Slick, smooth rock rising over six hundred feet, soaring, he’d once read, like a cathedral vault into the heavens. The wind whipped and crackled through the canyons and the ruins, through the candy hued contoured sandstone, haunting and whispering and calling.
In some places there were sheer drops, tunnels carved by millennia of fast flowing flood waters and secret places that only the Navajo understood and would never discuss.
This was beyond a temple, beyond anything that religion could ever touch. But it was holy. The entire land was holy. As he moved towards the White House Ruins, he sensed that everything – the air, the ground, the smell of eternity – was charged with a fierce and unyielding preternatural energy .