Walking the Modoc Trail

I walk the uneven ground, through the ropey rock of the lava beds.

The dry air, spicy with purple mountain sage. The only sounds I hear—

the clicking of locusts and the light rattle of a western diamondback rattlesnake.

The earth drops abruptly, 

the path sliding between broken lava tubes, 

and boulders casually tossed from the Medicine Shield volcano.

Carefully I descend to the bottom, sliding on my butt when needed, 

grasping basaltic rock to break a fall.  

The trail through these badlands is not an easy journey.

 It dead-ends in small caves blocked by rock.  

I imagine the women and children huddled in the caves,

quiet amid the rattle of the infantry hauling a howitzer in the fog.

Meanwhile the sweat makes my glasses slide down my face, 

dripping in my eyes.  Uncomfortable, prickly, dry, high-desert heat.

For one mile I follow the Modoc path,

clambering over rocks and dodging dead ends.

My ankles ache. My back kinks and spasms. 

I can’t even imagine spending 5 months  playing hide and go seek

in this desolate land. But they did—all 160.

I grab my water bottle, gulping the lukewarm water,

wondering how they could sneak out at night for water and not get caught.

I place my hand against the burnt rock, rough and gnarly. 

History sears my mind; the past pulsing against my skin.

Overhead, the one lone turkey vulture wavering his wings in the desert thermals, 

scouting for the dead. I shiver at the thought of scouting for the dead long gone.

I trudge out of the lava ruts, fine dust making me cough, 

the air silent against my passage. 

At the top I can see the wall of tuff guarding their sky and history.

At the car, hand on the hot metal, I look back once more.  

Heat waves shimmering, taking lonely shapes, then dissipating.

I welcome the cool of the car’s air conditioner, 

the long drink of cold water from the cooler,

and contemplate the trip home trying not to think of Kintapuash

and his people, bound by their love for this desolate land.