[Note: I am reposting this information because we are experiencing a very hot period in the USA and across the planet. See the NY Times listing of temperatures predicted for various cities in the USA]
The National Collaborating Centre on Environmental Health in Canada prepared this very helpful document on health checks during extreme heat events. Download and keep it with you and your family or coworkers if you are in extreme heat events. Also, see this related post explaining wet bulb science.
The water was refreshing though warm from the late summer’s heat. It was the Moon of the Early Harvest, and I was full of baby, ready to give birth any moment. This would be my third birth. I knew what to do. My mother and sisters would be by my side to help me. I was not as fearful as I had once been.
My friends were bobbing with me above the middle of the riverbed when the first sharp pain struck; I felt my whole body quicken and go into action. I shouted to my friends and we rushed to shore as fast as we could swim, but I felt the baby slipping from between my legs! I screamed, and we all frantically dived to find the little one below the green water.
Feeling a small form brush against my leg I dove under to see my baby turn toward the river’s flow and move his tiny arms and legs just like a frog! I snatched him up and he gasped as he rose into the air! He wailed loudly like a fish might if it could when pulled from its water world. We were all amazed as we swam slowly to shore with my friends surrounding me and my baby so he would never slip from us again! From that day forward, we understood he belonged to the river spirit. And today, look at him. He is our tribe’s Navigator.
~~~
This is how my mother related my birth story, repeated from when I was young even until now, twenty summers later. I confess, I never tire of hearing it because it reminds me of my purpose. After I became old enough to accompany my brothers and father on river trips down to the Big Waters, I found that I understood the river better than anyone, but I do not know how or why. It is a gift from the creators I believe.
This is the red river of our origin. It can rage and then calm; it can be red, black, grey, green, or golden. In the Moon of the Melting Snow the river carries red swirling silt down into the valleys and low desert and outward to forested riverbanks, depositing it as water receded.
Below us the river meanders, twists and turns back on itself like a coiled snake. On it goes, breaking into many streams and bayous that spread out as far as we can see. Within its form are shallows and deeps, and places men disappear in soft mud. Near the big waters, the rice grows along the way. We dig up clams and abalone, net crabs and shrimp, and marvel again at the abundance of the world around us. We harvest with respect for the spirits who guard the land and water and fill all things with life. We net turtles from the Big Waters and roast their meat on the beaches. The multicolored sparks from driftwood gathered by children fill the sky above our fires, and we study the black sky and shimmering stars, long into the quiet night. We read the heavens and tell ancient stories from elders who passed them down from time immemorial. We sleep in deep restful bundles, our feet to the fire, until the morning sun awakens us, and the screech of the shorebirds picking through the remains of our evening meal makes us rise to chase them away.
We remain on the ocean and lower delta of the river for weeks, watching the river run itself out to sea. When we return upriver to our ancestral fields, our work begins to plant the seeds we have stored and to tend them to harvest.
I pole and probe the river bottom to determine the best routes for my people. Like a game, it changes with each season, challenging me to observe its moods in currents, speed, and colors. As we pole on rafts to the sea, I watch for deer people, the otter tribe, and clans of feathered ducks in every shape and color. I collect the feathers dropped in my path, and I give thanks for the swimmers, crawlers, and stalkers that are also my family. We watch for the mountain lion and jaguar that come into these wooded paths along the river to hunt the same game we seek. We are stalkers all.
My days are spent in this way, but when the cold season comes, and the river is resting, I find quiet rest inside our hut with the fire reaching toward the smoke-hole, and all of us making something with our hands and telling stories to entertain us.
Until my mother joined her family on the other side, I always heard the story of my birth. I am the Navigator of my tribe.
In a far distant time …
Albert Pope was already on the river in the cool of the morning having launched his small fishing boat in the gray dawn. He allowed the slow current to carry him south, past the RV park with its trailer city. The gauzy traces of last night’s moon lingered above the horizon. Albert had spent the night outside of his own trailer on the rez. He’d told stories to his family and neighbors about the old times until one by one they each disappeared to lay their heads upon a pillow and dream. Albert had stayed up all night, watching the golden moon’s light illuminate the sky while he listened to the desert’s nocturnal creatures flit and scurry about. Going fishing was a natural extension of night to day.
Albert sat in quiet contemplation watching where his fishing line cut into the green water. He focused on the wedge-shaped pattern on the surface where his line plunged down. A quiet man in his late sixties, Albert had outlived most of his peers. The average lifespan of tribal men was only forty-eight years. Diabetes, alcoholism, and heart problems took them before their time. Albert had quietly watched as generations of Yuman men gave in to depression and anger—turning to alcohol or drugs— to dampen the pain of living in two worlds.
