Rainmakers

We saw ancient power at work that night.

Our first day at Bandelier National Park ended with a fascinating presentation about the famous cliff dwellings in the Frijoles Canyon. A young park ranger from the nearby Cochiti Pueblo talked about her ancestors living in the canyon, and her people's attempts to preserve the culture formed centuries ago.

At the end, she called her father — a Cochiti war chief and retired magistrate and Arizona highway patrol officer — and her kid brother up to the stage. Bedecked in gorgeous jewelry, they performed a dance in the Keras language, shaking instruments made from gourds and turtle shells.

They later explained they were speaking to their ancestors, asking for moisture for an extremely dry land being ravaged by wildfires, the nearest across the valley in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

It had been windy all day, and the strong breezes continued after darkness fell. We went to sleep with the tent quivering, despite the open window flaps. But we weren't worried.

That changed around midnight. Sudden gusts roaring like oncoming traffic rocked the tent. One almost caved in a corner pole. Michele and I bolted upright, shot outside and struggled to stake the rain fly even more in the intense blasts. As I pounded the last extra stakes with a rock, I felt something for the first time while in the Southwest.

Rain.

Drops spat out of the sky — no deluge, but rain where none had been predicted. Not much fell, but over the Sangre de Cristo fire, enough apparently came down to reduce a towering white smoke column to a few whispy fingers.

The ancient Frijoles people had heard.