Black God, Coyote, Ancestral Campfires and a Cheeseburger
Ancestral Campfires
Atop a great mesa, Black God methodically placed stars into the dark and empty firmament forming constellations and markers in hopes of guiding future travelers. Not too far off, Coyote sat and watched. He had to admit that it was beautiful, but the process was taking far too long, and a familiar anxious feeling began building. As it often did, anxiety turned into mischief and an impulse formed. His eyes flashed as he trotted up and grabbed the bag containing the remaining stars. Another eye flash, a satisfied chuckle and a mighty heave, sent the remaining stars flying, chaotically, across the sky forming the milky band we now know as the Milky Way. Anxiety satiated, Coyote trotted off in search of the next ‘thing’ … whatever that turned out to be. I would imagine, Black God stood, staring at the result, his mind too far blown to even mutter a word.
It would seem that the whole O.C.D./A.D.D. thing is older than the stars.
Sitting on a soft rock, on a butte, on the edge of nowhere, I stare up at that milky path. My camera is clicking off a series of exposures trying to capture the scene that exists in my also restless mind, and I am pondering another favorite story. This story describes the Milky Way as a roadway between worlds, the brightest points of light being the campfires of our ancestors as they travel along its route. I love this.
Look close enough and long enough … you might find a few fires burning up there you recognize.
That bright star that kind of pulses … the one above and just to the right of the core … that would be my grandpa’s fire. He is a five-foot-nothing giant of a bearded mountain man in my memory, who probably would have tripped the Coyote and flung the bag himself. The fire I am imagining originates from a camp on the far side of a large and beautiful meadow, many miles back in the Wyoming wilderness. There are two wall tents set up door-to-door, slightly askew to allow for an entrance. The tent on the right is full of a sleeping crew of trail builders he is in charge of. The one on the left is the cook tent and contains the bearded man himself. It is cold and there is frost on the grass outside. At this point, the fire in question consists of a preloaded sheepherder stove with the door open, an old bean can half full of chainsaw gas and a box of matches tucked under his cot. From the other tent, just before dawn, you hear a splash then a woosh followed by a glow that promises pancakes once the tent warms a bit. That same fire will later move outside and be surrounded by recently rescued hikers sharing dinner and listening to stories being told by a five-foot-nothing giant of a bearded mountain man. His eyes sparkling like the stars he would one day join. Stories that at least started with a spark of truth.
The bright star a little left and farther down … that would be my father’s. This fire is a little bigger and burning in a pit. Over this pit is a half beef turning slowly. My father and several of his friends will toss logs, tell stories and tend the beef all night in preparation for a community celebration the following day. The nights events will provide stories of disasters averted and problems overcome to be told over next year’s fire.
Extending farther up into the more distant and fainter reaches of the milky trail, blaze a half dozen or so fires representing the hundreds of campfires built and used by ancestors who travelled across the country in wagon trains to places both hopeful and unknown. Fires built for various purposes around homesteads, in backyards and along riverbanks by people I can call family.
The road my feet now rest on is lined with the last of the summer sunflowers, a favorite of many of the fire builders in the sky. In my mind, this road is the one I now travel. It is full of bumps and turns and is often hard to find. In the distance it fades into a haze, a gap between the gravel and dirt path and the milky trail between worlds. Within this hazy gap resides all the good stuff. Questions, discoveries, dreams and wonderment mingle with fears, trials and the unknown. All the things that rattle around in my mind as ever-present entertainment and, perhaps, a little torment.
I often wonder, while sitting on rocks, what those who wandered and sat on rocks (perhaps the same one) thousands of years ago thought. What were their lives like? What has changed in the landscape? In this case, what would they think if they could see the ancestral trail in the sky in the detail we can today?
It’s comforting while sitting on a rock, by a road, on the edge of nowhere, that the path before me is lit by the lives of those who came before. But, still, the silence, the darkness and the eyeballs I am sure I see staring at me from the bushes stir my anxieties. The camera has done its job and I’m reasonably sure I’ve captured what I was after. It’s time to load up and leave all those staring eyes to their night. Plus, there is a cheeseburger of questionable age waiting in the truck AND it is WAY past my bedtime.