Raymond Hill

“History’s a Mystery”

Sitting at the edge of the canyon at Bandelier National Monument, I was searching for ghosts amongst the pinon pines and cottonwoods scattered across its floor. On that late winter afternoon, my mind was distracted from the beauty of the rugged landscape, a veritable O’Keefe painting come to life. I was so intent that I barely noticed the gecko skitter across my boot or the cold wind swiping across my cheek. No, my thoughts were on something surreal. I breathe in deeply feeling the cold air burn my lungs and come out of my brain space long enough to notice just a hint of pine and juniper. I breathe out, and a volcanic cloud of steam erupts, quickly scattered by the wind. My body eases, I feel tension leave as the tranquility of this scene transfixes me. Scanning the verdant plain of the canyon floor, one that seems like a garden where children once frolicked with dogs nipping at their heels, why would anyone leave? I imagined the older children and adults working at cultivating corn or building mud-bricked buildings, the exteriors smoothed over with a wet clay from the nearby creek bed. My hands touch the cold rock I am sitting on.
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