Birding 101

“If one keeps his eyes open, he will see the teachings everywhere.”
Buddha

“Well don’t you know about the bird? Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word.”
The Trashmen



For a successful birdwalk, you will need to gather a few items to help you along your journey. Firstly, you will need a strong pair of walking shoes, rubber-soled with grooves for negotiating steep hills and muddy places. Long socks as opposed to shin-highs or footies are preferred as occasionally you may venture from the path and get burrs or foxtails stuck in your shoes. One pair of binoculars or a telescope (this is a must for identification and viewing the rich color patterns of feathers). A copy of Peterson’s “Field Guide to Western Birds” or “National Geographic’s Field Guide to Birds of North America” to quickly reference any species you meet along the way. One notepad and pen for documenting species and for noting other points of interest. One wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off your face, (unless the sun is no where to be found). Long- sleeve shirt or sweater or jacket as you will be getting an early start because birds are most active at first light and generally this is a chilly time of day. Other items you will find useful: bottled water, sunscreen, energy bar, sunglasses, camera (long lens preferably), bug spray, map of area, patience, generosity, courage, wisdom, open eyes, an open mind, some stamina and definitely, most of all, an open heart.
My first birding excursion was on a mild spring day, April 2008, at the Thousand Oaks Botanical Garden. Some fog in the early morning that I knew would burn off around lunch. We were running late, my ten-year-old daughter, Sofia, already complaining, “I hate birds”, she exclaimed, throwing herself back in the seat.
“How can you hate birds?” I asked.
“I just do.”
I didn’t know how to respond. When you hate birds, you hate birds. There is no argument for this.
My wife was also not very thrilled at the idea of spending early Saturday morning, when she could have been sleeping in, with a bunch of strangers on a walk to look at birds.
“I can look at birds in my back yard. Why do we need to get up so early?”
“Um…”
“I worked hard all week and now we have to spend my Saturday morning with a bunch of strangers walking in the park?”
“Yeah, well…”
“We can walk in the park anytime,” she whined.
“This is special. This is like meditation,” was my answer but I didn’t really know what to expect either. I had never been on a guided birdwalk before and was a little nervous at the prospect. I was concerned I didn’t know the proper etiquette and might say something stupid or inappropriate which usually find myself doing anyhow, no matter what the circumstances.
The only experience I had as a birder was when I was around nine or ten and found a dusty copy of the Peterson’s Field Guide on our book shelf. I loved the illustrations and found myself venturing into the forests around Mud Bay in northwestern Washington State, identifying fantastic and magical species of birds such as the Flicker, the Kingfisher, the giant Pileated Woodpecker, the tiny House Wren, the Mourning Dove, the Goldfinch, the Killdeer, the Great Blue Heron, the Chickadee, Steller’s Jay, the Cedar Waxwing (one of my favorites), all of which I knew well by my tenth year. I would sketch little drawings of the birds and make notes of their identifying marks and calls.
One of the most awe-inspiring experiences I had birding as a youth was coming upon a network of Great Blue Heron nests atop a grove of cottonwood trees and seeing the magnificent creatures in large numbers shadowed in silhouette, trumpeting and squawking, like giant, mythic sentinels from some lost prehistoric epoch.

We drove around the parking lot of the Botanical Gardens, realizing the park had three different entrances and was quite vast, encircling a series of wooded hills in the Conejo Valley of Southern California.
My stomach grew queasy at the fear of this new adventure and for being twenty minutes late already. Soon we spotted a cluster of cars at the furthest interior lot. A group of people huddled together in a semi-circle. My first thought was they were doing some kind of pre-birding ritual to perhaps appease the bird gods to make for a favorable walk. They looked like players on a football team receiving plays from a quarterback.
My contact was Roger of the Ventura County Audubon Society. I knew nothing about Roger only that he sounded white and older and somewhat kindly on the phone.
“This sucks. I can’t believe we’re doing this,” my daughter imparted with encouragement.
“Just check it out. Could be fun,” I tried to pump her up.
“Yeah, right.” She made a face at me that basically said, “Dad, you’re a loser.” Ten-year-old girls these days have a lot of attitude. If you don’t have one yet, you will soon find this out.
