| Last year, or was it the year before, I looked for a canyon in the high desert I visited twenty years ago. More than that. Maybe thirty. I’d forgotten a gift so left my bright red sunglasses on a flat stone beside a dry waterfall. The canyon is narrow, the rim rock peopled with tall spires; guardians I was told. I can’t remember if I describe them in The Blue Child Series, but I know I do in the third book, the one on which I am working. The canyon has a huge bat-filled cave that can only be seen from one position; a long climb if one dares. The approach isn’t fearful because of its position, but because one has to have permission to enter. We didn’t, enter that is. The person I was with and I sat across from the entrance and watched, grateful to be as near as we were. Blessed. |  |
Last year, or was it the year before, I looked diligently for this place. I drove all the way to Biggs and then south, drove up each likely dirt road. I scoured the area from Warm Springs to Shaniko – the latter a ghost town again. I stopped at Shearer’s Falls, remembered the fishermen with their long nets. I knew the canyon I sought was not there, but who can resist such sweet memories.
But this time, I am sure, really sure that I know exactly. I will take medicine to open the door. I will take a good and loving heart.
Of course, it could be that this canyon is like the gold stash in southeastern Oklahoma. An old Choctaw women told my handsome papa where it was, how to identify it. He looked and looked, all to no avail. Then one day he was in the mountains on some unrelated purpose – probably hunting. Like it does so often there, a sudden storm arose. Water rushed from the higher hills, turned the earth to red mud. Trees bent under the weight of water. Roots overturned.
And there, through the rain, papa saw the sign the woman described. The storm made it impossible to explore so papa carefully marked the place in his mind. You need to know that papa knew every inch of those mountains, and was a man who is never lost. But you already know what happened, don’t you? Papa couldn’t find it again.
You might wonder why Indians hid the gold. More than once they sealed up mule train of gold to discourage intruders, because land – home – meant more than treasure. Read “Mean Spirit” by Linda Hogan and learn why the Osage tried to hide their oil.
I will tell one more story. One day when I was an adolescent I was so distressed I ran into the woods below my uncle’s place, woods we were forbidden to enter. Wolves, my uncle said. But I was too upset to care. There on the old Choctaw Road – the one that carried them from Mississippi – their own Trail of Tears – was a cypress forest of green trees and gold light. I rested for a long time in a curve of root. Maybe I slept. I grew calm. I knew I would be alright.
Years later I returned. The thick woods were still there, the old road visible, but not the cypress forest, not the light. I don’t know what portal opened to my pain that day, but I am witness that it was there. Is there. There are places we arrive only once, and yet the blessing lasts a lifetime. Or more.
If I find the canyon this week, you’ll understand that I can’t tell. Besides I am sure you have your own hallowed place, the one visited only once. Or maybe twice.
But this time, I am sure, really sure that I know exactly. I will take medicine to open the door. I will take a good and loving heart.
Of course, it could be that this canyon is like the gold stash in southeastern Oklahoma. An old Choctaw women told my handsome papa where it was, how to identify it. He looked and looked, all to no avail. Then one day he was in the mountains on some unrelated purpose – probably hunting. Like it does so often there, a sudden storm arose. Water rushed from the higher hills, turned the earth to red mud. Trees bent under the weight of water. Roots overturned.
And there, through the rain, papa saw the sign the woman described. The storm made it impossible to explore so papa carefully marked the place in his mind. You need to know that papa knew every inch of those mountains, and was a man who is never lost. But you already know what happened, don’t you? Papa couldn’t find it again.
You might wonder why Indians hid the gold. More than once they sealed up mule train of gold to discourage intruders, because land – home – meant more than treasure. Read “Mean Spirit” by Linda Hogan and learn why the Osage tried to hide their oil.
I will tell one more story. One day when I was an adolescent I was so distressed I ran into the woods below my uncle’s place, woods we were forbidden to enter. Wolves, my uncle said. But I was too upset to care. There on the old Choctaw Road – the one that carried them from Mississippi – their own Trail of Tears – was a cypress forest of green trees and gold light. I rested for a long time in a curve of root. Maybe I slept. I grew calm. I knew I would be alright.
Years later I returned. The thick woods were still there, the old road visible, but not the cypress forest, not the light. I don’t know what portal opened to my pain that day, but I am witness that it was there. Is there. There are places we arrive only once, and yet the blessing lasts a lifetime. Or more.
If I find the canyon this week, you’ll understand that I can’t tell. Besides I am sure you have your own hallowed place, the one visited only once. Or maybe twice.
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