Wild Mystic

by Sandi Ault

  Yohe spoke to Deherrera in Tiwa, who nodded vigorously. Then she looked at me and repeated what she had said earlier, “That one, that the right place. Must be there before sun rise.”

  I found Rico’s message on my BLM phone and pressed the option to return the call. It rang and rang, but no one answered. I looked through my contacts and found the number for the BLM archaeologist, Prescott. I called him.

  His voice was thick with sleep and slow when he answered.

  “I need help locating that ruin just outside the Picuris rez,” I said. “And I need it fast.”

  I tried the number Rico had called from again, and this time, I got an answer on the fourth ring. Paul Deherrera sounded angry. “There better be a good reason for this,” he said, as a greeting.

  “There is,” I said, “I know it’s Quiet Time, and I know it’s after three in the morning, but your uncle is here at the ranger station, and—this is Jamaica Wild, by the way—and I…we…need your help.”

  Because of the order for radio silence, I tried to get ahold of Jerry Padilla but the call did not go through. The mine area was in a low area, no cell coverage. I tried phoning the county dispatcher to request that she try to hail him on the SAR channel which might work via the repeater on the canyon rim. “Deputy Padilla has requested radio silence for that scene,” she said. “I am not able to relay a message by radio at this time.”

  “But they are looking in the wrong place,” I argued. “They’re wasting precious time. They need to go farther back into the canyon, beyond the mines. They need to hike back in and they’ll need to climb from the bottom to a cliff ledge.”

  “Agent Wild, if you feel it is warranted, I can send another car to a second location.”

  “But you can’t send a car into that canyon! Anyway, that team is already in as far as the mines; they could get there much faster than if you sent someone else. They need to keep going deeper into the gorge on foot, and then they are going to have to climb. They are wasting time searching through all the mines!”

  “Agent Wild, all I can do is provide that information to Deputy Padilla when he breaks radio silence, or I can send additional personnel to a new location, if you are certain of one,” the dispatcher said.

  I got a similar response when I called Coronel to see if there were other FBI resources who could move on a new location: “I think we’d have to have real evidence that they are in this cliff ruin instead of the mine.”

  Prescott arrived, and he and I went to the map, where he pinpointed the location of the ruin. Not two minutes later, Paul Deherrera came in with young Rico hurrying behind him. While Paul spoke with Yohe and the elder Deherrera, Rico came over and looked at the map with us.

  “We’ve got to re-direct that search team,” I told Prescott. “If I could reach them on the radio, and I’m not even sure I could from here, I’d be breaking radio silence. And if it turned out that one or more of the suspects is in those caves at the mine, maybe as a lookout or whatever, that would ruin the element of surprise, and it could even be disastrous if the kidnappers took some sort of action in response.”

  “We could drive down to the command post and tell the sheriff,” Prescott said.

  I looked at the clock. “It’s almost four a.m. Even if we drove there and waited until the team had searched the mine area so we could redirect them, that would take time. And then we’d still have to get to the ruin and get someone either up or down the cliff face before the sun came up. And that’s if I can even persuade the team that I know they’re in the wrong place because a peyote chief saw a vision in a drug-induced trance.”

  “And there’s another problem,” Prescott said. “From what I know of it, that cave has an unrestricted view of the canyon, and it faces east. There’s no way to get in there without them seeing you coming after the sun comes up. Plus the team is going to need climbing gear. It’s going to be a logistics nightmare. I don’t see this happening fast.”

  Rico spoke up: “I can get you down into that cave at the ruin. You don’t have to climb up to it. You can go down with a rope. I’ve done it a couple times.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks for offering, my man, but I don’t want to put you in any danger. We think a couple of kidnappers are in there with two women.”

  “Is Auntie Adoria one of them?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then I want to go. I’m telling you, I can get in there without anyone seeing me.”

  Prescott and I looked at one another. The archaeologist said, “What do you mean, son?”

  “You go down to it from the top.” He pointed to the map. “From up here. And there are two entrances to the cave. The big one looks out onto the canyon, like you said.” He looked at Prescott. “You could probably stand up in that opening; it’s real tall and it’s also wide. But there is a small opening way in the back of the cave, just a little one. It comes in through a tiny tunnel that leads back into the mountain and comes out farther down the ledge. I don’t think you could get through it, you’re too big,” he said to Prescott. He turned to me, “But you might be able to.”