As we made our way across the long parking lot toward the group, I realized they were not doing some pre-birding ritual but looking at nature photos Roger has taken. Roger was a wiry little man with a sturdy build, outwardly unaffected by his seventy-one years on this planet. Still very vigorous and in great shape, he looked like he could walk forever, up any mountain, through any dense thicket, crossing a desert if need be. He was dressed in khakis of an agricultural bent, floppy-brimmed hat. His eyes were intense and I instantly anticipated getting a frontal assault of big male ego energy at our first exchange, but this couldn’t have been be further from the truth. When he spoke his face softened and kindness mixed with deep compassion shone through. He exuded an inner peace and natural openness with the world around him.
“Hey, you must be Roger. I’m Jay. I called and talked to Ann and she told me to meet here,” I stuttered nervously.
“Great.”
“I found you guys online through the newsletter and thanks for having me,” I said.
He looked at me calmly, subdued, with the eyes of a saint.
“Welcome. Thanks for joining us.” He returned to showing a few more photos to other persons in the group.
It was primarily an older crowd, well-educated, well-groomed, clean, tidy. And happy. Everybody was very welcoming. I didn’t expect this because it is still only 8:20am in the morning and sometimes it’s tough for people, including myself, to look like they’re having a peachy-keen time right after they wake up.
Instantly, an older woman with a Safari hat and vest approached me.
“Where are your binoculars? Can’t see anything without binoculars.”
“Yeah, dad. Where are your binoculars?” my daughter prodded sarcastically.
“Uh, well that’s the thing…I forgot them because we were running late.”
“Oh well, we better go,” my daughter snapped.
My heart sunk. I had actually set out a pair of old binoculars but forgotten to throw them in the car when we left.
“I think Dennis has an extra pair.”
This was not thirty seconds into arrival, already someone was willing to help me secure a pair of binoculars. A few words were exchanged with a tall, geeky looking man, Dennis, and I have secured my very own pair of Eagle Optics 6x30 binoculars for the excursion. Before I knew it, my daughter snatched the pair from my hands and threw the strap around her neck, proudly claiming herself “Keeper of the Binoculars”, doling out their use at her whim.
“Hey, I thought you hated birds?” I asked my daughter.
“I do but I’m still carrying the binoculars.”
Raw deal.
Before we advanced to the hiking trail, we were already encountering many species of birds right there in the parking lot. A small group pointed excitedly toward a distant grassy hill with a single valley oak tree that twisted toward the sky. I asked someone what the excitement was. “Red-tailed hawk”. I glassed the hillside and couldn’t find anything in the jittery, limited field of view. A heavy-set man with 60s style square glasses named Matt, tapped me on the shoulder and motioned toward his telescope mounted on a tripod. I looked through the viewfinder and was blown away. I couldn’t believe the rich color pattern I beheld. It looked like a painting. The red-tailed hawk’s coloring was nothing like I had ever seen before. Bright, beautiful, vibrant. I wanted to stare longer but a small line was forming behind me to get a peek through the scope.
I asked my daughter if she was able to view the hawk with the borrowed binoculars. She shot back with a facetious look that is best described as “someone who is mentally challenged looking excited”. From the parking lot we made our way across the grass and up a slope to the hiking trail. I walked close to Roger because I had a burning question I really wanted to ask him but found myself really just wanting to talk to the guy because he had such a soothing, peaceful aura about him that seemed to affect everyone and everything within his range.
“There is a little dark-colored bird, with a light body and a dark crest. It’s a friendly bird and one of its behaviors is to “dip” from its perch and swoop into the grass and return to its spot. I call it a “Grassdipper” but I know that’s not its real name,” I explained.
“Could be a Black Phoebe. Where have you seen this bird?”
“Usually at my house. In my back yard. At the park,” I told him.
“What kind of call does it have?”
“It’s a single tweet. And it moves its tail when it does this.”
“A Black Phoebe. It’s a type of flycatcher. When it “dips” into your yard it is catching a fly which is its primary diet. There’s also a Say’s Phoebe and a Vermillion Flycatcher that are similar. The Vermillion Flycatcher is exceptionally rare though.”
“Is it really vermillion?”
“Bright red.”
We strolled together for a moment and my mind raced for things to say because this was one of the rare moments when I had Roger alone. He was constantly swarmed by members of the society during the walk.
