The Native American Wisdom

The life of the spiritual seeker can be a great adventure....
it's all a matter of perspective.

HURRICANE HALLEY
A Wild and Woolly Search for Halley's Comet in the Great Southwest.
copyright c 1986 by Sunheart

I had only one night left in Prescott, Arizona, and still I hadn't had a chance to see the famous Halley's Comet, which only comes once every 75 years. To me it was a symbol of reincarnation, something you remember only from past lifetimes, but a sight so memorable that one might indeed remember past the veil of death. My vision quest that blustery spring day was to see this sight for myself this time around, and perhaps remember it some day in the future, in a different body as I look up from some foreign mountain to that familiar object in the sky. It seemed worth the adventure.

Halley's Comet had come in 1911, 1836, 1761, and 1686. It would not come again until 2061, by which time I would either be 106 years old and not very eager to climb mountains, dead, or already reincarnated into a future lifetime. I figured, "Why put it off?" "Let this be the lifetime to remember, and brag about later."

I'd heard it could best be viewed in the U.S.A. from Arizona, but Prescott is in a valley, surrounded on all sides by hills and mountains, a very photogenic landscape, but not a very good place to see the comet. It was April first, and Halley's would disappear below the horizon in a day or two. If I had any chance at all, it would be April Fools Night!

I had climbed Thumb Butte with my friend David the day before. It is aptly named; like a giant artist's thumb in the center of the valley, it sizes up the surroundings with an artistic flair. Not tall enough to give me a view of the horizon, I could still see the peaks of Granite Mountain from its summit, towering behind us. I asked David about my chances of finding my way to the top of those rugged-looking towers of rock. Surely I'd be able to see the comet from "way up there."

David answered that yes I probably could, but it was a long hike just to get to the foot of those granite cliffs, and then a difficult climb afterwards. They looked like a giant heap of rubble, piled up to the sky, yet it was one spot where I felt sure I could see Halley's. I learned that the celebrated comet would only appear for a short time, above the south-eastern horizon, some time around four AM, when wiser individuals than myself are safely in bed. But I was a fool for adventure and was beginning to see what form that foolishness would take. As we sat in the perfect spring sunshine on Thumb Butte, sizing up Granite Mountain beyond, I promised him without turning my eyes away from that vista, that upon the next day I was going to be on top of that rock, no matter what. It was a fatal moment of hubris, like the Babe pointing skyward to the flagpole at Wrigley Field in Chicago in the middle of a stormy World Series, saying "I'm going there next!"

What I didn't know was that within a few hours, April Fools' Day would turn that Arizona sunshine into Arizona hurricane, but a promise is a promise, and a man's pride goeth before his fall like winter follows autumn. This time, winter was about to follow spring, in a strange turn of meteorological events.

A storm came up during the night. David kept asking me if I'd changed my mind. The wind was howling outside the small square apartment building he and Kathy lived in.
"You still giving me a ride to Granite Lake?"
"Yeah, sure," he answered.
"Well, then I'm climbing Granite Mountain."

We got up early the next day, but the rain was still pouring down and the winds had a cold bite to it. We had heard on the Weather Channel about winter alerts in the southwest. What's that mean? This is Spring!

The morning was nearly spent, David had to report for work and I had to decide between going up and risking the chance that I could see Halley's Comet through a small break in the clouds, or to stay indoors, safe from harm, with no chance of seeing the comet at all, except as a graphic on the Weather Channel's hourly comet report. The grinning man with the pointed stick said that even under perfect conditions, it would not be easy to site at this point in its tour of Earth's orbit.

I said to David, "I bet he hasn't thought about viewing it from 8,000 feet up!"
"Safe bet!"

As we were gathering our gear, David threw me an old wool navy blue cap with paint globs on it. "Here, you might need this!"

"Yeah, I guess you're right. It won't take up much room anyway," I said, and threw it into my pack.

"I have a flashlight too," he said, "but it needs batteries."

"Think I'll really need it?"

"Well, the people who lived here a few hundred years ago didn't have flashlights, and they made out okay," David answered.

"Did they climb mountains at night looking for comets?"

David chuckled, "I doubt it...better take the flashlight."

I threw that flashlight in the pack too, and David and Kathy drove me to Granite Lake in the pouring rain. The exhaust system was broken, and so we had to drive with the windows wide open. As I sat in the back seat with the wind and rain in my face I thought to myself that I was already getting an inkling, and a sprinkling as well, of things to come. We parked by the lake, and walked about a mile or two through the sandy floor of a most unusual forest. David and Kathy went the distance with me, to the gate where the real trail began. We put new batteries in the flashlight, but to our dismay, it didn't work. "April Fools!"

