Mohave Runner

Colorado River

June 1809

It was Ahwemesteva’s tribal custom

for men from the Great River villages

to visit and trade with tribes to the south

and west by the sea. He was named after a

man who could travel fast in the upworld

and underground at will, like the River

of Spirits ¹ that raced deep but stayed mostly

dry on its surface from the edge of the

southern desert many miles to the north.

His namesake was also a strong warrior

and storyteller, famous far and wide

for his many adventures on The Run.

Lean, 6 feet tall, heavily tattooed, long

hair braided in ropes and daubed with river

mud, a small ornament hung from his nose,

pierced in the manner of all great runners.

Nearly 30 now, he had taken this

trip alone for many years. He found it

different each time. The route remained the

same for the most part, given good weather.

But the scenery changed with the seasons

and the fickle nature of desert rains.

A wet year would always bring good hunting,

especially for rabbits, support the

runner might need if he wished to explore

side trails or measure up to delays caused

by chance meetings with enemies or a

sudden change of weather. Rain could also

cause flash floods and angry ghosts to rise up

through the sand and mud as the River of

Spirits swelled into view, tainting the good

luck needed by favoring soul sucking

shadows of death at every turn. None

of this dissuaded Ahwemesteva.

He was inspired, eager to fulfill

his destiny exploring on The Run.

Slung over his shoulder on rabbitskin

ropes he had for trading on this trip a

small bundle of turquoise stones, red ochre,

Jimson weed, cactus hearts, obsidian

flakes, a gourd full of corn and pumpkin seeds,

and a passel of dried meat for his own

sustenance. He would only need two gourds

of water because the waterholes were

seldom more than 35 miles apart,

a distance he could cover in one long

day if he pushed his pace and had good luck.

Three wavy red and black stripes ran from his

forehead to his chin. An amulet with

two eagle feathers hung around his neck.

His only material weapons were

a long bow, arrows, and an antler bone

knife fastened to the side of his breechclout.

Sandals tied tightly for fast travel, he

climbed the sandy path from the river to

the top of the first set of rugged rock

mountains, heading south. Pausing for a breath,

he turned around and spread his fingers in

the rising heat of the updraft that swept

over miles and miles of the Great River,

snaking its way through the green flood plains

and open desert below. He could see

his whole village, tiny stick figures on

the banks and in the cornfields, little

black ants, busy mining veins of sunshine.

He picked up the trail at a trot. It was

uneven but worn clear by bighorn sheep,

deer, coyotes, and other Mohaves.

Eventually it turned southeast to

two usually dry lakes, the end of

the River of Spirits, rocks too hot for

bare feet at midday, and on through thickets

of prickly pear and cholla cactus.

Death was a vulture in these heavily

spined patches, waiting patiently on the

shady underside of needles and thorns

for an accident, perhaps a spirit

driven ambush of bloody punctures that

caused a runner to fall. Keeping a keen

eye, singing protection and healing songs,

and touching an amulet along the

way were all a traveler could do to

navigate this stretch safely and quickly.

Chanting while he ran and sweating hard now

from the day’s high pace, Ahwemesteva

headed downhill through manzanita and

juniper scrub, slowing to a walk through

the cactus thickets, which he passed without

incident, and, with some relief, picking

up the flat path that cut through a rise on

the next set of hills, leveling out on

the creosote fans, gentle slopes and sand

dunes uniformed for miles and miles with plants

older than time itself—aprons spread out

on the crumbling banks and dry washes of

the riverbed and the winding south trail.

The River of Spirits rose like a wet

magnet into the upworld of a rock

canyon shortly thereafter, a narrow

stretch of fresh water, reeds, grasses, and trees

whose mahogany walls were covered with

signs and symbols scratched through the patina

by travelers for thousands of years. The

magic here was profound. It was truly a holy

place, full of spirits, human, and otherwise.

Ahwemesteva would get there late that

night if he did not stop, if the moon held

out, and nothing dangerous tripped him up.