“What kind of work do you do? Are you retired? How long have you been doing this?” I anxiously threw out random questions to Roger just because I wanted to talk to the guy and dwell in his aura of peace.
“About twenty-eight years. I retired a few years ago.”
“So you do this. What else do you do?”
“I roam.”
Two women closed in on Roger to ask him about a strange bird one of them had seen in her backyard that looked like a mini-hawk which he explained was probably an American Kestral or Sparrowhawk.
The trail meandered past endless fields of wild mustard, California sunflower, white alder trees, desert willows, wild lilac and a myriad of valley oaks.
As we walked, I took note of all the birds we identified in my journal. People in the group were more than happy to make sure I got the names and spellings correct.
My daughter was getting into it, excited and dancing now, finding the birds with the binoculars and being stunned by the rich colors.
We saw Alan’s Hummingbird, Western Kingbird, the bright orange-yellow Hooded Oriole, California Quayle, American Goldfinch, California Towee, Western Bluebird, Red-Tailed Hawk, House Wren (although I am confused because the House Wren in California are larger than the tiny House Wren I knew from Washington State), Song Sparrow, Nutcatcher, House Finch, Acorn Woodpecker (who is named thus because he hides his acorns in little holes in oak trees. Roger points this out to us on the walk), American Robin, Black Phoebe (I call this a Grassdipper), Mallard (Male), Bush Titt, Mourning Dove, White-Crested Nuthatch.
We stopped for a water break near a sapphire dragon tree and I noticed there was one man off by himself, smoking. He was the only person who didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. He looked irritable, like someone had dragged him along and he much rather wanted to be golfing or watching a baseball game. He was tall, thin, with a shock of gray hair, sunglasses and pastel clothing that appeared more functional for library wear than a nature hike. He was also the only person without a pair of binoculars or spotting scope. I heard a few people ask him questions like, “Alan, did you sell your boat yet?” or “Alan, are you going to the walk in Ojai next week?” Along the way I threw him a few questions about incidentals just to see what he was about which he only answered with a grunt or groan. When he was alone with his cigarette, I mustered the courage to ask a more direct question, “Why do you do this?”
After a long pause, remaining stone-faced, he answered with an uncertain smile:
“It comforts me.” I was surprised by his candor. He ground his cigarette into the dirt with his jogging shoe.
“But you’re the only one here who seems like they don’t really want to be here.” He looked at me again with mild irritation. (Note to the reader, I am generally only this direct with people I am certain I can subdue in hand-to-hand combat).
“My wife was really into it,” said Alan.
“She didn’t come today?”
“She passed on.”
“I’m sorry.”
That hurt me a little bit. I was being a pushy jerk because I thought he had an attitude and he was really only still mourning the death of his wife. Talking further with Alan, I found out that he was retired from an executive job at a pharmaceutical company, married nearly forty years and had never gone birdwatching with his wife before. He only began when his wife got sick.
“I like to come with Roger because some of the other people who lead these things are idiots, frankly,” Alan confided.
“This is my first.”
“I know.”
“How did you know?”
“You ask too many questions.”
I always have the strange tendency to ask weird questions of complete strangers.
As we walked further down the trail which snaked into an oak forest along a trickling creek, I dropped the bomb:
“Do you believe in God?”
Alan glared at me with absolute incredulity as if I had asked him if he had ever raped his grandmother.
“I’m an atheist,” he replied.
“That’s cool.”
“I believe in the Church of High Overhead,” he said with levity.
I thought of something else to say and we kind of just walked alongside each other feeling that clumsy silence of two personalities who repel each other like the wrong sides of colliding magnets.
Before I moved off to join my wife and daughter who have ventured ahead on the trail, he caught me with a question of his own.
“Do you believe?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“But what do you base that on?”
Dennis, the man who had loaned me the binoculars, chuckled and stepped between us like a ref between two boxers, sensing the heaviness in the air.
“How did we get on this God debate?”
“He started it,” Alan said with a hint of good humor in his expression.
“No. He did. I swear,” I said.
“Let me ask you this. Where is God? Where can I see him?”
Dennis slouched off, shaking his head and flashing an uneasy grin.
I looked at Alan’s eyes that shone slightly through his hundred dollar Ray Bans. I saw some macho haughtiness but there was pain and anguish there too.
