Winter Count

by Barry Lopez

  She did not go with him. It frightened her too much, she said, this unending sky. (He remembered the first time he had seen her dance at the Metropolitan Opera House, the arch of the proscenium so high that no movement onstage could carry the eye to it.) And she said almost whispering that she was afraid she would find nothing to hold her mind, that she was different from him. He watched her out of a powerful singularity from the center of the bedroom, and then he flowed again so he seemed as she always remembered him, generous and surrounded by a haunting reverence.

  They rode in the hills around the ranch for three days. He thought of the elk he had killed the year before, wrapped carefully in brown butcher paper in the freezer; he couldn’t trust the relationship that far, he thought. He filled her hair with Indian paintbrush and told her that when he was a boy he had ridden a Galapagos tortoise at the San Diego Zoo, that years later it had occurred to him the tortoise could have been more than a hundred and twenty, could have seen the Beagle at anchor, watched cow-eyed as Darwin approached over the rocky shore. The only way to have told how old it was would have been to kill it.

  The sunlight seemed to tighten his jacket across his shoulders. They rode across the hayfields and she could not stand the thought of leaving, or staying on without making a change that eluded her.

  He had gone with her mother once to lunch at a French restaurant in the east eighties. The graciousness of everyone there, that there were only four tables, and the thick linen napkin and the simple food pleased him. Her mother was very fond of him. His education, his teaching, his ingenuous inquisitiveness all undermined her fear that he was without ambition, that he might inherit a ranch in Montana and never leave it. She realized as she watched him, as he unraveled a story she was not listening to, that she loved him because there was nothing in him that awakened memories of her husband. Other men had done that. It was like the sound of mice running across a hardwood floor in the middle of the night.

  He looked up at the green glass and aluminum wall that rose sheer for two hundred feet above the words BANK OF JAPAN, fading sunlight rattling weakly on the aluminum, the green like a river, impenetrable as jade. His father was a breaker of horses, who had died of cancer from smoking, a kind of stupidity that made him sit suddenly erect and turn away from the building and look at the people again. He wished to touch their clothing with the tips of his fingers—burnished silk, coarse tweed, ribbed wool; burgundy, gray-brown, deep blue. Pass your hands over winter wheat heading up, lay them flat against the rough bark of an ash tree. The night his father had died he had broken his right hand punching a board in the dark barn where only baled hay should have been.

  He’d gotten lost like this before, he thought. The memory of his father was like a ground fog that would not quit him. He looked down the dimming avenue to the Helmsley Building, to the baroque announcement, the distant, resolute, autocratic hands: 6:15. He had told her six.

  They had gone to a party once, after a performance of Les Sylphides. He had met a man there, a choreographer who had studied with Balanchine, who wore half-glasses over which he stared as if in anticipation of directions. He asked the man, had he ever seen sandhill cranes dance? No, why would one? He tried to explain with hands and arms and head, a contained display, how it worked. The man asked, what other birds do this? “Grebes. I have a friend who is filming the mating of grebes, then he will choreograph the movement for friends, a company.” Remarkable. He could find no entry with him and wanted to get away quickly. He told him about fishing for cutthroat trout in the headwaters of the Yellowstone, and hated himself for having given grebes to the man.

  The hum and click of electric switches in a drab traffic box on the corner carried eerily over the sounds of cars, as if there were strata of sound, some of which had evaporated and left silence, and others that did not penetrate each other. He studied the land sloping away to the west toward the Hudson River, and to the south and it seemed relinquished, covered over with buildings. He wondered what creeks once slipped here, what pines had sighed on such fall evenings. He thought of lines from somewhere in the journals of Kosai, traveling among the Ainu, the very same colors of this image before him, severely muted greens, silver of moonlit water beneath white high clouds; but Kosai’s haiku was lost to him in a way he found frightening.

