Where Columbines Grow

Chapter 1

Falling Rock

FROM the high mountains, cascading streams forming crystal waterfalls forced cold, clear water to rush along the narrow, rocky bed through the lush hidden valley. The brilliant sun shone in a vibrant blue sky, yet the air felt cool as summer drifted into autumn. Beavers brought aspen branches to the nearby wetlands to build their winter lodges. Greedy hummingbirds and bees attacked flowers for food before they fled from the long winter cold. Songbirds filled the sky as they searched for bugs and seeds along the river’s edge. Eagles soared in great circles above the steep cliffs. Falling Rock heard their piercing cries as he washed his hands in the creek and stood up to stretch. His statuesque form cast a long shadow over the water. A chipmunk chased a black-tailed squirrel over his feet.

As he surveyed the majestic snow-covered peaks, he couldn’t help but thank the Great Spirit for this that bountiful place. In the distance, low, heavy dark clouds began to smother the mountaintops. As he lifted a string of trout out of a pool, he noticed sparkling yellow flakes in the black sand and wondered, How long will it be until the white man comes and desecrates this precious, sacred valley? They were already nearby, scouring the streams and turning the earth inside out, and he knew his way of life was about to change. Word spread at annual festivals his tribe enjoyed with the Utes. Great powwows held in the valley would cease. Yet, despite knowing the future, he would be powerless to stop it.

He mounted his horse and slipped away into the trees. The Arapaho Indian would hunt in the forests above the river until deep snows, or man, kept him out of the valley.