Wow... Excellent story, Dan, thank you. Lu
On Thu, Feb 4, 2010 at 2:51 AM, Dan Glover <[email protected]> wrote: > Apache Nation > > "And if you take a sheep and put it up at the timberline at night when > the wind is roaring, that sheep will be panicked half to death and > will call and call until the shepherd comes, or comes the wolf." (ZMM) > > > At the end of a mountain-shadowed dirt road there's a dusty > round-a-bout where I park my Jeep. In the middle of the round-a-bout > rests a faded blue steel drum with the top blow-torched out to make it > functional as a trash receptacle. One side is stove in giving the > trash can a crooked appearance. Deep angry-looking scratches on the > other side of the drum, rusty with age, announce in a crooked script: > APACHE NATION. The drum is empty. The surrounding forest is pristine, > not even a crushed beer can mars the environment. It's as if some > giant alien vacuum cleaner has sucked every piece of trash off the > earth. > > The forest stands in stark contrast to the towns I've passed to reach > this point, squalid little bergs smelling of overflowing cesspools and > the burnt french toast odor of fry bread. Spongy-middled trailers with > worn out car tires on worn out roofs line graveled streets. Burn piles > spew noxious tendrils of smog into the tepid air to mix with the > sounds of garbled music and crying babies. Entangled yards, like > over-full stomachs, disgorge their bile into the alleyways and streets > until littering the whole countryside with vomitous discards of a > civilization rotting from inside out. > > Here though, it's clean... quiet too. Maybe the quiet has something to > do with the cleanliness. APACHE NATION. My eyes keep going back to the > words scratched into the trash can. Funny. It doesn't say "property > of". It just says APACHE NATION. Like a sign waiting to be seen by > someone who knows what they're seeing. There's a lot of that here in > the mountains. > > I'm making sure I have everything packed before setting off for a few > days in the mountains. Focus, Dan, focus. Two years ago I forgot to > bring an extra disposable lighter. I meant to. I had it on my list. I > overlooked it. And sure enough, three days in and my pocket lighter > ran out of fuel. I always plan redundantly so I had spare wooden > matches but still, a slip up like that can be fatal where I'm heading. > > APACHE NATION. The Apache warriors were some of the fiercest > adversaries their enemies ever met. The name means "cruel" in Zuni > culture. There are actually six sub-tribes that make up the Apache... > the Bedonkohe Apache live in this area of New Mexico. Geromino was a > Bedonkohe; he was called Jerome by the Mexicans after he slaughtered > dozens of armed troops using only a knife. Legend has it the dying > soldiers called out appeals to St. Jerome and the name stuck. > > Satisfied I'm ready, I start walking. I see cruelty in the land. It's > unforgiving. The trail leads uphill through green pines and > weather-worn gray granite cliffs. I walk only a few dozen steps and > I'm winded. I can't catch my breath. I feel sick. I bend over > breathing hard with pounding heart until the moment passes. I'll get > used to the altitude but to survive here for any length of time... I > don't know. There's no open water; rocky valleys conceal underground > streams. I hear it gurgling deep beneath heaped stones. My drinking > water comes from melting snow I find on northern slopes even when it's > seventy degrees and sunny. > > Geronimo was a medicine man, not a chief, and the people chose to > follow him of their own free will. Those who were with him said he had > special insights known as "power" by the Apache... the ability to walk > without leaving tracks, the ability to survive injuries that would > kill other men, the ability see far away both in time and space. The > Apaches were the last of the independent Native American tribes to > recognize the United States government as a legitimate body. Geronimo > and his little band of warriors were the very last indigenous > guerrilla fighters. > > APACHE NATION. The very name kept would-be settlers out of the Indian > Territories for years, but now, the name adorns garbage cans in the > middle of a forest no one knows is here. Crooked words scratched on a > crooked can. I listen to the wind blow mournfully through the late > afternoon trees as shadows gather thicker and more insistent. I > unshoulder my pack and unsling my bedroll. The campsite is nearly > indiscernible; years ago I'd of walked right past not seeing the > signs. It's a good place to stop for the night. > > I say there's signs here but there's not any signs like we're used to > seeing in civilization. Do this. Don't do that. Signs