  Once, the same summer they were going to go to the Romanzof Mountains and camp in the ethereal light among nesting plovers and horned larks, watch caribou calve and rough-legged hawks hover in the wind, he had taken her to an island in the Sagebow River. The first night he had ever slept out alone had been on this island. That day she stood at the river’s edge with her arms folded across her bare chest looking down the river with a chin line hard enough for that country. She had tied a flicker’s feathers in her hair.

  The marble had lost its warmth. He stood up and aligned his boots carefully with the sidewalk’s hatching. Even in this city you could tell, he thought: frozen creeks, snow, gray mornings—strands of all that were in the wind. You would know putting your face into it, remembering as well as a harvest mouse, perhaps even salmon.

  One winter evening in New York he had had dinner with a classmate from Amherst, on 56th Street. When they emerged it was to find it had been snowing. They were dressed for it. They were full of food and wine and did not care to get away anywhere. They stood on the corner of 54th and Park and talked. The falling snow obliterated their footprints and left them standing in a field of white illuminated by a street lamp before the friend finally caught a cab uptown. He watched the cab until it was only red taillights. He did not want to hurry away. In the chilled air and falling snow was some universal forgiveness and he did not want to disturb it. He stepped slowly off the curb, headed south.

  Overhead, above the surface of the pool of light cast by the street lamps, the canyon of the wide avenue disappeared into darkness. He had walked only a few blocks when he realized that birds were falling. Great blue herons were descending slowly against the braking of their wings, their ebony legs extended to test the depth of the snow which lay in a garden that divided the avenue. He stood transfixed as the birds settled. They folded their wings and began to mill in the gently falling snow and the pale light. They had landed as if on a prairie, and if they made any sound he did not hear. One pushed its long bill into the white ground. After a moment they were all still. They gazed at the front of a hotel, where someone had just gone through a revolving door. A cab slowed in front of him—he shook his head, no, no, and it went on. One or two of the birds flared their wings to lay off the snow and a flapping suddenly erupted among them and they were in the air again. Fifteen or twenty, flying past with heavy, hushing beats, north up the avenue for two or three blocks before they broke through the plane of light and disappeared.

  He walked over to the hotel thinking he would call his friend, but didn’t. He walked almost six miles to the tip of the island, where falling snow was melting on the surface of the harbor.

  The stone beneath his feet was cold and dry. No birds this evening, he thought. He looked at the Helmsley clock: five minutes to seven. The young ginkgo trees spaced so evenly along the edge of the avenue seemed like prisoners to him, indentured ten thousand miles from China.

  When he saw her walking slowly with her mother and someone else, it was a little after seven. He wondered if he had said seven, if that’s what he had said.

  Buffalo

  IN JANUARY 1845, AFTER a week of cold but brilliantly clear weather, it began to snow in southern Wyoming. Snow accumulated on the flat in a dead calm to a depth of four feet in only a few days. The day following the storm was breezy and warm—chinook weather. A party of Cheyenne camped in a river bottom spent the day tramping the snow down, felling cottonwood trees for their horses, and securing game, in response to a dream by one of them, a thirty-year-old man called Blue Feather on the Side of His Head, that they would be trapped by a sudden freeze.

  That evening the temperature fell fifty degrees and an ice crust as rigid, as
easily broken, as sharp as window glass formed over the snow. The crust held for weeks.

  Access across the pane of ice to game and pasturage on the clear, wind-blown slopes of the adjacent Medicine Bow Mountains was impossible for both Indian hunters and a buffalo herd trapped nearby. The buffalo, exhausted from digging in the deep snow, went to their knees by the thousands, their legs slashed by the razor ice, glistening red in the bright sunlight. Their woolly carcasses lay scattered like black boulders over the blinding white of the prairie, connected by a thin crosshatching of bloody red trails.

  Winds moaned for days in the thick fur of the dead and dying buffalo, broken by the agonized bellows of the animals themselves. Coyotes would not draw near. The Cheyenne camped in the river bottom were terrified. As soon as they were able to move they departed. No Cheyenne ever camped there again.

