The sun rose high in the sky, and the distant green belt slowly came closer and more into focus. The air was not all that warm, but waves of heat came up off the distant rocks giving the mirage of movement. The appearance of water, suspended several feet above the ground, gave me a false sense of hope and only added to the stress of no water. The distant hills beyond the thin, green belt became hazy with mist. The heat of the rising sun was evaporating the available water out of the soil, lifting it to suspend this side of the low mountain range as haze. That moist air, unfortunately, would never lift high enough to condense into rain and relieve the surrounding area of drought. The air mass would continue, relentless, across the plains, leeching whatever moisture it could from the exposed terrain.
From the rock formations and the outcropping of shoved up and tumble down sedimentary layers, it was becoming obvious I was in the Badlands of the mid west. Without knowing for certain, the Colorado River, or one of its many tributaries, was the most likely course to follow. There was no way of knowing for sure, but since I was heading east, with a large mountain range behind me in the distance, the foot hills, and two peaks south to my right, I seemed to be heading in the right direction; the Grand Canyon was likely, but had no idea which side I could possibly be on.
Sweat dripping down my legs began to pool in my boots. My socks had slowly worked themselves down to a band below my ankles and were very uncomfortable. It was now high noon, and I imagined I'd been walking for five or more hours. I would need to stop and rest soon, and get my socks dried out. No problem in the heat built up in the ravines, but finding shade from the high sun to rest in would take some doing. As I plodded along with my jacket tied around my waist, and sleeves rolled up as high as they would go, my mind wandered in a dream back to my studies back in Vancouver and how my photography had really gone nowhere. There had been good opportunities, but none seemed to pan out successfully. In the present, the only audience that seemed to appreciate my circumstance was the birds circling overhead. 'You are never really alone', I thought to myself. My mortality began slapping me in the face when I realized that lack of water was becoming as deadly as a loaded gun. The heat became unbearable, beating down on me, while below my hat my head was sore and wet. Somehow, I mustered the will to plod on and continue down the dried tributary. The imaginary river at the end of this wadi kept me focused while the memory of how nice it was going to be to fall head-first and lie beneath the cool surface till I could hold my breath no longer kept me moving.
The bluffs that surrounded me must have been over twenty feet tall and afforded very little, if any, shade this time of day. There were no large logs, nor small trees, only the occasional outcropping of rock that gave a foot or so of shade at its very base.
Feeling the need to rest, with desperation setting in, I took a large piece of flat stone and crawled to the base of one of the overhangs. Starting to dig at the undercut, I slowly worked away with little energy, till there was enough room for my body to lie prone in the crevice. The coolness of the newly exposed earth was short-lived, but a blessing all the same.
Slipping my boots off, I wrung out my socks and let them hang on the sides of my boots to dry in the sun. The foulest things I'd smelt for a while guarded the leather bag and its contents which I shoved hard down into my boot. The smell must have attracted someone for the next thing I recall, was staring at the ground rocking to and fro, on my belly across the back of a mule.
"Uh!" was all I could grunt. My jacket had been draped over my back and head, and I was baked.
"Whoa!" came the yell of a fellow from in front of the mule.
The mule came to a stop and I felt a tug at my belt, and my feet touching the ground, with excruciating pain.
"Uh!!" escaped me once again. I collapsed to the dry ground and looked at my feet. They were swollen and almost twice their normal size.
"You should never have left your boots off, Amigo. You cannot walk."
I looked at my boots, tied with my socks through the loops, draped over the neck of the mule.
"Yah," I sighed, acknowledging my predicament. "Where am I?"
The dark Indian fellow said nothing as he reached for the water flask over his shoulder. He cautioned me, with his thumb and index finger to denote a small amount, and waited.
Getting to my feet as best I could, I leaned against the mule that looked back at me with a big black eye. It gave the impression he was not impressed with his duty. The short, dark man draped in a light shawl and large woven hat, waited patiently while I struggled to walk. He also had no shoes.
Without saying a word I took a sip winching as it burned my tongue and throat. I went to take another sip when he grabbed the flask from my hand.
His eyes were kind, and set deep in a well-lined face that gave the appearance of soft leather. His shoulder leaned into me to prop me up as I climbed atop the mule again. The sun had moved a fair distance across the sky and could only guess that another four hours had passed since I lay down. How soon after my Indian friend had found me, I have no idea, but I was thankful he had. With the discomfort of the mule's spine keeping me from drifting off to sleep, we started again down the dry creek bed.