Suddenly his concentration was broken by a strong tug on the line. He pulled back reflexively. The fish went wild beneath the boat. Leaning forward, he peered into the opaque water where he glimpsed a brief movement—a pinkish-gray flank illuminated by the soft light of the rising sun. He held the line taut, reeling it in slow and steady. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead from where his broad Stetson hat met his dark skin. Finally, he lifted a large tilapia out of its watery world. It twisted and turned in protest, eyeing him as it flapped its tail hard on the boat’s aluminum shell. Albert removed the hook from the fish’s thick lower jaw. For a trash feeder, the tilapia was a beautiful creature, he thought. It briefly glimmered in rainbow colors before the air dimmed its radiance. He thanked the fish and tossed it into a five-gallon bucket to join its ill-fated cousins. Then, he prepared another line to set out.
Albert felt a great deal of satisfaction that he could still feed himself and his neighbors. Drifting downriver, he thought about the stories his elders had told about the river, how it once ran red and wild, chockful of six-foot salmon “so numerous you could walk across the river on their backs.” He had long imagined the wildlife, thick forests and gardens that once lined the riverbanks. He felt a pang of sadness that long ago hardened into a permanent knot in his center, a steely resistance to a lifetime of mourning the demise of his people and a once-great river. Yet both persisted, outcome uncertain.
Lower Colorado River as it meanders to the great delta and the Sea of Cortez.
Bill Sherwood was a lanky man who impressed me by his warmth. His rounded shoulders spoke of the heavy load he had carried in defending wild places from development, and perhaps his own personal struggles, whatever they may have been. His light brown hair fell in straight locks across his forehead, shading his eyes. He seemed like a kind grandfather figure to me.
Bill took a lot of time to help me understand potential issues that might be part of an environmental education program. I appreciated his earnest effort but was dazed by the time our two-hour meeting came to an end. I tried to review what I thought I’d heard as he listened keenly.
“Okay. Basically, there is no Colorado River water that flows past the River People’s reservations. They are high and dry. Most of their land is leased out to farmers who buy allotments of Colorado River water to divert it via canals to the farmlands for their crops. Correct?”
“Yup, that’s about it.”
“And, the natural communities of mesquites, willows, and cottonwoods are gone except for scattered communities where the water table is high enough to support growth. The River People have planted tamarisk trees that are fast growing in those places, right?”
“Yes, there is a great need for these trees because the tribe’s traditional ceremonies for their departed—cremation and other related ceremonies– require a constant source of firewood,” Bill affirmed. “But that is only a small part of why the old forests were necessary. Those forests, they are called bosques or woodlands, harbored abundant wildlife that fed the tribe, drew water up from the water table, and provided medicinal substances that kept the River People healthy. The worst part is that the River People helped harvest that wood to fuel the steamboats used by the U.S. Army and ambitious businessmen to ferry supplies and people across or up the river to support settlers moving westward. The River People were hired as steamboat pilots because they knew the river better than anyone. They were paid in beads, later in coin. Their way of life began to transform like the forested land along the river.”
I reviewed my notes. An uncanny silence filled the space of Sherwood’s office as I took in the information. We both felt the weight of knowledge about our own culture’s impact on the River People we now came to serve.
“Bill, it is not at all clear to me how a little environmental education project will have any impact on these matters. In fact, it now feels trivial. What’s your sense of it?”
He stood up and moved to the window behind his desk. Bill was lanky and skinny as a rail except for an old-age paunch around his waist. He possessed a sculpted, long-jowl face, the kind illustrators love to sketch.
“You know, it might actually be just the thing needed.” He turned toward me to finish the thought. “Kids need to know what was lost and be a part of bringing it back, at least to some modern form of the natural habitat. Restoration can be healing for those who participate.
~~~
Leaving Bill to his work, I walked over to the Cultural Center. Inside, a small but exquisite gift shop exhibited the beadwork of Cocopah artists—multicolored yolks in geometric patterns. A young woman in a cobalt blue blouse and white skirt was wearing one of the yolks in patterns of white, yellow and red beads. Against the darker cloth, it was striking. Her long black hair hung in waves, held back on one side by a matching beaded clasp.
She greeted me warmly. “Welcome. Are you looking for something special?” she asked. In contrast to her impeccable appearance, including heavy eye make-up and ruby red lipstick, I suddenly felt very plain.
