Wild Inferno (3 page)

Wednesday, 1400 Hours

The posted sentry, a volunteer from the Chimney Rock Interpretive Association, sat in a folding chair with an attached umbrella, reading a book. I pulled up to the iron pole gate that stretched across the entrance near the highway. By the organizers' request, the site was normally closed to non-Indians during the sacred ceremonies, but now—due to the fire—it was off-limits to anyone trying to enter except members of the team. Once I was through the gate, the volunteer closed it again behind me and returned to his reading.

I drove across a stretch of flat scrub, then trees began to form at the sides of the dirt track and the elevation started to rise. I passed through the parking lot beside the tiny log cabin that served as the visitors' center, where a group of Native American men and women sat at a picnic table under some trees. From there, I drove up a curving dirt and gravel road that climbed sharply as it wound up the side of the slope to the parking lot near the top. The two natural stone towers of Chimney Rock topped a cuesta—a slender, rising ridge with a nearly vertical, shaley escarpment on one side, and a steep, forested slope on the other, where the fire now burned. This stunning formation was centered in a bowl-like valley rimmed by mountain ranges, all higher than Chimney Rock with only three breaks—one to the south toward Huerfano Mesa in northern New Mexico, one to the north through Yellow Jacket Pass, and one to the east toward the Continental Divide.

Motorcycles, cars, vans, and several motor homes jammed the paved parking lot near the top. As I steered my way through, I noticed a group of about forty dark-haired people under some trees near the western rim, many of them sitting on benches and reinforced stacked-block walls that had been created in the style of Chacoan architecture. I passed the small building housing restrooms and a water tap and parked on the side of the road leading out, where low-hanging piñon branches scratched the top of the Jeep.

As soon as I was out of the car, a handsome, brown-skinned man wearing braids and a T-shirt bearing the slogan
FREE THE REDSKIN
came toward me. Behind him trailed a young woman in jean shorts and a tank top. I could tell by the way the man carried himself that he was about to try to evict me from the premises—he'd probably seen my blonde hair and concluded I had no business at the Native American ceremonies.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

I pulled on a brown BLM ball cap, walked to the rear of my Jeep, planted my boots in a wide stance, and straightened up tall, indicating that I intended to stay put. I smiled and stuck out my hand. “I'm the liaison officer with the fire management team. I'm here to see what we can do to make sure the tribal representatives have everything they need, and let them know we're here to help.”

“Oh. Okay, then.” He shook my hand and gave me a big smile. “I'm Bearfat, Southern Ute.”

“Jamaica Wild.”

He nodded his head up and down, still smiling. “Good name. I like that.”

“Mr. Bearfat, are you one of the coordinators for these ceremonies?”

He examined me as if I were fresh meat, his dark eyes dancing over my BLM T-shirt and my Nomex-clad hips. “Just call me Bearfat,” he said. “I'm not a coordinator, but I am a member of the Southern Ute tribe.”

“I see.” In spite of his ogling, I found myself wondering if he might know Grampa Ned. But with the old man's fate uncertain, I dared not ask.

“We Utes don't do the ceremonial stuff here—that's the Pueblo tribes' deal. We do our storytelling and our dances down in the parking lot below by the visitors' center. By the way, I have offered to arrange for a blessing ceremony for your fire crews.”

“That's very kind of you, Mr. Bearfat. I'm sure we can use all the blessings we can get. Can I help in any way with that?”

“Call me Bearfat,” he said again. “And, I don't know, Miss Wild.
Can
you help in any way with that?” His eyes continued to wander over my figure. Behind him, the young woman tired of watching the banter and started chewing on the end of one of her long braids.

“What will you need for the blessing ceremony?”

“Well, if I conduct it, I will need a clean space.”

“You mean a room or something?”

“Not necessarily. It can be outdoors. Just a clean space.”

“You mean cleared of debris? Smooth ground? What exactly should we do to prepare the space?”

“No women at their time of month.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No women within a half mile who are at their moon-time.” He gave a leering smile. “You're not at your moon-time, are you, Miss Wild?”

I used my best diplomatic voice. “You know, Mr. Bearfat, while we appreciate your offer of a blessing ceremony, I don't feel we could provide what you need. We have a lot of women firefighters on our crews as well as on the overhead team, and I will not be able to certify the standards you require.”