We did not travel for to long before the faint smell of fire smoke stung my nostrils like a mild acid. In the distance, a thin straight pillar of white smoke rose unimpeded within the confines of the bluffs, only to dissipate several hundred feet up when it cleared the summit. Plants had started to appear along the parched lines of the dirt below us. The mule became more alert and lively as we entered a small flat delta area that opened up into the small river a half a mile or so in front of us. The smell of the air changed from a dry nothingness to the faint sweet aroma of grass and foliage. It was becoming ever so difficult to coax the mule further than the tufts of greens that looked appetizing even to me.
We stopped short of the river by several hundred feet and the small Indian fellow helped me down from the mule. Winching from the pain, I stood half bent wondering why we had stopped. I could see we were not far from the smoke and reasoned we were just around the bend. He handed me the water jug and let me have a drink. Taking it back, he turned and started to walk away toward the turquoise ribbon with my boots still draped over the mule.
"Wait!"
He kept on walking without turning back but behind the mule this time. The mule, dusty and scraggy, had sensed the end of the journey and forged on ahead. I slowly hobbled after them and subsequently, after several very painful minutes, came to the edge of the shallow, fast running river. By the time I had got there the two had already crossed and were almost out of sight around the bend.
Pebbles were visible through the clear water that had a bluish green hue at its depths, and looked delightful. As I stuck my aching feet into it, a rush of tingles and relief, ran up my body in the form of sheer ecstasy. The coolness gripped my ankles and it was all I could do to keep myself from plunging headlong into its shallow depths. Slowly easing myself down onto my belly I began to crawl out into the middle where it could have been barely over my waist. Assured, I would not lose consciousness, I dipped my head under and drank its delight.
The sun was almost setting when I crossed the river and around the bend to the little adobe house that stood in the open on the opposite side of the clearing. The low, clay building was surrounded with small, wooden lean-tos with a collection of farm equipment scattered in the open; the area was dwarfed beneath the towering cliffs of the surrounding mesas. A small dog began to bark and ran from behind a chicken coop off to the side. He barked continuously until the curiosity got the better of him and he came to me for a sniff. The saint, who had found me earlier, came walking from the hut. Two small naked children ran up from behind me, giggling as they passed. I sensed that they had watched me in the river, while I too ran naked, playing in the river. They looked as if they could have been twins. The girl with long black hair was slightly smaller than the boy who was darker, stocky with curly hair. Both see
med charming but a little wild. Their hair danced in the wind as they ran past to their father. The dog, that had been rather persistent in his alert, came to distraction with the children and quieted down. A goat, tied to a post at the farm’s perimeter, looked up to take note but continued to graze lazily. All came to ignore me apart from the man, who waited at his distance till I had crossed the small yard.
It appeared that this area was a flood plain with noticeable watermarks several yards up the sides of the cliffs. A trail meandered hundreds of feet up the distant cliff to higher ground and possibly winter quarters. I had known Pueblo Indians lived under these conditions, but to have the opportunity to see first hand, was appreciated. The habitat was rough, but not unpleasant. As I walked across the yard, I began to reflect on how we have become accustomed to our way of doing things, and presume that ours, in the western culture, is the best. Perhaps it is the struggle of life that is the gift of life. Obviously under these conditions, conventional farmers could not survive, nor would they want to.
Impressed with the sheltered location, a good combination of sun and shade, I looked at the condition of the crops. An immature crop of maize, small and stunted grew haphazard lining the terraced hill down to the river. A small field of what appeared to be squash covered a flat and dusty area away from the vibrant moist soil of the river basin. I presumed, they planted their crops after the flooding of the winter thaw and spring rains were over.
As we came close, a smile blossomed on his face, "Are you feeling better?" he asked with a strong, broken accent.
"Yes, fine. I must thank you for your help. You probably saved my life."
He returned a gaze, then looked down to the ground. "You would have done the same for me."
Without saying more, he turned to the elevated doorway of the adobe. A beautiful, small woman, I presumed his wife, smiled and walked from there motioning the two of us to sit by an open pit where the smoke had previously emanated. Below, smoldering coals and a small kettle had been prepared and waited for my arrival. Clay bowls and a small hook, to hang the vessel, appeared from the opposite side of the hearth. She gently poured the steaming liquid into the bowls, offered the first to me and then to her husband. She did not drink with the two of us.
We sipped the delightful liquid that reminded me of Sake’ and watched as she slowly prepared the pit with meat, yams and vegetables. After loading the bottom, she placed some branches of wood over the ingredients and covered all with a leather blanket. I was told later that the blanket starved the fire of just enough oxygen to smolder the new branches into a smoke filled oven. The food slowly baked and was left with the savory flavor of the particular wood that was included. They used three or four different varieties of wood to help enhance the flavor of their food.