"The Native Americans of Arizona never needed 'em!" I reminded myself.

Kathy mothered the straps into place around my waist, and then wrapped the bright blue poncho around the frame pack and myself, as if I were one of those astronauts who could jump around on the moon's surface and brave death at 800 miles an hour, but couldn't put on his suit without a team of scientists helping out.

I made the long circuitous climb through the 37 varieties of cactus, through the little rock formations seemingly painted red, yellow, and brown, through the bushes and trees, and finally up the back side of the mountain. It was exciting, and extremely quiet, the way a place feels before a storm--the kind of quiet that happens when the locals know it's time to disappear and you don't.

The rain fell harder and harder and with the wind driving it through the holes in the poncho, it began to seep into my skin and then into my sleeping bag.

I always had a strong aversion to wind. When I was a kid, I felt it was punishing me. Later it would give me colds. But I never experienced hurricane wind before. This little breeze I was feeling was just a warning, just a calling card, the first measure of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. My sneakers held up well, but eventually even they started to complain. A heavy white fog rolled in around the mountains, and I watched it spin silk cocoons around me, envelope me like a quiet dream, and then drop away. I started to feel very cold, but it was too early to change clothes. The rain chased me under a lone pine, where I made some notes in my diary and contemplated for a few moments.

I knew that members of many Native American tribes and nations, when on a perilous adventure into the mountains, take a moment now and then to "think deeply" and to thank the Creator for life and good health, and to thank the mountain and the forest as well, and to thank the storm for its mercy. Some in the east use tobacco as an offering of thanks. Here in the west, corn meal was the offering of choice. Some Elders may remain motionless and expressionless for hours as they think deeply, and drink of the hidden waters of the Great Spirit. Sometimes, during this profound prayer, they "sit in their chair and go somewhere." They may visit one of the twelve levels in the sky between this world and the world of our "Grandfather Sun." Some Elders actually appear to friends, many days journey away.

The storm seemed to quiet down, and so I resumed my ascent. The path was a meandering furrow that zigzagged along the face of the mountain slope, cut along cliff walls and dipped down into runoff streams. The crumbling orange clay was now slick, oozing in the unfamiliar element of water. Huge boulders lay here and there along the route as if they were milestones. The fog rode in on waves of the storm, and just as quickly rode away again, revealing traces of distant scenery in its draw.

I finally reached the plateau where the path leveled out, and the grass and trees appeared along the trail. Sitting on this plateau or ridge were several peaks, and skirting around the edges of these, I came to a big crossroads at the heart of the peaks. The first peak on my right looked steep and forbidding, but the second one seemed comforting. I took the trail to the second peak, and when I broke off the trail and headed for the top, I found a natural rock shelter. Actually, the way the rocks were leaning, it only yielded about a square foot of dry ground, but that was the driest square foot around for miles. I settled in, and chilled as I was, I changed clothing. Then I attempted another contemplation, or a "thinking deeply," which in Micmac is "unkee-das-see-waq'n," or "thinking big thoughts."

Physical exertion, such as mountain climbing, can be very helpful in reaching that state where "you sit in your chair and go somewhere." The storm finally blew off, and I stepped out to explore, leaving my gear under the rock, taking only my poncho and my water bag. If the mountains beyond were as rough as they looked, I would need both hands free.

I found that my bivouac was in close proximity to a cliffhanger's view of Prescott below, and the plains beyond. It was breathtaking, my eyes completely liberated by the space in front of me, a space which led all the way to the San Francisco Peaks ninety miles away. Their legal names were Bill Williams and Humphrey's Peak, but no one ever calls them that. In front of these peaks I could also see the Oak Creek Canyon/Sedona country, which I had visited a few days earlier. It was there at Oak Creek Canyon that I had last "thought deeply" while surrounded by the Creator's own handiwork. I said thank you in my mind to that sacred spot for a powerful contemplation. Beyond Sedona lay the Grand Canyon. Suddenly the word "Yavapai" came into my head, and would not leave. I had no idea what the word meant, but I knew it was from some Native American language from this part of Turtle Island. It bounced around in my head, and not knowing what it meant, I thought I'd burst with curiosity. I knew that when these words came to me it usually turned out to be something important.

