The snow is almost off the Utes. Remnants of the last storm still persist in light gray streaks down the side of the Sleeping Ute’s folded hands. In the north-facing recesses of the nearby Mesa Verde, high up where the mesa tumbles sheer from its plateau, a few patches cling to the cold shadows. Down on the escarpment, among the clumps of deer grass and the green-brown wash of water jacket and juniper and sage and rabbit brush, the jack-rabbits, technically hares, are still playing out their March madness, even though it’s tax day.
There’s more than a few eyes watching the peak southwest of us. Planting season starts when the snow is off the Utes. With that comes a recognition that perhaps the mountain really is sacred. A hundred miles off, driving in from Kayenta, the characteristic hump of its peak stands sentinel on the far side of the Four Corners. The peaks of the La Platas, forty miles east of Sleeping Ute, weave in and out of sight, the white peak of Hesperus blending in with clumps of cumulus. Ute stands alone, shakes off the worst of the weather, always has its metallic silver clasp over the reposing body of the Great Warrior.
You know those portraits whose eyes follow you around the room. Regardless of whether you’re looking close or far away, from the right or from the left, the artist has somehow managed to paint them in such a way as to always make eye contact. That’s sleeping Ute. There can be a layer of mist obscuring the base but the peak climbs out of the cloud. Playing hide and seek with the sunset, shining like a warrior’s army in the dawn sun, guiding travelers north from Gallup or south from Monticello the mountain anchors this place I call home.