fall 11 / 24:3 - Grand Canyon River Guides

so less chance of being fiddled with. Cool and dark.Things last better in such places. Maybe some mice,the ground kind, but if we bury it…So, from the river two thousand feet below andmaybe three miles away, they brought the woven willows,up those unmarked cliffs, careful to leave neitherfootprint nor cairn, half naked in breech-cloths,braids, water gourds, some high-carb pemmican, blackpaint under eyes and yucca sandals. Nothing else.Nothing else was necessary.I know where to look, yet still I must hunt. Theylook to me, the one who’s been before,and I am confused. I put my weaknessout of my mind, as usual. I just knowthey’re here, somewhere.We stand motionless, no lights,adjusting to the dark, the scant illuminationfrom the world outside formingshadows and ghosts. Somehow electriclights will spoil this, and we have no livingflame save in our breasts. The cool onthe skin, the quiet. So quiet I can hear myown blood coursing through my veins.It smells, what? Not musty. Somethingcleaner, older. I can feel the burden ofrock above, pressing in. I am not afraid.Ah! That rock pile. Just there. Andthere.So, gently, with respect, I lift, one ata time, trying to remember their exactplacement as best I can so as to try andfix things afterwards. I feel like an interloper,desecrating an ancient church. Thisdoesn’t stop me. I have to look. I have tosee. They’re trying to give it to me.And all our breaths catch at once. Itis too much. Too powerful. I have saidthese words before. Will say them again.My heart lies in the desert, thus too muchand too powerful is the air I breathe. I hunt for a littleof that very thing deep inside where it’s dark, am usuallydisappointed. But not always.The piles of rock are the size of a coil of bowline,each rock shaped like a rough grinding stone. They arepiled in a spiral pattern. Dusty.I remove them, placing them gently around theperimeter. Underneath are sheep. Deer. Woven spiritswith spears through their hearts. Bigger than I expected—aboutthe size of my calloused hand.Eyes wide, we look. We touch—maybe like the Indiansseeing their first looking glass—carefully. What’sin there? It might blind us or steal our spirit. Or nourishit. Also, the salt and oil from our fingertips mightattract hungry rodents. Put them back. Bow your headin thanks and request forgiveness. Return whence wecame, to food and sleeping pads and a quiet scotchby the rushing moonlit river, leaving no more thanfootprints in the dust.As it turns out, the hungry rodents will have twolegs and floppy hats.Three years later, I hear the tales. I myself have leftthe place I love for a time, needing to regroup. Stir upother dusts a bit. Share my love with a human whoI have seen pots, painted with the reds, whites, blacks of theearth, stuffed in cracks. Woven baskets, hidden in caves. Bits ofthis, pieces of that. Badgerpaw prints and sheep, all hand paintedwith hematite-red and ochre-black, a little fat and blood mixed in topreserve for the great-great grandchildren, under protective overhangs(how could they have known our skin would be pale and unworn?). Airyroutes pocked with “Moki steps”, gouged out of improbable heights.Tiny spray-painted white handprints haloed by mouth-blown chewed plantroots. They’re still there, for the intrepid. Granaries with imprints ofnewborn’s feet in the mortar, perfect rock doors that once kept outintruding thieves—mice and men alike, laid aside, no longer needed.More recently I found some digging sticks, untouched for millennia.Not even the archeologists have ever seen such treasure. I showthe unfound to no-one, leaving their spirits undisturbed, my atonement.However, a great deal can be digested from bones already picked over.Ask any Raven.Much remains, despite our intrusions. All over the Great Southwest,throughout all the Canyons of the Colorado. Enchanted New Mexico.Magic Utah. And, of course, in my Canyon. As guides, we will takeyou there, show you things, try and explain the surface of it all. LikeWesley, the reluctant Shaman, it’s up to you to dig deeper, shadows andghosts, sitting by that same rushing, moonlit river.needs me. Who I need as much as my river. Anywhereelse, I am something less. She is not my compromise,she is my love, my food. My Life. I gladly share withher my morsels. But my entrails and bits of hair andskin blow in the wind of my desert.Shrine Cave? Yes. I know it. There’s a trail to it, now.Two guides were leading clients there on hikes. But notto worry. Nothing left, anyway. Those split twiggers aregone forever.Five thousand years. Poof.I am wretched and sorry, Hans. Sorry, ancient ones.My heart is desolate—which is not anything at all likeboatman’s quarterly review page 25