A CHILD FROM ANOTHER WORLD … On CEDAR MESA — Tom McCourt (ZX#95)

EDITOR’s NOTE: All the photographs in this story are by Tom McCourt or me. However, none of the images are anywhere near the subject of Tom’s account. The location will forever be known only to Tom —JS

The view is spectacular from the rim of the mesa. I can see Navajo Mountain far to the south, and many miles to the northwest, the snow capped Henry Mountains shine in the early morning sunlight. I’m camped alone on a high desert rim, and I’ve hiked many miles the past couple of days, happy to be back in San Juan County. I come to places like this often to get red sand in my shoes and change the air in my head.

I recently found some impressive petroglyphs carved into the desert varnish of some nearby rim rocks, and my aim this morning is to see if I can find more and take some pictures. But, as I walk along the canyon rim, the first clue of antiquity I find is broken pottery scattered in the sand. The Ancient Ones (Anasazi or Ancestral Puebloans) have indeed been here. Curious, I stop to investigate. The pot shards have been lying in the dirt for a thousand years and I can see they have washed down from a shallow rock shelter partially hidden by large boulders.

I follow the trail of pottery fragments and find the dirt in front of the overhanging rock stained with the ash of ancient campfires, but there are no masonry walls or signs of a structure. The unpainted potshards and a few chips of brightly colored chert suggest that this was only a small sheltered campsite, a place where ancient peoples might have stopped to spend a night while traveling to somewhere else. In the shade at the back of the shelter, a badger or a coyote has dug a burrow sometime in the relatively recent past. The den is abandoned now. It doesn’t look like an animal has been here for a long time. There are no tracks, and dusty cobwebs fill the tunnel entrance.

With a passing glance I notice what appears to be a round white rock, about the size of a grapefruit, sticking out from a pile of dirt near the badger hole. Curious, I walk to it and immediately recognized it as the right parietal section of a human skull. I am stunned. A second look reveals the second half of the skull slightly protruding from the dirt a little farther back in the shadows. By placing the two halves together, I can tell they are from the same skull and the owner was a very young individual. The suture lines at the joining of the halves are very pronounced. The skull belongs to a small child.

It takes a moment to absorb the reality. I have in my hands the bones of a child – an ancient Native American child. It is something totally unexpected. I drop to my knees in front of the badger hole and begin looking through the dirt very carefully. I find other small bones partially hidden in the sand: a pelvis, ribs, and long bones. Then, by running my fingers through the dirt like a comb, I find a surprisingly diminutive jawbone with tiny little teeth.

The mandible fits easily in the palm of my hand. I sit quietly in the warm sunshine at the mouth of the rock shelter to examine it. The little teeth are perfect, and they gleam ivory white against the darker, yellowish-color of the newly exposed bone. The teeth are so very small and delicate. The number and size suggest the child was only three or four years old when she died. I say she, because that is my impression as I look upon those tiny teeth. This child was female; I can feel it in my heart. I am deeply moved.

I have a granddaughter about the same age as this little one, and that makes this child very close, and very dear to me. I can’t explain it, but I’m carried away with deep emotion.

I realize that for a thousand years this little one has slept in the shadow of this rock shelter, and now, quite by accident, I’m holding her little face in my hands. It makes me wonder, what twist of fate has brought us together here this morning. How did this happen, and why? I have a hundred questions. Who was this child? What was her name? How did she die? Why was she buried here?

I’m absorbed by the mystery, and I try to imagine what this little person might have looked like. I know her people were small, dark complexioned, innocently naked, and uncivilized by the standards of my culture. They were children of the natural world who lived, struggled, and died in this beautiful but harsh land, many, many years ago.

The world was very different then.

And, as I sit there, lost in my innermost thoughts, I begin to feel compassion for the mother who placed this baby in the ground. Who was she, and why did she bury her child here? Was it because this is such a beautiful place, or was the mother even aware of the remarkable scenery? From her limited perspective, did she think the whole world looked like this place? Did mother and child live near this rock shelter, or did this little one die unexpectedly and far away from home?

I sit quietly and look out from the shallow cave at the wide, colorful landscape of the desert far below. The world is very different now from the world this child knew. And yet, from here, in her quiet resting place, everything looks essentially the same today as it did when she was buried here. This little person would still recognize the landmarks from her open-air window in the rocks. The large boulders still nestle close around her, serving as sentinels to guard her grave. The bunchgrass, sage, and junipers still grow nearby as always, and the ragged ledges and sandstone spires on the far-off desert floor still stand in their appointed places. The distant mountain peaks and the clean blue desert sky remain
completely unchanged.