here are more > like patterns of value. A person has to understand the value of what > they're seeing before they come to realize the patterns lurking there. > It's said Geronimo confessed on his death bed that his one regret was > surrendering. That's what this land whispers to me... never surrender, > never surrender. > > The days run together easily out here. I never have enough time so I > keep coming back, year after year, but I can't tell you why. These > mountains scare the hell out of me. The ground is hard, the January > mountain winds roar cold, and I can't sleep for more than an hour at a > time. There's no proper water to drink - I boil everything. The food > stinks and there's not much of it. There's things out here I'd rather > not run into on a dark night, things I don't see so much as I hear. > Big cats scare me more than bears and worse than both are snakes. > > Now, when I say "scared" I don't mean I'm shaky-kneed Sally. Out here, > deep in the mountains, fear heightens awareness. If a person wanders > into these mountains unaware, odds are they won't survive. Sheep. It > happens all the time. They tell me that the park rangers require a > person to have a permit to go hiking so if they don't come back they > can come and find them. In fact, if they caught me out here I could be > arrested. I have no permit. They don't see me though. > > A high mountain mist descends with another night; it creeps in > hovering over my campsite. A bright half-moon hopscotches over fast > moving cottontail clouds. There's a faint circle around the moon > taking up half the sky, portending bad weather. I decide to start back > in the morning. I'm three days into the mountains but it'll only take > me two to get out; it's all downhill from here. I'd like to spend a > couple more days here but I don't like the signs. Snow piles up with a > quickness here. > > I gather wood, kindle a small fire in the depression and huddle close > to chase the clamminess. APACHE NATION. The words haunt me tonight. > These mountains tell the truth. Every time. Outlaw that he was, > Geronimo must have known that too. He might have camped at this very > spot and warmed his hands. APACHE NATION. As darkness gathers about me > I think about a passage Robert Pirsig writes: > > "The real University, he said, has no specific location. It owns no > property, pays no salaries and receives no material dues. The real > University is a state of mind. It is that great heritage of rational > thought that has been brought down to us through the centuries and > which does not exist at any specific location. It's a state of mind > which is regenerated throughout the centuries > by a body of people who traditionally carry the title of professor, > but even that title is not part of the real University. The real > University is nothing less > than the continuing body of reason itself." (ZMM) > > That seems right. APACHE NATION is a state of mind. It's an attitude. > It's not about the mountains yet the mountains have formed traditions > cruel and unforgiving, demanding aggressiveness and courage of anyone > wanting to survive the difficulties here, the very values the Apaches > prize the most. And these rational traditions are carried on by > "professors" as such - medicine men. The Apache traditions are every > bit as rich as any university only different. It puts intellect in a > whole new light. > > To survive out here... the challenge seems formidable. One of our only > advantages against the elements is intellect. And that doesn't mean > thinking about metaphysics. It means coming up with ideas to secure > food, shelter, and warmth. Out here, intellect means brutal > creativity... > > I am standing on a high cliff. The ground convulses, knocking my legs > from under me. I look up at the mountain but it's gone. Instead, I see > an enormous pyroclastic cloud roiling its way toward me. I see > lightening flashes around the edges of the cloud as the heat mounts > and the air crackles around me. I take a breath; my lungs > involuntarily spasm as they fill with acrid sulfur fumes. I know I'll > be dead in a few seconds. I look down into the valley below, searching > for a cave or even a crevice in which to hide. I want to run but the > ground is liquefying, giving way beneath me. My feet caught in > quicksand I claw at melting rock with blistering fingers trying to > gain purchase but I can't move. I can't move. > > I start out of an inebriated sleep. > > I wonder if I'm experiencing something that's happening now, has > already happened or something that's going to happen. I decide it's > all the same anyway so it doesn't really matter. Reason arrives to > tell me I'm oxygen-deprived here at eight thousand feet. My brain is > working overtime. I sit up still not sure I'm awake but pleased that > the shaking is gone and the ground solid. I walk down wind to the food > cache, lower it from the tree where it hangs, break off a piece of > turkey jerky I bought at a road-side stand, and chew it. It tastes of > sea and smoke. It's not a cheese sandwich in Death Valley on Christmas > but I suspect it's pretty damned close. > > The camp fire is out. The moon has set. A pink dawn dapples a craggy > horizon, the sky ablaze with stars and raging planets. It's cold; the > mountain mist has crystallized onto the brush and trees and the early > morning breeze sifts it down to the ground creating just for me the > illusion of drunken dancing angels losing their balance and tumbling > head over heals as they fall from their perches on pin heads high > above, their little white broken wings forming little white patches of > snow on the ground below. I kindle a fire to make coffee. > > Geronimo was sixty some years old when he surrendered but he'd still > take your ass and hand it to you on a platter should he have wanted. > If you were a white settler and Geronimo came upon your homestead, > he'd likely as not cut off your sack, cram it down your throat with > the knife hilt, and leave you there to die choking to death on your > own genitals. > > I've read innumerable accounts of Geronimo. He's described as a > bitter, savage, brutal man who would stop at nothing to drive off > white settlers. He particularly hated Mexican soldiers and showed them > no mercy. It's said he rubbed raw garlic on his weapons and struck not > to kill so that his Mexican victims died slow deaths from blood > poisoning and gangrene. "St. Jerome-O!" > > Time and again though, it's noted that he never physically harmed > women or children. Not once. Yes, they were carried off to become part > of the tribe, or to be sold. That was common among the Apache. In > fact, Geronimo bought two young white boys from a neighboring tribe > and raised them as his own sons. I smell a story there so we'll save > that for another time. > > It took ten years and three thousand men to track Geronimo and his > band down; the US government finally shipped him off to a > concentration camp back east, cut his hair, and put him to hard labor > sawing logs. Later in his life, Victorian high society took great > pleasure in parading around with the Noble Savage . He actually rode > in a car with a President at his inauguration. Can you imagine? > > To their credit, the Victorians talked with him and wrote down his > words. He explained how he didn't understand the ways of the whites. > Apaches had no need of treaties and promises as they believed no one > would give false testimony in regards to their own people. He said it > seemed to him that the whites needed laws to ensure goodness while the > Apache needed goodness to ensure law. Wow. What does that say about us > both? > > He died a prisoner of war far from home. > > But someone out here still takes the time to haul out the trash and > scratch APACHE NATION on empty garbage cans. Like they're daring > someone to use it. I never see them. I take that back. I do see others > from time to time but take care they don't see me. Out here, I have > the advantage - I can hear someone coming from a long way off. I get > so winded after walking for five minutes I'm forced to stop, my heart > feeling like it might burst right out of my chest. As it quiets, I sit > and I listen and the mountains whisper me stories of all the comings > and goings. > > Night again; a cold rain falls; I don't like tents. Years ago I > carried one, just in case, but I never seemed to need it. To save > weight I carry a tarp now. I stretch one end over a large grey granite > standing stone pulling the other end tight to a stake I cut from a > fallen tree to construct a crude shelter. These campsites look to be > hundreds of years old, maybe thousands. They're not easily seen and > they're always round. During my travels here I've seen a good half > dozen of these sites scattered over the area. > > The circles are some twenty five feet wide with perimeter stones of a > cream color, rectangular shaped rocks some four feet long and a foot > wide, softer looking than granite but harder than sandstone. Sometimes > the center is empty; sometimes there are stones in the center of the > circle standing some six to ten feet tall. These are made of granite > and they are massive. I can't imagine how or why anyone would want to > arrange the stones as they have but they've clearly been placed here > by someone. > > I wonder who made these circles. The Apaches? Maybe, but on close > inspection the placings of stones look so old (and big, they must > weigh a ton a