“Well, no. But…yes!” I suddenly remembered the upcoming university graduation party I’d been invited to. “I have a silver top and black skirt that one of these necklaces would truly enhance. What would you recommend?”
“These are yolks, a traditional form of adornment that our women invented when we began to trade with foreigners. I think they may also have been inspired by the yolks from pioneer women’s dresses. How about this one?” She held up a yolk comprised of iridescent red beads with geometric patterns of black and white beads. She came out from around the counter to help me put it on in front of a mirror. It was the most beautiful beadwork I’d ever seen.
“Yes, this will be dramatic against the silvery top. Thank you,” I said. “How much does it cost?”
From behind the case again, she checked the tag, and said, “This one is by one of our best artists, an elder. She is asking $500 for it.” She looked up to see my face probably go a little pale. She smiled and explained that hundreds of hours go into the making of the yoke.
“Then, I will wear it with pride. Yes, please wrap it for me; I am traveling and do not want to damage it.” I figured it was one of those moments, like the meeting with David, when two nations converge. Investing in an elder, in the traditional arts of the River People seemed the right thing to do. Besides, I had squirreled away money for a vacation and this seemed like a good use for it.
The young woman’s name was Sabrina Johnston. Her comportment communicated humility blended with self-confidence. The River People were not a weak nation. They had withstood an onslaught of injustices. Yet here they were. It was good to see and made me feel even more confused about the assignment I’d been given. Just who needs the help? I wondered to myself.
On a bookstand in the small gift store, I found a history that Sabrina affirmed was the one everyone trusted as correctly describing their lineage, language, traditions, and art. It was a book written by a nonnative woman affiliated with the state university, which encouraged me in my thinking that relationships could be built from trust and a good intent.
But that thought turned to ashes at the Tribal Council meeting some days later.
~~~
“I’ll just start by saying, Miss Greenway, that I don’t trust you.” The Chairperson sat behind a microphone on the curved oak desk in the Tribal Council chambers.
I stood in the center of a horseshoe circle of council members, many of whom burst into laughter upon hearing the Chairman’s statement. My knees literally shook as I realized just how unprepared I was to address the leaders of this Nation. I couldn’t wait to get back to Phoenix to let my boss know what I thought about him and his irrational idea.
Clearing my throat, I said, “I understand that…but frankly, I don’t trust you, either.” Where did that come from? I had no idea. It just leapt up into my throat and I let it fly! It would be over in a blink. But then the room erupted in laughter and even the stern face of the Chairman broke into a grin.
Most of the council members were large, heavy-framed men and women, with countenances that did not inspire casual conversation. Their laughter did not alleviate the tension for me. It only confused my thinking more.
“Well, now that that’s settled, maybe you can tell us why you are here.” The Chairman was extending me another chance.
Had I passed a test?
I followed with a lame description of the project I no longer believed in after my long meeting with Bill Sherwood. The Council, to their credit, listened without interruption or any indication of how they felt about what I said.
“Well, I am sure our elders will tell you what they think,” the Chairman said flatly. “I wish you good luck.”
Then he addressed David Tejano, who was present in the public seating area. “Mr. Tejano, I trust you will direct Miss Greenway where to begin.”
And that was that. I left somewhat dumbfounded yet grateful I’d made it through. Nevertheless, I realized as I walked to my car that no commitment or comments as to its potential relevance were made about an environmental education project.
David said goodbye with the assurance he would be in touch, and I left with my history book about the River People to return to my motel room. I flopped into bed, weary from tension, and began to read an incredible story about America’s Nile culture.
My duties at the Center for Southwest Studies often sent me on interesting assignments. The story that I am about to tell may be the most unusual among them, and, as I look back, it was surely the most memorable. The experience profoundly altered my basic understanding of American history.
The assignment required me to establish relationships with a small Native American nation whose reservation is located near Yuma, Arizona. The purpose was to develop an environmental education program. The type of program was left for the nation to determine should they agree to such a project. The center for which I worked provided technical assistance on matters such as water quality and protection of native species within reservation lands. The education program was another way to engage people to assist in these goals. The irony of this arrangement was not apparent to me right away but dawned over the brief time I had the privilege to meet and talk with the elders and other tribal members.
I eagerly accepted the project, imagining it to be an adventure into a part of the West I had never visited, and a worthy endeavor to foster good relations with a nation whose cultural roots ran as far back as 3,000 B.C. No guidance was offered by my superiors, who hoped I might find success where, apparently, others had failed in the past. That spurred me to try but cautioned me not to plan too far ahead.