I wanted to say something really profound here but couldn’t find the words. You know when you’re confronted with the chance to convey some earth-shattering philosophical concept that could change lives, shift realities, move mountains…but you don’t? All you can focus on is your anxiety as your mind races a million miles an hour. I even entertained the idea of changing a non-believer into a believer with a single, well-delivered gem of inspiration.
I tried to formulate something and it came out all wrong: “It’s really all about what you choose to believe…I mean, who we are as…you know…where we are spiritually…”
He made an exasperated sound by blowing air out of his mouth and skipped ahead of me down the narrow trail. Then it came to me, “Everywhere”. That’s what I should have said. “He’s everywhere!” I wanted to run after him and take his arm and yell right in his face: “Everywhere!” Or scream at him from a distance so it echoed over the distant hills, “Hey Alan! Everywhere-where-where-where!” Hah!
Then I read his mind: Yeah, screw you! You blew it! I don’t believe, jerkface! Because of you, I will never believe! I will die a non-believer and end up in hell because you don’t know how to communicate your ideas! I opened the door for you to say something profound and you stuttered like a school girl! You amateur! You fake! Loser!
I tried to catch up with him and tell him but a man had cornered him in discussion about a sail boat he owned that was collecting barnacles in Ventura Harbor. I had blown it, big time.
We never spoke again the rest of the walk and later I learned that Alan had a stroke a few months after the birdwalk and half of his body was paralyzed. I never heard if he recovered or not.
As we neared the end of the walk, a few people had already left. I looked at my wife and daughter and they appeared energized. They were laughing and singing. My wife’s stress level from the previous week of trying to earn a living and never having enough, had melted away. She was happy and excited.
“Hey Sofi, how did you like the walk?” I asked my daughter. “Did you have fun?”
“No,” was her flat answer but I knew she did by the way she was filled with such joy and excitement.
“I actually had a really good time. I’m surprised,” my wife added. “And best of all, it’s not even eleven yet. We still had the whole day to do things.”
Roger thanked me for coming and said we should join him on a walk to the grasslands of Oxnard by the beach in two weeks. He began to list off some of the species we might encounter. I told him I would love to. When my wife and daughter were out of earshot, I cut Roger off as he continued naming various shore birds.
“Roger, tell me, why do you really do this?”
“This?”
“Birdwatching.”
“I hadn’t really thought about that.”
“It’s just fun for you, or…”
“I have no clue. Why do you do it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Since I was a kid, I felt a connection. I also read it’s a good walking meditation.”
“You want to know why I do it?” I looked at him, anticipating some heady gem. “I have no clue,” he said and patted me on the shoulder with a sheepish grin.
Back at the car I asked my daughter the big question, “Do you still hate birds?”
“Yes.”

Feeling Connected Pt. 1

I follow Randy and his wife June, up the winding highway 150 to Ojai. His wife drives like a lunatic and I have to be Mario Andretti to keep up.
Randy is an actor friend and aspiring writer who attends a bi-monthly peyote ceremony in the Ojai valley for his Native American religion. He tells me this is the most profound spiritual experience of his life and urges me to check it out. How can I resist the invitation?
I have always loved and respected Native American pathways and appreciated their tradition and deep connection to the earth and nature. I do harbor a bit of trepidation at the thought of ingesting peyote. I am generally a person who avoids drugs and alcohol, not because I am a prude or a square, I just never liked the idea of that kind of unnatural escape and always thought it would hamper my creativity.
As Randy’s wife, June, Nascars the highway, I begin to feel nauseating fear building in my guts. I am concerned I might be socially pressured to take the drug or fall victim to some Indian faux paux if I am not careful. I don’t want to embarrass Randy and make everyone feel uncomfortable being the only one who doesn’t fully partake in the ritual.
On the drive up, Randy and June pull along the side of the road and Randy tells me he saw “Coyote” cross the road which is a good omen for tonight’s ritual. “Coyote” symbolizes good fortune and a safe trip. A red-tailed hawk is also spotted on the drive which means favorable blessings and self-awareness. They fail to mention though what the omen means for all the flattened bunnies, squirrels, raccoons and other small varmints June leaves in her relentless wake.
Randy is small and wiry with an enormous head. His acting skills are unparalleled but his writing is average. His wife is a very plain, blond woman with a low, subdued energy level and she seems to hold in a lot of emotion, perfectly contrasting Randy, who is very flamboyant and outspoken. I had originally assumed he was gay at our first meeting and was rather astounded when I learned he was actually married to a woman, with real parts and everything.
