Puye

There is a cliff in New Mexico that stands as an icon in my life. That part of the state is all ups and downs. Cliffs rise to mesa tops, like pushed-up stacks of sand in a child's sandbox. Flat land falls abruptly into arroyos and washes. The vegetation is tough, surviving extremes in weather that match the extreme landscape. For someone used to fields, streams edged in trees, green vistas, it would be unappealing. But there is beauty. And there are people who fit into that landscape. Tough, beautiful people.

This cliff, at the time I first visited it, was on Native American land. You paid your fee and got permission to drive to the top. There were ruins there to explore. Ruins are as much a part of the landscape in New Mexico as the cliffs and arroyos. These had not been rebuilt, then, and were pretty much mere suggestions of a town situated in the past, atop the mesa. We all walked around the site, marveling at the way the walls and doorways transported you in time. You could feel the ancient community bustling around you, smell the woodsmoke, hear the children. While the others stayed there chatting, threatening to pull out the picnic foods, I wandered to the edge of the cliff.

To take this trip with me you must know that I am not a close friend of heights. By "heights" I do not mean only carnival rides and mountain sides. "Too high" can just as easily be a step stool under a light fixture that needs a bulb replaced. So why was I drawn to that edge? At first I saw only the beautiful, enormous stretch of the land around the cliff. On a clear day you can see forever. Then, inevitably, my eye insisted on checking the foot of the mesa. Bad decision. I reeled back, and for the umpteenth time in my life repeated the mantra, "Just don't look down."

They call this a "fear" of heights. I disagree. Fear has locked my muscles into unresponsive iron on top of a roof. It has caused me to resemble that splayed, claw-anchored cat, fur bristling emotion in all directions. Fear follows the real reason for the problem, I believe. The basic reaction, the one that sets off the fear, is intense attraction---a near hypnotic tug to step out there into nothing and join the eagles and hawks. That would hardly seem to be the cause when replacing a light bulb requires hand-holds all the way up the two feet of altitude. But self-preservation remembers the last time it had to deal with you above the earth, and uses its preventive weapon early, before the glamor becomes too strong to counteract.

Scooting inelegantly forward on my backside, leaning sideways so most of me was in contact with hard, real dirt, I saw an older town descending the cliff side. The remains of steps beckoned, small balconies---all that was left of rooms now open to the sun---lured. As in the village above, the ghosts of long-gone inhabitants offered a glimpse into a different, older life. Even with my handicap, I could not resist. I'm sure the ancient ones never traversed the cliff-face with the lack of grace and lizard-grip of my descent, but I'm equally sure they were there urging me onward. I never felt I was violating their privacy. I felt invited. No live person could have coaxed me to explore their home, hanging like that lizard from hand-holds conveniently offered in the stone, placing my feet on perfectly space steps, walking just-wide-enough paths.

It was undoubtedly fool-hardy. It was exhilarating. I sat for a long time in a crumbled doorway, soaking in some contentment I have no name for. I felt part of me belonged there. I was home. I longed to stay forever.

In the end, the ancestors let me go. And I faced the thought that I must climb back to the top without the spell that helped me down. Remembering that roof paralysis, I reflected on the idiocy of my adventure. Friends above did not know I'd come here, and it was doubtful they would hear me call to them. It was up to me to get myself out, and surprisingly, I did. The climb was not terrifying, no more difficult than the descent. Only that moment of decision and indecision was frightening. Once more, aided by my hosts, I followed in their steps to the top.

My friends had not even noticed my long absence, aside from assuming I was off alone, looking around---they knew me very well. I led them over to see my discovery, as we all munched sandwiches and laughed. They apparently were not invited as I'd been, because their only response was a mild interest, and a clinical discussion of cliff-dwelling. Just as well, I didn't really want to share my cliff.

I had been transported. I can see every inch in my mind's-eye, to this day. I don't want to go back. It would never be the same, with the commercialization and rebuilding I'm sure has occurred. But I do go back, whenever I desire. I crossed a boundary that day. It didn't miraculously cure me of vertigo. But what I took away from that experience cured some unrecognized illness, made me more complete---and gave me a home to carry with me through all the years between.