Travelers never camped near the springs for

fear of attacks by enemies. But this

waterhole was widely known for steady

flow and had frequent visitors from all

directions. Ahwemesteva needed

both stealth in his approach and an escape

plan in order to drink safely and fill

his gourds before moving on for the night.

A man who was probably a Southern

Paiute was stooped down filling a gourd when

Ahwemesteva arrived. Peering through

the bluish moonlight from behind a large

boulder, he could see the man’s bow on the

ground and he watched as the man looked around

nervously and began to wash something

dark and hairy and strung up on a line.

Ahwemesteva thought it was an otter

or beaver skin but could see plainly when

the man stood up and waved it in the air

to dry it off that it was a string of

Apache style scalps, stripped from the forehead

and peeled straight back—the kind the Whites

paid a bounty for. The Mohave and some

other groups in the region took whole scalps,

usually as part of their warfare

or vengeance rituals. Why this man had

so many stripped scalps and felt the need to

wash them was unclear. Perhaps he wanted

to sell or trade them and they began to

stink during the warm days of his journey.

Ahwemesteva remained hidden, not

wanting to risk a confrontation to

solve a simple mystery. It was too

late anyway. The man picked up his bow,

gourd, and scalps and disappeared to the east

on a path to another rock canyon.

Ahwemesteva waited a few minutes

to be sure the other man was gone and no

new visitors were on their way. Creeping

forward under the waning moon, he cleared

some water scum and moss with a sweep of

his hand, drank heavily, filled his gourds, and

quickly returned to the long southern trail.

Half an hour later he found a spot

behind a mesquite tree, ate some of his

seeds and dried meat, cleared some debris in

the sand, and lay down facing east so the

breaking rays of sunlight would wake him in

case he slept through an earlier prospect.

Scorpion appeared in his dream, climbed up

next to him to talk about desert rain

falling two suns walk south. Slithering Toad

was there pointing to Jimson leaves taken

only from the west side of the plant, east

being always poisonous. Raven, perched

high on a rock, his wings flapping, whistled

songs of the western trail and its landmarks.

The slight change in temperature as night

erased into dawn got the runner up

and going in short order. Keep the pace,

he sang to himself, as the trail snaked

through small hills and then down to the desert

floor and the once again dry riverbed.

Stopping only for sips of water and

removing thorns from his sandals and feet,

he talked to his leg cramps and the fire in

his lungs that increased with the distance and

the heat of the day. He slowed down through the

warmest hours, replaying events in

old dream songs to keep his mind off the pain.

He did not tarry long the following

night either, chasing the She-Moon down its

ladder of rays into black silhouettes

turned blue-grey by the dawn and curly brown

by heatwaves searing the noon horizon.

Three more days of hard running, fast walking,

and short nights passed without incident. He

left the River of Sprits, cut through a

pass between piney peaks, and descended

into a valley of mixed desert scrub,

wild grasses, palo verde, mesquite trees,

ironwood, and some cottonwoods but still

no abundance of water. The salty

smell of the sea in the air got stronger

as he carried the day to the southwest.

Late in the afternoon of the twelfth day,

he climbed a grassy dune and spotted the

village not more than a quarter mile away.

Waving his hand high, he started singing

loudly to announce his arrival and

the friendly purposes of his visit.

Triumph and joy filtered through his being.

He was tired and thirsty but anxious to

palaver with his old friends sidled up

to the Great Sea painted by sun, moon, and

wind, like the people who dwelled on its shores.

A mob of women and children rushed out

to meet him, shouting and singing songs

of their own, touching his arms, exclaiming

their pleasure over seeing him and their

hunger for a view of his inland gifts.

They stood together just outside of the

village entrance while Ahwemesteva

called to the senior men, complimenting

their great magic powers, their bravery,

the richness of their resources, and the

storied beauty and strength of their people.

An old man answered him with the greetings

of his ancestors, inviting the man

on their margins to enter, share bounty

and pool resources, including goods, songs,

and news of the latest long travellings.

Ahwemesteva nodded and stood tall

while four married women led him to a

shelter with a bed made of woven sea

grass. They gave him a jar of fresh water,

a bowl of dried fish, cactus fruit, berries,

and piñon nuts they gathered from the high

country, and then left him alone to rest.

