The moon is late. Well, that's a bit pretentious, I think to myself. How about this. You're early.
A glow, like dawn, is to the east. The full moon is just below the horizon. My tripod has been set for an hour. An imagehas been composed inside of the viewfinder of my Rollei. Focus is set on an unlit hula hoop sitting on top of a sandstone hoodoo on the edge of Coalmine Canyon. I know where the hoop will take off and where it will land. The rest is a mystery.
I've been here since a little after Noon. Odd day, but most days at Coalmine have a slant to them. On the drive in on the steep, two track, I passed an old Navajo woman riding a mustang. Two small Rezi dogs, one white, one black, ran beside her and the horse. I give her a head nod and she nods back. Not that unusually to see sheep dogs and herders on the Rez. Just a bit eerie to see her and her dogs so far away from home. The nearest house is miles away.
Except for her, the horse and the dogs, I saw no one all afternoon. I walked a lot along the edge of Coalmine. A mile to the north, a mile back to the south. Stopping, standing, sitting, standing, walking some more. Lot of memories of many times on this, the east side of Coalmine. But my introduction to Coalmine was 16 years ago on the west side.
I'm looking for a windmill. I've been here once before but that was months ago, and it was Summer then. Today is a fully overcast October day and it looks like it rained recently. Mike warned me that I can get stuck in the soft sandy soil if I'm not careful. It was dry in June. Not today. My Nissan King Cab really sucks in the mud. No weight in the back.
There it is. The windmill. I turn off the pavement, onto a dirt two-track. A huge puddle lies just ahead. Shit. But I see that others have gone around and up, off the road, to get by it. I can do that. I ease by, keeping up my speed. My heart is racing. I take the right fork that leads toward the windmill, past a concrete cow tank. Then past the windmill. The two-track bares left and there just beyond a barbed wire fence is Coalmine Canyon.
It drops down from the flatness of the mesa I've been driving on since Tuba City and out to the north for miles and miles. The strata is like nothing I've ever seen, starting from the grass of the mesa top, with a cross section of gray, then dark black, to white, to red orange, to white, to red, to white, to red again. That black line is a vein of coal, Mike told me once. The sheer walls drop a good 700 feet to the valley floor, with towering hoodoos and large red-orange and white fins of sandstone jutting out into the canyon like giant tail fins off a '59 Cadillac.
I get out of the truck and feel a strong damp wind hit my face. Man, It's colder than I thought. I put on my hooded jacket and get out my backpack. My poncho is near the top and I take it out just in case, securing it to the outside of my pack. I'm going in for the night. It's a little after one in the afternoon. I got about four hours to get to the Ghost.
The Ghost is a 500 foot high pillar of sandstone deep in the canyon. Mike said, that's a great place to go but it's about 5 miles in. He also said that on full moon nights, they say that you can see ghosts dancing along the walls of the canyon. Both traditional Navajos and Hopis don't come here for they believe it is haunted. When I was here in June, I just stood here on the canyon's rim. I didn't hike in.
To get down into the canyon, Mike said, look for the talus slope of coal just near the picnic tables. I sort of remember that from before. Two concrete picnic tables in the middle of nowhere. I look a little west and there they are, just a few hundred feet on the other side of the fence. And there's the black coal slope. I open the top part of the cattle gate in the fence and walk to the other side and beyond to the southern edge of the canyon. That slope is steep. 45 degrees. Easy to get down, a pain to get back up, I think. But just at the bottom of the talus slope I can see the beginning of a trail that winds its way down and in and to the north. That's the place.
I go back to the truck, grab my pack and place it in the truck bed. I check the water bottles. Good. Full and tight. I shoulder the pack and adjust the straps. Good. I place it back in the bed and lock up the truck. Mike says that all I have to worry about are the drunk kids from Tuba who like to come out here to drink, and the occasional wandering pack of wild feral dogs. The wild dogs are very dangerous, Mike said. Best to bring along a pistol just in case. (I borrowed a .357 from a friend before leaving Tucson. It's in my pack fully loaded.) He says I don't need to shoot the dogs, just let go a round or two and they'll run off. I don't see any dogs now. Hope I don't see any at all.
