Ferocity

George found the fire road on an old map and suggested we begin the new year by exploring it up into the hills above Ramah, New Mexico. We grabbed our fat bikes and packed some trail food and pedaled up and out of the Ramah valley into the rocky defile that cut deep into the Zuni Mountains. The going was mostly steady, but a few pitches shot up steep, loose, and challenging inclines. The air got thinner as the trail grew faint before turning into a cow path. The sun sank and the wind began to bite with January chill at 8000 feet. George parked his bike near a cairn that indicated a diversion to a natural bridge and old Zuni ruin. The sky darkened as we made our way to the grotto. Along the path were remains of lion kills: vertebrae, pelvises, and, on one, a grisly skull and rack that had been recently cached. The nose had been crushed and eye sockets were missing from the still red remains. George broke the head off of the spine. It held a ten-point rack, a beauty of deer trophy. It had been a fine specimen before the lion ambushed it from one of the many rock overhangs. The rough terrain was a dangerous place. He held it out for me to take. It's yours, he said. The presence of lion weighed heavy on me. This is a hard and precious life, one that can end at any time. Out here there is no mercy, no place to hide. I took it. I did not and will not turn away.