This week’s column is by Scott Thybony.
Late at night a snowstorm moved across Indian Flat north of the San Francisco Peaks. It was gone by morning, leaving behind a stillness so tangible it woke me up. Looking outside, I saw the pinyon trees buried in white with a foot of new snow filling the cut of the road. Soon I had the fire going and a column of smoke curling above the old ranch house.
Somewhere on the edge of the woods, coyotes began a rolling, haunting call. Our dog jumped up with her ears perked and gave a half-hearted howl in response. Storm was a yellow rez dog, found on the side of the road, injured and lost. A couple of years before, the dog went on a mad tear, running circles through the house. “She’s chasing up a storm,” said a Cree woman visiting at the time. “Where we’re from, if a dog runs in the house like that it means it’s going to snow.” The chance of snow on such a clear spring evening was remote. But by morning several inches lay on the ground, and the dog had earned its name.
After hugging my wife and son goodbye, I strapped on the snowshoes and headed for the truck. As a precaution I had parked two miles from the house, past an open field where the deepest drifts form. I rounded the foot of the mountain and heard the worried cry of our cat, Streak. Glancing back, I saw her following me, jumping from one deep track to the next.
Every few yards she stopped, looked nervously around, and dashed up the nearest tree to check for coyotes. Then she jumped down and continued leaping from track to track. Hoping to discourage her, I picked up the pace. But her cries became more frantic the farther she got from home, so I let her catch up. The cat quickly scrambled up my leg and climbed on top of the pack, shielding me from the cold as she curled around my neck. I kept walking.
Fresh elk tracks crossed the road ahead and led into the trees. The hoof tips dragged the snow in a wandering line, almost a stagger. Low clouds drifted among the pinyons, screening the elks’ location. Without seeing them, I felt the presence of these massive animals, their bodies tensed as they caught my scent, ears alert for any change in the rhythm of my walk.
In the open flat nearby, I once watched a mountain lion stalk a herd of pronghorn antelope in broad daylight. Mountain lions are solitary creatures who usually hunt under cover of darkness. This one must have been desperate. It ducked out of sight long enough for the suspense to build as it crept through the brush. Sometimes it remained hidden, and sometimes it purposely showed itself in movements calculated to terrorize. If a lone pronghorn panicked and broke from the protection of the herd, it would have little chance of escaping. Although visibly afraid, they held together that day and the lion went hungry.
I continued skirting the edge of Indian Flat. Fog lay tangled in the branches of an old snag, reminding me of the way a stray thought can catch on the rough edge of memory late at night. At that moment a dozen elk broke from cover and flowed across the road taking me by surprise. All I could do was stand and watch, entranced. Hooves clacked like boulders tumbling in a flash flood as the great animals disappeared into the mist, leaving only silence in their wake.
Soon reaching the truck, I stowed my gear and climbed behind the wheel. With only six more miles of snow-buried road to the highway, I had a good chance of making it to work before noon.
Scott Thybony has traveled throughout North America writing award-winning articles for major magazines. His book for the National Geographic Society on the canyon country sold hundreds of thousands of copies. As a river guide he won the coveted Colorado River Jerry-Rigging Award for fixing a broken motor mount with beer cans and driftwood. His commentaries are heard regularly on Arizona Public Radio. Listen at www.npr.org/podcasts/381444137/scott-thybony-commentaries.