Salmon Ruins—52 Years Later

In the summer after my junior year in college, I had the opportunity to be part of an archaeological dig at Salmon Ruins, near Bloomfield, NM. My college major was anthropology; my primary interest archaeology. I was 19. I had never been west of Detroit.

I was so excited and nervous to revisit the dig that I barely slept the night before. I even, after some hesitation, reached out to a man I’d had a summer romance with that year. He had gone on to a long and distinguished career in archaeology, and now resided in Arizona.

I knew the site would be different, but it was so changed that I had trouble orienting myself at first. There was an entire area, the Heritage Trail, added to the ruins to show the history of the area, and especially the story of the Salmon family, the first white settlers there, who were instrumental in preserving the site for future generations. The housing development encircling the site was especially disconcerting. Many of the rooms and kivas had been partially or wholly backfilled, to stabilize crumbling walls. And of course, the plaza and main kiva had not even been excavated in 1974.

But eventually, I recognized some of the areas I’d worked on. And I chuckled to see that the crew housing was virtually unchanged. Leaving Moe in the car with the ac on, we set out around the site.


Women’s hogan; note roof structure
Partially underground house; an earlier dwelling form
Women’s hogan, looking in from entrance

Moving onto the ruins:

Outer wall of the pueblo
Central ‘Great’ Kiva
Tower kiva in center of pueblo
Ventilation shaft; this pueblo was 3 stories in places
Pueblo room
Large room, probably a communal work area
Small portion of a wall mural; red color is made by placing stones in an oxidizing fire

And then I finally found the small kiva I’d worked on and my 19-year-old self came flooding back.

Oops—this is a different kiva!

This had been backfilled: in 1974, the floor was several feet lower.

Returning to the museum (the director graciously waived my entrance fee), I was told that the retired director, a man named Larry Baker, was in the library: he had also been on the dig in 1974. We chatted about those days and some mutual acquaintances, but neither remembered the other from that summer. I left feeling a multitude of emotions.

And my gentleman friend from that summer? Kurt wrote me back that very evening. He told me a bit about his career and his current work, and told me he remembered that summer—and me—fondly. Just for a minute, I was 19 again. For a 72-year-old, that’s pretty heady stuff.