  The following summer the storm and the death of the herd were depicted on a buffalo robe by one of the Cheyenne, a man called Raven on His Back. Above the scene, in the sky, he drew a white buffalo. The day they had left camp a man was supposed to have seen a small herd of buffalo, fewer than twenty, leaving the plains and lumbering up the Medicine Bow River into the mountains. He said they were all white, and each seemed to him larger than any bull he had ever seen. There is no record of this man’s name, but another Cheyenne in the party, a medicine man called Walks Toward the Two Rivers, carried the story of the surviving white buffalo to Crow and Teton Sioux in an effort to learn its meaning. In spite of the enmity among these tribes their leaders agreed that the incident was a common and disturbing augury. They gathered on the Box Elder River in southeastern Montana in the spring of 1846 to decipher its meaning. No one was able to plumb it, though many had fasted and bathed in preparation.

  Buffalo were never seen again on the Laramie Plains after 1845, in spite of the richness of the grasses there and the size of the buffalo herds nearby in those days. The belief that there were still buffalo in the Medicine Bow Mountains, however, survivors of the storm, persisted for years, long after the disappearance of buffalo (some 60 million animals) from Wyoming and neighboring territories by the 1880s.

  In the closing years of the nineteenth century, Arapaho and Shoshoni warriors who went into the Medicine Bow to dream say they did, indeed, see buffalo up there then. The animals lived among the barren rocks above timberline, far from any vegetation. They stood more than eight feet at the shoulder; their coats were white as winter ermine and their huge eyes were light blue. At the approach of men they would perch motionless on the granite boulders, like mountain goats. Since fogs are common in these high valleys in spring and summer it was impossible, they say, to tell how many buffalo there were.

  In May 1887 a Shoshoni called Long Otter came on two of these buffalo in the Snowy Range. As he watched they watched him. They began raising and lowering their hooves, started drumming softly on the rocks. They began singing a death song, way back in the throat like the sound of wind moaning in a canyon. The man, Long Otter, later lost his mind and was killed in a buckboard accident the following year. As far as I know this is the last report of living buffalo in the Medicine Bow.

  It is curious to me that in view of the value of the hides no white man ever tried to find and kill one of these buffalo. But that is the case. No detail of the terrible storm of that winter, or of the presence of a herd of enormous white buffalo in the Medicine Bow, has ever been found among the papers of whites who lived in the area or who might have passed through in the years following.

  It should be noted, however, by way of verification, that a geology student from Illinois called Fritiof Fryxell came upon two buffalo skeletons in the Snowy Range in the summer of 1925. Thinking these barren heights an extraordinary elevation at which to find buffalo, he carefully marked the location on a topographic map. He measured the largest of the skeletons, found the size staggering, and later wrote up the incident in the May 1926 issue of the Journal of Mammalogy.

  In 1955, a related incident came to light. In the fall of 1911, at the request of the Colorado Mountain Club, a party of Arapaho Indians were brought into the Rocky Mountains in the northern part of the state to relate to white residents the history of the area prior to 1859. The settlers were concerned that during the years when the white man was moving into the area, and the Indian was being extirpated, a conflict in historical records arose such that the white record was incomplete and possibly in error.

  The Arapaho were at first reluctant to speak; they made up stories of the sort they believed the whites would like to hear. But the interest and persistence of the white listeners made an impression upon them and they began to tell what had really happened.

  Among the incidents the Arapaho revealed was that in the winter of 1845 (when news of white settlers coming in covered wagons first reached them) there was a terrible storm. A herd of buffalo wintering in Brainard Valley (called then Bear in the Hole Valley) began singing a death song. At first it was barely audible, and it was believed the wind was making the sound until it got louder and more distinct. As the snow got deeper the buffalo left the valley and began to climb into the mountains. For four days they climbed, still singing the moaning death song, followed by Arapaho warriors, until they reached the top of the mountain. This was the highest place but it had no name. Now it is called Thatchtop Mountain.

  During the time the buffalo climbed they did not stop singing. They turned red all over; their eyes became smooth white. The singing became louder. It sounded like thunder that would not stop. Everyone who heard it, even people four or five days’ journey away, was terrified.