I returned to the crossroads and decided to climb any one of the seven or so peaks that made up Granite Mountain. The first one I tried seemed impossible. There were bushes that seemed to be made of iron. I couldn't figure out a way around them, but finding myself at the base of a further peak, I scrambled to the top of it.

At that moment, I heard a cowboy's whoop from the direction where I had left my pack. I'd been discovered! I sat and watched the far peak for a while, but I saw nothing, and no one. I hoped that this cowboy person would realized my need for survival and not take anything with them. I decided not to answer. After all, I was here to be close to Great Spirit, and already felt as one in the spirit world. Some people from the eastern territories such as myself don't whoop correctly by instinct. We must be taught. I feared that if I whooped back they might detect that I was an easterner, and do something to make me feel unwelcome. When I finally returned to my camping gear, I found two sets of hoofprints set into the slippery mud, but no damage to my gear. The cowboys had been on horseback.

I wandered around from peak to peak that sunny afternoon, along some of the most chaotic terrain any glacier ever left behind. The boulders required some caution as they were so large and round. It was hard to make any forward progress, but the hardwood bushes, more like steel traps than natural growth, stopped me in my tracks. Demoralized, I finally decided that there was no way around them, and so surrendering to the idea of having gouges in my skin like the Sun Dancers of the Lakota, I tried walking on top of them. It worked...sort of. I could progress pretty far on top of the bushes, they were so dense, but then I would slip down into one of the bushes, and that hurt. I had a devilish time pulling myself out.

The seven rises were laid out in an arching saddle-back manner, with little peaks in between, and the further I went, the higher they stood until just as the sun was beginning to lean low on the horizon, I arrived at the last three peaks.

The first one lay to my left, and from the high place I was standing, was not much of a peak at all. The second was formidable, but do-able none the less. I would have to leave my poncho and gear behind, so as to hoist myself upwards hand over hand. The third peak was a separate entity unto itself, being taller than the others, more barren, more steep, with a large ravine lying between the two of us.

In this rugged terrain I felt like I was being watched, but by who...or what, I didn't know. I thought if I climbed that third peak, then I would certainly be found worthy of this powerful detached observer's approval. But only if I survived.

I kept driving the word Yavapai out of my head, but it would bounce back like Indian rubber. I tried to sing to myself, I tried chanting mantras, but as soon as I was finished and put my mind on climbing again, my lips would move again. Yavapai, Yavapai, Yavapai, Yavapai....What was that word? I'd seen it on a sign in Prescott, without explanation. Why was it following me? Somehow I had the notion that it referred to me. What is a Yavapai? I wondered. What was this name that somehow was calling me, by my own name, but one strange to me?

I was good and tired from all the ironwood bushes, not to mention the bright sun and the fierce wind that beat down on me. I thought I should probably turn around, but conversely felt drawn onward, until I had encountered whatever it was I came here for. It wasn't Halley's Comet I came for after all. I sensed that there was a hidden purpose for this visit to the sky, a destination I hadn't reached.

I relaxed for a moment, and there before me plain as day stood, in spirit body, an old "Indian Chief." He was looking at me intently. He showed me three blades from a cactus, or maybe it was from a Yucca plant, I had no idea what was happening or what was to happen next. This wasn't my fantasy, it was someone else's, or so I felt. The three blades were splayed apart, like three feathers in a headpiece from some ceremonial gear from Arizona's past. There was a short blade on the left and a very long one on the right. He said, "Choose!"

I pointed to the middle one for some reason. It was of moderate length. He placed the three blades firmly in my hand, and then disappeared.

"Altitudes..." I thought. "Delerium, fatigue?" But I knew from a lifetime of experiences with dreams and visions that whatever it was that induced the openness to visions, it was of primary importance that I pay attention. It was my own soul speaking, showing me something, or someone, with a message for my life. I looked straight ahead and saw in front of me the phantom hand of my own spirit body, still holding on to those three blades.

I had chosen the middle one without thinking about it. I knew that choosing the shorter of the three would show cowardice and that choosing the longest of the three would show vanity. The middle way was best.

Indeed, I was being watched. I gazed upon the three peaks before me. At this late hour, there was only time to climb one more peak. Which one would I choose?