  Prescott said: “That makes sense! It’s probably an air shaft for ventilation for the ceremonial fires. Son, you said you’ve been in there. Show us how you get into the cave from that tunnel.”

  After we’d talked for a few minutes and Rico had done a crude drawing of the cave and its rear air-channel-entrance for us, I went to the break room and spoke to Paul Deherrera. “I know it’s Quiet Time, but we need to get people to the east side of the reservation along the canyon rim. And right through the village is the fastest way.”

  I also called Vicky over to the map and put her to work. “I need you to wake up the fire chief with the Peñasco Volunteer Fire Department. We’re going to need that Humvee that he drives, the one that’s tricked out with the big winch on the front. And tell him I need rappelling gear. I know they gotta have that stuff for rescues around here; every mountain fire department does. Tell him I need at least two harnesses, preferably three, a rescue litter if they have one, and plenty of rope and cord, belay devices, and folks to man the anchors at the top and belay people up and down. I’m going to call someone in contact with the FBI and tell them we’re going in here,” I pointed to the map, “and you note that location so you can relay it to dispatch and then to command when they come out of radio silence, which I expect they’ll do within an hour or so. In the meantime, we’re going to go to the scene, and if we don’t hear from the team, we’re going to try to make it down to that cave before daylight breaks. If you get any news, use the fire channels to get word to us, okay?”

  While the Deherrera men and Yohe were loading into Paul’s car, and Prescott was throwing every piece of gear he could find in the lockers at the ranger station into the back of his truck, I went to Mountain's bedside and knelt down a foot or so from him. I watched him breathe, and while no one was watching me, I took the pill bottle out again and emptied the tablets into my hand, found the remnant piece of the one I’d been partitioning into smaller doses, and stuck it in my mouth. Although it was against the rules to take personal photos with BLM-issued phones, I snapped a picture of the wolf in his near-death state, and sent it to Kerry’s phone with this message: I won’t be able to talk for a little while, but please try to get somewhere that I can call you in the morning. I need you.

  I turned my attention to the wolf once more, and I felt an agonizing aching sensation in my chest. I hated to leave him. For just an instant, I listened to the dogged drumbeat on the edge of my consciousness that had been chasing me for hours—the persistent chant of fear that whispered: he might die. If I left now, I might not be with him if he took leave of this life and left his pain and his broken body behind. “Oh, God,” I said with a soft gasp. “Please hold on, Buddy. Please hold on. I have to go. But I’ll be right back,” I knew he wasn’t aware of me, but I had to say it. “When you wake up, if I’m not here, just know that I will be right back. I love you, Mountain. I’ll be righ
t back.”

  43: La Cueva del Cuervo (The Cave of the Raven)

  A freezing wind swept over the rim of Picuris Canyon as José Salas, the chief of the Peñasco Volunteer Fire Department helped strap me into the climbing harness. Two supports encircling my thighs connected to the thick belt surrounding my waist that was fitted with knotted lengths of rope, nylon straps, extra carabiners, and figure eights. As Salas cinched the harness tight, I flinched with pain. He stopped what he was doing and looked at me. “You okay?”

  I exhaled hard—air that fogged into a cold cloud. “Yes, I got this. I’m just a little sore around my mid-section.”

  “Maybe someone else should go then,” Chief Salas said. He took a second safety line made of triple cords looped and heavily-knotted to an ascender pulley and hooked this to the rappel rope and then to the belt at my waist. “You’re going to need that part of your body to be strong. You have to lean back into that belt to rappel down the cliff, and if we have to lift you or if you fall, that’s where you’ll feel all the pressure.”

  “There’s only a small opening into the back of that cave. I don’t think anyone bigger than me could get through it; I’m about the thinnest person here. I wanted to rappel down instead of using the winch so I’d have control over the descent.”

