Dan Flores

Large, graceful birds, sandhill cranes, are fluting their strange, plasticine cries in the pastel sky overhead. but I'm focused on the lines of the topography in front of me, especially the way the mesa I'm walking narrows up ahead. Seeing that, my walking pace quickens. This is a historic piece of ground.

Starting some 2000 years in the past and continuing down to 200 years ago, it was the scene of frenzied, albeit sporadic human activity. Like most historic places, there is something maddeningly mute about the spot now. It's why we often stand and gawk numbly in such places, unable to connect to the events we're supposed to marvel over.

Starting some 2000 years in the past and continuing down to 200 years ago, it was the scene of frenzied, albeit sporadic human activity. Like most historic places, there is something maddeningly mute about the spot now. It's why we often stand and gawk numbly in such places, unable to connect to the events we're supposed to marvel over.

Starting some 2000 years in the past and continuing down to 200 years ago, it was the scene of frenzied, albeit sporadic human activity. Like most historic places, there is something maddeningly mute about the spot now. It's why we often stand and gawk numbly in such places, unable to connect to the events we're supposed to marvel over.

But this morning, I'm not going to be stymied by lack of imagination. I'm here with a purpose, my intent to experience at least some part of what a buffalo jump drive was all about. It was fully dark when I arrived here an hour earlier, parked my car at an interpretive sign, finished a cup of coffee, then slowly worked through the boulders to the top of this mesa.

But this morning, I'm not going to be stymied by lack of imagination. I'm here with a purpose, my intent to experience at least some part of what a buffalo jump drive was all about. It was fully dark when I arrived here an hour earlier, parked my car at an interpretive sign, finished a cup of coffee, then slowly worked through the boulders to the top of this mesa.

But this morning, I'm not going to be stymied by lack of imagination. I'm here with a purpose, my intent to experience at least some part of what a buffalo jump drive was all about. It was fully dark when I arrived here an hour earlier, parked my car at an interpretive sign, finished a cup of coffee, then slowly worked through the boulders to the top of this mesa.

While I walked eastward to the luxuriant grassland of a high meadow, the sky had gradually lightened. Now turning back towards the car and the cliff I'd climbed in the dark, I'm becoming caught up in what I tell myself are echoes of the place. Pointing myself down the narrowing mesa towards the far rim rock, I start to jog.

While I walked eastward to the luxuriant grassland of a high meadow, the sky had gradually lightened. Now turning back towards the car and the cliff I'd climbed in the dark, I'm becoming caught up in what I tell myself are echoes of the place. Pointing myself down the narrowing mesa towards the far rim rock, I start to jog.

While I walked eastward to the luxuriant grassland of a high meadow, the sky had gradually lightened. Now turning back towards the car and the cliff I'd climbed in the dark, I'm becoming caught up in what I tell myself are echoes of the place. Pointing myself down the narrowing mesa towards the far rim rock, I start to jog.

I'm running a track that men and other animals have run many times in the past. But in contrast to my lope beneath the fluting cranes, then there would have been the pounding thunder of sharp black hooves cutting through the grass and the alarmed grunting of animals, their huge forms wrapped in billowing clouds of dust that must have made for a ghostly stampede.

I'm running a track that men and other animals have run many times in the past. But in contrast to my lope beneath the fluting cranes, then there would have been the pounding thunder of sharp black hooves cutting through the grass and the alarmed grunting of animals, their huge forms wrapped in billowing clouds of dust that must have made for a ghostly stampede.

I'm running a track that men and other animals have run many times in the past. But in contrast to my lope beneath the fluting cranes, then there would have been the pounding thunder of sharp black hooves cutting through the grass and the alarmed grunting of animals, their huge forms wrapped in billowing clouds of dust that must have made for a ghostly stampede.

Now I hear only my footfalls and my breathing, but in the real thing the air would have been rent by the exultant shouts of the drivers urging on runners wearing the skins of wolves and red-coated bison calves leading the herd to its destiny. Their costuming a ruse to fool buffalo cows into thinking that wolves were selecting out defenseless young ones.

Now I hear only my footfalls and my breathing, but in the real thing the air would have been rent by the exultant shouts of the drivers urging on runners wearing the skins of wolves and red-coated bison calves leading the herd to its destiny. Their costuming a ruse to fool buffalo cows into thinking that wolves were selecting out defenseless young ones.

Now I hear only my footfalls and my breathing, but in the real thing the air would have been rent by the exultant shouts of the drivers urging on runners wearing the skins of wolves and red-coated bison calves leading the herd to its destiny. Their costuming a ruse to fool buffalo cows into thinking that wolves were selecting out defenseless young ones.

Listening to the rhythm of my feet, I wonder if the herd's noise wouldn't have been so overwhelming it would have morphed into silence, adding a surreal quality to the ghostliness. The whole affair would have commenced days earlier with a religious ceremony and careful maneuvering of a bison herd in that high meadow into position for a stampede.

Listening to the rhythm of my feet, I wonder if the herd's noise wouldn't have been so overwhelming it would have morphed into silence, adding a surreal quality to the ghostliness. The whole affair would have commenced days earlier with a religious ceremony and careful maneuvering of a bison herd in that high meadow into position for a stampede.

Listening to the rhythm of my feet, I wonder if the herd's noise wouldn't have been so overwhelming it would have morphed into silence, adding a surreal quality to the ghostliness. The whole affair would have commenced days earlier with a religious ceremony and careful maneuvering of a bison herd in that high meadow into position for a stampede.

Then if all went well, and it went well enough times in the past to accumulate a bone layer five feet deep at the base of the cliff I'd climbed, the runners who led the herd to the cliff edge would escape, if they could, by darting aside at the last moment, dodging the relentless brown river of animals hurtling into space in a dream of wild, frozen action.