piece) I suspect they too found these sites and > understanding their value put them to use, just as I have. A warrior > could cook a meal, find warmth and protection here. Cocooned in my > sleeping bag with a slip of a fire going in the little dugout pit in > front of me, rain dripping just inches away, it feels as though this > is more than a camp site. It feels like home. > > When he was a young man, they came into camp and murdered his wife and > three children. His mother too. And the rest of his family. Geronimo > returned in time to see the last of the Mexican soldiers bent on > genocide riding through the smoke on the horizon. While the warriors > were out trading, the whole village had been decimated, ravaged and > burned. Old men, women, and children, bludgeoned, bayoneted, beheaded, > lodges toppled, even the dogs, slaughtered like pigs. The end of one > way of life and the beginning of another. > > I wake from a muddy dream. The rain falls harder; the wind is picking > up. I pull on my rain poncho, exit my shelter, and gather several > large stones from a nearby rock slide to weigh down the flapping edges > of my tarp. Flashes of lightening dotting the horizon reveal ugly > cloud formations. It looks like I'm in for it. The tarp still looks > loose. I take several lengths of rope to secure it as best I can. Once > I feel good about my shelter, I gather as much firewood as I can to > stow under the tarp. This site is close to the trees but not so close > as to present a danger should high winds knock down tree limbs. > > The wind rises, staggers me back into my shelter. This is called the > Pinos Altos mountain range... Tall Pines... and those pine trees are > bent nearly sideways in the wind. It's gone past a roar to become a > cacophony. The storm is moving slow, which bodes ill. I've never heard > of tornadoes in January but damn, the way those clouds are swirling > overhead... > > An enormous clap of thunder startles the night, and then another. Wind > tears open the makeshift flap on my tarp. While I'm struggling to > re-tie it my eyes are drawn skyward. The sky's crying fire - massive > cobwebbed networks of jagged lightening run from horizon to horizon, > north, south, east, west, jumping cloud to cloud to earth. I've seen a > lot of storms but I don't recall ever seeing something like this. Holy > Christ on a Stick, what a show! > > All of a sudden my tarp is gone. Poof. As if God Itself in all Its > infinite tomfoolery has flawlessly performed the > snatch-a-tablecloth-from-under-the-earth trick only It is using my > tarp instead. I find myself laying in a muddy ditch with a piece of > yellow braided nylon rope in my hand but nowhere to tie it and nothing > to tie it to. Everything I have is drenched in an instant though my > poncho keeps me relatively dry underneath. Plus I only wear wool > clothing in the mountains... wool doesn't lose its insulating value > when it gets wet. Still, this isn't good. > > A lightning bolt splits a tree not forty feet away. The trunk explodes > in sparks. I smell burnt pine and hear tree sap hissing. Jesus Fucking > God, I felt the heat from that one! Another bolt hits, then another. I > circle around the standing stone trying to put the storm to my back. > It doesn't help... it's coming from all directions now. I sit back to > stone with my knees pulled up to my chest. Then I pull my poncho tight > around my knees. Pine cones and any forest paraphernalia the wind > finds hurtles against my body. Something hard hits my face. I touch > my cheekbone below my left eye where it hit me. I feel a mouse forming > but there's no blood. > > "They took the whole Apache nation," I sing aloud to myself, "Locked > us on this reservation." The height of the storm is upon me. There is > nothing to do, nowhere to go. "Though I wear a shirt and tie... I'm > still part red man deep inside." My body discovers a small crevice in > the standing stone I'm leaning against, just big enough to shield me > from the side-on assault. With feet planted I push against the rock to > keep from being swept up into rapacious winds and cover my face with > the plastic poncho hood. My mind shuts down as I meditate on the value > of good tents. > > After what seems like hours the wind lessens, the lightening abates > and the rain lets up. My legs numb, I stand, stretch, and walk around > until the feeling returns. The sky is brightening with the coming > dawn; it's not daylight but at least I can see. I survey the area > around the campsite hoping to locate my tarp. > > I spot it hung up in some nearby ocotillo brush and walk over to > retrieve it. The ties are ripped but the tarp is serviceable. When I > turn back to camp, something catches my attention... the center