I had spent a good while chatting with Ronnie over dinner; here was a lady in search of a new zipcode to call home ...ready to embark on life's next adventure. Good company, easy conversation all help me to live in the now .... momentarily slipping the clutches of email and voicemail from a thousand miles away.
This morning, Sally is "Indian Time" punctual and quickly we're in 4W-LOW and grinding
through the silty sand of the canyon floor. Her stories and limitless narrative weave back and forth between lives of the Anasazi of 1200AD and the more recent impact of the Tsaile Dam on farming in the canyon. I told her how remarkably peaceful the quiet and serenity of the canyon was at sunset . She dispatches a puzzled look my way as she deftly navigates the Jeep down the dry river bed. "It used to be noisy!", like this was the preferred condition and that I'd just made a profoundly daft statement. I don't get it. I ask about the gloomy clouds that portended rain. "Storms from the east bring flood, storms from the west only a little rain" I was assured. Ruin to ruin we go, petraglyphs abound. Some from Anasazi, others more recent of Navajos emulating the 'Ancient Ones'. Apparently some band of Spaniards were really despicable players in canyon history. As we happen upon a few tribal craftsmen and women with their jewelry I regret not having more cash on me. I break out my emergency stash from my bike jacket and do my best to play a trinket-happy-tourist.At the half-way point, we encounter a basketball court with children playing raucously. Finally I understand Sally's comment; the cacophony of children's laughter ricocheting off the canyon walls is pure magic.
Life is noisy, peace and quiet can come after we die.
I thank Sally for the experience, mount my steed and depart Chinle, helmet stuffed with a grin.
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