~~~
My first trip to Yuma from Phoenix, Arizona began in the sparse landscape of low desert, where creosote, arrow weed, cholla and barrel cactuses dotted flat plains of baked soil covered with mats of pebbles. As the sun rose higher in the sky, and the highway steadily dropped to below sea level, I understood why Yuma was often regarded as a hellish landscape: the heat radiated off everything in shimmering drafts of rising air, sucking what little moisture remained in the soil. The low scrubby plants that grew steadily in this environment possessed superb adaptations that allowed them to thrive there. Dust devils—swirling wind vents that lift desert soil skyward—crossed the highway, carrying skeletons of tumbleweed with them.
On the edge of town, gaudy billboards advertised motels, car repair, and local watering holes where one could hole up with a large ice water or cold beer and delicious Mexican fare. Signs for military bases and directions to several reservations mixed in with my directions to meet David Tejano at The Crossing Restaurant.
The cool and darkened interior of The Crossing was welcome relief from the heat. It buzzed with diners and scurrying waitresses. On the far side of the main dining area a tall, strongly built man stood from behind his table and waved me over to join him. How he knew who I was remains a mystery as I think back about our meeting that day. Put in the context of his life as I later learned about it, I would just say he navigated his waters well.
David Tejano extended his hand, but his handshake was but a soft touch, nothing like the sudden grip Westerners associate with assertiveness. This was the first cultural difference among hundreds of others I would learn along the way.
“Hello. How was your trip?” he asked as we sat down.
“It was easy driving,” I said. “I have never spent any time in Yuma.”
“Most people are just passing through,” he remarked without emotion.
I immediately regretted my comment.
“Are you hungry? I can make some recommendations,” he offered.
“Yes, and please do, I have not eaten since breakfast.”
Thus, our relationship began through a gastronomical introduction to The Crossing, where Colorado River Indian Tribes, Mexicans, U.S. military personnel, snowbirds from the U.S. and Canada, and passers-through comprised the new ebb and flow of a once wild river. Instead of the roiling, swift waters of the free Rio Colorado, Yuma residents swelled from 50,000 to 90,000 residents in the winter before receding during the late spring to its die-hard residents, able to withstand the broiling summer temperatures. The term snowbirds, for those who flew the coop as the sun bore down on the region, was more than accurate. Most of them were seniors with flowing white or silver hair, retirees with money to gamble in the casinos of the local tribes, and the original people of long-standing presence.
~~~
In performing his duties as a social worker, David Tejano held important information about the protocols to observe when meeting with members of the Tribal Council and elders. The population on the main reservation was only 2,000. There were many more below the border where they were known as the Cucapas. He knew everyone.
David’s manners were impeccable. He made sure that I had water first, then suggested his favorite dishes at The Crossing.
“The chili rejenos are almost as good as my mother’s, or, if you like tortillas, try their soft taco platter,” he suggested.
Everything about David was large. His bronzed fingers were notably thick, as he pointed on his menu for me. His thick, dark hair was neatly trimmed, and his dress was casual-professional—ironed by someone who knew how to place a crease. No one ironed their own clothes in Vicky’s world in Phoenix, but the flakes of starch on his shirt collar told her this was probably the work of his wife or maybe even his mother. Oddly, that made her feel good.
Deep lines in his forehead perhaps revealed his age or his work stress, but for the most part he appeared to be in his 40’s.
I noticed as we began to talk about David’s work and the River People Nation that he did not look directly in my eyes as those in my white culture do. Later I learned this was a sign of respect and I adopted the same behavior in meeting and working among the River People.
After the large platters of food were delivered to our table, David began to tell me more about the people of his nation.
“Our people are the ancestral nation of this region,” he said. “We’ve been here for millennia, and our people’s memory goes back to times when this land and its river were entirely different than what you saw on your way down here today.”
He paused to take a few bites, followed by a few sips of iced tea, while I shoveled in cheesy tortillas, hot salsa, and frothy Pacifico beer, not realizing until then how hungry I was, and in need of the mollifying effect of the alcohol. I’d been very nervous about the meeting. White guilt, I guess, was a burden I was carrying with the knowledge that David’s ancestral culture had been all but wiped out by my culture’s dominance over the land and its resources.