I looked to my right at the third and most forbidding of the three peaks. What a feat that would be! I thought, and tried to visualize myself climbing down that steep gulch, over the rocks and then up those smooth cliffs. But even in my imagination, things went badly. I reached an impasse right beneath the peak. It was impossible without ropes. It took me too long to get there. Night fell before I could make my way back down. In my imagination, a terrific storm whipped up, the wind blew like breakers on the sea of my native Maine and the Maritimes, home of my Micmac ancestors. I imagined myself clinging to that cliff all night knowing there was no one to rescue me. I immediately stopped imagining. I wasn't sure it was my imagination any more, but second sight.

I looked to my left. The peak there was hardly worth the effort. I wouldn't learn anything along that path. If this really was some kind of rite of passage, I certainly didn't come all this way to prove myself a coward.

The mysterious "Indian Chief" had been straight ahead of me. I looked straight ahead where in the distance stood a middle-sized peak. No piece of cake, by any standard, but worthy of my destination. If everything went perfectly, there would be just enough time to get back to camp before nightfall. Soon I found myself on top of the peak, and the view was 360 degrees of shear excitement. It was like floating in sub-orbital space. Maybe I wasn't the world's bravest mountain climber, but I'd live to tell the story.

I realized this was my destination, and that I had come here to this peak to be given some information, yet after a few minutes with no further visions, no further visitations or revelations, I began to feel disappointed. I said out loud to the growing wind (on mountain peaks, you can do this sort of thing and see amazing results) "Show me the lesson!"

The Indian Chief's voice rang out from invisible space. He said, "LOOK AT YOUR WATCH!"

I looked quickly at my digital watch which I'd forgot I was wearing, and it said, "1740."

I was amazed. I'd had that watch for a while, and didn't know that it was capable of reading out in military time. I hadn't touched it. Whatever that tiny time machine was doing, it was doing it all by itself. I knew that it was really 5:40, and that meant the spring sun would go down soon, but I still couldn't figure out the lesson.

I stayed on the middle peak for a while, reveling in the bird-like freedom, yet clinging to the rocks, fighting the wind. I wondered if the lesson had something to do with taking "the middle path." It sounded somewhat Buddhist, but a good philosophy for a Native American as well.

Climbing back down, I wondered if it had anything to do with the year 1740. Was a past life making itself known to me? I grabbed my poncho and water bag off a rock and tried to make a bee line back to camp, but because they were in my way, I ended up climbing two of the peaks I'd missed along the way. I walked over the bushes again and dug through the scrub brush and made it back to camp before nightfall. I was starting to get very used to this rather strange landscape.

I contemplated on the date 1740. I did some math in my head, and realized it was not a year that Halley's Comet had come by. Suddenly I found myself in a flashback to another life. I was a young Native American man (again!) undergoing a very difficult test, a rite of passage, a "vision quest." Not a vacation vision quest with the help of cars and Kelty packs and other niceties, this one had been the real thing, the kind where if you live, you'll be a better person for it. The purpose of the vision quest was to determine if I would be trained as a seer or chief within my tribe.

Apparently, because of the circumstances of my birth I was a candidate for some position of importance, but there were those who demanded to know if I was really worth training, and apparently I was among them. I was my own worst critic, and had a special need to prove myself able to lead my people some day in the future. Even in those days young men felt the pressure of family responsibility. I had been drawn to that same crossroads, but the previous time the old Chief said "choose!" I had chosen the long blade, and had chosen the tallest mountain to climb.

Instead of proving myself an impressive hero, I had been stranded out there on that same peak, a fate which I had earned with my foolishness, and paid for with my blood. Night had fallen, and a hurricane had come up, blowing me off its face to the rocks below, to my death. That is the reason why I had always feared the wind. It was reminding me of my mistake.

One day later, in Phoenix, I was led accidentally to the answer to at least one of my questions. I found an Indian museum and learned that Yavapai means "People of the Sun." They were at one time a very large tribe in this area, and very given to spiritual matters. They were prominent here in the year 1740. They migrated yearly from the Grand Canyon to what is now Sedona, Arizona, red rock country, to Prescott, to find fresh sources of food in the arid environment. They recognized Castle Rock in Sedona as a seat of spiritual power, and felt especially close to the Great Spirit there. Anyone who has ever entered Red Rock Canyon alone can attest to the power of spirit there, which flows through the rocks as if they were only dusty dreams. It was quite likely then, that if I had been one of them, I would be drawn to Sedona for spiritual renewal, which I already had two times in my young life, and that I would go to Granite Mountain for my rite of passage.