I say a prayer over the locked Nissan, to protect it from harm, and I shoulder my pack and head for the talus slope. I get to it and look down. This is going to just be a long slide, I think. God, I hope I can get back out of this canyon. I step over and slip down the slope, like snow skiing except it in coal. I reach the bottom, a little coal dusty but in good shape. And there's the trail.
I begin to hike north. Past red and white canyon walls, first close in then spreading out. Past hoodoos like sentinels along the walls. Past small volcanic marbles, black and rough, like they were blown out of the cone yesterday. Past crystals, brittle and barely formed. Past huge slab of sandstone that have fallen from up above on the canyon rim and slid down near the valley floor. Past beautiful deposits of red and white sand. On and on. Down and down until after an hour, I'm on the relatively flat canyon floor. Not as flat as the mesa top but much easier than walking on the edges of soft sandstone fins. The grasses are in clumps and the ground is wet and muddy, but it's sand mud. Still sticks to the soles of my boots, giving be an inch of height after a while, but easier to scrap off than clay mud. I move down the canyon, the walls now a half a mile apart. I can't see the Ghost, but I've been told it's there, further south. I just keep walking in the mud. Not thinking much. Just moving.
Another 1/2 hour goes by, I reckon, and I see The Ghost. Christ, it's huge. I see a trail, leave the valley floor and wind up the silt and sand to a smaller version of The Ghost, maybe 30 feet tall on the south of a fin ridge, and The Ghost, towering at the north end. I hike up the trail to the small Ghost and drop my pack on some level ground, between the two hoodoos. I'm tired. I scrap some of the mud off my boots, sit on a rock and light up a smoke. I'm on a small island ridge, some canyon walls close and some far away, open yet feeling sheltered. And The Ghost, its 500 feet of sandstone is to the North. We'll camp here.
I set up the tent and arrange the Svea cook stove, the water, the freeze dried food. I unpack the .357 and place it in the tent. I drink some water and eat some gorp. Sun's going down. Getting a bit colder. I lit the stove to boiling some water and make some freeze dried beef stroganoff and instant coffee. I make dinner, brew some coffee, and eat and drink like a starving man. Noodles still a bit undercooked but I don't care. All food on the trail tastes like ambrosia. I finish dinner, wipe out the plates with a wet paper towel, stow the trash and the food, but keep the water on a low boil for some more coffee. Instant coffee is like fine wine here. I have a third cup.
Right at sundown I go to the ridge line between the two Ghosts, just above my campsite and meditate. Mediating for me is simply, closing my eyes, breathing, and feeling what I feel and seeing what I see. That simple. I close my eyes and breathe deep. Breathe again. Losing the light. Not dark but getting there. Breathe some more. After a minute or so, the oddest thing happened.
It was like I could feel the powers of good and bad energy around me. Like there were other ghosts here beside the sandstone ones. Eyes closed, I would swear it's like the echoes of a fight to the death by two men, just to my right. One trying to kill the other, The other succumbing and dying. I have never felt that before (or since). I open my eyes almost expecting to see an Indian and an Anglo fighting on the ridge I'm sitting on. Nothing. I close my eyes again, and I feel the energy once more. I should be afraid but I'm not. I breathe into it and I begin to cry. Not sure why. Don't need to know why. I just cry. The energy of Good and Evil begins to fade away, but my tears increase.
It has been a hard year or so. I pushed my wife away with my drinking and drug use and my abstinence didn't bring her back. The world is new and exciting, but more confusing. I have no hold. I pray to God for help and receive it, but have no true clarity, even though I try and fake it around my friends. I'm doing meaningful work, but hardly any of the patients get well. I feel surrounded by new friends and colleagues, but frankly I have never felt so alone. I know that the divorce from Denise was the right thing for both of us, but I still miss her. I wonder from time to time if I'm lovable at all. So much guilt and shame from so many years of avoiding doing the right thing, avoiding the quiet still voice within, avoiding just about everything. Who am I really without the dope pipe in one hand and the scotch glass in the other? I feel like a fraud half the time now. Luckily a quarter of the time, I feel like I'm sitting in the lap of God. The last quarter of time I don't have a clue. But I've recently learned that the three words 'I don't know' have a lot of healing power in them.
