Spirit Cave

[For the first time in 32 years, I returned to Spirit Cave. It looked better-preserved than I had remembered, as there were some ruins that I had forgotten about. This time, I brought my son with me and was able to show him the actual location of some of my old adventures.

The following account took place when I was twelve years old as a boy scout. I wrote it down a few years later, so most of it should be accurate, other than some literary license to fill in the gaps. I have slightly modified my old account, but have left it mostly as-is. The story of the pipe-bomb is 100% true.]

The first week of May we headed out of town to Spirit Cave. It is a wide alcove at the mouth of a little canyon covered in juniper trees, or as we would call them, “cedar trees.” Ancient Anasazi Indian ruins are scattered along the edges.

After unpacking, we built a fire and began preparing the dutch ovens. This time we were having barbeque chicken with dutch-oven potatoes. Very tasty! Along with a Pepsi, it would satisfy any stomach.

After dinner, we stood around the fire, warming our hands, when Damon suggested, “Let's make a pipe-bomb.”

“With what?” asked Courtney.

“A pipe. What else?! I saw one up on the rim of the cave.”

“I brought some black powder in my pack,” said Kevin, who was Damon's twin brother. (I think there was a hint of conspiracy here.)

“I've got matches,” I added. Walking over to get the the matches, I overheard Brother Lyman (our Scoutmaster) tell Damon to be careful, and if he were him, he wouldn't do it.

The pipe was one inch in diameter and just over a foot long. Damon placed the pipe on the ground, while Kevin poured in powder. Courtney stuffed cheat grass into the small opening and Brook lit it with a match. We all ran and ducked for cover. Nothing happened. Brook slowly walked toward it, hesitant because of the possibility of it going off. “It's out,” he said. He lit it again and ran for cover. Again nothing. We tried three more times and finally gave up.

In the meantime, we had cleaned up dinner and rolled out our sleeping bags. The sun went down and darkness fell upon Spirit Cave. The only light came from the red glow of our fire, and if you got far enough away, there were the pin pricks of stars in the dark sky above. A sudden chill came with the new night.

We decided to play flashlight wars. No camp-out is complete without its share of games. For this game, we would split into two teams. One team hides, while the other team looks for them. If you shine your light on one of the opposing team members and call their name, they're out.

I was on the team that had to hide. There was no moon, so I decided to hide close-by. I laid down under a cedar tree about fifty feet from camp. I was quiet. The other kids, scampering to their hideouts, could be heard in the distance. I waited. The wind whistled and leaves swayed back and forth.

At last, the opposing team had finished counting and was now on the search. No one came close enough for me to zap them with my flashlight. So I lay still. Once they had passed me, everything was quiet again. The camp fire crackled while crickets sang. The rising smoke above the cave looked eerie.

Courtney and Erik came walking toward the fire. Brook was behind them, escorting his victims back to the base. Here was a prime opportunity to free one. It was risky, but why not? I sprinted in and touched Erik on the back of his shoulder. Got him! I now had thirty seconds to find a new hide-out. This time I went further back and hid behind a huge rock.

Once again, everything was silent. There was little action taking place by other kids and the density of the cedar forest blocked most of my view.

A pack rat ran out in front of me into a hole in the cliff--or was it? At second glance, I noticed it was not a cliff, but an Indian ruin. It sent a small chill down my spine. Obviously, these ruins were evacuated hundreds of years ago, but the possibility of skinwalkers roamed my mind. Skinwalkers were the spirits of the Indians who used to live in these ruins. True or fiction, I didn't know. But the thought of it sure was freaky at a time when I was all alone at midnight with no moon.

Movements from behind startled me. I remained still and didn't worry. Those were the sounds of the night, and any harm they would do was all in my mind.

In the distance, I could hear Damon calling, “Lacy . . . . you're the last one! You've got no chance!” I put a smile on my face and told myself, “yeah, right.”