He pretended to think about this a minute. “I guess someone else will have to conduct the blessing then. I have my principles.”

“I understand,” I said, not meaning it. My job was to grease the wheels between the team and the local tribe, and that often meant biting my tongue.

“I don't think you're at your moon-time, Miss Wild; you're too sweet. May I call you Jamaica?”

I forced myself to stay calm. “I don't think we need to discuss this issue any further. I brought some coolers of bottled water for the folks up here. Maybe you could help me get them out of my Jeep and we'll put them over in the shade by the restrooms.”

He grinned and nodded approvingly. “You got a good warrior spirit. I like that.”

I turned around and opened the hatch of the Jeep and pulled two heavy foam coolers to the edge.

“Got any coffee in there?” Bearfat asked.

“I'm afraid there's not much call for coffee in the middle of a scorcher like today.”

“Oh, Jamaica Wild,” he said as he reached into the Jeep and picked up one cooler and set it on the ground. He straightened up and looked me in the eyes. “Heat is good for you. Heat is power, it's energy. There's so little of it in the universe, we should be grateful we have Father Sun to give us life.” At this, the young woman nodded her head in affirmation. Bearfat lifted the other cooler out and set it atop the first, then picked them both up and walked toward the comfort station.

I started to speak, then closed my mouth.

His companion looked at me and arched her eyebrows. Then she turned and followed him.

Wednesday, 1415 Hours

I crossed the parking lot and headed down a path toward the circle of people I'd seen sitting in the shade of the piñon trees on the other side of the narrow mesa. A blur of movement emerged from the group—two figures wrestling? Then a flash of blond and black fur bowled toward me down the walk and shot toward my chest like a heat-seeking missile. The animal struck me with such force that I fell backward onto a patch of dry, dusty earth and my head banged the ground. I saw stars. The wolf stood with his feet on my shoulders and licked my face, whining and puffing. A small, dark woman bent over me, her head and shoulders wrapped in a tan blanket in spite of the scorching heat.

“Momma Anna?” I asked, looking up into her dark eyes. “What are you doing here?” As I spoke, the wolf whimpered and grunted at me, still furiously licking my neck, my ears, even my hair.

The old woman shook her head and frowned. “He tell me bring him you. I come, do ceremony here.”

I pushed the wolf off of me and got to my hands and knees, but he continued to lick at my face, whining as he nipped gently at my ears. “But you said you'd watch him for me. I can't have a wolf on a fire!”

“He say you need him. I have ceremony do here.”

I held up a finger to indicate to Momma Anna to hold that thought, then stood on my knees and put my arms around Mountain's neck. “Hey, buddy,” I said, trying to calm him. He lunged into me, nearly knocking me over, huffing and vocalizing angrily.

I put one foot down to stabilize myself, keeping at eye level with the wolf. “Shhhhh,” I said, “it's okay.” His tail pounded against my arm, my shoulder, and he pressed his haunches against my chest. He cried and snorted, his fur flying with his anxiety. I placed a firm hand in the cleave between his hip and his abdomen and held it there while he wheezed and panted and whined. He turned in a circle, nipping at my chin as he passed, and again pressed his back end into my chest. I pushed my hand against his flank once more and tried to hold him in place, but Mountain weighed more than I did, and was twice as strong. He flipped around and again challenged me with a lunge toward my face.

“Okay, buddy,” I said, as I managed to stand up. “You asked for it.” I grabbed his hips and wrestled him to the ground, not an easy task. He yipped as we tussled and I forced myself on top of him, pinning him at the shoulders so that he lay on his side. His back legs clawed my pants and pushed against my thighs. Finally he submitted, laid his head down, and was still—except for his rapid panting. I could feel his heart pounding in his chest, see fear and anxiety in his eyes. “Shhhhh,” I said again, still lying on him, as I loosed my hand from his shoulder and stroked the side of his face, the tufts of hair in his ear. “It's okay, Mountain. It's okay.”

This four-legged companion of mine had come to me more than a year ago. A wildlife ranger had found him as a young cub, just a few weeks old when Mountain's mother had been shot outside of Yellowstone. He was the only one of his litter who had survived. Because I lived alone on a remote stretch of land outside Taos, and worked almost exclusively in the backcountry at the time, I had agreed to adopt him.

