Chapter 1

 

 

A hundred and ninety-two miles west of Albuquerque, the wind kicked up. Fairly gentle at first, just a buffeting of pumice-like grit, better known as desert top soil. The white F-150, on loan from the Indian Health Service, was starting to turn pinkish tan, and fine sand was beginning to collect and crater beneath the windshield wipers. A Haboob—the scourge of every desert—a storm at once dangerous in intensity, but usually fleeting, was seldom forgotten.

It wasn’t Ben’s first sandstorm. He respected their strength—had felt their strength. He knew it was a force that could lower visibility to zero, unpredictably killing by luring disoriented drivers to leave the highway. Yet, dry as the wind was, he knew they resulted from thunderstorm formation when winds moved in a direction opposite to a storm’s trajectory. After precipitation begins to fall, the wind reverses and moves outward from the center of the storm but remains strongest following the direction the storm travels along a gravitational pull. Often precipitation doesn’t even reach the ground but dissipates, actually evaporating, becoming virga. Another of those Southwest phenomena that seeing is believing—at the center of its strength, there could be a wall of blowing sand several stories high.

The wind was picking up sharply. Ben slowed the truck. These sandstorms could carry winds of over sixty miles per hour. Sometimes up to the force of an F-1 tornado. Not the type of circumstance where you took safety for granted.

“Zac, we should reach a roadside rest area about a mile ahead just before we enter the Navajo reservation. I’m going to pull off there. I think we’d be safer if we rode out the storm away from the highway.”

“Probably, but it’s just ghost dust sent by Silla.” The eleven-year-old was looking out the back window of the cab as the billowing clouds of silt swept across the bed of the truck. “Aunty Uki said Silla sends a storm so we can get its power and stay strong. Everybody’s power comes from the wind.”

Ben nodded. There was so much he didn’t know about Alaskan Native beliefs—many that probably predated his own Pueblo ancestors’ teachings. Didn’t the Alaskan Natives proudly proclaim that they had been there since the world was formed? That they welcomed others who walked across the Bering Strait to join them? He owed it to the boy to find out about these beliefs. This trip had been all about introducing Zac to his Pueblo heritage in New Mexico. A late eleventh birthday present that would include fishing, maybe a hot-air balloon ride, and lots of New Mexican cuisine. All favorite things that Ben missed, but he was finding that he was learning a lot, too. Starting with getting used to the fact that the young man sitting beside him was his son.

August. It had been a crazy year so far—a shocking time. In February Indian Health Service had contracted him to the medical services in Moose Flats, Alaska, to start a clinic dealing with the opioid crisis raging across that state. A challenge in the best of times out on the tundra in a village sinking into the ocean, but couple that with finding out he had a son, a then ten-year-old by an old girlfriend, and his life had been turned upside down.

Now with his wife, Julie, in Hollywood, Florida, setting up their permanent home, and Ben in New Mexico treating Zac to this pre-back-to-school trip—suddenly, the world as he had known it, no longer existed. All because of a pandemic that no one was prepared for, but made new rules for living mandatory. Everyone was separated not just by distance but by a lock-down in place due to this world-wide spread of a virulent virus. No internal or external travel—not even across county lines—let alone state borders by car or any place by air. Only a special permit would get you beyond five miles of your home. Interstate truckers were exempt if they were hauling necessities, as were people who had to travel twenty miles or more within state boundaries for work or supplies. This part of the state was out in no-man’s land. You wouldn’t be stopped from going to a grocery store, or if you needed emergency medical or dental care, but socializing outside one’s immediate family—and they had to live under the same roof—was forbidden.

In the years that it had taken Ben to go from completing an internship in the Tewa Pueblo to a PhD in psychology, there had been two pandemics. The first claimed his last close relative, his grandmother. The Hantavirus—originating in a lab, perpetuated in the wild by a host, deer mice, crossed to human beings thanks to some contaminated pumpkin seeds. Deadly and threatening but relatively short-lived compared to the virus that the world was struggling with now. Once again, a host from the wild. This time bats were blamed with transferring the deadly disease to humans.

If there was anything good to come out of that time in Tewa a few years ago, it was meeting Julie Conlin, local TV reporter. Wild, curly, red hair, tight skirts above the knee, smarts and talent. And now Ms. Conlin was Mrs. Pecos. This current separation was a killer. He couldn’t stop worrying about her being in south Florida, the hotbed of the illness with no visitation in the foreseeable future. He couldn’t go there; she couldn’t come here. Stuck, that’s the way he felt.

He and Zac had landed in New Mexico one week ago. Time for a little fishing on the Jemez River, several days in the Tewa Pueblo and what was going to be a quick visit to the IHS hospital in Albuquerque. But once back in the city, Dr. Black, his old IHS boss, jumped at the chance to send Ben to the war zone, as he called it, and enlist his help that was so desperately needed.

The sprawling Navajo reservation was struggling. The huge expanse of land covered some twenty-seven thousand miles, touched three states, and included the Hopi reservation. Not all homes were clustered together. Most were spread out across this wide expanse of land—many hogans and modern mobile homes were without running water or sanitation. Almost all were far from the few, understaffed hospitals and clinics and dependent upon food and supply sources that had literally dried up. To say that help was needed was a grave understatement.

Ben would not have refused even if he could. All able hands—doctors, nurses, support staff—everyone who could be spared in IHS was being sent to the Navajo reservation. The major concern for Ben? He would have to take Zac. On the one hand, what a learning opportunity. On the other, the threat of the virus, the close proximity to life-threatening danger scared him. Becoming a parent had some real drawbacks and came with tremendous responsibility. Would an eleven-year-old be wary of danger that he couldn’t see? Always remember to wear a mask and gloves? Socially distance or simply stay sequestered if required?