I cry some more. I finish my coffee. I light another smoke. I feel a little better.
More clouds are coming in. A soft overcast is spreading. No Moon. It might rain tonight.
The Full Moon pops over the treeless horizon like the headlight of a one eyed car, cresting a hill. The sky is completely cloudless. My Pathfinder sits on a hill just a couple hundred feet to the east. Maybe a little more. I look toward the Ghost to the northwest, a good five miles away and think of the old days, of my first visits. My emotional nakedness in the late 80's. The hope for a better Stu. I chuckle to myself. I don't know if I'm any better. I am a bit clearer I guess and I tend to lie less to myself, tend to treat people a little better, tend to be a bit less of a son ofa bitch I hope. [I can still cut people off at the knees with just a couple of words.] I'm not hip to get married again, but I still need the touch of a loving tender woman. I have a good woman waiting for me at home right now. Annie knows to send out the hounds if she doesn't hear from me in a few days. She knows where I am. I have my doubts about us, due to my our scars, but she does have a sweet mojo. And I need the mojo.
The far western side of Coalmine is now lit by the headlight Full Moon. Lots of definition. Lots of light. I don't need to light my flashlight as I walk back up to the truck to have a smoke. Soon. Start the hoop dance soon but not quite yet. A bit more Moon.
The next morning I wake up and it has rained. Not hard but hard enough to make everything wet. I try and light the Svea but with no luck. I pour a little White Gas right on the stove and toss a lit match toward it. Whoosh. That gets the stove lit. I start some water boiling. I roll up my sleeping bag, pack up some of my things and strike the tent while the water heats up. Finally, I make coffee and oatmeal and go back to the ridge where I felt Good and Evil yesterday. I sit on the same rock. Don't feel it now. Just a calm over everything. Heavy overcast. No sun. No wind. The smell of wet Sage is all around. My boots are muddy but warm. I inhale the oatmeal. I drink the coffee a little slower. Time to hike out of Coalmine, I think. I'm tired but good. No tears this morning.
Off to the south, on the valley floor in the direction of the trail head, I can see some cows. They must have come in last night. Hmm. Cows. No dogs.
Time to shoot. Moon's been up for an hour, hour and a half. High contract on the mesa edge. Lots of details. I take a deep breath, say a quiet prayer for God to guide my hands and feet and gingerly I walk to the hula hoop that is lying on the edge of the canyon. Careful, Stu. It's a long way down and you are close to the edge. I get to the hoop, and swing the four switches that light the battery powered lights to their 'on' position. Even in the full moonlight, these 100 Christmas lights are bright. I do a couple of trial runs, lifting the hoop, dancing a bit, place the hoop back on the ground. Up, dance, rest. Good. I put the lit hoop in the first position, and head back to the camera, careful not to fall over the edge. I open the shutter, and let the hoop burn for a minute. I then walk to the hoop, raise it and slow dance with it and place it back on the ground. I walk out of the frame and back to be near my Rollei, the shutter still open. After a minute, I go and switch the hoop lights off. I hope this arch of light I'm trying to make works. I sure hope it works.
Time to go. Boy, I'm tired and it's barely past dawn. Burned a mess of kilo calories yesterday. I shoulder my backpack and head toward the smaller Ghost and the trail down to the valley floor and eventually out of Coalmine. I slide down the track some. My footing isn't good. Mud is caking up rapidly on my boots. I stop often to scrap off the mud, but it takes a lot of energy. Screw it. Just walk with it. After a while my boots reach a saturation point of an inch and a half of mud and stop there. Problem is I have little traction. Oh Well. Just the way it's going to be, I guess.
