(LYRIC MEMOIR)
FOOTHILLS
CHARLES HADDOX
FOOTHILLS
CHARLES HADDOX
Piet died three days after a car struck his bicycle. I heard the sirens of emergency vehicles as they echoed through the neighborhood; it was a cold, overcast evening.
The trail begins to rise, and we are in a new life zone: the foothills of remote intrusive spires, a series of gentle slopes covered by smooth, white stones laid out like endless ritual signs, tiny rolls of bread, sand eggs metamorphosed to glistening quartzite. Little by little, small, stunted junipers and a few gnarled pinyons—their cones long-ago looted of seeds by ground squirrels and mice—join prickly pear and other cacti, sotol, low-slung mesquite, and severe tufts of silver-green bursage that have crept up from the basin below. If you’ve ever walked the flat summits of hills like these, you’ll soon find that they were the preferred campsites of ancient hunters because they were dry and safe and the perfect vantage point from which to spot game on the flatlands below. Every prominence in this country where the low desert meets the high desert is littered with flakes of flint and chert and agate and obsidian left during centuries of improvised toolmaking, as well as the occasional broken projectile point or flake knife, or tiny thumbnail scraper (I once saw a caramel-and-gold Scottsbluff point lying amid the pale stones on one of these hills). Here and there are the inconspicuous remains of a prehistoric fire pit, usually just a few half-buried, charred limestone rocks. You may even run across a small midden containing burnt seeds, vegetable fibers, and a few random animal teeth and bone fragments; a midden uncovered by runoff and the work of anxious burrowing insects.
Piet loved this place, a place without steel, the fires gone cold. He would be happy to know that we are spreading his ashes here, on the foothills.
The trail begins to rise, and we are in a new life zone: the foothills of remote intrusive spires, a series of gentle slopes covered by smooth, white stones laid out like endless ritual signs, tiny rolls of bread, sand eggs metamorphosed to glistening quartzite. Little by little, small, stunted junipers and a few gnarled pinyons—their cones long-ago looted of seeds by ground squirrels and mice—join prickly pear and other cacti, sotol, low-slung mesquite, and severe tufts of silver-green bursage that have crept up from the basin below. If you’ve ever walked the flat summits of hills like these, you’ll soon find that they were the preferred campsites of ancient hunters because they were dry and safe and the perfect vantage point from which to spot game on the flatlands below. Every prominence in this country where the low desert meets the high desert is littered with flakes of flint and chert and agate and obsidian left during centuries of improvised toolmaking, as well as the occasional broken projectile point or flake knife, or tiny thumbnail scraper (I once saw a caramel-and-gold Scottsbluff point lying amid the pale stones on one of these hills). Here and there are the inconspicuous remains of a prehistoric fire pit, usually just a few half-buried, charred limestone rocks. You may even run across a small midden containing burnt seeds, vegetable fibers, and a few random animal teeth and bone fragments; a midden uncovered by runoff and the work of anxious burrowing insects.
Piet loved this place, a place without steel, the fires gone cold. He would be happy to know that we are spreading his ashes here, on the foothills.
Charlie said this about his work: "I find myself drawn these days to write about my experiences of wilderness, especially it’s ability to heal our weary souls, to bring us in touch with the quiet and emptiness that the Desert Fathers (and Mothers) sought in order to experience the presence of God. The awareness of life’s tenuousness that always accompanies the death of a loved one calls us to look for consolation, but also for assurances of an existence that is greater than our tiny individual span of hours. Nature reminds us that all creation is bound to the limitations of time and space, but is also constantly being renewed, which can be a symbol not just of the temporal cycle of life but of resurrection as well."
Charles Haddox lives in El Paso, Texas, on the U.S.-Mexico border, and has family roots in both countries. His work has appeared in over forty journals including Chicago Quarterly Review, The Sierra Nevada Review, Folio, and The Mayo Review.