A new race of people now lives in the valley below, but from this place the signs of their existence are barely discernible. From here, the desert looks much as it did in the centuries when the kingdoms of Europe were cloaked in the Dark Ages. Back then this child and her people were the only humans to claim this remarkable land, and I wonder if they loved it, the way I love it.

It is obvious there has been no person to tend and look after this grave for centuries. But somehow, Mother Nature takes care of her own. As the sun came up this morning, the first golden rays touched this child’s resting place. And even now, as I sit here, the morning sun is warming this baby’s blanket of soft, red sand. The sun has warmed her bed every day she has slept here. And, the blue desert sky is spotted with clouds cloaked in silky white, like angels passing silently overhead, keeping watch, as Always.

I sit brooding for a time, overcome with emotion as I examine those tiny teeth. I feel a bond of kinship with that little person that spans the centuries between us. A deep feeling of reverence comes over me that defies explanation. The essence of that child is all around me. I can feel her presence in the warm sunshine.

I hold those tiny bones in my hands and think of all they represent, and as I do, more of my questions turn inward. Why have the winds of fate allowed me to find this child, here in her special hiding place? Why me, and not someone else? Is it an accident that I am here today, or is it destiny? Why did I choose to hike here today and not half-a-mile further down the rim? What lessons and what consequences might this discovery hold for me personally? And, is this a test? What obligation do I have to this little person now? What should I do with these tiny remains?

As I ponder those things, I’m reminded that the Anasazi often placed pottery, jewelry, and other artifacts in the graves of loved ones as offerings. I wonder what might be buried beneath my feet in this humble rock shelter. For a moment I’m caught up in wonder, and yes – perhaps even greed. What an adventure it would be to dig here and find what might be buried. But the better angels of my nature instantly prevail. I could never do that. It doesn’t matter what might be buried here. I’ll never open the ground to find out. If there are gifts in this child’s grave they will stay here. They belong to this
little person. If Almighty God were to grant me the wishes of my heart in some future time, I would hope to see this child again, and I wouldn’t want her to think of me as a vandal or a thief. There are many things more precious in life than objects of pottery and Stone.

I don’t understand how it has happened, but somehow I feel a connection to this child that transcends time and space. I have touched a child from another world … and she has touched me back. We are closer than I could ever have imagined. After many years of exploring the desert, I have truly found the Anasazi. I always imagined the indigenous peoples to be farmers, hunters, and manly warriors. I never expected their emissary to me would be an innocent child.

Very carefully I gather all of the little bones I can find, and using a flat stone for a shovel, I dig a hole in the sandy soil near the badger hole. Then, reverently, I place the tiny bones in the depression and cover them with a warm blanket of red earth. Then, kneeling beside that new grave I say a humble prayer. I am, after all, an ordained minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I have officiated at many Christian funerals. And yes, I know this child and her people were not Christians, but considering the circumstances, I doubt that this special little person, or her parents, would be offended. It is the best and
only thing I know to do.

I pray that God will allow this special place to remain hallowed ground forever. Sleep in peace, precious child of the desert.

*****

A POSTSCRIPT by TOM McCOURT

I know there are federal laws that prohibit any disturbance of human remains found on public lands, and I know that some of your readers might be eager to remind me of that. I hope they do.  Almost 30 years ago, I discovered another ancient Archaic grave site (2000 years + old).  I found the remains in Nine Mile Canyon in 1994, and immediately notified the Bureau of Land Management. Ever since then, I have been begging the BLM to salvage and study that site, without success. 

The location is being destroyed by the elements (that’s how I found it) and I have taken several professors and government functionaries there but the BLM has refused to let us have a permit to excavate, even though one of the professionals did uncover the very shallow remains in my presence and rebury it again.

So, I would welcome a public discussion about all of this. The BLM keeps telling people that if they find an arrowhead on the surface of the ground they need to call BLM so they can properly remove it for scientific study. I would love to tell people what really happens when you find a truly significant site that is being destroyed by Mother Nature.

— Tom McCourt

Tom McCourt is a native son of the canyons and deserts of Southeast Utah. Before Lake Powell flooded Glen Canyon, he spent a portion of his childhood at Dandy Crossing, playing cowboys and Indians amid the ruins of Cass Hite’s old log cabin. Tom has written four other books about the people and places of Southeast Utah. He is a graduate of the University of Utah and served proudly as an officer and a gentleman in the United States Army.

To read ZEPHYR chapters from Tom’s remarkable book “Last of the Robber’s Roost Cowboys: MOAB’S BILL TIBBETTS,” click here