From the beginning, the wolf and I had struggled with his fear of abandonment, so characteristic of pack-oriented animals. He wanted me never to leave him—even for an hour or two—and he ripped my home apart on the few occasions when I did. But I couldn't take him everywhere I needed to go, so we had both adapted gradually to my short absences through a series of often costly trial-and-error experiences. Finally we had reached a point where Mountain was comfortable in my cabin and could be trusted to remain there for up to four or five hours every once in a while without shredding my clothes or chewing up furniture in an anxiety-driven frenzy. And I had adjusted to having a near-constant companion who went almost everywhere with me, including to work.

But we were still acclimating. Our latest struggle was over pack order. As the wolf matured, he often vied with me for the alpha position. I found myself wrestling and pinning him more often than before, contending for dominance, or at least equality.

I took my weight off Mountain and slowly got up, still standing over him. He lay on the ground, his ears back, panting, his eyes dilated. “Okay,” I said, and he jumped to all fours and circled me again, his tail wagging. This time, he let me hold his flank—which was normally a means of comforting him when he was distressed. Otherwise I ignored him, playing down our reunion so he didn't sense any emotional electricity that could fuel his anxiety.

Finally, I nodded my head at Momma Anna. She had been patiently watching the encounter from one side. She made a little
tttch
sound with her tongue. “You and that wolf,” she said, shaking her head, “in love. Maybe just go get marry.”

Momma Anna handed me the leash and bridle for Mountain, and I slipped the loop over his nose. Similar to a horse's halter, this allowed me to pull his head to the side if he veered from the direction I chose. The wolf wouldn't go where he couldn't see, so this usually helped control him. But Momma Anna said, “He take off.”

“What?”

“That. He see you, he take off, that.”

“Maybe it wasn't on right,” I said, disbelieving that the wolf could perform such a feat. I checked the bridle and tightened it a little to be sure.

“You see next other time,” Momma Anna said, and she gave the wolf a friendly smack on the rump. Mountain wagged his tail at her.

Now that I had calmed the wolf, I wanted to speak to my Tiwa medicine teacher, the Tanoah Pueblo woman who had adopted me one Christmas season when we'd met at an art show. She'd invited me to Christmas dinner at the pueblo then, and over time had included me in numerous family events. Once I'd revealed to her that I loved to write and longed to produce books about the Southwest, Anna Santana had instructed me in many of the ways of her people, despite fierce restrictions set by the tribe prohibiting the sharing of their culture. Almost a year ago, I'd witnessed her son's death in a buffalo stampede at Tanoah Pueblo, and Momma Anna had charged me to find out the truth about how he had come to be there. My investigation led me deep into the clandestine rituals of the kiva societies, the peyote church, and beyond. Ultimately, I did learn the truth, but not before more lives were lost.

“Momma Anna, when I brought the wolf to you early this morning for safekeeping, you said nothing about needing to leave Tanoah Pueblo. I told you I might be gone as long as two weeks.”

“You come next other time. This time, I come Fire Mountain.”

“Fire Mountain?”

She made a 180-degree sweep with her arm. “Here.”

“But you must have known you were coming to these ceremonies when I brought Mountain to you. You said nothing about them.”

“Next other time, I am home. Now I am here.”

Typical. Time had always been a challenge in dealing with the residents of Tanoah Pueblo, even in my work as liaison to the pueblo for the BLM. Their concept of time included only
now
. Everything outside of that could be classified—in Momma Anna's words—as
next other
. Often in the past when Momma Anna and I had arranged to meet, she would show up much later than the time we agreed on, if she showed up at all. But she always declared me late when I came to visit her at a prearranged time, no matter how prompt I was—because she was already there, in the
now,
the only time she knew.

“Well, how long will you be here?” I asked her, even though as soon as I spoke the words, I knew she wouldn't be able to tell me. “What am I going to do with Mountain? I have to work the fire.”

“He say you need him.”

I snorted. “Yes, well, Mountain would say that, no matter what. But I agreed to work this fire, and I can't take a wolf with me.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Wolf and fire live same place, time before. He know how not get burn.”

“It's too dangerous. You shouldn't even be up here, and neither should he.”

“I am told be here. You do not tell me where go.”

“But the fire…”

“You go. Do fire. I keep wolf.”

“But it's not safe!”

“We got story now,” she said, and she turned and started back toward the group on the west rim.