Ghost Days

I am sitting on a rock at the edge of the Mogollon Rim sweeping off to the southeast as a thunderstorm moves along the edge of the cliff. The wind is blowing in gusts and I can smell the rain and see the lightning striking closer and closer. It is time to move off the Rim and back into the forest.

With a whisper, like a gossamer curtain, I move to the top of an extinct volcano, a cinder cone, looking across the Colorado Plateau, into the haze of the distance, again watching the clouds, make a patchwork of shade as they move across the desert.

Again I move, this time to the edge of deep canyon, so deep and dark, I cannot see the bottom. I clamber along the rocks, trying to get to point where the bottom is visible. I cannot believe that such a huge and deep canyon could be so unknown. I can finally see the creek at the bottom and I am surprised at the amount of water, where did this huge creek come from here in dry Arizona?

With a sweeping motion, I am sitting on a mountain top, looking out over the red and blue wastelands of the painted desert and glimpsing the edge of a huge crack running across the whole horizon. The wind is blowing again and I crouch down behind a rock to keep warm and to keep my eyes from running with tears from the cold and wind. There isn't a cloud in the sky, and the sunlight is intense. I can feel my skin burning.

I am walking, like a shadow, wading through ice cold water, the canyon so narrow there is no other path. The cliffs above rise in rocky crags, almost shutting out the sun. The green jungle growth in the bottom of the canyon, contrasts with the barren Sonoran desert of the canyon walls.

I move again, to a narrow box canyon. The echoes of my footsteps heighten the constriction of the rocks. I can reach out and touch both sides of the canyon at the same time. I can only see a narrow shaft of sunlight reflecting down from the cliffs above.

I am walking across the desert, stepping carefully to avoid the cholla, and watching for snakes. I see glimpses of the red ornaments of the Christmas cactus and watch for the sudden jumps of rabbits.

A thousand pictures, a thousand smells, a thousand sounds, crowd into my mind and again, my eyes fill with tears, this time not from the wind and not from the sun, but from my memories of walking Arizona.