Spirit Walk

Fasting, prayer, and a long walk ended in a surprising end.

Contest Prompt

Write a travel story about five U.S. chosen cities (Scipio, Parawoan, Andersonville, Roosevelt, Fort Duchene)

“That’s a lot of shoe leather, young lady.” The old pickup spit dust on Andrea Thomas as it lurched to a stop. The head that appeared dipped a nod. “You lost or something? Thought I’d seen a ghost.” He was a leathery old man with trembling hands on the cracked steering wheel.

“What’s that about shoe leather?” Andrea Thomas asked, hands shielding her eyes from the sun.

“You had to walked this god forsaken road since dawn. Nobody but me lives on it. Where you headed and why?” A sweat stained cowboy hat came off wiry silver hair.

“Town called Scipio. No hurry. Heard there were Indian petroglyphs close by.”

“Yes’m. Hop in. I’ll take you to ‘em. To far to walk on such a hot day. You'll fry your mind.”

Andrea got Jake’s name out of him. It was like popping a cork. He couldn’t stop talking. “Like a road side billboard is what I think. Sign for water, sheep. Told visitors what was worth looking for nearby. Waterfall is there to this day.”

He didn’t want to leave her there. There wasn’t much he could do about it. She was a Native American Ute on a spirit walk, connecting with her past. That's all she would say about it. There was no giving up in her.



Scipio had one good antique shop. Overfilled. Town too small to attract tourist buyers. “Yeah, I heard about Parowan’s Indian massacre. Small tribe starving, wiped out for stealing cattle.. Cain’t help you locating a mass grave, been too long.”



It was a long sweaty walk following a hot sun, days, near full moon nights. “Has to be here. It is the only playa not covered in sagebrush.” Her foot kicked arrow heads loose, then a human bone. Collectors had been digging here before her. She sat down and cried.



“You O.K., miss?”

Another old timer. They seemed to grow them out here. Nobody young found a reason to stay, she guessed. “I’m fine, thanks. Ride into town?” She was weary from walking the long rows of barley field.

“When I’m done. Name’s Tom. Tom Clay. Three generation resident. Irrigation ditch gets clogged up. Just be a minute.”

The minute took an hour and a lot of cursing before the ride started. “Water’s life out here. Where you headed next?”

What was meant for a road became so bumpy it made talking hard. She’d explained about the mass grave calling to her. “Know what you mean. My wife, dead three months, calls me in my dreams. Sorry to hear about your loss.”



She caught a ride out of town the same day, with an old truck driver supplying small community everything stores. “That’s the middle of nowhere. It’s a ghost town now. You sure you want to go there?”

He was an Andy, this time. He wasn’t going to stop. He didn’t have to. Andy tired out, switched seats for her to drive while he caught a nap. She left him sleeping when she saw the dead ghost town. “Andersonville.” If she had her facts straight, her grandparents homesteaded there when the food shipments for the reservation got delayed, then stopped during the depression.

Their home was easy to locate. It had been described to her often enough. She stayed a week, reading left behind letters and the journal. It brought her ghosts to life in her mind. Their struggles, how much they gave up so her mom got an education, and for what? “Time to move on.”


She bought a used pair of boots from a farmer near Roosevelt her next to the last city stop. “How many people know half the town is located on a reservation?”

The farmer said he had no clue, that it didn’t matter. “It’s a white man’s world, dear heart. Thought you’d know that by now.”

She walked into Roosevelt, then passed into Fort Duchene, her final planned stop. It had the familiar look of a reservation, except it was the Uintah and Ouray Indian Reservation, the second largest in the states. Her documentation from the letters and journal proved that she was one of them. The puzzle was coming together.

Her parents had given her up, wanting a better life than their poverty stricken one could offer. She’d grown up in a White home. She knew she was different because she looked different. How different she was didn’t become apparent until she started on her spirit walk.

Fort Duchene was the tribal council headquarters. The Ute Indian Tribe was composed of three bands: the Uintah, the Whiteriver, and the Uncompahgre, all administered from there. The unusual abundant natural resources made it a target for corruption.

“You’re young to have a law degree and background in conservation.” Jerry Whitewater, head legal counselor said, tapping her papers on his desk. “What did you learn on your spirit walk?”

“You want to know what surprised me the most? It was white strangers who led me from sacred place to sacred place.”

“Doesn’t mean you can trust them,” Jerry said, eyeing her doubtfully.

“As much as anybody. What about the funds you’re taking out of the tribal trust for personal use?”

“How’d you find out about that?”

“It was a guess you just confirmed. It won't be hard to find the details now that I know where to look. You just hired me to keep you transparent.” The spirit walk had ended. Being led by the spirits had not. She felt their presence here with her now. Half the journal's empty pages waited to be filled by her hand.

Wc 912