He slept peacefully. No dreams. At sunrise

two young women, giggling and tickling him,

urged him to bathe in the sea with them. He

stumbled along into the surf. Bobbing

and rolling each other through the swells, the

younger girl pressed her breasts against his back

while the other held him from the front. Hands

finding warm, legs tangled, they were careful

to keep their rising desires out of

the view of people on the beach, knowing

they could slip away later to the high

scrub or the cover of night and house thatch.

For their part, the villagers knew about

these encounters, giving lovers wide berth

in their spaces and gazes to avoid

conflicts of interests in local clans.

Ahwemesteva turned to both women

that night and for several nights thereafter.

Out of the surf, and gorged with a meal of

raw fish, clams, and seeds, he walked around the

village, making small talk in the blended

vocabulary of their shared language.

Dogs and children tailed him every step

of the way until they crossed the path of

a warrior or elder, in which case they

scattered like frightened rabbits, only to

queue up again on the visitor’s heels

when the coast was clear and the walk resumed.

That afternoon he joined a group of young

men in mirthful rounds of hoop-and-pole and

guessing games. They played without rancor but,

fearing agitations that neither the

hosts nor their guest wanted to provoke, they

quit when one man consistently lost his

bets on the outcomes. The energetic

horseplay that followed in the surf ran the

same risks but all of the day’s tensions were

easily smoothed out in conversation.

Rounding itself down to the underworld,

the sun blanketed the western sky with

red and yellow streaks. The visitor was

called to the campfire and the cook pots on

the high side of the beach for a night of

eating, dancing, speeches, gifts, and stories.

He sat circled with the elders, warriors,

and shamans, themselves circled up by the

remaining villagers. When they finished

eating, two old shamans with goose feathers

in their hair, and white stripes painted down

their faces and chests, started chanting in

low tones and softly shaking their rattles.

They continued as the elders thanked the

Mohave man for his presence and gifts,

each in turn giving him something—a song

about the beautiful women and the

brave men in his tribe, a magic arrow,

a buckskin pouch, a clay pipe, and a list

of things he would get on the day he left,

including more abalone shell hooks,

shell necklaces, berries, and sun dried fish.

The shamans stopped chanting and the elders sat

as Ahwemesteva rose to his feet, smiled

and said how proud he would be to take these

things home with him from the Edge of the World.

One old man with a long scar running across

his eye and down the opposite cheek, maybe

from a knife cut, asked about the runner’s

journey, his notice of other tribes on

the way, and news of recent events at

villages up and down the Great River.

Still standing, eyes flashing with the waving

firelight, Ahwemesteva raked his

fingers gently through the air, making sharp

head turns like mountain lions on alert

while telling the story of how he saw

and avoided but could easily have

attacked the stranger drinking and rinsing

scalps at the River of Spirits canyon.

Turning slowly, he crouched down and shouted

“The lion chose to rest!” Everyone laughed.

He said that shamans from his village knew

how to speak with all desert creatures through

magic songs and dances. He sang one for

Spider, Yellow Ant, and the Ringtail Cat,

dancing and gesturing his way through each.

He picked up a rattle and used it to

punctuate a song about Snake and the

Dreaming Deer, and another about Hawk

that his father had learned from a Yuman.

No one stirred, listening intently as

well when he told the story of a raid

his warriors, including two women, once

made on the Maricopas, killing and

scalping many men and taking four slaves,

all of them young girls. He described the dot

cluster tattoos marking their slave status,

how they were always treated with respect,

and how they sometimes became child bearers

with corn and melon gardens of their own.

When he sat down, the audience filtered

away, happy in their admiration

for the talented visitor and strong

in their belief that he too would become

a great and renowned shaman in his time.

Ahwemesteva left three weeks later,

laden with the promised gifts. The journey

would be tiring again but he was strong

and rested—comforted by the fact that

he had touched and been touched by the sea

people once more, that his new salt magic

would help him avoid hazards of body

and spirit, and that his own village would

again fill with new Edge of the World tales.

And so the story was told

—On The Run.