stone > I've been leaning against has a fire on top of it, a violet colored > fire. No. More like an intense velvet glow. At first I think I'm > seeing things. I rub the water from my eyes. My hand is glowing the > same violet color as the stone. I hold both hands out in front of me > and when I bring my thumbs together a faint violet streamer appears > between my hands when they're about six inches apart. > > I look out at the forest. The pines all stand back upright as if > nothing has happened. But something is strange. There's a violet fire > on the tip of every tree. It's one of the most incredible sights I've > ever seen. The very air feels electric. I feel such a sense of > elation. I've survived a battle of the elements. But more than that, > I'm privileged enough to see something few others have seen. I feel > good. I manage to hang the tarp and kindle a fire to dry myself out > and get some hot soup brewing. I feel really good but for a niggling > thought needling my brain: this storm caught me unprepared. I could > have died out here. > > When the European storm broke on the Apache, they weren't prepared > either. The Apache and European cultures differed in deep and profound > ways, as best expressed by Geronimo when he spoke to the Victorians. > For the Apache, the good, the moral fiber of the tribe, established > the law. As Robert Pirsig tells us in ZMM, the ancient Greeks reduced > goodness to a sub-species of truth; they encapsulated goodness in the > law. And their children, the Europeans, relied on the law to establish > the good. Human beings were seen as fundamentally flawed, lacking > moral fiber. They had to be told what's good. Law established > morality. > > When the Europeans arrived in the New World they saw the native people > as lawless savages. And the Apaches were the worst of the lot... a > cruel and aggressive people with seemingly little or no regard for > human life. Surviving the rugged lands where they lived demanded such > traits. Without knowing the Apache culture, how could the Europeans > reconcile the bloodthirsty nature of the Apache with anything good? > > I keep going back to the stories about Geronimo and how they mention, > almost as an afterthought, how he never harmed women and children. It > doesn't jibe with the image of a lawless savage. And then I think of > the passage in ZMM about Odysseus... > > "Thus the hero of the Odyssey is a great fighter, a wily schemer, a > ready speaker, a man of stout heart and broad wisdom who knows that he > must endure without too much complaining what the gods send; and he > can both build and sail a boat, drive a furrow as straight as anyone, > beat a young braggart at throwing the discus, challenge the Phoenician > youth at boxing, > wrestling or running; flay, skin, cut up and cook an ox, and be moved > to tears by a song. He is in fact an excellent all-rounder; he has > surpassing areté." (ZMM) > > As the storm grew worse, Geronimo found himself and his people > confined to a reservation. Perhaps he sensed the imminent demise of > not only his way of life but the very culture of the Apache... the > extinction of his people. He did what he did best... he survived. He > slaughtered the enemies of his tribe but not the innocent. He never > forsook goodness... Areté. All-around excellence. He couldn't. It was > the very basis of Apache existence. So, whether hobnobbing with > Presidents or cutting the nuts off settlers, Geronimo strove for > excellence. He became the most feared person in the Western hemisphere > and, later, a revered elder statesman for his people. > > APACHE NATION still lives. Oh, there's no acreage, no grounds, no > buildings, no classes, no teachers, no books, nothing at all to > signify that it exists... well, maybe that old trash can at the end of > a dirt road deep in the forest. Signs. Take a step and watch the > signs, and then take another step. Over time, the mountains unfold > their story. Out here, a person's always being tested. And there's > only one rule: Failure means death, the ultimate accountability > partner. > > Full morning comes. It's gotten cold. I love these mountains, not just > for the good times though. To have seen a storm like that! Snow is > coming. Time to go. > > Thank you for reading, > > Dan > Moq_Discuss mailing list > Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. > http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org > Archives: > http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ > http://moq.org.uk/pipermail/moq_discuss_archive/ > Moq_Discuss mailing list Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org Archives: http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ http://moq.org.uk/pipermail/moq_discuss_archive/
