I have seen pots, painted with the reds, whites, blacks of the earth, stuffed in cracks. Woven baskets, hidden in caves. Bits of this, pieces of that. Badgerpaw prints and sheep, all hand painted with hematite-red and ochre-black, a little fat and blood mixed in to preserve for the great-great grandchildren, under protective overhangs (how could they have known our skin would be pale and unworn?). Airy routes pocked with “Moki steps”, gouged out of improbable heights. Tiny spray-painted white handprints haloed by mouth-blown chewed plant roots. They’re still there, for the intrepid. Granaries with imprints of newborn’s feet in the mortar, perfect rock doors that once kept out intruding 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 show the 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 take you there, show you things, try and explain the surface of it all. Like Wesley, the reluctant Shaman, it’s up to you to dig deeper, shadows and ghosts, sitting by that same rushing, moonlit river.
