The
Navajo Country
imprinted me a long time ago. In 1939, without knowing that we
were violating something sacred, three friends and I made the
first ascent of Shiprock. It took months of planning and four
days of climbing, none more enjoyable than the third day. As
it ended we bivouacked not far below the summit and looked out
over the desert as the shadow of the peak reached east and died,
to let campfires twinkle under the stars -- scores of campfires,
scattered over the arid vastness we had thought empty. I found
myself feeling an empathy I had never felt before. Who was around
that fire, the other fires, the farthest one? What had the winds
told them that day, the vast sky, the sacred mountains? What
tradition, being understood and enjoyed around each fire, had
kept these people so well in touch with their land for so long?
David Brower