  At the top of the mountain the buffalo stopped singing. They stood motionless in the snow, the wind blowing clouds around them. The Arapaho men who had followed had not eaten for four days. One, wandering into the clouds with his hands outstretched and a rawhide string connecting him to the others, grabbed hold of one of the buffalo and killed it. The remaining buffalo disappeared into the clouds; the death song began again, very softly, and remained behind them. The wind was like the singing of the buffalo. When the clouds cleared the men went down the mountain.

  The white people at the 1911 meeting said they did not understand the purpose of telling such a story. The Arapaho said this was the first time the buffalo tried to show them how to climb out through the sky.

  The notes of this meeting in 1911 have been lost, but what happened there remained clear in the mind of the son of one of the Indians who was present. It was brought to my attention by accident one evening in the library of the university where I teach. I was reading an article on the introduction of fallow deer in Nebraska in the August 1955 issue of the Journal of Mammalogy when this man, who was apparently just walking by, stopped and, pointing at the opposite page, said, “This is not what this is about.” The article he indicated was called “An Altitudinal Record for Bison in Northern Colorado.” He spoke briefly of it, as if to himself, and then departed.

  Excited by this encounter I began to research the incident. I have been able to verify what I have written here. In view of the similarity between the events in the Medicine Bow and those in Colorado, I suspect that there were others in the winter of 1845 who began, as the Arapaho believe, trying to get away from what was coming, and that subsequent attention to this phenomenon is of some importance.

  I recently slept among weathered cottonwoods on the Laramie Plains in the vicinity of the Medicine Bow Mountains. I awoke in the morning to find my legs broken.

  The Orrery

  NORTH OF TUCSON AND east, beyond Steadman, is a place hardly accessible by car called The Fields. I do not know how it came by this name. I was told by someone, a lifelong resident, that the name grew up after an attempt to irrigate and sell some of the land had failed, that the reference was cynical. The person who tried to sell the land was from Chicago, he said. I think I was told this because I seemed to be traveling through.

  The valley is called Tifton on USGS maps. It is flat and dry, covered with creosote bush and
ocotillo. Along the washes are a few deep-rooted paloverde and mesquite trees and, very occasionally in a damp draw, there is a Frémont cottonwood. Tall saguaro cactus are thinly scattered. Closer to the ground are primrose and sand verbena. The brittle soil is a reddish-brown mixture of clays and dry, sedimentary debris. The effect, looking across the valley into the surrounding barren mountains, is bleak, foreboding. In spite of this, I remember the valley by the first name I heard, The Fields, and think of a field of alfalfa like ocean water with the wind rolling over it. Crawling through green, wind-blown alfalfa is one of the earliest memories of my childhood.

  I came here first in 1956 on a trip with my father, who was an amateur horticulturist. He was looking for a kind of cactus he had deduced from someone’s anthropological notes was growing here. (He found it and it was later named for him: Cephalocerus greystonii.) What I remember most from the first visit, however, was neither the dryness nor the cactus but the wind. When I was a child in California the Santa Ana winds that came west to us from this side of the mountains seemed to me exotic but aloof. The wind I found in this upper Sonoran country with my father was very different. It was intoxicating. The wind had a quality of wild refinement about it, like horses turning around suddenly in the air by your ear. Whether it blew steadily or in bursts its strength seemed so evenly to diminish as you turned your face to it, it was as though someone had exhaled through silk. I have never since felt so enticed or comforted by the simple movement of air.

  I returned to this valley in 1967 with a friend (whom I would bury the next year in Mexico when a road washed away from under us and left us rolling over crazily in a flash flood). The winds again held me in sway, seemingly alive, so much so that I felt contrite for not having visited in so long. Unable to sleep, I rose several times in the night to smoke a cigarette and, by turning my head slightly one way or the other, to listen. My friend only shrugged his shoulders as I explained, but he made no disparaging remark.