He had no initiative. If you said Hey Glen, could you shovel off that area there? he’d lazily scoop a shovel of dirt, toss it lamely to the side, and…. stop. If you asked him what he was doing, he’d say he was “pacing” himself. Studying the Bible at camp apparently didn’t include much mention of manual labor, despite the fact Jesus was a workaholic carpenter/preacher. One wonders how the ark ever got built by such people as Glen.

On the first day Glen was with us, I kept reminding the crew about the Bible Camp rules Preacher Muldoon had laid down. I wanted everyone to be respectful of this person’s orientation and faith, even if it wasn’t my cup of tea. Everyone complied and things carried on without concern. On the second day, however, while I was driving out to the site with Glen and several of the team in my van, we rounded a bend and a small herd of antelope bounded right across our path. From the back someone yelled – Jesus Christ! What the fuck was that?! I looked in the mirror – it was Glen. Thus began the inevitable slide to the Dark Side by the God-fearing Christian disciple from Grand Canyon Bible Camp. By noon Glen was easily leading the curse count with every other phrase employing the term fuck as a root wood. By the third day he was bumming cigarettes from Monty. Still, we got him home on time and Preacher Muldoon was happy.

The Ledge gradually enlarged and became more incredible by the day. The final surface measured 15’ x 45’ and had dozens of fantastic trackways and trails. Though originally one surface, over the ensuing eons the sandstone had cracked and fractured, resulting in hundreds of pieces to this immense puzzle. Before we removed anything, however, we had to map and catalogue all the parts. We overlaid clear plastic and traced the border of each of the 260 individual pieces, numbered them on the overlay, then marked each accordingly. Some were as small as a deck of cards, others as large as a dining room table.

As the days slipped by, so too did Glen’s interest in Bible Camp. On the day we dispatched the boulder, back in town that evening he announced: Let’s celebrate! First round’s on me at the Black Cat! whereupon the crew gathered for a beer. And another. And…. by 10pm I suggested it was time for Glen to head home. No worries, he slurred, I’ll head back later. I asked him how he planned to do that since we were his ride. I’ll manage it….

Hal and I went back to the Romney. As we entered the room, the phone was ringing. It was Preacher Muldoon. Jon, it’s getting late and Glen’s not back yet. I told him Glen was socializing with Monty and the crew. The Preacher was a little dismayed. Well he needs to get back here for evening prayers! he implored. I assured the Preacher we would get him the message. We did so, earnestly.

We went back to the bar and spent the next half hour trying to cajole Glen to head home. He was slamming shots and was so blasted he could hardly speak. Monty came up with a solution and graciously said Glen could stay at his house. So we left – again.

Back at the room Hal made the call. Yes sir, Preacher, yes sir… he said. Hal is always very polite. We’re taking good care of him, yes sir, you bethcha! He’s just having some quiet time, winding down with Monty and the crew. Last I heard they were discussing the Book of Revelations… Revelations? – that was an understatement! Hal informed him Glen would be staying with Monty. The Preacher was mollified.

The next morning, Glen looked like he’d been hit by a truck. It took all his strength just to hike up to the site. He collapsed under a pinion tree and didn’t stir until lunchtime. By afternoon, however, he was recovered and actually did his best to make up for lost time; shuttling loads down the hill to the truck and hauling water and tools back up. When we got back that evening he went straight to the bar, no excuse needed.

When Hal and I retired about 11pm, there was a message on the room phone from Preacher Muldoon. This was not unexpected. I called him and, following Hal’s lead, said Glen had formed an impromptu Bible study at Monty’s house. I embellished the story, saying that Glen had been quoting the Bible while at work, explaining to the crew about Job and his promises to God. The Preacher was relieved. But he did want Glen to call him the next day. That, of course, never happened. The Black Cat got in the way.

