Pilgrimage I

This is a dream I had years and years ago.

I was somewhere in the range of twelve years old.

The sparse landscape of Montezuma County stretched away on all sides. On all sides of the rolling fields of dark brown earth furrowed for the spring's beans, the mountains framed the surreality of the fertile valley. The La Platas, the San Juans, the Sleeping Ute, the sheer cliffs of ancestral sea mud to the South showed the gateway to the Great Monument Valley. We stood n a small swell along one of the nameless county roads that belted the emptiness of Southwestern Colorado. If I had to guess, I would say were were around Cahone.

There were two others with me, one girl a little older than I and one boy too young to have been in school. They were my charge. I had to keep them safe and get them north. We had to get to the North where we would be safe.

I walked along the rich, dark road and the way was paved with miniature explosions of Indian paintbrush and sunflowers. They weaved and bowed in the wind as we passed, worshipping the movement of the warm air. The sun was high and hot. Our shadows fell under us and the only shade was from the scrubs of pinon, cedar, and sage. I lead, but not from the front. I was on the right side of the road walking with my left hand taken by the small boy's right. To the far left, the girl held his other hand. They deferred to me, but I don't0 know why.

After an interminable distance over the swells and hollers of the stretching land, we came upon man. Not man himself, but one of his temples. Towering into to the sky with the imposing lack of any aesthetic value was a laboratory. The concrete building was a square but shapeless mass secreted into the open and wild land of my youth by greedy and hungry men. The structure reached into the cobalt sky and drilled into the ionosphere with smokestacks. The parking lot was full of cars. All manner of vehicle was sequestered in the lot surrounded by the high chain link and cyclone wire so in contrast to the simple cedar post and barbed wire that lined the rest of the road.

The wind stood still. The dust that gritted in our teeth settled down, but did not mar the shining perfection of the rows of cars.

Cars have always fascinated me. I had to get closer. I had to touch one and look inside, roll under it, feel the cool, steel skin. I found a gate and realized that the other two, for reasons that are more profound than a simple rule of existence can define, could not go in. They were blocked from the entrance guarded by an empty shack and concrete pylons by something sinister, spiritual. I told them to wait and I would return. I had to see the cars. The gate opened for me.

The cars sheened in the harsh sunlight of high altitude. They were so beautiful. a 1970 Bronco, a '68 GTO, some European contraption with the shape of a woman and the eyes of a dragon, a '63 Ford Unibody F-100. I rolled in the field, bliss found in the spotless chrome and glinting paint. I inspected each vehicle closely. While I ran my hand over the hood of an International Scout 80, the light changed. The sun had went behind a cloud. My reverie faded as I looked up and saw that the midday sun had become a late afternoon. This had all been a trap. There was an ugly, white, shapeless bureaucratic car prowling towards me down the lane of cars. The faceless car was dusty and heartless, owned by the laboratory. The drivers stared ahead, thoughtless. I ran towards the gate.

In the still air, I heard the engine rev and the crunch of earth under tires become steady. They were coming up behind me fast. I wasn't going to make it. They were going to run me down in the parking lot, my blood staining the gray gravel. Then the car passed me. I had not known terror until that instant. My life was not at stake. I ran faster, my lungs burned and my legs protested. Dread realization tore my gut in two. They weren't coming after me.

They wanted the girl and the boy.