  “I gotcha. Well, I’m the one who’s going to belay you, so let’s talk about how I’ll know when you want to go down or come up,” he said. “Usually if we can’t hear one another, we use hand signals. But we can’t see a thing in this darkness. So we’re going to have to rely on rope tugs. It’s not the best way to communicate, but it’s all we got since you want radio silence. So let’s talk one-two-three. One hard tug—give it a yank so I can tell you’re not just taking a big step down or something—that means on belay. That tells me to let you take whatever rope you need, and I’ll monitor it, keep it taut, but let you direct how the rope flows. Got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Echo, please.”

  “One good tug means on belay.”

  “Okay, two: Two tugs, one right after the other but with a second or two in between—again, so I know you aren’t just taking a big step and then a little one or whatever—two tugs means off belay. That tells me you’ve tied off to an anchor or reached the cliff ledge and aren’t needing me for your sole support. You signal off belay when you get to that cliff ledge and need to go into the cave. Now echo one and two.”

  “One good tug means on belay. Two tugs, with a second in between means off belay.”

  “Good,” José Salas said. “Now, three good, hard tugs—and this is important, you tug three times, a second between each one so I can tell they are three distinct tugs—that means give me more rope. You got that? Then I let the rope play and you’re in charge. Echo now: one, two, and three.”

  “One tug, on belay. Two tugs, off belay. Three tugs, give me rope.”

  “You got it.”

  “I also want a second harness ready in case I need to send someone up.”

  “Right. I’m going to have your buddy Prescott here man the winch. It’s hooked up to the spare harness, and you’re going to attach the spare harness to your belt and take it down with you, and he’s just going to let the line play until you stop. When you have someone strapped into the harness and you need it raised back up, you give it one hard tug, like on belay. He can test to make sure there’s weight on the winch, and then raise it up. If he tests, and there’s no weight, we’ll just presume the wind or something else caused the tug, so he won’t bring it up prematurely.”

  The fire chief grabbed a pulley attached to my belt and explained: “This here is an ascender pulley. I hooked it onto your safety, but it’s not foolproof. We use it to haul gear up, mostly light loads, that’s all we had. So just be aware that it’s there if you need it, but try not to depend on it to come back up. Wait and come up on the winch line if you can. Also, I been thinking about this: with you going down there in the dark, it’s going to be hard to see. Every time you come to a ledge, you’re going to wonder if you’re at the right one. So, you may need to flip your headlamp on just for a second and take a look. Since you’ll be to one side of the main opening of the cave, I don’t think there’s any way they can see you but it’s hard to tell how far a flash of light will travel. The moon set about a half-hour ago, so we got no moonlight at all. They might be able to make out a glimpse of light bouncing off the canyon walls without seeing it directly, and it could alert them. So if you need to use your light, make sure you direct your face into a recess, and don’t turn outward or to either side. That way, the light won’t bounce around.”

  I stood on the lip of the canyon while Salas briefed his small crew, including Prescott. As he spoke to them, I looked across the black robe of the night sky and saw the Milky Way as a wide highway of crystal-like stars, a glistening path that the Puebloan people called the Spirit Trail or the Ghost Road. Momma Anna had taught me that this ribbon of far-off lights was made up of the campfires of the spirits—who had left them burning to guide and comfort those of us ready to pass beyond the ridge.

  Prescott finished his quick briefing, and as I was turning around to begin backing down the face of the cliff, Rico ran up to me and said, “Grandfather told me to tell you this: “He saw you fly from the nest of the kòki’ína.”

  “What does kòki’ína mean?”

  “I’m not sure. He still talks sometimes in the old language.”

  I leaned back into the harness, out over the cliff face, as José Salas held my belay line taut. I gave one good tug and said softly, “On belay.” And then I began to walk backwards down the cliff face, the black embrace of night soon enveloping the small group above me until I could no longer see or hear them, and I was alone in the darkness with the vast, shadowy depths of the canyon below me, suspended beneath the Ghost Road by a thin rope.