This was a tricky test. Here are three blades of cactus. If you choose the right one, you will be trained in the higher realities of the spirit world. No mention of the fact that if you choose the wrong one, you will die. Many would think that long was more, therefore better. I'm sure many who tried to anticipate the desires and opinions of the Grand Chief chose the longer one, and attempted to climb the higher mountain. They too, had to reincarnate, and take the test again, as I had done, until they got it right.

It takes more than strength to reach God and touch the heart of the Creator, it takes wisdom, the wisdom to follow the path of moderation when necessary, the wisdom to know your limitations, the wisdom to follow your own heart.

I made my way slowly back to my pack, and then to camp. I set up my tent and then went to the cliff facing the west where a great storm could be seen approaching on the horizon. The look of the sunset through the sheets of dark rain on the horizon was ominous. It looked like a war between heaven and earth.

It was dark now, and I lay inside the tent, listening to the howling of the wind. Lightning bolts were getting closer and closer. Suddenly, I realized that I had hung my metal frame pack on the tree above me. I ran outside and rehung it on the tree a few feet downwind. That way if the metal frame attracted the lightning it would draw its fire away from me, not towards me.

I could hardly sleep. It was getting very cold and the hurricane brought torrential rains, flooding the ground. The wind tore at the canvas, but I noted with pleasure, the lack of sag in the material. Eventually, the tent began to leak and the bag soon resembled milksop. I slept, fitfully. I woke. The noise had stopped. Had this twister landed me in OZ already? I stuck my head outside and looked upwards. I saw a single star staring down at me. I'll never forget that sight. It was like an olive branch emerging from the flood in the mouth of an angelic messenger. I put on my glasses and stuck my head out again. The clouds had been blown away, revealing a clear sky after all. Sensing that it must be approaching four AM, I tried to check my watch by Bic lighter, but couldn't see worth a darn.

I put on my poncho, and in incredible darkness, I stiffly made my way up to the mountain peak. The stars were my only light, but a million billion of them each added a whit of light to my path, just enough to guide me. I had worked out a way to locate the comet by using the constellations, but the constellations were drowned out in a sandstorm of light, so plentiful were the stars of that high holy place. My study had been in vain.

The wind was deafening and seemed strong enough to blow the stars off their course, though they remained fixed. I set my jaw in hopes that I wouldn't step on a snake, or in a hole, or some other disgusting thing in the dark. I couldn't see my own feet. The view was immense, but there was no moon to light the way and no Halley's Comet.

Now the wind seemed to come from the southeast, where I searched for a sign of the comet. There was a huge boulder in that direction, shielding me from the direct wrath of the hurricane, but also blocking the view. Standing on a stepping stone to see over it to the far horizon, a gust came up and blew me right to the ground like a bail of hay. I was tangled in bushes and had a struggle getting back up. By the time I next stepped onto solid stone, I had learned to cling to the rock. The wind seemed to whistle eerily and I estimated it must have been seventy miles an hour, in that it felt at least twice as forceful as a gale wind, if not more. I hated wind more than anything, and God knew it. I felt like I was being tested in an aerodynamic wind tunnel of the soul. Was I smooth enough? Could I bend enough? Or would I crash instead?

Several times the wind pulled my poncho off of my head, but I was quick enough to catch it in the air each time before it disappeared into darkness. Looking back, I have to laugh at my situation. If my reflexes had been any slower, the poncho would have flown off the mountain, and I would have ended up crippled by hypothermia, perhaps passed out and even died eventually. I had traveled pretty light and much of what I had was already soaked through. You don't have to be on a mountaintop to die of hypothermia in a hurricane. But it helps.

Now there was nothing between me and the southeast horizon... and nothing between me and the wind. Down in the valley, nestled in the mountains where the horizon is just a neighbor's wall, pieces of roofing were being blown off of buildings. Walls were shaking, windows rattling, and people were having trouble sleeping. I wasn't entirely alone, but the wind lived here on the southeastern face of this ridge, and like the boy who slept with the bear all winter, I was learning to live with it. I who had feared the wind since childhood had to stand watch, looking into it, or have to wait another 75 years to see Halley's Comet.

It became too cold for me. I got discouraged. It wasn't worth all this just to see a few minutes of light in the sky that wasn't there. I turned and doggedly tried to make my way down. I had memorized the way. It was easy enough to walk blindfolded, which was about how I felt.

A half hour later, hardly twenty feet down the rocks, I was buried up to my neck in the steely branches of the thorn bushes. I tried to continue downward, but the way was blocked. Was I going to be trapped here?