“We got you, Lacy.” Brook's voice shocked me from behind. Tim followed closely. “We got you, John.” I stood up and surrendered.

We all gathered around the camp fire and shot the bull. “Let's try the pipe-bomb again,” Damon strongly suggested. So, we did. Brook lit it again, and quickly ran for cover. A dud.

“If it doesn't go off this time, I give up.” Brook made a final attempt to set off the bomb. He struck the match on a nearby rock. He lit the cheat grass and half-heartedly trotted back.

BOOOOM!!!!!!

“Oh, crap!” Brook yelled, while diving to the ground. A large ball of fire flashed and a bellowing echo rang from the cave. Brother Lyman sat up in his sleeping bag and muttered something toward us. I didn't hear a word he said, because my ears were ringing like a telephone.

Once I could regain my hearing, I could hear Brook exclaiming, “Oh my hell! I was only two feet away from that sucker!”

“Dang, my ears are still ringing,” Courtney shook his head.

“Is everyone alright?” Brother Lyman came over in concern. “I warned you about this. Right now, I think it's best that you all go to bed.”

“Let's head,” said Brook, leading us to our bags.

“Where's the pipe?” asked Erik.

“It doesn't matter, as long as it ain't in the back of one of your heads,” Brother Lyman replied.

We settled down into our bags and started a conversation among us, not being able to sleep.

We talked of other kids at school and told jokes. The night grew darker as the last flame died out. Only red and black embers remained.

“Does anyone have any skinwalker stories?” someone asked.

Everyone else shook their head, but I piped up, “I've got one.” I then proceeded to tell my story:

“Remember Sister Redd, who used to teach us in Primary? I heard this story directly from her mouth. Many years ago when she was newly married, she had purchased an old wooden rocking chair that sat in the corner of the living room in her trailer. It looked as normal as the rest of her furniture. Late one night she awoke to get a drink of water. She passed through the living room to go to the kitchen, and traveled through the dark until she reached the sink, where she turned on the light. She got her drink of water, drank it, and dumped the rest out. As she heard the last of her water disappear down the drain, a blurred object in the living room caught her attention. An old Indian woman—very old it looked to her, maybe 105—was sitting in the rocking chair, knitting. The Indian woman was wearing a traditional Navajo dress. She stared at the woman for two minutes. Then she walked to the living room to turn on the light. She was gone.

“Sister Redd went back to bed, but couldn't sleep. The next day she went to the previous owners and told them her story. They said that ten years ago an old Navajo lady died in that very same rocking chair.”

“But I thought that skinwalkers were supposed to be evil spirits,” said Erik confused. “That old squaw may have scared Sister Redd, but her spirit wasn't evil.”

“Technically, from what I've learned, a skinwalker is a witch that has the ability to transform into a half human, half animal being. This witch may curse you in some way, either during birth, or after. He may curse you with blindness, deformations, cancer, or heart problems. Sometimes to curse you, he will shoot a bead made of bone in you. The only way to break the curse is to have the bead sucked out and shoot it into the skinwalker and kill him. At least, that's what I've read. But I understand what you're saying, Erik. Most of the stories I hear seem to use the term skinwalker to refer to an Indian ghost.”

Eventually the discussion ceased. Each kid lay in his sleeping bag pondering the subject of skinwalkers. Was the story they had heard really true? Or was it a far-fetched and out-stretched tale? It was hard to see the reality of it, but there was a side to each of us that wanted to believe it. We thought and visualized the subject until we got very sleepy. Then our thoughts turned to dreams. The dead of night moved in. Nothing around moved. Everything slept.

Before I awoke, breakfast was ready. It was last night's dutch-oven potatoes with eggs mixed in, along with bacon and sausage on the side. It looked to me like Courtney and Kevin were the early-birds who got up to make it. We all stood around the fire, holding our paper plates full of food.