About three weeks into the work, on a Saturday evening, we got back to the Romney early, knowing an Indian Feast was being prepared by Rom and Patel. We cleaned up and at 6:00 entered the dining room behind the motel’s office. The smell of Indian food suffused the air, taunting our senses. We were famished. The food was spread out on the table before us: curried goat, tandoori chicken, dahl makhani, papadam, aloo paneer, garlic naan,…

Near the end of the celebration, the main office phone line rang. Hal’s wife Janine was calling from Minnesota. She told Rom to have Hal go to the room so he could speak privately. In 20 minutes the rest of us finished up, thanked our hosts, and headed to the Black Cat. I stopped into the room to get my wallet and tell Hal where we were going. When I opened the door I found him slumped on the bed, crying. I closed the door and went over to sit next to him. I knew this feeling – someone close in his family had died. I leaned over and put my arms around him. It’s my dad…. he passed away… Hal murmured. My dad… my dad…. my dad…. I hugged him close. We both cried.

Janine had arranged a flight from Las Vegas for early the next morning so we had to set off immediately. Clayton and Mike accompanied us as we made the solemn trip across the desert in the cold night. Janine’s parents lived in Vegas and when we got there, they were waiting with coffee, pastries, and a whole lot of love. Clayton, Mike and I left about 2:00 am, the sadness weighing heavily as we each hugged Hal on the way out. My turn came last. Your dad is proud of you, I told Hal in our embrace. Maybe he couldn’t always show it, but he loved you and is proud of what you’ve done. The drive back to Seligman was long and silent.

Ask anyone who helped excavate the Ledge and chances are they will mention the biggest single piece we hauled out: A monolith of stone labeled E-9. Imagine a semi-square slab of sandstone nearly 5’ x 5’, approximately 6” thick, and weighing a tidy 1,600 pounds. How are you going to move it without equipment? Not easily, I can tell you that! But we had a plan and, thankfully, it worked. We got the team together and lifted one side, balancing the slab up on its edge. Then, with four people on each side, we rolled it slowly down the mesa, navigating through canyons, around junipers, and sometimes – because we had no choice – straight through cactus brambles. It took 4 hours, but we made it to the truck without incident. We all spent time pulling cactus spines off our battered hides, but no one got seriously injured during the process. E-9 was the largest single fossil specimen we ever moved by hand.

After four intense and grueling weeks, we had over eight tons of rock spread out in the Romney parking lot. It took another week to make the crates, load them up, and ship it all out. I sent the field team back north and told Glen he was no longer needed. He was a little crestfallen but finally called the Preacher who picked him up the next morning. By then Glen was seriously hungover, reeking of booze and cigarette smoke. But the Preacher was oblivious and happy to have his disciple back. As they drove away, Monty told me that in the middle of the night he discovered Glen passed out on his living room floor, porn videos playing on the VCR. A few days later we noticed a lone figure on the interstate hitchhiking toward Flagstaff. It was Glen. Whether he quit, or was quitted, from Bible Camp we never heard.

On a crisp evening in late March, I took one last hike up the mesa – alone. At the site I stood and faced the setting sun. I said a prayer for Hal and gave thanks to the Earth for all that it has provided us, most especially this recent gift from the deep past. Two hundred eighty million years is a long time for something as fragile as a footprint on a sand dune to survive. And what are the chances that a geologist from 2,000 miles away would hike by this very spot on a particular January day and stumble upon the find of a lifetime?

As I stood on the Permian Ledge in the waning golden light, I looked down and was reminded of that cold, clear morning a few months before. This time I saw our own footprints in the sand. Scattered around the side of the mesa, they told the story of a community of souls, living and working together to excavate fossils of another community who trod this same ground many hundreds of thousands of millennia before.

What would become of our footprints? We never consider such things in our daily mayhem of life, do we? Probably no more, or less, than Laoporus did. Chances are these fragile prints would blow away in the wind, or wash away with the next rain.

Or, could it be possible that at some later geologic time, beings from a distant future would dig into the Earth and find a group of uniquely preserved footprints surrounding a sandstone Permian Ledge?