The scene steals the breath from your lungs as you barrel down the dirt road, and suddenly, it emerges: Rock City is a collage of color, the stone a mix of oranges, reds, and tans, with the shadows creating a contrast that no painting could ever do justice. When I was younger, I would go out to Rock City with my family, my siblings jumping from one structure to another while I tried not to get left in the dust. One day, my brother and I went out with my parents. He would jump from rock to rock without hesitation, though the rock towers had slick surfaces and steep drops between. I would leap after him, not hesitating long enough to let the fear of falling creep in. We would run and climb until we were sweat-soaked, the dust from the stones coating us.  

Dean Christiaens, my father, has mountains of history with Valier. “My grandparents came in 1903 from Belgium […] my dad was born here in 1934.” Rock City was something of a rite of passage back then; only the older kids were allowed to hang out there, unlike today.  “I had never been to Rock City until I was about to graduate.” He reminisced about the antics of youth, laughter in his voice as he admitted, “We would scare the younger kids with stories of people fall off the rocks or the side of the cliff.” Dad acknowledged that he never knew if these stories were true, or just folklore to scare kids away.  

Dad’s story painted a picture of Rock City that tasted of warm beer and coming of age films. “It was magical, because it was like our own little world. It felt like we had a whole separation from the adult world. We would set up a keg down in the middle between the rocks and climb on our own rocks around it. We would sit there and BS and play music, and just have fun.” Rock City is a living, breathing part of the community, something that provides sanctuary and peace, and the ability to bond. Dad and his friends freely acted like kids without the pressures of the outside world leaking through. This was a conversation of shared secrets and experiences, commonalities between the days of his youth and the days of my own—some things never change. “Now as an aging gentleman, I feel that I just think of the saying ‘When we were kings’ you know? We were kings. We had it all.” 

Memories of the past danced in his eyes. “It’s weird that, well it’s something that at my age, and I think about it a lot when we were that age and we had a full tank of gas, 20 bucks in our pocket, we had it made. And now we have all of this stuff, all of these things in our lives, and we just don’t have many of those moments anymore.” Dad still ventures out to Rock City often, throwing a warning over his shoulder to Mom that he will be out of service for a few hours. Rock City is still a place for youthful rebellion, a place we go to simply exist. As the world shifts and changes around it, it remains a place untouched by the pressures of life. A place to be kings.  

“Valier is a very small town, but I wasn’t expecting it to be as small as it was… I thought I was lost, and then I went over the hill and there it was.” Hanna, my roommate from Belgrade had come to experience Homesteader Days, a celebration of our town complete with a softball tournament, tractor pull, and parade. It was also one of the rare chances for the gang to reunite and visit our old stomping ground, Rock City. Apparently, we hadn’t explained enough about Rock City to Hanna. “I kind of thought it was an actual town. I thought maybe people had hand-stacked rocks.” 

Hanna was set to return home the next morning, so the group decided on an all-night adventure. It was too dark to travel to Rock City, so we hung out at a friend’s house in the middle of nowhere. It was around 5am when the lightening sky revealed telltale signs of a night well spent and we scrambled to head out. Hanna recalled “Everyone kept saying we were running out of time. So, everyone packed into that one single car and we took off.” I remember watching her face intently as we began to see the first touch of light upon the stone. Hanna’s confusion was evident. “We hadn’t quite gotten there yet, so I was like ‘Oh, this is it.’ Then we actually got there, and I was like, ‘Oh, this is it.”  

She reflected on her initial experience: “It was one of the coolest places I had ever seen […] The sun was rising, we were there at like 6am. It was so fun to explore the paths, and overlooking the river was so beautiful. There’s this cliff down to the water and we went swimming as the sun came up […] It was such an experience.” Hanna started the weekend overwhelmed by how tight-knit the community seemed, but quickly came to see how welcoming we small town kids are. “It felt very special to be welcomed. I hope everyone gets to have an experience like that. I would live there, make myself a home out of the rocks.”  

My favorite memory is one painted by moonlight. I was about to leave for college and needed to experience Rock City one more time with my friends. There is no official starting point to greet you, instead, you dive down one path or another. You can choose to stay on the edges, or to maneuver your way deeper towards the cliffs. We managed to find our spot: a section of rock deep within the labyrinth that seemed cut out specifically to fit two people. The rock was tall on either side, curving inward above. The hole in the stone allowed us to sit on the ground with our feet hanging over the edge of the 150-foot drop.  

I used to be nervous that the rock would give out, but after years of exploring, I had faith that the sandstone would support me. We looked down upon the river, talking about what was to come as the moon danced on the waters below. The real sight was looking at the stars through the gaps of rock above my head. The stars and the moon contrasted so strongly with the darkness and shadows that encapsulated us. I cannot recall how long we stayed in that spot, feeling that if we kept talking, we could keep the future at bay. The beauty of Rock City, however, is the idea that no matter how much time passes, it will remain.  

Rock City is so much more than any random spot with rocks and cliffs and rivers. It provides us with an escape when the world is too busy and somewhere when we need a place to just exist. It bears the scars of carved initials and dates and proclamations of love like tattoos, a recorded history of all those who have dwelled before—including mine and Dad’s—with plenty of space left for those to come. Rock City carries our stories and secrets, and it will carry those of future generations.  

Story by Hannah Christaens

Photos by Dean Christaens