Hi Lu Thank you! I enjoyed your story too. But I was really pulling for you to be on the right road. Darn.
Dan On Thu, Feb 4, 2010 at 11:22 AM, Louise Pryor <[email protected]> wrote: > 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/ > 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/
