ANASAZI ENCOUNTER (Short Story)

(This story is dedicated to my Canyon Lands guides John & Chuck)

I’d just set up camp on a slick rock ledge,
3 miles into an uncharted canyon in one of
most remote parts of Canyonlands National park.

It had been a hard day of hiking down
rock slides and pour-overs in some of the
most rugged country in Utah.

Most of the canyons in this region had
been inhabited by the Anasazi (Ancient Ones) .
They farmed the mesas, obtained water from
the canyon floor potholes or springs and hunted game.
It was a difficult existence but the harsh environment
sustained them until drought forced an
exodus around 1300 AD.

Before setting up camp for the night, I
located water in a pothole gouged out of
solid rock in the now dry limestone river bed.
Using a filter/pump I sucked the precious liquid
into my hydro-pack. It was only mid-May but
the region was already bone dry from a drought
that was now in its tenth year.

The stars twinkled happily before the
moon could make her appearance.
The water began to boil in the pot on my
small backpackers stove.
I was grateful to have fresh brewed tea
and hot food after eating jerky and trail mix all day.
Tonight it would be freeze dried beef stroganoff
and a half-dozen of my wife’s prized
oatmeal-raisin cookies!

My one-man tent looked pitifully small, perched
precariously near a precipice, but the weight of
my gear inside ensured that it would not blow
into the dark depths of the canyon below.

After wolfing down my meal I made ready for
bed by un-stuffing my mummy bag and rolling
it out in my tiny tent. There was barely room to
move around, but it would be my home for the
next few days. I unlaced my hiking boots, slipped
off my socks and rubbed my tired feet, now grateful for
having taken the time to break-in my boots before the trip to
avoid blisters. The night air was already nippy. I shivered a bit,
as I slipped into my sleeping bag.

I sank into my air mattress and began drifting into sleep.
Somewhere in the stillness of the night, an owl hooted.
In the distance a pack of coyotes greeted the full moon
with their forlorn yipping and howling.

The cheerful chirping of birds awakened me
to another day of my solo hiking adventure.
After a breakfast of granola and dried apples,
I broke camp and resumed my
downward hike into the lower reaches of the canyon,
that by now I’d named “Ray’s Folly”.

Around noon I spotted a man about 100 yards below me.
He was walking in my direction at a brisk pace.
Within minutes, he’d reached me and
came into full view. What I saw amazed and confused me.
The man wore buckskin breeches, rawhide moccasins
and his upper torso was bare.
He carried a short/stout bow and I could see the
leather wrapped handle of an obsidian knife tucked in
his braided leather belt. Over a bare shoulder, hung
two rabbits whose front feet were tied together. One
hung in front and the other on the back
of the man’s left shoulder.
He stopped about 8 feet from me and I could see
a broad smile on his face. His white teeth gleamed
in stark contrast to his brownish/red skin.
By then, I’d stopped in my tracks with what may
have been a silly look on my face.

Who was this man…that seemingly had stepped out of the past?
How did he get here?
What were his intentions?
Had I lost my mind?
Questions that would go unanswered, at least for now.

I raised open palms as a friendly gesture and said,
“Hello, my name is Ray, do you speak English? ”
The man stood quietly looking me over and said nothing.
His eyes penetrated mine as if probing my very soul. A
chill ran up my spine, although he’d made no threatening
gestures or movements toward me.

As if by instinct, I closed my eyes. In an instant,
I’d stepped into a strange landscape
known as a “Vision”. Here I saw the hunter returning to his cliff
dwelling with today’s wild game. Waiting to greet him was a short
thin woman with raven hair and eyes as dark as coal bits. Standing
beside her was a naked toddler who was laughing noisily. I could
see smoke rising from inside the stone dwelling and could almost
smell the burning pinion fire.

The hunter walked toward his family where they
shared a happy homecoming. He turned and gestured for me
to move closer. As I began to move toward them, he spoke for the
first time in a language I’d never heard before. Strangely, I could
understand him when he said, “Welcome to our home, join us at meat
and drink”.

We entered a small room under a limestone ledge that had
been walled with flat (mud-mortered) stone. Inside it smelled of smoke
and roasting meat. There were fresh corn cakes piled on a grinding stone
ready for eating. We ate in silence, until the hunter burped his approval
of his wife’s cooking.

As we sipped water, he told me of his parents,
brothers, sisters and his beloved grandparents. He told me of their
preparations for the great gathering at Chaco Canyon, the religious
hub of canyon lands. He spoke of how the Anasazi came into the
upper world from the lower realms known as Sipapu and that some day
they would return there.

In the next moment, I opened my eyes. The bright sun blinded me.
My watery eyes tried to focus. I stood there alone. There was no evidence
of the hunter or his family.
The wind was blowing hard, making the bunch grass
whistle eerily as I tried to make sense of all that had happened.

A golden eagle soared high above the canyon calling loudly. In that moment
I realized that strange things happen to a man when visiting these lonely
and remote canyons that are filled with the ghosts of the “Ancient Ones”.
Wanting to get a better look at the golden eagle,
I reached into my backpack for my field glasses. Nestled amongst
my clean socks, was a jet-black obsidian knife with a leather wrapped handle.

ROTMS