Just before we sat down to eat in the open air, the children became more bold leaving their 'look outs' and 'hiding places' to come within several feet of me. They seemed always very polite, not saying anything but giggling and teasing me as they became more accustomed to my presence. I would guess to say, I was one of the very few people to drop by that these children had seen. We spoke little during the meal, but I made sure the taste and quantity of the food eaten was appreciated.
After dinner, with the moon and stars now visible overhead, the wife and children busied themselves with bedtime preparations. Wrapped in loose-woven shawls tied about the middle, the children were kind enough to carry my boots from the anterior of one of the lean-tos. I nodded in gratitude as they sheepishly brought the boots to where I sat in the firelight. Each, in their turn, went to sit on their dads lap and watched the fire as it peeked above the rim of the fire pit. Looking into each boot for the leather bag, I caught the two looking toward me and shift with discomfort in their father’s lap.
"Uh hum!" I blurted, clearing my throat and watching them.
They each stirred, not sure of their next move. Carlos looked up from the fire sensing my admonishment. He looked at each of them and spoke to them in their native tongue. Shyly, they looked over to me and the boy got up from his fathers lap and scurried off into the darkness toward the lean-to. In a short few moments, he returned to the fire and stood in front of me with the leather bag open in his hands. The green bowl peaked out from the folds and I could tell that the lad had not seen anything like it before, very few had. Carlos paid more attention to the fact his son had been disobedient and gave him a light scolding, then sent them both into the hut with their mother. The doorway to their home was well lit and showed the stucco of the interior walls. The faint sounds of explanations and arguments to bedtime duties could be heard above the crickets and crackling of the fire. Within moments after the children had climbed into bed, the hut was dim and quiet.
We sat by the fire and finished our bowls of tea, saying little. Boldly trying to make conversation, I asked, "What nation are you?"
Without taking his eyes from the fire, he answered with very broken English. "I am mixed, with my ancestors Hopi, and Hohoakim from the south of here. Many years ago Spanish raided my family and they had to head further north to escape their assaults. My Hohoakim family joined with the Hopi at the time the ancestors of the Navajo came from the north. My mother, six generations with many children and much land, married a Hohoakim man. Her husband had been killed in a Navajo harvest raid."
Without any questions, I sat with him for a while and watched the fire also.
"I am Canadian. My ancestors came from England and France. I was born in Canada, but have traveled, to many places and seen many things. I am here on a trip to deliver a package."
In the quietness and the light of the fire, I handed Carlos the little package, which he unfolded and held within the palm of his hand. He slowly turned it this way and that as if to read its inscription.
After several minutes of close scrutiny, he gave a sigh, "Very beautiful. I have seen something like this before." He gave it some thought and then asked, "Where did you get this? This is very familiar to me."
He handed it back to me and without saying more, he continued to look into the fire.
“I am to deliver this to a man in Shiprock. His name is Moon Rising." showing him the paper.
Shifting slightly, without taking his eyes from the fire, he cautioned softly, "We have to be careful."
"Why?" I asked. "No one knows I am here."
He turned to face me directly. "They have been waiting. They know you are coming."
ELEVEN
The cock crowing from the other side of the mud-packed wall shocked me from a sound sleep. The smell of hay, mingled with animal droppings, woke me like smelling salts to a faint victim. Lying prone on a small pile of hay with my hands propped behind my head, I felt confused. Was I in a dream? If so, why did it feel so real?
Light peeking through the cracks of the log and branch walls displayed the dusty condition of my surroundings and quadruped companions. Free, floating dust particles were illuminated in the shafts of light, dancing on the eddying currents of air within the enclosure. Two mules, a ram, and a mother and her baby, stared back at me from their tethered posts. The little dog, my close companion for the night, lay at my feet and wagged his tail at my sudden arousal.
Reflecting on the previous day’s events and how fortunate I was to be found by my host, I could only conclude all was as it should be. My feet were still sore and swollen, but were one hundred percent better after being rubbed with a concoction of oil and herbs; Carlos and his family had been very kind to me. I had not plied him with questions, but was curious about his last comment before we settled in for the night. The language was a barrier, but with patience and much hand illustration, I was able to understand more of these private and complacent people. Strengthened by last evening’s meal, I felt strong enough to continue on.
Sweeping aside the colorful, zigzag patterned woven blanket, I attempted to brush away the refuse that covered my back. Easing myself from the mouth of the small structure, I stood to gaze the shelt
ered little valley. In one quick flicking motion of the blanket, the dust and grass scattered in clouds suspended in the air and dissipated in the gentle breeze; I folded it into a neat square. The river’s chatter was inviting me from its short distance away. My small companion, who has been so unsure of me the previous night, strode fearlessly along-side me, jumping, trying to snatch the blanket from beneath my arm.
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