An essay on Native American rock art, specifically Wishram and Wasco Indians of the Washington Columbia Gorge, that employs scholarly and experiential methods. The author’s experiences of holding vigil and exploring inform her scholarly research and analysis.

Zen Master Thich Nhat Hahn’s meditation on drinking tea in his How to Eat book of the Mindfulness Essential series touched my reality this morning. He writes that the whole universe is in a cup of tea. If we can drink the tea while being present in the moment, we can have a spiritual experience. So I picked up my early morning cup of tea and smelled it. I smelled the coconut plant, the tea plant, the cacao plant, the cinnamon plant—all the ingredients in my special dessert tea.

I wander deeper into the Sahara Desert, away from the Tuaregs’ campfire, to find my sleeping place. Far from the others, I am drawn toward a rocky outcropping, but I stop about halfway when I notice Monica ahead of me, going to that same place. I make my bed right there in the sand, where I stop. Snug in my down sleeping bag, I rest in the dark starlight, looking up at the Milky Way, asking for the courage and readiness to “face the West,” the direction of mystery, darkness, and death, at this point in my vision quest journey. As soon as my eyes drift closed, into the hypnagogic state just before sleep takes over, I hear a door slam open, like a gunshot. I startle. I seem to feel or see, emerging out of the shadows, an otherworldly face framed by the door’s outline, in the threshold. The black eyes carry an expression that seems expressionless but isn’t. The presence of the being both thrills and frightens me. I greet “him,” and then he vanishes and sleep and dreams come. The next morning, goosebumps pile on top of goosebumps as Monica and I communicate in my mediocre French, and I discover that she, too, saw the dark figure in the doorway just before sleeping, but she slammed the door shut.

The peace of that mental dark place, that utter quiet of the Shitty Committee, drew me toward the long float. The visions of the theta brainwaves also beckoned. Who needs acid when you have the dark quiet of skin-temperature saltwater?

When I met Trebbe Johnson at her book reading at New Renaissance Bookstore in Portland, Oregon in 2006, I expected to hear about her book, but she started off by talking about her experience as a vision quest leader. I thought, "What's this about? I don't care about vision quests. I'm here for the book!" She seemed to be going on and on about vision quests, and I was feeling annoyed. Then she said, "And for those of you who really want an adventure" (my ears perked up--that's me!) "we go on a vision quest in the Sahara Desert for three weeks, on a camel caravan with the Tuareg people." Um, hello! My heart started pounding; I was "hearing the call."

Spinning in infinity / He says, "Amen!" and "Hallelujah!" I lean my head back into the salt water, in the deep dark, immersing my long hair in the slippery water, careful, careful, don't let it get in my eyes or mouth--it's 10 inches of water with a concentration of 40% epsom salts. The tank or "pod" is coffin-shaped and it's close and humid in there, but I don't panic...