By Bruce Becker
Anyone can do the things I’ve done if they’re willing to live the life I’ve led. ~ Fool’s Crow
Animals are our teachers. Always have been. Right now, I’m marveling at the intelligence of coyote. I’m sitting in an ancient lookout, a small rock enclosure with a bed of sage growing in it, on the side of a mountain. I’m watching a coyote a few hundred yards below me following close behind six bull elk, one a seven-pointer. The coyote is watching and hoping for the elk to kick out a mouse as they graze their way through this little hidden valley that has 27 tipi rings in it. Tipi rings are circles of rocks that held down the edges of a tipi. These are probably Arapaho.
The Arapaho called themselves the hinanae’ina, others called them the Blue Sky People. The lookout is a perfect place to watch for the dust indicating buffalo or enemies on the move. This mountain and the little hidden valley beneath it was home to this band of Arapaho. I visit here so often that I recognize the family of golden eagles that live here in these cliffs, two adults and two juveniles.
I remember the time a friend of mine saw one of the juveniles lying on the side of the road, where it apparently flew into a vehicle. When I found out, I did ceremony right on the edge of their cliffs atop this mountain.
Through the smoke of the sage and sweetgrass I was burning, the three remaining eagles cried and soared up the side of the cliffs and wheeled through the smoke, their clenched talons just a few feet from my face. Later that day, as I was descending, the three of them soared with their eight-foot wingspans extended over my head less than 10 feet above me, and then out over the little valley where the tipi rings lay. Their connection to me couldn’t have been any plainer.
I went down to the tipi rings and, as I frequently do, I removed my boots and socks and entered my usual ring to meditate, unwilling to let the experience pass. In my meditation, I thought this bit of poetry, not really conscious of even doing it.
These are the thoughts I remembered later: “In this place I ask my whys. I this place, I hear your sighs. Sweet messenger to me, you bring spirit truth that makes me sing. Above me, buoyant on the rise, I see you soar and hear your cries. Words like feathers from the skies rain down on me, true and wise. Pure heart and honor reign supreme, and thus fulfills my spirit dreams. Ho.”
But now, on this day in the ancient lookout, the snowstorm is picking up. I move down the mountain to the shelter of a big spruce with low hanging branches. I snuggle in beneath her branches to watch the snow fall on the tipi rings just below me. Almost always, I’ve seen those eagles soaring over this little valley. But not today.
The snow is really coming down now. Big, beautiful flakes. The best kind of snowstorm. Wearing my huge army greatcoat with the big hood up, I am well protected under this grandmother tree. A breeze is picking up and I can hear the wind through the pine trees, one of my favorite sounds. The snow is getting deep now and swirling all around me as I sit snug and dry under the thick branches, reading a book.
Suddenly there is some entertainment as two coyotes materialize 30 feet below me. They look like ghostly apparitions, their coats all puffed up and completely covered in snow. As they ghost along, quite close to me now, I pick up a twig and snap it. The two have me instantly eyeball to eyeball. Their awareness, their wildness astonishes me. This is their turf, and I am something new. Something that doesn’t fit. They are confused and indecisive as to what to do. They turn and trot back the way they had come, dissolving into what now is a thrilling blizzard.
I scrape away some of the duff under my tree and build a tiny twig fire to boil a cup of soup, then a cup of tea to drink with my sandwich.
This is the way I typically spend my days in the woods, quietly filling myself up with the peace and harmony of nature. Always hoping to spot a bear or a mountain lion, but sometimes having to settle for a couple of ghostly coyotes.
Bruce Becker is a flute maker, retired masonry contractor, and horse trainer who has lived in Crestone since 2005.