Never Broken: Songs Are Only Half the Story

by Jewel

  “Indian Joe,” he said with a broad smile. “Follow the trail to the village, and the first house you see on the right just before the village is mine. My wife’s name is Sue, and tell her I said you may stay on the cots in the yard.”

  We followed the trail to Joe’s. Without opening the screen door between us, Sue pointed to the west, and in the distance we saw a tall cottonwood tree, such an usual sight for the desert.

  I pulled my sleeping bag off my pack and laid it out on the single bed closest to the tree. The sunlight was dancing through the canopy overhead, creating a kaleidoscope of color and sound as dry leaves chimed in brittle tones. I lay down and stared up at the shock of green leaves, so rich and vibrant against the monotonous landscape. The canyon walls rose around me at every angle. It almost caused a feeling of vertigo. I felt like a tiny shell laying there, an archaeological artifact, a brief blink and breath of fragile skin.

  We set up camp by our tree and shared our food and talked until we both grew quiet under the spell of the evening’s music. Hawks cried in a far-off corner of the canyon. Dogs barked, trying always to get the last word. Chickens clucked from the safety of their evening roosts. Then all was silent but for the great collective hum of the desert. Bugs and frogs, insects that rubbed their wings against trees like locusts, all blurred into a white noise.

  I went to that place I rarely find: a deep and restful sleep with no ghosts nagging. I felt safe and happy in my soul, surrounded by beauty and God’s music . . . then, a woman screaming.

  I startled awake, my eyes shot open with alarm. Adrenaline rushed through my body as I tried to comprehend the sound. I sat disoriented, trying to find the source.

  “What . . . ?” Musse stammered.

  My God, I thought, a woman is being murdered! I knelt on my bed, turning around as I tried to make sense of the painful screeches bouncing off the canyon walls. I looked in the direction of the house and saw no lights. I could hear no one stirring. The scream would stop as abruptly as it started, then a deafening silence. In the utter confusion, we waited for another outburst.

  “From over there?” I pointed to the northeast, just behind the house. The cobwebs of slumber had cleared now and on the second scream I was able to pinpoint the source a bit more clearly.

  “My God, it sounds like someone is hurt!” Musse said.

  But I began to recognize the sound, and it slowly became clear. It was the incredibly sad and mournful crying of a . . . mule. I half laughed.

  “No way!” Musse proclaimed in disbelief. Sure enough, shadowy four-legged figures could be seen, restless in the shadows in the small pens on the other side of the house.

  I sat for a minute and contemplated the comedy of the situation. It had to be a nightly occurrence, as not a single person besides us seemed bothered by it. The mule in question kept it up for only another hour, but it had set pins and needles loose inside my skin. I kept thinking I felt critters crawling around, though I knew that up high on that bed it was unlikely. I was sure glad I wasn’t sleeping on the ground.

  Dawn came and the air was cool and damp with the difference. Indian Joe must have had an eye on us that morning, for as soon as we rustled around, I heard his voice bark from a distance.

  “Morning! Come on over when you get up.”

  I had wondered about our deal, and if he was serious about letting a complete stranger run his mule train. Apparently he was very serious. I rounded the house and headed to the wooden pens.

  “Sleep good?” he said with a grin. “My mules scream. Very scary if you don’t expect it. Look, after breakfast, we’ll pack the mules. You’ll ride Rocky, my horse. Just follow the trail. Real easy, the mules could do it themselves but they are lazy and wouldn’t go if you didn’t make them.”

  Sue made eggs and fresh salt bacon. It was the first real food it seemed like we’d eaten in a long time. Afterward Joe placed his dishes in the sink and told Sue he had the day off since he was putting Jewel to work. Sue was quiet and winked at me as I picked up my plates, said thank you, and headed for the door.

  Musse helped us pack, as Joe explained that the mule train was critical to life in the village, the source of groceries and mail, among other things. We gathered the tail of each animal and tied it up so the hair created a loop. We tied the lead rope of one animal through the looped tail of the one in front of it and so on up the line. We used a knot that would release if it was pulled on really hard. A quick-release bolen. On the steep trails, if one of the animals were to lose its footing and fall down the steep patch, the rope would come undone to prevent dragging the whole pack train down with it.

  I measured my stirrup length and he gave me my instructions. Just follow the trail up to the top. Be careful on the steep parts. Someone would be waiting up there to meet me. Unpack and repack the mules with fresh supplies. I encouraged my pony to head out, which he did ever so reluctantly, and I felt my lead rope tighten as the mule behind me protested. Then he slowly started and I felt another pull as the mule behind that one pulled slightly, uneager to start, and so on down the line until we were all moving forward toward the trail.

  I waved my hand and cheerfully chimed, “Hej!” The Swedish greeting that meant both hello and goodbye.

  “Vi ses snart,” Musse answered—he’d see me soon.