The sky was blue, except for a white streak left behind from a high-flying jet. The Anasazi ruins were still there, and so were the cedar trees. I watched a rabbit scamper off into the bushes. Then I noticed a huge sparrow land on th . . . . BOOOOM!!!!  It sounded as if the whole world had blown up! I was so startled that all my sausages rolled off my plate. My ears rang. We all looked at Damon, who was standing against the rock wall, chuckling. While we ate, he had filled a sawed-off Mountain Dew can with black powder and lit it off! Obviously, he hadn't learned a lesson from last night.

As the fire died down, I volunteered to go out and collect more fuel. The only wood to burn was dead cedar branches that had fallen to the ground. I walked a good distance away from the fire and began gathering small sticks and a couple big ones. The heap was carried in my arms while my eyes could barely peer over the stack. I couldn't see the ground at all until the top branch fell off the pile. And when it fell, they all fell. I looked in amazement at an object nearly fifteen yards from my feet. Was it? Could it be? I wasn't sure, but it had to be. It was the pipe-bomb! And it had melted into a V-shape. Instantly I was thankful that none of us were hit by this flying object when I realized it was 100 yards away from the camp fire!

“Guys!” I yelled. “I found it, I found it!” I sprinted back to camp, with the evidence in my hands. My breathing rate was almost as fast as I was talking when I showed it to the boys.

“That could have killed one of us,” someone intelligently pointed out. We all stared in amazement at the melted V-shape of the once erect pipe.

We had an hour and a half left to do whatever we wanted before we left. I hiked a few hundred yards away and clamored onto a huge boulder where I sat. It was a good enough view where I could observe the entire place.

The temperature felt good unless the sun was behind a cloud. Then the wind turned chilly, creating goose bumps over my arms. Once the sun returned, the breeze was warm again and the boulder on which I sat felt nice and warm.

I was surprised when I saw a doe and fawn hop off into the trees. With all the commotion we had made, I thought they would have been spooked off long ago.

In my sight were the ruins built by the Anasazi. Their mysterious disappearance has inspired writers and raised man's curiosity for years.

These bygone people once inhabited this very land. Their name comes the Navajo, meaning “ancient one,” or more precisely, “enemy ancestor.” They were farmers, growing mostly corn, beans, and squash. They also built stone shelters, usually against the side of a cliff-wall to protect themselves from wind and their enemies. These houses were built of rectangular-shaped stones, piled several feet high. The over-hang of the cliff could protect against the elements, but they also used timber to create a thatched roof. Apparently they had to use ladders to get to some of these structures. There are some ruins that look impossible to be reached because they are so high upon steep, slick, and impossible-to-climb cliffs.

Not only were they master builders, but beautiful artists also. They produced huge quantities of pottery with artistic designs covering them, including artistic textures. Some of their weapons such as spears, knives, and arrowheads have been found scattered along the ground.

Although they seemed to have been a progressing tribe, something happened that caused them to vanish. No one knows exactly why, but many have their theory's. Some say a huge drought came and forced them to leave. Others speculate that hostile enemies chased them out. Some agree on both, but say they all fled into a sacred kiva to escape the evils of this world. There, they entered into a different realm, co-existing and sharing the same earth as us.

There hasn't been a single trace of where they might have went, although some think that they moved south and are the ancestors of the Pueblo Indians. Numerous questions have been left to ask. Why did they leave behind all their pots, baskets, and weapons? Things look as if they left in haste.

Only from what has survived the last seven hundred years can archeologists use to study the Anasazi's past. The stone houses still remain, but they have been crumbling for centuries. Broken pottery is scattered around the ground, proving, once assembled, that the Anasazi were great artists and potters. Grinding stones, mostly used to grind corn, can often be found. Hieroglyphics cover many of the cliff walls, showing some of their stories and beliefs.

As I looked at these ancient ruins that were built in and around Spirit Cave, my mind tried to comprehend the history behind it. The ruins had been abandoned for hundreds of years, or had they? Perhaps their spirits still lived here. That's sure how it felt the night before. Somehow the darkness has an effect on the mind that brings unsettling thoughts. ♠