But maybe he wasn’t giving Zac enough credit. And it wasn’t like the situation was permanent. At least he hoped not. Zac’s school started in two weeks in Bellingham, Washington. There were supplies to purchase, clothing, soccer practice—supposedly to be held on that city’s professional field. He knew Zac was really looking forward to that. Ben was probably worrying for nothing. Hopefully, he’d be able to send Zac back within the two-week timeframe. But who knew how long the lock-down would stay in effect? A virus wasn‘t necessarily predictable. Should he at least plan ahead, a just-in-case scenario? Was home schooling a possibility? A necessity? Ben had a fleeting image of how his life had changed forever. He was tired of hearing people talk about the ‘new normal’ when he couldn’t really accurately remember the ‘old normal’. He knew he had Julie’s support; he just didn’t have Julie with him.

“Dad, quick, look.” Zac had pivoted to point out the passenger’s side window which he was quickly lowering before leaning out. “What is it? A deer?”

“Antelope, a Pronghorn.” The roughly hundred and forty pound animal was running parallel to the truck—and keeping up. Ben glanced at the speedometer, sixty-two MPH. Not exactly a cheetah, but not shabby either. Ben eased off the gas and watched the animal match its stride to the truck’s motion. The Pronghorn was literally three feet from Zac and staring at him—running forward but with his head turned to lock eyes with the boy. The animal was known for its overly large, almost bulbous eyes with a three-hundred and twenty-degree field of vision.

“It’s like he knows me. Hey, Dude, I’m Zac.”

Ben further backed off the gas, but the antelope also slowed. The last thing Ben wanted was for it to try to cross the road in front of the truck. At least they had turned off I-40. There was little or no traffic on this artery that connected with the reservation. But what a bizarre encounter—a wild animal literally interacting with humans. It must be the storm. Under duress animals sometimes reacted differently than what would be considered normal. He knew Pronghorns weren’t jumpers; they were built for speed—lightweight bones, hollow hair shafts, and two-toed flexible hooves. To save the antelope from getting caught in fences, area ranchers would often remove the bottom foot or so of their fencing so that the animals could slip underneath without injury and not risk possible death by becoming entangled going over the top.

Zac was enthralled and couldn’t keep his eyes off of his new friend. Finally, Ben coasted to a stop alongside the antelope. Only then did the Pronghorn snort and paw at the ground before walking gingerly across the road in front of the truck, looking back once before immediately being swallowed up in the grit-filled haze.

“That was pretty neat. Do you think he’s somebody’s pet?”

“I wouldn’t think so but he did seem tame, didn’t he?”

“I wish he’d come back.” Zac stared out the windshield trying to catch a glimpse of the antelope. “It’s too dark; I can’t see anything.”

Zac was right. For three o’clock in the afternoon, it might as well be dusk. The sun was almost completely blocked by the storm, offering only a hazy, yellowish light like a flashlight whose batteries were going dead. Ben flipped on his lights, but the truck’s headlights were useless—high beams only bounced against the wall of dust, not penetrating it, and low beams had a radius of six feet. Ben put the truck in gear and started forward. They were close to the turn-off, the road that would put them on reservation land; he just didn’t know exactly how close.

He had barely accelerated when the rest area sign appeared and Ben braked to make the turn off of the highway. He pulled onto the side road with other signage that proclaimed they’d find restrooms and showers just ahead. Finally, he could relax a little. Pulling off the highway had been the best thing to do. He slowly followed two cars in front of him to a large, but almost full, parking area.

When the dust briefly lifted, he could see that it appeared the highway had been blocked. It was barricaded and guarded by Native police, armed and in uniform. About twenty pickups and cars were parked in a cluster just to the right of the restrooms, more cars and one eighteen-wheeler were closer to the road. What was odd was that no one seemed to be waiting in their cars. Then it dawned on Ben that this was some kind of protest. The storm must have interrupted a stand-off. But if he understood the new rules, this was a group of obviously more than ten people and wasn’t that against the recent mandate? And there wasn’t one mask in sight.

He hadn’t paid attention to the signs being carried by several people walking along the highway near the turnoff—four-by-four-foot square poster-board attached to wooden slats. In the rest area itself, several signs were propped up against cars, while some were held aloft. The one that gave a shout-out to Woody Guthrie, with a slight adjustment, by announcing “This Land Ain’t Your Land,” caught his attention. Whose side was the sign carrier on, Indian or Anglo? He kicked himself for not paying attention to the news. He’d been too busy to even turn a TV on. Speaking of which there were two news vans—one local and one sporting NBC signage. Whatever was happening must be big; big enough to vie for national attention.

At least the wind had died down. They would probably be ready to head out again in thirty-minutes or so. He’d use this time to sweep out the bed of the truck and make sure the tarp over their luggage and the supplies from the hospital was secure.

“Hey, Dad, I’m going to go to the restroom.”

“Okay, Zac. I hope we can get out of here in a half hour. Be careful. Come straight back to the truck when you’re through—I don’t like the look of that crowd. Promise me you won’t get any closer to them than you are now, and keep your mask on.”

“Yeah, Dad.”

Was that an eye-roll? How could an eleven-year-old master the withering look so early in life? But maybe Ben was being a little overly cautious and overly protective to Zac’s way of thinking. He needed to back off, not do so much overseeing when it probably wasn’t needed.

“Sorry, Zac, I don’t mean to preach; I just want to keep you safe.”

“It’s okay. What are they doing?”

“I don’t know. Protesting over something. I think I’ll try to find out though.”

Zac nodded, opened the truck’s door and slipped to the ground.