At a rural site off the highway, we collect long timber poles to construct the teepee. Randy ducks out of the work by talking incessantly with anyone who will listen or by making himself look busy by kicking around in the dust and removing things from the soles of his shoes. His wife vanishes for a while, also opting out of the hard labor which is reserved for the men of the tribe.
We share a peace pipe as we construct the teepee, to appease the spirits. It is not actually a pipe but a small, flat cigarette tied together with string. I am the fifth in line to take a puff. I have never smoked anything so I am clueless how to do this. I just play along trying my best to look reverential so as not to piss of the Road Chief, Rick, a massive, kindly man with a barrel chest and giant brown hands and calves. He appears quiet and humble when you meet him on the street, but at this ceremony he is larger than life, a gargantuan personality who seems to spiritually come alive in his element and drift back into obscurity when trying to re-assimilate into the white man’s world.
The teepee is constructed and other attendants begin to trickle in. It is an earthy crowd, many of the people not looking like they hold down regular jobs. Besides the Chief, his daughter, the Fire Man, and the Drum Man, I think everyone else is white.
I roam off by myself to walk along a river and get in touch with nature and God. I sit quietly by myself and do some simple meditations and prayers. I want to be open and humble for this experience to get the most out of it. I know my cynicism is my own worst enemy and don’t want it to spoil the experience. This is obviously a very sacred ritual to these people and to harbor negative thoughts has always been my undoing.
Alone, out here in the forest, away from everyone, I feel peaceful and connected.
I notice a spotted hawk perched on the roots of a tree that has been swept over in the recent rains. I remove my shoes and cross the river, climbing up on the opposite bank to get a closer look at the hawk. He doesn’t fly away. He doesn’t seem to mind my approach at all. I think to myself, maybe this is another sign; this great bird telling me everything is okay and I am actually close to nature and connected with Mother Earth.
I walk right up to the hawk, and strangely, he doesn’t move, just looks at me. I peer around wondering if this is someone’s domesticated pet. The hawk is massive and beautiful, with a white tail, spotted wings, and bright yellow eyes.
I “pish” at him to show I am not here to harm him. Pishing is a high-pitched, squeaky sound birdwatchers use to connect with birds. The hawk tilts his head sideways inquisitively, when I make the call. He doesn’t show even the slightest ounce of fear.
I look at his wings and talons to see if he is injured but find no signs of external damage.
I gaze around again wondering if this is some joke or someone is taping a hidden camera show. I actually expect the owner to come around a corner yelling, “get away from my bird, jerk!”
I move a few inches closer, making another pishing sound. He stays in that exact spot, only shuffling his talons a little on the branch.
I hold out my index finger as you do with a parrot when you want him to perch on you. I think of the majestic thrill of being connected to this great raptor and having him sit on my finger. He just watches my finger, deeply interested. I move it toward his spotted white belly, pishing quietly again. He looks into my eye as if he has known me for ages. He sees through all my insecurities, my limitations, my human frailties. For him, I am only another creature of the forest. I represent no predatory threat or challenge. I think of the great St. Francis of Assisi and his amazing spiritual advancement where he could commune with wildlife and they would follow him around like Dr. Doolittle. I understand that when you are in tune with the Divine, nature automatically obeys. I was beginning to sense that I, myself, despite my failings and cynicism, was perhaps truly a spiritually advanced soul who had finally attained mastery over beasts of the field and birds of the sky.
I move my index finger right up to the spotted hawk’s belly, pressing it against the downy feathers. My eyes are like poached eggs; like a kid at his first big Christmas.
Then he pecks the shit out of me.
He freakin’ annihilates my finger.
He grips it in his razor-sharp beak and doesn’t let go for what seems like forever.
The hawk issues a piercing shriek and flies off, brushing my cheek with his wing as he goes.
For a moment I am stunned. I can’t believe he did such a thing. We were getting along so well. My finger is throbbing. The bird instantly shatters my delusion of being at one with nature. I look up and catch a glimpse of him disappearing over the tree line. What an asshole. You build up a man’s hopes like that, then yank the rug out from under his feet.
I hold my bleeding finger under the freezing water of the creek. There is a gash right at the joint that oozes blood. The pain continues to throb dully.