  Though I was a bit nervous at first, I began to relax as I saw that my horse, Rocky, knew his way at each small fork in the trail. I was just there to provide motivation. I sat back and enjoyed the scenery. An hour passed and I began to see the ground rise at a slow and almost imperceptible grade. I pushed the train on at a slow and steady pace and the canyon widened with each foot we climbed. In a few hours we were on the steepest part of the trail—we switched back and forth, zigzagging up the steep cliffs. I stopped every now and then to let the sweating animals catch their breath. As we walked, I watched small rocks knocked loose by my horse’s sure feet tumble down behind us. I listened to the tiny clanging sound until I could hear it no more, drowned by the steady rhythm of hoofbeats. The sun was high and directly overhead as I neared the top. My tummy was growling and the mules began to nicker as they knew the top meant lunch was near.

  As I cleared the last turn, I could see a powder blue form start to appear at the apex of the trailhead. The crown of a pickup became slowly discernible, then a straw hat, and then the face beneath it, folded arms, legs crossed, until finally I was at the top of the hill and could see the whole man. I must have been revealed in the same fashion: first my horse’s ears, then blonde hair, and so on.

  “You’re not Joe,” the Mexican stated in an even tone.

  “No, I’m Jewel.” I had not spoken for the last several hours and had inhaled so much dust that my voice sounded shockingly loud. That was that. He seemed to require no more explanation.

  It took us at least an hour of quietly working side by side for us to repack the mules, being careful to distribute the weight evenly on both sides of the animals. Packing mules is quite an art, and the Mexican, who never gave me his name, was quite a hand at it. I helped as best I could, and tried not to get in his way.

  The ride back was peaceful. A hoo-hoo of an owl out in the day, the scratches of a rabbit as it scurried, always fearful of discovery. It felt so pleasingly familiar to be on horseback, by myself, wandering as I had done on the bluffs of Alaska. Here I was, many miles away, in an extremely different climate, running a mule train in the bottom of the Grand Canyon for a guy named Indian Joe, who lived in a forgotten village belonging to a tribe I never knew existed. Unbelievable.

  As I neared the house, I called out. There were kids in the narrow paths that they used as streets, though really they were nothing more than dusty trails worn smooth by so much foot traffic. I headed to the general store and began unloading the supplies. Musse and Joe showed up, and Joe said, “What a nice day off I had! Sue did not let me out of the house—I lived the good life today!” His smil
e was broad. It was three in the afternoon when we got the last bit of tack off and put away, and currycombed each mule. I was beat, but eager to look around. And a hot mineral bath sounded good.

  Down the trail we went, and it felt so good to be out of my hiking boots and restrictive jeans. The heat and exertion made my limbs swell, and walking in sandals was a delight. We followed a chalky path as it wound deeper into what seemed to be an oasis. Soon I could hear a distant roar. We rounded the corner, and I quickened my pace and then stopped suddenly in disbelief. I could not believe my eyes. And even writing about it, you will think I’m lying unless you’ve seen it too. Blue does not begin to describe the supernatural color of this water. It glowed like neon, even beneath the full light of day. It was so blue it almost quivered against the red cliff. And it was no minor waterfall—it was a sixty-foot monster pouring from high above, straight out of the stone. A large pool gathered beneath it and white spray frothed and foamed and settled ultimately into rippling robes that furled and unfurled in widening concentric circles, gently lapping at the dusty edge. I stepped out of my sandals and headed straight in. It was cold and exhilarating. Apparently these were not the hot pools. It is still one of the most exotic and beautiful places that I have ever been, or even heard about.

  “God bless you for not checking the oil!” I said as I waded deeper, goose bumps running up my legs and fanning down my arms as the chill soothed my sore feet and caught my breath.

  After a short time we went farther down the trail to the hot springs. I laid myself flat, resting my head on a rock for a pillow, just my face above water, and felt the heat penetrate deeply into my muscle and bone. Magical. I breathed in deeply, the sculpture of the canyon and mineral smell of the water mixed with the fine dust and the dampness of the evening as it cooled. I was weightless, completely cradled by the womb of the water as it gently rocked me. I stared up at the sky as it darkened slowly, a deep indigo bruise that was spreading from the east. I couldn’t help seeing myself as if from above. My wet hair fanning out like tentacles. Limbs weightless in the water. I burnt that image into my mind’s eye, saving it until I could draw it one day. Green eyes and pale skin floating in a tiny pool, nestled into red earth. I was watching my own becoming. I was witnessing it all unfold. A knot was loosening, and I was more than just a child running scared. I would stay there, I would work and run the mule train for the week, I would go on to Colorado, and God knows where after that, but I wasn’t as worried. I could slow down inside myself a little. Enough to enjoy this moment.

