It was a muggy early morning in October when I saw it, from the rise on a lonely stretch of West Texas highway. I pulled the Dodge over, thinking I’d both photograph and simultaneously pay my respects to what I assumed was a large dead bird. I stepped out into the morning sun, already burning like a furnace on the back of my neck, my boots crunching under broken road as I walked over to what was left of the creature. That’s when it suddenly hit me - I realized exactly what it was laying there. It wasn’t a bird at all; it was a Chief’s war bonnet. This thing was ornate, its quality almost mythical; covered in eagle feathers, red and black piping, a dazzling mystery of sacred bead work.
I picked it up, carefully, with reverence for the soul of its owner, and placed it on a nest of tall, dry grass behind some rocks on the side of the highway. I decided to surround it, both as partial covering and to serve as a bit of a makeshift altar; with dried leaves and various twigs. And I stood there for a few moments, flies buzzing around my ears and tears welling up in my eyes; watching the ancient morning sun warm the landscape, as the last bit of the dew evaporated from the tall grass. I tried to hear the Chief’s voice in what little bit of wind would whisper, but the trees weren’t providing much relief from that Lone Star fireball sky.
After a few more moments of quiet reflection, I got back in the Dodge, turned the key to the ignition, and my wheels hit the road. I fumbled with the dial for a moment, when breaking through the static came Mavis Staples, singing to me clear as a bell and warm as a prayer through the speakers.
“I wonder, child, are you on your way?” she cried. Four hundred miles ahead, Ms. Staples. Nothin’ but hope and mystery and a whole lot of road. I guess I am.
