Under the arching roof of a tremendous cave stands a silent, empty city.

For almost seven centuries it has stood there looking out across the canyon toward the setting sun. Proudly, almost haughtily, it has resisted the heavy tread of those slow centuries. Like a giant with a shawl of everlasting stone pulled closely about its shoulders it has stood with unbowed head, an eternal monument to the intelligence and industry of its builders.

Almost seven centuries ago the people turned their backs on their proud city and walked away. All of the forces of nature seemed to be against them. The rains failed to fall; the springs ceased to flow. No corn grew in the fields. At last, weak from lack of food and water, and bewildered by the failure of the gods to answer their hysterical prayers they surrendered to the inevitable. Sadly they turned their backs on the once happy city and walked down the canyon, never to return.

Cliff Palace, the crowning glory of the Mesa Verde, was a silent, deserted city.

In spite of the protection offered by the cave Cliff Palace has suffered from the leveling forces of time. The owls and pack rats have been careless tenants and the lack of repair is evident. Some of the walls have cracked; a few have fallen. Foundations have slipped; roofs have disappeared. The once-bright plaster is peeling from the walls.

These minor changes have failed to dim the splendor of the largest of all cliff dwellings. From one end of the cave to the other stand unbroken lines of houses. Story upon story they rise to the very roof of the cave itself. On a still higher ledge, far up under the cave roof, stands a long row of small rooms where the people once stored their abundant supplies of grain. In some of the houses paintings are still bright on the walls; in others footprints of the people are still clearly evident in the hard-packed clay floors. At each end of the cave is the trail which once led to the corn fields on the mesa top; below the cave is the trail that led to the bottom of the canyon.

In reality Cliff Palace has not changed a great deal since that day when its inhabitants disappeared. They walked away, it is true, but they are still there. You can see them if you close your eyes.

Unfortunate indeed, is he who views this ancient city and sees only the towering walls. Unfortunate because the stones are the least important part. Cliff Palace is really built of the hopes and desires, the joys and sorrows of an industrious people. It is not a cold, empty city for it is still warm with the emotions of its builders. In each fingerprint and tool mark lie the prayers of a young couple for a home filled with children and happiness. Each storage bin is chinked with a farmer’s prayers for a bountiful harvest. In each plastered kiva wall is an ancient priest’s reverence for his gods. A pot is not just a piece of baked clay: it is an ancient potter’s moulded prayer for beauty and strength. Each solid wall is a testimony of success; each shattered human bone, each broken jar is an admission of defeat.

Cliff Palace stands today as a monument to the ancient people of the Mesa Verde. For many centuries they occupied the great, green mesa and finally, almost in its center, they built their greatest city. Certainly it was their outstanding architectural achievement but it is only one of many hundreds of ruins which stand in silent testimony to the skills of an industrious people.

For over a thousand years the Indians enjoyed the security and bounty of the Mesa Verde. In the beginning their culture was simple but as the centuries passed they progressed steadily without taking a backward step. Finally they reached the highest point of their development and for the brief century during which they occupied the cliff dwellings they enjoyed the fruits of their long struggle. Then catastrophe came and in a short time they were gone.