I am not really sure what my intention was at having a wild hawk perch on my finger, and after about twenty seconds, after I get over the shock of it, the whole idea seems really rather idiotic. Completely idiotic, as a matter of fact. What the hell was I thinking?
Ever notice how lots of things don’t seem that idiotic until you actually do the idiotic thing and look back and go, “hey, that was really freakin’ idiotic”?
Sometimes it’s too late to know you were an idiot at the time until after you are an idiot and realize it. Words of wisdom. You can write that down if you like.

Later that night, inside the teepee, the Fire Man burns wood in the center of the dirt floor with cedar incense which is supposed to curb the feelings of nausea which can accompany ingesting the peyote, the key ingredient being mescaline.
We sit in a wide circle around the fire. I was told to bring a few pillows and a blanket but I have forgotten. I use my sweatshirt to pad my seat. For now this suffices.
Rick, the Road Chief, starts off with a short prayer: “I am going into my place of worship. Be with us tonight, oh Creator.”
I end up being seated right next to Rick and his sister, Glenda, a heavy-set, simple woman who smiles a lot but doesn’t say much. She passes me this tea that tastes like clay and I take a sip and pass it. They begin chanting as the Drum Man beats the drum. The tea is passed again and I take another sip. This tea seems to have a relaxing effect as I can feel my pulse rate slow, the thrumming of the blood in my veins at my neck keeping beat with the steady thud of the drum. A warm, mellow feeling washes over my body blanketing every fiber of my frame.
Glenda passes me peyote which looks like slices of a dark-colored mushroom. I notice everyone wolfing this stuff down like it’s going out of style. I look at Randy as he sways and chants, his eyes closed, in some kind of deep trance.
The humming vibrations of the chanting bore deep in my chest. I can feel my ribs quivering. I try to play along as the Fire Man is now using the flaming coals to fashion amazing designs on the floor of the teepee. He creates a flaming mountain. Then he creates what looks like a coyote. Then an inverted deer. Glenda keeps passing me peyote and notices my constant squirming as the pain in my knees and ankles from sitting for so long in one spot grows unbearable.
“Take more peyote. I will help relax you,” she says quietly.
I am relaxed. Don’t I look like I’m relaxed? She didn’t know I am stuffing the peyote underneath my sweater. After a while I have a big pile of the stuff under me and I am worried how I am going to dispose of it before the Road Chief sees me and gives me a sound boxing to the ears.
It is about at this point that alarming numbers of the congregation begin to vomit into the dirt in front of them. Randy had explained this is people upchucking their sins and impurities, a direct result of the peyote ingestion which forces everyone to face their own hidden demons. For right now, I am okay with my sins, demons and whatnot just so long as I didn’t have to hurl my guts out in front of strangers on the dirt floor of the teepee. This only proves to heighten my fear of eating the drug.
The drum finally reaches me. Each person has a turn to pound on it and do their own personal chant. Everyone gets into the groove and knows the lingo, letting the Great Spirit guide their words and song.
When the drum comes to me, I kind of look around for some guidance but no one seems to offer any. The Chief’s sister motions to the drum as I sit in dumb silence holding it between my knees like my pecker. Finally I belt out the only Indian chant I know from childhood, “Hiawatha! Hiawatha! Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” while banging on the drum like a cretin. A few white people shoot me scornful looks like they think I’m not being serious. No one else seems to notice or care or are too embarrassed or stoned to look at me and make a scene. Some are busy vomiting, and for a moment I think this is a direct result of my pathetic chant. I look at Randy to make sure he isn’t giving me the stink-eye, and fortunately, he is whacked out of his mind, swaying too and fro and humming something unintelligible.
I am not sure if it is the strange tea or the chanting or the drumming or the smoky ambiance of the cedar incense but there are rare moments when I am taken away and feel I am in touch with that deeper place I saw on the mountain when I looked inside myself in deep meditation. I suddenly feel at one with this motley group of white people who want to be Indians.
Then I begin hallucinating.
The Fire Man spins an incredible flaming eagle on the floor that rises up like the Phoenix, out of the ashes and hovers in the center of the teepee. I look around to see if anyone else notices this apparition and everyone is off in dreamland, chanting and swaying. Then I am suddenly lifted off the dirt floor!