“We, like other tribes across this land, grew up with knowledge of the land, its wildlife, its seasons and gifts, and its hardships.” He paused to reflect in silence, then continued his story. We became the River People, living by it, travelling on it, and taking from it the gifts of the creator for our livelihood. Even its mud was used to prevent sunburn and to hold our warriors’ long hair in sculpted shapes. We, like other native people, clothed and decorated ourselves with what nature offered us.
“Perhaps our greatest achievement was how we learned to farm in the floodplains of the river in the late spring after the flooding waters withdrew. The seeds we used conferred great health to our people. If you can imagine it, the river supported forests that grew thickly along the shores. It is said that the forests of cottonwoods and willows, and the mesquites were as broad as seven miles along the river. Imagine that! Game, fruits, and seedpods from mesquite, cottonwood, and willow woods provided many important medicines and materials.” David seemed to drift in his own imagination as he described the land and his people before European contact.
I listened carefully. This man was taking time to help me understand the transformation to present day. I instantly grasped what a gift it was, that he had no obligation to do that, especially for someone representing a culture that had all but destroyed what he described for me.
David continued to present day. The nation was suffering from widespread diabetes, depression, and alcoholism—from generational loss of their lands and the dilemma each person faced about how to live in a culture whose values conflicted with their own.
David was the first college graduate among his people. He had returned to help his people bridge into the dominant culture, to find meaningful work, and to build security for their families once again. It was a daunting task. He referred me to books in the River People Museum and Cultural Center.
“There are a few trusted sources whose work we sell from the Museum. So many have come and taken from us,” David said as he looked up at me. “I wish you luck, Miss Greenway, but you can never tell how it will go. The River People have met with many emissaries such as you, only to have their words and their culture stolen, then printed in some book without their permission. It happens time and time again. So, don’t expect much.”
My heart sank. Suddenly, the nature of this meeting seeped into my awareness: two nations were meeting across our table. I felt like an ambassador, and David, one for his people. I fully realized how delicate and important this work would be. My curt nature with my director a month before made me ashamed. Perhaps he too had not really grasped the meaning of the opportunity to meet with leaders of one of our nation’s original peoples. They had no reason to do it, no reason to trust me. Yet, a hand had been extended by David Tejano.
~~~
I followed David’s vehicle to the reservation. We traveled through back roads among numerous canals lined with orange and almond groves, then out onto country roads that cut through broad agricultural fields of broccoli, lettuce, and corn. It was beautiful in its own way. Colorado River water, diverted by the canals, ran blue and bubbling through the fields.
At the entrance to the main reservation a large tribal seal showed a tall fisherman spearfishing along the river. This was the homeland of the River People. Green lawns in front of the Cultural Center and Tribal Headquarters were planted with rose bushes now in full bloom in shades of red, peach, and yellow. A ramada made of mesquite wood and woven with willow and arrowweed for shade stood outside the main doors of the museum. I noted the beauty and heard the quiet statement it made. There was a feeling of honor about it, like rising from the dust; a sturdy tree would flower there one day.
I parked outside the headquarters next to David. My first meeting would be with the environmental engineer, a non-native employee from the state, who advised the nation about the condition of its natural resources. David left me with Bill Sherwood and told me that it might be possible to get me on the Tribal Council’s agenda later that week. I thanked him and he left. I watched as he walked across the road to his office, his dark hair shining in the sunlight: he to his work, and me to mine.
Vicky Greenway finished her last lap with a sprint to the finish. She pulled herself onto the pool’s edge like a sleek otter flows onto an embankment. Basking in the hot Arizona sun, she pulled off her swim cap, releasing her long ebony hair to tumble down her back. Vicky studied the other swimmers in numerous lanes across the university’s Olympic-size pool. Her mind rambled over the morning’s surprise meeting with her director at the Center for Southwest Studies where she served as an Education Liaison.
“How would you like to blow this joint for a very unusual assignment?” her director asked with a wry grin.
“Oh, Lord,” Vicky intoned, wondering what thing she was being offered that no one else wanted to do.
Vicky was the junior employee at her workplace—the “go to girl” her male colleagues had tagged her, which Vicky translated to “the fall girl”.
“No, I really mean it,” her boss emphasized. “This will take you to the Lower Colorado River valley near Yuma to work with a small tribe—the River People.”
Vicky stared into her director’s quizzical face. She was concentrating on Yuma.
“Isn’t Yuma where we send hardcore prisoners to roast in their jail cells?” She recalled that Geronimo had been entombed there as punishment for outwitting the U.S. Cavalry.
