Indians of the Mesa Verde

by Don Watson

At last the day comes. By noon the sky is filled with heavy clouds. Shortly afternoon there is a sudden roar of wind. Cannonading crashes of thunder echo constantly through the canyons and searing tongues of lightning flick the treetops. Suddenly, all is still. Not a leaf stirs; the world is breathless. The storm draws back its arm for one quiet moment, then mercilessly lashes the earth with floods of rain. Wind, thunder and lightning resume and for a noisy hour the mesas bow their heads under the wrath of the elements.

A roaring waterfall shoots out over the front of Cliff Palace cave and from the bottom of the canyon comes the roar of a rushing stream. The people are silent as they watch the storm from their sheltered housetops. There is joy in their hearts, for the rain ends all worries, but there is an ominous note in the terrible fury of the storm. The male rains of summer are often like this. They make a great show of noise and power, far different from the gentle female rains of spring.

In an hour the storm ends as suddenly as it began. The rain stops, the clouds break up and the sun beams down on a dripping world.

Immediately the men are off to the fields to see if the crops have suffered. The drenched watchers, whose brush shelters were poor protection against the storm, assure them that little damage has been done. Some of the corn is down but it will straighten up. The only real loss is that a few terraces have washed out but that is not serious for the terrace crops are important only in dry years when the mesa-top fields fail.

There is great rejoicing in Cliff Palace. The harvests are assured for now that the rains have started they will continue. Every few days for the rest of the summer there will be a rain, sometimes heavy, sometimes light. The danger of water shortage is definitely ended. All of the pools are full of fresh water and the springs will soon flow with renewed vigor as the rain water reaches them. There is water in abundance and the people no longer need to use it so sparingly.

With the arrival of the rains the heat is broken. The days are cooler now and large, fluffy clouds float about the sky, sending their cool shadows racing across the earth. The nights are sometimes so cool that a feather blanket is necessary for comfort.

As July turns into August the people are happy and contented. All goes well; there are no threats to their security. The fields are bursting with growth and the springs are flowing freely. Those are the two important things in their lives. There is no press of work at this time of the year and life is easy. The men watch the fields and work leisurely at their various crafts. The women still gather plants for food and now that there is an abundance of water they make a little pottery and repair their houses.

As always, the children are restless and active. They imitate their elders, doing everything in miniature; miniature farms, miniature bows and arrows, miniature houses and miniature pottery. Sometimes they capture young animals; birds, chipmunks, squirrels or rabbits and while away the hours in more or less unsuccessful efforts to tame them. They are never without their dogs and as they play about the canyons they keep watchful eyes on their flocks of turkeys lest they stray too far and fall prey to coyotes and foxes.

Life is full of joy for these children. Day after day they do nothing but play Indian!

During the summer there is only one threat to the happiness and security of the people. Only by terrific effort are the medicine men able to avert a calamity that would wipe out the entire population. One afternoon a terrified scream comes from the small cliff dwelling across the canyon and a man is seen dancing about on the cliff, waving his arms and pointing frantically toward the sun.