Listen to thisThere is a trail in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains Suzanne calls Beaver Trail because of the beaver dams in the stream the runs beside the trail, one of many dirt access roads open to the public. Often she and her dog Bear hike there. Bear enjoys the mix of water and hills, and so does she. It gives them a feeling of independence and freedom felt nowhere else: being in nature together with only their selves to rely on. It is “their place,” that I feel fortunate to be invited to visit with them on occasion. There are few, if any places, more beautiful and peaceful. In the half light of the canyon, time seems to fade away in the clear mountain air. In the warm, majestic surroundings self seems less and less significant as we use our bodies to climb the road, our minds free to look about in the easy, yet rigorous climb, our breathing heavy then light at times, and our muscles warm with the ache of a good days work.
Lately though, the feeling on the trail has been changing. It started a couple years ago when Bear was attacked by a pit bull owned by a group of youth and adults camping near the stream. Without thinking Suzanne immediately jumped in and tried to pull the pit bull away by its hind legs, while I kicked at it’s head, hoping to break the jaw lock it had on Bear’s throat. Fortunately, Bear, an Aussie Shepherd had a thick coat of hair, but had the owners not called the dog off, I’m not sure we could have saved Bear.
Suzanne was livid that her beloved Bear is put in danger. You would think the owners would be apologetic. The middle aged men and women, however, seemed obstinate as if we had invaded their territory. “You should keep your dog on a leash,” they said to us even though their dog had run one hundred or more yards to attack Bear, who would never hurt a flea, or stray from Suzanne toward strangers.
We let them know what we thought. “You don’t belong here,” they said. It was their way of saying “whites” didn’t belong in the Southwest even though Suzanne had probably lived in the area longer than some of them. This made us both more angry and frightened. The diversity is one factor that attracted us to the area. And for the most part everyone, Hispanics, Latinos, Pueblos, artists, whites and others, gets along.
We walked away with Bear and took out the cell phone to call 911. Then some of the youth from the group appeared on the scene very apologetically. This was either very sincere, which it seemed, or they were concerned that if the police came it would disrupt the activity going on at the campsite. They promised to tie up the dog, acknowledging that it never should have been untied. I felt comfortable with them and we spoke for a while about our concerns. They were handling it in a much more mature manner than their elders. So we cancelled the call, and went on our way.
Without wanting to jump to conclusions, in hindsight it seemed to us that something illegal was going on, perhaps a drug deal. We had noticed how the campsites were becoming more littered with broken beer bottles and other trash. People who used the sites seemed to be there less and less with the respect for the experience of being in nature. As we continued up the trail with Bear seemed to feel no less the wear for the encounter that had “freaked” us out. On the way down we came upon some rangers and told them about what we had experienced. They said they would check it out, and thanked us. Everyone, or a least every law abiding person, wants to keep that trail safe.
We had encountered something similar a year or so earlier when we hiked over a ridge on a trail further south in New Mexico. Off in the distance we could see a group of motor bikes and hot-rods parked next to a group of men in a small village. Clearly, something was going down. So we scampered away not wanting to be seen. Meth traffickers are not known to be friendly. Whether or not our assessment was accurate was not the issue, we discussed afterwards, as much as the sense of fear that drug trafficking has begun to impose in an area, where as a boy I first found a freedom unlike any other as I rode horses into the mountains. And Suzanne has found a sense of freedom in later life she never felt before, or at least since she was a small child playing on a farm in Central Wisconsin. When she moved out here full time, she had spent her time in the city, and was ready to get back to the earth and, as a painter the incredible landscapes and colors of the Southwest.
Then, this summer, two youth were shot and killed at the foot of Beaver trail, and in a strange way, this lessoned the amount of what seemed to be gang activity going on in the campsites. After that, either the rangers and police began to take the danger more seriously, and/or the gang members found a new place with less attention that had now been focused on the trail. Not wanting to have her freedoms restricted, Suzanne (and Bear) continued to hike there, much to my worry. To show me that it was safe, she took me there for a hike on my visit a few weeks ago although she admitted that she had gone there less often than in the past. Two crosses with plastic flowers, as is the Hispanic tradition in the area, marked the spot where they were killed. The reasons had yet to be released. Senseless, yes; guns involved, of course. Young people are shooting each other at unprecedented rates.
On our hike, I could not help but think about what it all meant, how not only the borders between our country and Mexico were an issue, but the borders of youth were also being obliterated by violence, drugs, and guns in many parts of the country. Dealers were going after the good kids in Milwaukee I had been told by a youth worker a few years earlier, because they are not on the police’s radar screens like the gang kids. Easy to think why don’t they just resist until someone says, “Hand out these drugs at your next party, and if you don’t I know where your sister is.”
Three youth I knew had been killed over the years by guns, one I felt close to. This too seemed so senseless, each incident the result of a gun's presence, when in times past they might have simply “rumbled.” Without the gun, perhaps only a bloody nose, rather than a dead body.
At the same time, crime continues to decrease in our country, at least according to the statistics. There is less crime of several types, unless you live in a certain place, or are a member of a certain culture or race. Then you are at much more risk as a member of a group where violence is a way of life: a neighborhood, a skin color, or country road, or mountainside where a culture of violence permeates almost every part of your youth, and you attempt to grow up in a surreal world of weapon, powerful drugs, and adults who can use and manipulate youth to stoke their wealth. In these worlds there are no borders of youth. The rights to passage and safe turfs are wiped out with false promises of material gain and threats too powerful to ignore if you want to protect yourself or your family.
I do not know what the answer is. If I could have my way I would create meaningful jobs, make hand guns illegal, and legalize most drugs with the awareness that alcohol, a legal drug is linked to more violence than any other drug, whether it’s family fights, murders, or car crashes. Better yet, I would find a way to create opportunities to live lives that did not need drugs, unrealistic, of course, but worth dreaming about?
In the meantime, I can not help but wonder again, where is the voice of our profession in the broader discussions about how youth is being violated and stolen in unthinkable ways? Certainly, this is not new. Youth have been exploited throughout history in factories, homes, and on farms. Criminals have used them for their purposes, and some, generally not most, youth have been willing to go along with promises of easy money and a new sense of power. Maybe it begins to hit us more when it begins to intrude in the spaces where we least expect it; the mountain trails and streams where we go to be free, or to regain for a moment a childhood memory accompanied by the freedom of play.
On the trail that day I wondered if my concern about this criminal invasion of a space so special to Suzanne and Bear was an example that I had become less sensitive to the shooting of youth in inner city Milwaukee. Was it expected there and not here? I hope not. It should not be expected anywhere. Like many others I feel rather helpless about this. Maybe writing this column is one way to do something. I’d like to think so.