When I reach the valley floor, I look North toward the trailhead. It's a hell of a long way a ways. Miles. Don't think about it. Just walk, I think. I crest a gentle low rise and off to the west are about 20 head of cattle. They all raise their heads, almost in unison and look at me. I stop and look at them. They continue to look at me, motionless, like cow statues. Huh. We stare at each other for a minute and then I continue my trudge. After about 15 minutes I look back over to the area of the cows and they still haven't moved. Still staring at me. Only thing that's moved are their heads, following me. I walk and keep my eye on them, from time to time. Finally after I guess 20 minutes they go back to eating. Faces in the grass. I'm probably the only white guy they've ever seen, I think. Hell, I'm probably the only walking man they've ever seen in Coalmine, period. Every other man or woman they have seen here has either been on a horse or bushwhacking in a pickup. I smile to myself.
Each exposure of each dance is about 20 to 30 minutes. I don't want a thin negative 8 hours from home. I've done about two exposures, two dances. With the shutter open after the third arching hoop dance, I leave the canyon side and walk up to my Pathfinder to have a smoke. I have my flashlight with me but I'm not using it.
Suddenly in the darkness ahead, I see something moved low on the ground. My heart races as I turn on the flash. It's two dogs between me and my truck. Fuck. Rezi Dogs. I begin to run, flanking the dogs to the left, but still heading toward the general direction of my truck. A low involuntary sound comes out of me. A low steady drone. I begin to run faster, trying at the same time to keep my flashlight on the dogs. Where are the dogs? Where are they? Just as I'm getting closer to the truck, my light hits the dogs and I slow down. They are the same two dogs I saw earlier in the day, playfully walking along side the old woman on her horse. All I can see now is one white dog, one black dog, running hell bent for leather away from me. These aren't the feral dogs of the Rez of yesteryear. These are bright eyed sheep dogs. I just scared the shit out of them. This is their very large front yard, after all. They were probably just out and about for a evening run, when suddenly a man is running toward them, making a low humming sound. Poor things. I enter my truck and light a Camel Filter. After I finish my smoke though, I do cautiously leave my truck. My adrenal glands have emptied, flooding my blood stream. Even though I know danger is not about, my body doesn't know that yet. That'll take a little while.
The canyon narrows and I see the trail leading out, up ahead. I've been hiking through mud and grass and more mud for a few hours now. I'm running out of water. If I thought I was tired when I left the Ghosts, I'm dead tired now. I begin the slow ascent out. I'm really feeling the forty pounds on my back. I gaze forward. It's still at least a mile up before I get to the mesa top. One foot, another foot, left, right, left. I'm rising up the strata slowly.
Just off the trail I see a vein of pure white sand. I promised Mike to get some of this sand if I could. He sand paints in his work. I shed the pack and it clumps to the ground. In a top flap, I pull out a good sized plastic zip lock bag. I scoop up handfuls of the wet white sand. I fill the bag and begin closing it when I hear this voice, within me.
"If you take this sand, you will not make it out."
Pardon me?
"If you take this sand, you will not make it out," the small but insistent voice repeats.
I freeze. I won't make it out? Why? Is it bad luck? Will it be too much weight? What?
"If you take this sand, you will not make it out."
I stop asking questions. I dump out the sand. I fold up the bag and stow it in my pack. I take a drink of water. Maybe a half quart of water left. That scares me a little, but I'm too tired to get too scared. I shoulder my pack, lean forward and walk, not looking up. Just looking down at the trail and taking it, one step then another.
I'm done. Pretty much. I think I have the shot I hope for, on the first Delta 400 roll, but I take a few more hoop dance shots from other angles just for fun. One, far away. Another, close up. But I'm still looking over my shoulder now and then, wondering if the dogs will return. They're friendly, right?
Time to go but one last thing. I leave the Christmas-lit hula hoop on top of a hoodoo near the edge of Coalmine. I walk down the canyon rim a ways. The moon is high. Bright as day. No flashlight needed, plus I know this part of the rim pretty well. After a hundred yards, I turn around and see the glowing hoop on the hoodoo. Too far away for a photograph, but wondrous none the same. Some images just have to be experienced I guess. Tom, the drummer in Wobbly Gumbo, my art rock band in college, used to say 'The best stuff never gets on tape'. I'm OK with that, with this long distance hoop image. I don't think I'll be so OK with it though, if the close up image that I've been working on for 4 hours, ends up being trash.
