Thursday
Picture 2
Burntcore's Choice: Both
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The desert mountains that pushed out of the Mojave desert called to me. I had been told by a rancher that the peak that dominated the local skyline was named ‘Spirit Mountain’ by the Indian tribes that used to live out here. The legends were that the Indians’ spirits resided in that mountain, to shield and protect the tribes from danger, and help them when they needed direction. If I ever needed direction, it was now.
I was at an impasse in my life, unsure of where I was supposed to go next. I hoped that the rumors and legends of this mountain were true, and the spirits that lived here would give me guidance, even if I was just a mere paleface. With a well-stocked backpack, hiking boots, and any visible skin slathered with sunscreen, I parked my jeep in a turnabout near the base of the mountain and got out with my gear. Looking up at the mountain, I tried to judge the time it would take me to get to my destination. Smiling, my heart full of hope, I began my trek.
Many people would think that the desert was a desolate, dry place devoid of life, but they were wrong. I could see life teeming everywhere in the short, from scrubby grasses and Joshua trees to the small critters and animals that moved in the shadows and at night. It was definitely hard to see if you weren’t from the desert, but I could see it.
I wasn’t born out here, in the dry heat of the American desert, but I had lived here long enough to seem like a native. I wasn't sure really where I was from. I was adopted from out east, but that was all I knew. I had very vague memories of when I was small but nothing definite. My parents said that if I wanted to know more, they’d tell me, but it didn’t matter to me. Who gave birth to me wasn’t important. Who raised me was. My parents were great people and helped mold me into the person I was today.
I lost them far too soon, shortly after I graduated from college. Their loss was part of the reason for my floundering now. Mom and Dad had always been my rock. I felt adrift without them. A part of me hoped that I’d find a piece of them here, among the spirits of Indian ancestors.
The hike was hard. Before too long, I was sweating and digging out a bottle of water from my backpack. It was a typical hot Arizona day but I was prepared. I took frequent breaks and found shady spots to rest in. By lunch time, I was halfway to my destination. I found another cool spot and stopped to eat a light meal of tuna and a granola bar. It was an odd combination, but it contained the lean protein and carbs that I needed to continue.
Occasionally, I’d see a handprint painted on a rock, the old red ocher fading with age and sun exposure. There was one that caught my eye that was hardly blemished, its color shaded by an outcropping of rock. I stopped and stared at this message from another century, this sign that someone else had been here before. It was comforting as I continued on my way.
The sun began to hang on the other side of the sky as I approached the escarpment of Spirit Mountain that I planned on staying at overnight. While I climbed, I felt such calm and peace. This was the right decision for me; I’d find my answer on this mountain. It reminded me of those old Ziggy cartoons where Ziggy climbs to the top of the mountain to talk to the guru. I laughed to myself as I pulled myself up the last final steps.
The escarpment was small but enough to serve my purpose. I quickly set up my tent, which was really no more than a tube long enough to fit my sleeping bag –with me in it—and my gear. These kinds of tents kept a low profile but still offered all the protection. Dinner was another simple meal, something I could prepare easily without the use of heat.
After I cleaned up the wrappers of my meal, I wiggled into my tube tent feet first so I could look out and watch the world for awhile. As the sun finally set and stars started to peak out, the wind picked up. The wind was warm, the air still heated from the sun. The nocturnal desert creatures and bugs began to come out. I heard scrabbling along the rocks as pebbles and bits of debris were loosened.
As I listened to the various noises, I thought I could hear something else. It sounded like the tinkling of bells and the clanking of animal bones, like an old Indian wind chime. I looked around and couldn’t see anyone or anything that might make those noises. The tinkling got a little louder and I heard someone speaking. It was a woman’s voice, soft and melodious, but speaking a language I didn’t know.
As I started to listen, I realized that she was saying the same phrase over and over again. The repetition and the tone of her voice was hypnotic and my eyelids started to droop, until they finally swung shut and I fell asleep.
When my eyes opened, I was soaring, like an eagle. As foreign as it was to be flying, it felt completely natural. I was far above another mountain range, quite unlike the ones in Arizona. They were covered with trees, the tallest with white caps of snow. In the valley of two peaks was a wide, placid lake. I wondered if the water was cool year around from the rain and snow runoff. As I flew, I felt called, like the peaks were speaking to me, that my future was there.
Sometime later, I woke up back in my tent. The sun was just starting to break over the horizon, casting the world in a golden glow. My memory went back through that strange dream and those mountains. I shifted, stretching out any kinks and stiffness from sleeping. As I moved, I noticed that there was something in my hand. Startled, I looked down and found a small dream catcher in my right hand.
I nearly jumped out of my skin as my eyes darted around, looking to see who intruded upon my camp and put the dream catcher in my hand. There weren’t any footsteps in the dust on the ground besides my own.
“Weird,” I said softly.
Startled by the dream and the dream catcher, I quickly packed my gear up to prepare to head back down the mountain. Despite the shock, I wasn’t scared. I actually felt fairly calm, like something about those green, wet, mountains was calling out to me.
When I got back to my apartment later that night, I poured through maps and pictures of northern mountain ranges to see if I could find where I had been in my dream. My fingers idly played with the feathers attached to the dream catcher as I studied. Finally, I found the right sequence of pictures and realized that the mountains in question were in Washington State.
With nothing left to lose, and no family remaining to keep me in Arizona, I bought an airline ticket to Yakima, Washington and prepared to see what was calling me.
A/N – Spirit Mountain is a real place in Arizona south of the Western Rim of the Grand Canyon. The first picture is not Spirit Mountain but it looked a lot like it from the pictures I have from when I was there. I embellished the legend a little bit, but I was told by the ranchers at the Diamond Bar Ranch that the local Indian tribes believed the spirits of their ancestors resided in the mountain.
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