For all the mysteries the Fremont people left behind, one thing is clear about their petroglyphs at McConkie Ranch: This drama is crying out for a major motion picture.

Oh. My. God. It's amazing. Horned guys carrying severed heads around. I can just see the sword-wielding hero on the DVD cover.

Sometime before 1200 A.D., there was a thriving arts scene in the Vernal area. You can see a large body of work just west of town at what is now McConkie Ranch, a stretch of private land with a marked trail under scores of petroglyphs along Dry Fork Canyon.

The east section shows the artists' peaceful phase. There are pregnant women with smiling lips, little families standing together and, high on a cliff, two buddies holding hands.

Then, a half mile to the west, the Fremont artists of Vernal got their edge.

There is blood. There is gore. No detail was spared. If you're going to spend hours and hours chiseling scenes of dismemberment and carnage, you've got to put some tears on your bodiless heads. This ain't no Lisa Frank sticker. One sad head is crying next to a pair of detached feet.

What's missing is any explanation of the pictures' meaning or history. The state posted a sign that says the site "probably dates to the period A.D. 1 to 1200." Helpful. The ranch has a welcome booth where you can buy a visitor's guide with photos of certain petroglyphs you want to be sure to see -- but no accounts of what they are about.

That's because no one seems to know squat about the Fremont people: how they died, who their friends were, who their enemies were, or who even counted as "Fremont." And the significance of the pictures is all guesswork. Were these actual wars? Mythical wars? Wars at all? What did the sad heads do to deserve this? Was the art a metaphor or a prayer for rain or good hunting or something?

The actual story of the pictures, while clearly awesome, gets lost.

Now I imagine the Fremont artists of Vernal sitting around wherever death took them and watching us throw our hands in the air, all confused by their opus. I bet they're so mad.

"How much more badassery could we have scratched into a rock?"

"These people have no appreciation for narrative."

"I can't believe I drew all those tears."

For what it's worth, fellas: I can totally hear the James Horner musical score in my head.

For more Utah adventures and musings, check out Erin's blog: Poorpenmanship.com