  I tried to imagine more of the unpainted portraits of the woman I would become, but I could not see them. They were still waiting to be drawn. I was not certain about the exact shape I would take, but I knew in that moment that if the past was an indication, if the amazing amount of life I had managed to live in eighteen years was a clue, it was going to be an adventure. I was already a ragtag study in contrasts. I was a kid on a dog sled in the Arctic Circle on my way to sing for Inuit villagers in the land of the midnight sun, a traveler in the desert running mules for the Havasupai Indian, a kid in the slums of Anchorage, a bar singer, a graduate of a prestigious fine arts school, a scared girl, a brave girl, a student of nature—all these impossible things were all strung on the same thread that was me. An accidental poet, trying to suck beauty from the driest places. I would try to be as bold as that blue waterfall that had the audacity to liberate itself from stone. ’Cause I am a painter and I am painting myself a lovely world . . .

  FARMERS OF LIGHT

  shimmering

  faintly

  something I see

  from the

  corner of my eye

  but disappears

  when I stare straight at it

  hope

  perhaps

  not close

  but existing

  for me

  in the future, even

  is enough

  to buoy my heart

  a little

  and keep me going

  so dark these days have been

  that I do not see darkness

  but only stars

  . . .

  I stare at stars

  at the beauty of night

  for if I let myself

  study the darkness

  I would get lost in

  just how absolute it feels

  yes darkness

  you are there

  I have brought you into my life

  in my ignorance

  in my half wake state

  and you descended creating

  a long dark night of the soul

  but I will not lose myself

  in you

  I will not let myself founder

  or falter

  or cease to believe

  in the existence of a better day

  . . .

  instead I will trust the rhythm

  of nature

  with each death a rebirth

  with each night a dawn

  with each empty tide

  a full one follows

  today is just a hard day

  it has just been a hard year

  because I fought you, Darkness

  for years

  instead of letting myself

  accept you as my teacher

  to see what it was I had to learn

  from you

  now I busy myself

  mending my net

  examining my holes

  doing the work the dark is good for

  looking inward

  repairing the habits

  fixing the holes in my

  self-love

  that got me here

  in the first place

  I stare at the stars

  my heart is quiet

  in the winter of itself

  but I will not be made idle

  with despair

  I will be a busy little animal

  trusting nature

  trusting rhythm

  readying myself

  for when that glimmer

  on the horizon

  shifts

  for when the shimmering

  grows more sure of itself

  when the light in me

  calls forth the light

  in the world

  sure of my own

  worthiness

  and ready to step into a new day

  I bless this darkness

  for without it

  I would never do this work

  I would be distracted continually

  but in the dark

  robbed of my sight

  I must look inward

  and while it is painful

  I bless the wisdom

  in me

  that brought me here

  . . .

  I will try to be the best

  student I can

  of the night

  for I sense

  the quality of

  myself here

  is the quality that will come with me

  as I walk through the rest of my days

  and my willingness to really

  roll up my sleeves

  to do the hard work

  will determine my experience here

  in the long night of my soul

  and will determine the length

  of my stay

  and will determine

  I think

  even the length and quality

  of my return to day

  so quiet, body

  I know you are afraid

  you crawl out of your skin

  with the fear that

  this darkness is here

  fo
rever

  and quiet, mind

  focus

  on your mirror image

  see the starlight within

  and grow those points of light out

  until the light swells across our internal

  horizon

  spilling outward

  we are not in the business of

  fighting darkness;

  we are farmers of light

  so stay quiet, body

  stay focused, mind

  stare at the stars

  quiet yourself

  and know

  I am alive in here

  waking inside myself

  fifteen

  the servants of our thoughts

  After dropping me off in Boulder at Andrea’s house, Musse and I parted ways, unsure of when we would see each other next. He was off to the East Coast to visit family. I would see what life in Boulder had in store for me. I got a job working the register at a funky secondhand store and made enough to cover groceries, but not much toward rent. Thankfully Andrea was kind enough to share the apartment with me anyway. We had a lot of fun together. We cooked and read books aloud to each other. We talked about art. Andrea was a dancer but played piano and sang as well—it was she who had taught me my first chords on guitar in high school. I admired Andrea and had written her a song called “A Dance Between Two Women” about a year earlier, about the specialness of female friends. Someone who wanted nothing from you other than support and solidarity. It was a very safe and reassuring thing, to have someone else who was struggling with art and trying to make a life that included it.

  I went back to street singing for extra cash. Pearl Street promenade was a busy spot and I could always make a little money this way. I met a lot of locals and made friends as people would stop and strike up a conversation. I discovered that street singers had a way of looking out for each other. One day I was walking down the promenade, stressed because I had no money for food. I walked by a busker who asked for five dollars, and in exasperation I declared, “Man, I don’t have five dollars!” He looked at me, stopped playing his guitar, reached into his jeans pocket and said, “Here, have what I made today.” It was such a touching gesture.