"No way," I thought. "First thing is to get out of the bushes. Then worry about which way I'm going." The only way to do that was to retrace my steps, and when I did, I found myself all the way back at the watcher's rock, and back into the face of the wind.

I noted a strange light in the eastern sky. I thought, "Here comes the sun already, and I haven't found what I was looking for yet!" Having nowhere else to go in particular, I decided to watch. "Hopefully, the way down will be easier after sunup," I thought to myself.

But it wasn't the sun. It was our celestial sister, the moon. Seeing the moon rise slowly over the upland wilderness from my lonely height was as much as a Yavapai could hope for. It was absolutely majestic! The light was dim at first, then as it broke free of the horizon, it shone on each of my seven peaks, making them look silver and dreamlike, like seven chiefs dressed in cloaks of iridescent feathers. I'm glad the mountain had made me stay a little longer. This alone was worth the price of shivering.

I stood gazing out to the southeast, hardly able to think, wondering if I should stay or descend now that I had the moonlight to guide the way. The dawn would be coming soon and I was very tired. Then, as I strained my eyes toward the southeast, I saw a red plume of light flash on the horizon. It looked sort of like a giant red feather of light winging on the horizon for a split second. I jumped back, and exclaimed, "WOW! WHAT WAS THAT?"

I looked for a long time, but nothing else happened. I thought it over. I couldn't see the numbers on my watch, but judging by the moon and the coming of the dawn which I later watched from my tent, I'd have to guess it was the setting of Halley's Comet.

Everything turns red when it is setting, as the thick atmosphere bends the light waves, turning them red. It was at the correct tilt, the correct length, and width, as I had seen in pictures, and it was in the correct direction. But I'd never heard of a "Comet Set" before. It was so fast, I doubt that many would have seen such a thing anyway. Perhaps this red plume can only be seen from mountain tops, or perhaps only by very sleepy people who haven't eaten or slept much at high altitudes, and have survived a hurricane alone.

Eventually, I made my way down to the campsite. This time I felt more sure of my navigational sense, even though the light was dim. Intuition led me faithfully to the exact spot. There were the familiar trees and rocks surrounding my tent..but where was my tent? It had disappeared!

How could a tent disappear, when I had tied it so well? With all my belongings inside, heavy belongings? I felt around in the dark. The cords were all there. The wind had ripped the tent off the cords and sent it flying like a kite.

I walked far downwind and found my tent on the edge of the mountain, hanging on some bushes. I pulled it back to camp again and just crawled in it like a big sleeping bag. At this point, I didn't mind the cold and wet, as long as I was out of that infernally cold wind!

I was awakened the next morning by sleet and snow and hail, followed closely by rain and fog. If this was my training, no stone was being left unturned. I even got lost in the fog. On my way down the mountain, my pack felt twice as heavy as it did going up. The water had saturated everything. I was in no mood to stand around while hailstones pecked at my head, so I started for Granite Lake an hour ahead of schedule. I sent a message to David via cosmic telegram, to be there at eleven, one hour early, to pick me up. Before there was Bell Telephone, people relied on such telepathy. Some Native Americans used the "Eagle Phone," which involves placing tobacco out for the eagles, and placing one's words into the tobacco so that the eagles can transmit the message, but in times of need, sending the inner voice directly can work as well, depending on the openness of the person you are trying to reach. It worked for hundreds of years. Theoretically, it should still work. I reached the flat land just before eleven, instead of at noon, as we had discussed. Finally, as I lowered my pack to the ground, the sun broke through the clouds.

I had heard a few stories about my Native American ancestry as a child, but after moving to New York City, I sort of forgot about it. My meeting with the chief on the mountain and my recollection of a life long past as a Yavapai, a child of the Sun, shook something in me awake. It was a turning point in my journey back to the traditions of my ancestors. I began to realize it was not just a piece of trivia for light conversation. It was the key to my past and my future, and the vision on Granite Mountain was just the "tip of the iceberg."

When David drove up a few minutes later, exactly at eleven AM, I grabbed the pack and walked over silently, to where he stood, staring at me and shivering. I looked behind me. Lying around us were broken trees and huge branches, washed out pieces of road and other signs of a very heavy rainfall which traced the course of a wild storm. Leaves from the trees covered the spring ground.

He said, "You....made it back!"

"Yeah, it was GREAT!"

He looked up to the magnificent cliffs above us, shining in the sun, thinking of me up there in all that fury the night before, and said, somewhat respectfully, I think, but with a touch of humor, "I knew you'd say that!"