  Rico had estimated that the cave ruin, which was built into a natural cavity in the canyon wall, was less than a hundred feet down. It was only approachable by either climbing or descending the face of the cliff—except for the ventilation tunnel leading onto a narrow ledge to the north—but one still had to climb or descend to that, and also be small enough to go through it. We had set up so that I would rappel to the northern limit of the ledge so that I could approach the back entrance to the cavern with stealth. I had descended about eighty feet or so when I came to a fat twisted juniper that had rooted itself atop a protruding slab of rock, its arms stunted and thick, its roots gnarled, misshapen, and enlarged by its constant quest for water in this unlikely and inhospitable crag where it had somehow survived. I had to lower myself beyond this out-jutting lip with minimal contact with the cliff face. I perched one boot on the very top rim of the overhang and then reached with the other leg as far down as I could and heard and felt something crunch beneath the toe of my lower boot as it found purchase on flat stone. I lowered myself toward the rock base under the overhang and found myself balancing on the edge of what felt like a massive thicket. I reached up and flicked on my headlamp for just an instant so that I could see into the recess, and I quickly took in the beauty of an intricate construction. Sticks as much as three feet long and up to an inch thick had been interlaced carefully into a foundation at least five feet across and perhaps two feet high. Within it, smaller branches entwined to create an immense basket, and within this, there was yet another layer—a delicately woven inner lining made of fine twigs, pine needles, bits of fur, and even bones. Though the overhang created a ceiling no more than a few feet high above it, the nest-structure itself was so large that if I got on my knees, I could have crawled into it and had room to curl up in its center. It might have been an eagle’s nest, or even a large hawk’s. But the telltale signs that it belonged to one particular species of bird came from the décor, and these had sparkled back at me when I toggled the light quickly on and off. The female winged-one who had finished this dwelling had not only possessed a natural talent for engineering, but also an eye for beauty. She ha
d decorated it with hundreds of bits of sparkling mica; and collecting shiny things was the purvey of this particular flier and its smaller relative who lived in the east. This was the home of a raven.

  I pushed away from the mantle with the nest and continued to rappel down the cliff face. Within a few minutes, I reached another out-jutting section of flat stone. I rested both boots on the floor of this ledge and quickly toggled my headlamp. This was it. A narrow rim of rock made a path that widened as it went southward along the face of the canyon wall. Miraculously, another juniper had taken root and flourished here where the stone lip caught rain runoff and the morning sun warmed the backing wall. I looked for a place to tie off and chose a sturdy branch of the tree. I gave two tugs, waiting a second in between them. Off belay. I hooked my carabiner around the branch and two lifelines extended upward from it into the dark—one was the rope that I had used to lower myself down, and the other, the line from the winch with the spare climbing harness attached. I unscrewed the carabiner on the safety line, removed it from the rappel rope, and hooked the knotted line to my belt to take with me in case I needed it to secure myself to something or get around an obstacle on the ledge. But I removed every other piece of dangling gear from my harness. I didn’t want to make a sound when I made my way into the cave, and besides, all that stuff added extra girth at my waist. When Rico had said the tunnel was small and that I might be able to make it through it, he probably wasn’t considering that I would be wearing a big cumbersome belt with tons of stuff attached.

  I felt my way down the widening shelf until it dead-ended at a round shoulder of rock. The night was so dark that I did not see the opening Rico had told me about. I stared for a minute or so, then ran my hands down the wall of stone in front of me until I felt an inlet near the base, against the edge of the canyon wall, and I stooped to run my fingers around the edges. This was the tunnel that led into the cave, and as the young man had said, it was, indeed, small and narrow. I lowered myself into a prone position and began to maneuver my way into the slot, belly-scooting with my arms doubled tightly on either side and my boots toe-walking behind me, inching forward little by little. My mid-section ached from the bruises, and my shins seared with pain from rubbing against the stone floor of this tiny tunnel. As soon as I had most of my body in the chute, I could feel warmth ahead of me and see light, but my belt harness snagged on the stone wall. I tried repeatedly to free myself. Using all the pressure my feet and hands together could create, I still couldn’t move forward. I wiggled backward an inch or two, but the harness remained snared. I began to panic, feeling like there was almost no room for my lungs to expand when I breathed. Then I thought to twist onto my left side, and when I did, I felt the belt lift off its catch, and I was able to edge forward on my side, giving relief to my abdomen and the front of my legs. But I could not maneuver enough in this position, so again, I had to roll onto my tortured tummy so that I could use my feet and hands to push and pull. As I wormed forward, I smelled wood smoke, and just as I felt fresh, cold air enter my nostrils, I heard distant voices.