JOJOPAN |
Walking early morning light. Bunchgrass tufts still wet with dew. Mist lurking off the cliffs. I find shell mounds beside the footpath.
A midden vein of crumbling bone exposed. Cut into. This is all that’s left of Jojopan. Open wounds on the south bank bluffs of the Big Sur River.
Sargenta Ruc the Rumsens called it, lost village of the Esselen. A people gone like grizzly.
Mysterious ones. Shamans who carved their secrets into rock along Church Creek. Who painted red & black mosaics. Sun discs. Winged gods who flew across the sandstone.
In a cave near Tassajara a wall of hands. A cloud of white prints dancing on stone hints at some forgotten rite. Solstice. Moonlight. Initiates pressing skin against rock & the rock remembering.
Here above the river beach. Deserted bluffs. Scavenger gulls wailing in the wind. I kneel beside whitened clams. Ash-black soil sprinkled with musselshell.
Upstream past a grove of eucalyptus I can see the old adobe of the English sea captain who married his señorita & homesteaded a Mexican land grant in the delta terrace of the Rio Grande Sur. New shingles gleam in the sunlight. Roof & walls carefully restored: “an historical site worth saving…”
The land around it also saved. Protected. Fenced in. The signs say Molera State Park named for a wealthy dairy rancher famous for his parties and jack cheese.
Beyond the adobe there at the feet of the Santa Lucias I can see Hwy. One as it swings east slicing through the Esselen homeland, its paved serpentine crowded with scenic landmarks & historical markers with parking lots full of sports cars & Coupe de Villes with private healing spas & off-limit hot springs with rustic cafes serving Big Sur burgers with bookstore fishnets sporting their spring catch of pulp with roadside stands of redwood burl table tops going cheap with acres of Ticketron campsites booked solid with landscape galleries framing the impossible with gas stations pumping dinosaur oil with smokeybear rangers landing in whirlybirds with retired dentists from Pasadena wheeling by in their Winnebagos
& not a thing to tell you that effehi a people lived here kiskit na mismap thousands of years pacima kenatsu weaving nets kespam nenipuk chanting songs iyu iyu dancing the language of dreams.
Malitahpa. Malitahpa. Malitahpa. There is nothing. Nothing. |
The writer is Art Goodtimes – a member of the Board of Commissioners, San
Miguel County, Colorado. His family came to Santa Cruz in 1795.
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