The Sound of Wukoki
(Posted 15 January)
The snowstorm made its way to Flagstaff shortly after noon. With a broad smile, I welcomed the first snowflakes as they floated out of the darkening sky, six-pointed scouts and pioneers.
I looked forward to a subdued afternoon and evening as the weather settled over the Colorado Plateau. The storm would come and then go; by morning I would have what I longed to enjoy - the dance of morning sunlight, twinkling on new fallen snow.
Awakening to the sound of a snowplow in the parking lot and snow shovels on sidewalks outside my motel, I would dress for a brisk walk in the early morning sun. I would find slushy tracks in the motel's hallways and hear the sound of feet stamping excess snow in the lobby.
Even before that, I would hear the sounds of train whistles and imagine long lines of freight cars slowly climbing the plateau from the west, straining against the snowy night.
But first, I would have to silence the plunks, pops, and whistles of the video game in the adjacent room.
It was not the first winter weekend I had spent with my son in this place and it would not be my last. Happily, winter weekends in Flagstaff had become an annual tradition for father and son. Unhappily, for me, the tradition seemed to include a full workout on the video games provided in one of the suite's two rooms.
I had something else in mind. I switched on the other television briefly and tuned to the radar image of the region. Seeing what I wanted to see - a precipitation shadow on the leeward side of the San Francisco Mountains - I switched the television off again.
"Here," I said, handing Tristan his coat. "We're going for a drive."
I had nicknamed him "the gripester" on the previous year's visit. That afternoon he renewed the claim on his moniker. But - with effort and patience - I got him away from the television and into the car.
Fearing that I might have forgotten how to drive in snow, I made our passage eastward with caution. Then north, then east again. In time, we lost altitude and escaped the imminent threat of snow-slick roads. We traversed the zone of pinyon and pine and continued down onto the grass and scrub covered slopes of the Little Colorado River valley. The short road leading to Wukoki ruin, in Wupatki National Monument, appeared on the right. I followed it and parked. We walked the short sidewalk to the ruin and stepped up and inside.
There were no other visitors. Perhaps, I misled myself, there was no one at all for hundreds of miles. We took turns snapping pictures of each other passing through the tiny doorway. Then we stepped out on Wukoki's compact rocky porch.
We stood for a while, several feet apart, the way that fathers and sons do. Whether from the sullenness of adolescence or because he was unaccustomed to the sound of the beating of his heart, Tristan did not speak. I did not break the silence.
The air around us stood still. We were wrapped in soundless time and the low steel-gray sky. Moments passed; they may have been minutes.
And then we startled to a sound. It was a small bird, dozens of yards distant, taking flight. In the silence of the afternoon, the beating of its wings sounded like kettledrums.
We looked at each other briefly. "Wow," Tris whispered.
We listened again, even more intently. But the moment had passed. It was time to return the strengthening storm and the shelter of our rooms. We had touched the side of universe I had wanted to touch.
To this day, when we plan future winter weekends in Flagstaff and recall those from the past, I start this way: "Tris, do you remember the year we heard absolute silence?"
"Yes, Dad. I do."
Mark L. Hineline
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