“That was then. Now it is a huge sprawling Southwest city.” He emphasized Southwest as if to remind his employee this was official business. Gerald Abrams watched the thunderclouds roiling across Vicky’s beautiful face, the sparks of lightning glistening in her brown, almond-shaped eyes. He’d once had a huge crush on her until she’d made it perfectly clear that affairs with married men were not in her repertoire of relationships.
“Sounds like I am being banished to a god-forsaken dusty town to do something no one else wants to tackle. Could I be wrong?” Her sharp wit ignited over her desk. Gerald knew then that she would take the assignment because Vicky Greenway loved a challenge. She’d said it herself: her best assignments possessed cognitive dissonance. That penchant for unruly situations resulted from years of teaching middle school students.
“Okay, let’s review this ‘opportunity’ as you put it,” Vicky said, sitting straight up in her leather office chair and leaning on the glass-topped desk. “There is no river in Yuma now, and I’ve never heard of the River People. So why is our center suddenly interested in them?”
Gerald crossed his legs, wrinkling his pressed Dockers and showcasing the worn edges of his running shoes. Dress at the center was casual, a reason Vicky liked working there. She was an athlete, a runner, swimmer, and lately a rock climber. In her late 30’s she was the picture of health in her running pants, tight yoga top, and flip-flops. She delighted the all-male staff, most of whom were pushing 50.
“That’s the crux of the matter, Vicky,” Gerald said. “The changes in that imperiled river are mirrored in changes the River People are experiencing.” He paused with furrowed brow and a pensive stare at the floor. “There is barely a drop of Colorado River water flowing past or through their reservation for people known as the River People. Their history reaches back at least 1,000 years when that river was wildly carving a path to the sea. It’s an extraordinary transformation that includes the destruction of habitats as well as lives.
Victoria Greenway was getting over her initial skepticism. Maybe this was really an important assignment, one where she might learn something new while helping in ways yet unidentified. But still, that did not answer her initial query: Why me?
“This kind of relationship building takes someone who can tolerate ambiguity, and who is patient beyond what males are capable of.”
Greenway laughed out loud. “What a copout!” she said.
The two were silent, Vicky staring at Gerald, and he looking back but not directly. “There have been a small number of university professors and researchers who have gone to the tribe to make oral history recordings, to conduct environmental impact studies, etc., but they’ve all come home like defeated troops. The River People are wary, as expected, but it goes beyond that. The River People are known as the only tribe among the Colorado River Nations who resisted attempts by the government to herd them like sheep onto one reservation, as if all nations were the same.”
Vicky liked that. Her government had wreaked unforgiveable violence on Native Americans.
Gerald continued, “With disrupted ways of life, the level of poverty is high, and now diabetes and alcoholism are rampant.”
Another silence. Vicky was confused. “But that is the work of social workers and medical specialists,” she said. “What exactly do you want me to do down there?”
Vicky was beginning to back away from the assignment, sensing that her director really had no plan.
“Well, I’ve been in touch with the EPA official based at the reservation. He described many issues in habitat restoration for which we both discussed the need to engage the members of the tribe to help manage it.”
In the ensuing silence, Vicky heard the conqueror voice again. The “help manage it” bristled inside her. Shouldn’t they be asking the River People what they needed?
“Let me get this straight,” Vicky said. She stood up to rearrange her seat cushion.
Gerald could see storm clouds gathering over Vicky’s brow. Before she could launch a counter to his idea, he asserted, “Vicky, we need to go there to ask the tribal council permission to talk with the elders, to explore whether they might participate in the efforts of the EPA biologist, and maybe even bring along the youth to learn about caring for the habitat.”
Now the nature of the assignment became clear. Vicky was shocked Gerald would even consider such a plan.
“Okay, again, let me get this straight. We destroy their habitat by damming the river, running them off their tribal lands, lands on which their people have lived and thrived for a thousand years, and now you want me to go there to ask them to help clean up the mess we made?”
Greenway’s cheeks flushed with red as her outrage grew. “Oh, and, gee I forgot, we ask them to do it when they are very sick and depressed about what has been done to them? Are you kidding?” Now Vicky was yelling, while standing behind her desk with her hands on her hips.
“Well, no! Hell, no!”
That was how Vicky took the assignment to accomplish the impossible, the improbable. It was just the kind of work Gerald knew she could not turn down. A military brat who had learned to land on her feet anywhere and get along with everyone, and a woman with a big heart and superb skills in project development. The director of the Center for Southwest Studies had found his emissary in Miss Victoria Greenway.
Susan Feathers 