As I write, it is still full dark, the only light in the sky that of a million icy stars and the orange glow of a rising crescent moon. No hint as to the color of the dawn, although in this perfect clear cold, we can predict with some assurance how it will appear: midnight blue ebbing like the tide to expose a momentary golden pink that will in turn give way to the fierce glare of a silvered sun.
The whole day will be clear — bitter, dangerous cold giving way to a high well into the forties this afternoon. It seems like a blessing, but even as we are grateful for the comfort of such momentary respites, we know better than to wish for it. This is no longer a sign of impending climate change, but an effect of it manifesting in real time, and we know that it is not a healthy development. Even so, there is more snow on the way, allegedly, and if true, that is healthy — and in the middle of what remains a prolonged and record drought, desperately needed.
This drought is nothing new; since the nineties, scientists have declared this part of Turtle Island to be caught in the death grip of a 500-year drought, tracked even then by data from tree rings and soil markers and other natural indicia. The few years of heavy monsoon seasons more than a decade ago were not enough to break it, and indeed, it only has worsened in the years since. Last year was the worst, one in which the lack of winter snow and a minuscule monsoon season combined to decimate land, wildlife, and lifeways simultaneously. The lack of snowpack was, if anything, more dangerous than the lack of summer rain, leaving watersheds low, streams and rivers a relative trickle. The wildlife suffered, too, as four-legged creatures were forced toward human habitation in search of water; the monarchs and various migratory birds passed us by; the normal and naturally-occurring supply of fish in the lakes and rivers depleted.
Today’s featured work tracks the movements and patterns of one of the indigenous species of this area, one vital to Native foodways and culture. The subtly flowing lines of the scales on the native rainbow trout and the Rio Grande cutthroat trout mimic the same flowing lines of their progress through local lakes and rivers, the same flowing lines of the waters themselves . . . and the same flowing lines of the alabaster medium from which today’s work swims free. From its description in the Other Artists: Sculpture gallery here on the site:
Taos Pueblo Mountain Trout Sculpture
Master carver Ned Archuleta (Taos Pueblo) has brought a staple of Pueblo foodways into being, following the form and flow of a solid piece of Colorado alabaster. If you look closely, you can see the flowing lines of the matrix in the cool, silky stone, giving the appearance of scales and fins. The ebb and flow of the carving lends motion to the piece.
Pink alabaster on pink alabaster base
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The lines — of fish and stone and water — remind us that our world is ever changing, ever moving, ever seeking means to restore its own balance. We have done much to destroy that balance, the immanent harmony necessary to its survival, and to ours. The trout are no exception; long ago, the dominant culture introduced several invasive species here, to the great detriment of indigenous ones, trout and otherwise. One result has been the imposition of a bag limit, one reduced from three to two last year in an effort to remediate the effects of the extreme drought conditions.
But although we enjoy trout for a meal, we still enjoy them most seen swimming through the cold clear waters of the local lakes and rivers. They are a sign, in healthy numbers and ready movement, their scales flashing in sunlit waters, of the flowing lines of a world in balance.
~ Aji
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