I'm hurting. I'm in shape but I'm hurting. Left, right, step, step, step. I'm getting close to the talus slope. I think. I'm not sure. I'm not thinking too good right now.
The canyon is closing in. All of Coalmine becomes a collection of side canyons, but if I'm still on the trail, I'm still good. I think. Step, Step, Step.
Then the trail stops and nothing looks familiar. I look up. Where am I? A brief bit of panic hit me. I'm close. I have to be close.
"Turn around and walk back."
Really?
"Turn around and walk back."
I don't argue nor question the little voice. I turn around. After only thirty feet or so, I see the black coal talus slope above to my left and a faint trail leading to it. Thank God.
I climb the trail and now I'm at the base of the slope. The backpack feels like it's a hundred pounds. I start to climb on two legs but it's not working. I lean into the slope and climb with my legs and my hands. As I step up I slide down to where I started. Damn it. I start again with a faster turnover of my limbs. I'm climbing and sliding at the same time, but I'm going up inches at a time. I push and push and push some more.
"God, get me up this. Please."
"You'll make it out. You'll make it out."
Pushing. Sliding. Faster. Scrambling like a crab up the slope. Digging my fingers deep into the coal. Pushing. I don't know. I stop. I don't slide. Still have another forty feet or so to go. I don't know. I don't know.
"You'll make it out." The voice sounds old, like a man. I don't sound like a voice inside. I sounds like a voice next to me.
"You'll make it out."
The last push. Sliding. Pushing. I look up. The rim is close. Push. Push. And now my hands are not grabbing coal. There is no more coal. I step up and I'm on the rim. I'm here. I made it out.
"YES. YES." I pump both fists in the air.
I look over and there is my yellow Nissan King Cab truck. Intact. Waiting for me. Sodas are in the cooler.
I pack up the Pathfinder and get ready to leave. No dogs. Hope they're OK. It's past midnight.
I turn on the lights and ease onto the two track leading out. Slow and easy. No hurry. I turn on Neil Finn's new CD that has been in the player for the drive up. His New Zealand twang about Love and God and Death is good right now. Slowly I go, in four wheel drive. No worries.
The headlights then hit something other than grass and sand. It's the mustang from earlier today, and the two dogs. The hackamore is hanging loosely from his head. No old woman. As I approach in my Pathfinder, the dogs, wagging their tails, scamper off. The horse just slowly steps off the two track. I ease on by the horse and then stop and pull up the emergency brake. I get out and stand by the truck. The horse stops. The blank and white dogs sheepishly come back. The four of us just look at each other. Where is the woman? Is she hurt or did the mustang just get loose and wandered away and the dogs followed him? I look around this vast mesa top and realize that even in the Full Moon light, if she was hurt, I'll never find the old woman. I turn off the engine and listen. Horse and dogs stay put. No sound except the sound of my own blood pumping by my ears. Nothing to be done, really. I hope she's at home by the fire.
Before I get into the truck, I turn to the dogs and the mustang and say aloud, "Take care of each other, now. I hope Grandma's OK? Take care of each other."
The two dogs fidget around the horse's legs. The mustang just looks at me and I at him.
Take care, old boy, I think.
I get back in the truck and slowly drive away, knowing that I'll never know if anything happened to that old woman from this afternoon.
I press play, on the tape boombox sitting on my passenger seat, as soon as I hit the blacktop. Kevin Braheny's "The Way Home" begins to play. I'm sipping on a lukewarm TAB soda. It tastes so good. No traffic on the road as I drive to the west toward Tuba City. My wet boots are changing colors as they warm up from the car heater at my feet. My thoughts are on the Cameron Trading Post and its bathroom with hot and cold running water. I long to splash water on my face and then have a bowl of chili at their restaurant.
The ambient music from my tape player swells. My eyes mist up. I'm not sure but I think I'm experiencing Joy.