Echoes of Ancient Travelers

The tour bus approached a hand-painted sign that read “Dinosaur Tracks Ahead.” A Navajo woman met us at the end of a dusty road. The vast area beyond was mostly level: no commercial signs or neon lights. No gift shops. We were on Navajo land--the outskirts of Tuba City, Arizona.

As we walked, our guide pointed to large clumps of fossilized dinosaur dung lining part of the walkway across the sandstone. We knelt to examine several fossilized dinosaur eggs partially protruding from the hardened ground. Our guide identified three‑toed carnivorous dinosaur footprints -- theropod footprints (most often attributed to Dilophosaurus, one of the early Jurassic predators known to have lived in this region).

The area was not fenced. I asked, “Who preserves and protects this area? Who manages it?” Our guide answered, "Mother Earth,” and pointed to a set of theropod tracks explaining that those tracks were not visible when she was a girl. As if on cue, a gust of wind moved across the open space. She continued, “The wind and rain will reshape the landscape over time. Some tracks will disappear and some new tracks will appear. But my people will never interfere with the land. The land will reveal what it chooses, when it chooses.”

She also said that American archeologists in search of fossilized bones were turned away. “Someday, many years from now, the bones may be visible -- in Mother Earth’s time, not man’s time.”

She smiled and pointed to a sequence of prints suggesting the dinosaur’s movement. She jokingly stretched her arms and leapt forward, imitating the dinosaur’s jump and its probable sliding in a muddy floodplain millions of years ago.  Then she pointed to imprints of another creature’s tail and wing.

The land is not scenery but a living relative. Navajo teachings emphasize harmony with Mother Earth, Father Sky, and all beings.

As I walked toward the tour bus, I knew I would leave with more than photographs. Something in the stillness of that open land—and a trust that Mother Earth reveals what she chooses—had settled into me. I felt lighter, quieter, more aware of the responsibility we all share to walk gently on the ground that holds our stories.

A Lighter Winter

I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest for eight years, following 18 years in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, and before that, Northeast Pennsylvania was home.  The winter season in Washington State has proved to be the gentlest.

Even though the region is famous for its blanket of gray and rain, the PNW winter is temperate and quiet.

The darkness is soft, not harsh. PNW winters are dominated by cloud cover rather than deep cold. Instead of sharp contrasts or blinding brightness, the region gets a diffuse, even light all day long. Thick cloud layers scatter sunlight, creating a soft, low‑contrast environment that is calming rather than oppressive.

Mild temperatures make winter feel less severe, even though they are cool and wet. Unlike much of the U.S., the PNW rarely experiences extreme cold with harsh storms and deep freezes.  December through March feels like a long autumn. I have found the winter season enjoyable, and don’t mind an outdoor walk in the drizzle under a gray sky. My energy level does not shift into the ‘high’ gear of the spring and summer seasons, I'm more relaxed. And, the evergreen landscapes keep the world visually alive as they keep color and texture year-round, unlike many other regions where the winter strips the landscape bare.

Oh, and have I mentioned snow? The PNW mountains are snow-covered in the wintertime; however, I think my city owns one snowplow 'just in case.' Snow is high-maintenance and immobilizing. Rain is a gentle background noise and a refreshing rinse. We don't have to plow the rain.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve loved each of the places I’ve lived. Each season in each place had defining features.

So while I may miss the postcard beauty of a fresh snowfall, I don’t miss the shoveling, slipping, or strategizing required to survive it. I’ll happily take my drizzle, my moss, and my gray‑sky strolls. And every once in a while, like today, for instance, the last day of January, the sky is blue with a few white clouds, the sun is shining,and the temperature at 1 pm is a pleasant 56 degrees.

In the PNW, even winter seems to know how to take it easy—and I’m learning to do the same.

Shelter Lessons

On and off for the past few months, I’ve been volunteering at a day shelter. I’m not writing this to boast about my tiny bit of volunteer work, rather my intention is to share five things I’ve learned as folk come into this community's refuge from the elements. This shelter also offers an opportunity for those who live in tents or cars to do laundry, take showers, and swap out clothes that can no longer be worn. It also offers a warm, safe place to nap -- folk can borrow pillows and blankets, mats and cots.

Donations are appreciated. Unfortunately, many of the items donated are not things that folk living in tents can use. Things like women’s dress shoes, sexy night gowns, and XXXL-sized pants are seldom, if ever, needed at the day shelter -- other organizations will accept those items. This time of year, folk need warm boots and sneakers, gloves, sweat pants and hoodies, and weather-proof coats.

After signing at the entrance to the shelter, folks find a corner or a couch to claim for a few hours, then they head to the hot water stand where they help themselves to hot tea, cocoa, coffee and sometimes noodle bowls. A local bakery supplies day-old bread and donuts.

A few minutes after opening, folks will come to my door at what is referred to as the clothing bank. I always ask their names. They smile because it’s not a question they often hear. Then I ask, "And what can I find for you?" They know the items are donated and that they may be lucky today or they might have to try again tomorrow.

Bridgette arrived wearing plastic sandals without socks. Her feet were red from the cold and rain. “Maybe a pair of shoes, size eleven,” she asked me. I dug through the bin of women’s dress shoes, bedroom slippers, and sneakers – nothing close to a size eleven. A man’s size 7 was too tight.  The best I could offer from the donated piles of clothes and shoes was two warm, wooly pair of socks. She slipped one pair on her feet and set the other in her duffel bag. She then put on her sandals and cheerfully said, “This will do.”  I mentally filed her name so that I could watch for a size that might fit.

As he returned some pants that were too large, Mike said, “Beggers can’t be choosers.” I stopped him, “No, Mike, don’t you ever say that. We’ll keep looking.” And he waited. And I dug through boxes. But no luck today. He’ll come back tomorrow or the next day, and we’ll try again.

Susan asked for an oversized T-shirt to wear under her sweater. I pulled a bright red from the bin and held it up. She shook her head and said, “Red’s not my color.” I smiled and pulled a deep purple, long-sleeved tee from the rack. Her toothless grin beamed. I said, “This is your color, isn’t it?” She hugged me and went on her way to the nest she made in the corner of the room.

Over his arm were gently worn sweat pants and a flannel shirt. Brian said, “Today’s my day to shower. Do you have any underwear?” Now, that one hit me because first off, we had no underwear in the donation bins, and secondly, imagine what it took for him to ask.

Jack was tall and lean, his pants were shredded and soaking wet. Nothing in the donation bin would fit, but I suggested he hang out for a bit as there were plenty of boxes and bags yet to sort. Much later, I pulled a pair of gently worn flannel-lined, waterproof cargo pants from a mixed bag. I quickly left the room to find Jack, sitting on a mat sipping coffee. The pants fit as if they were made just for him. SCORE!

And on it went. Throughout the morning of sorting donations, I handed out sweat pants, shirts, sweaters, water repellent jackets, a few pair of boots, tarps, sleeping bags, wool caps, gloves, and socks --- lots of socks.

I learned lots of names and these five important lessons about not overlooking small, human details:

1. Dignity is built from tiny increments of comfort.

Bridgette’s wool socks aren’t a solution to homelessness, but they are a solution to cold feet. And in that moment, that’s everything.

2. Personal preference doesn’t disappear with hardship.

The woman who didn’t want red — that’s such a powerful reminder. People often assume that when someone is struggling, they should accept anything. But recognizing someone’s taste, someone’s identity, someone’s right to choose. That’s dignity in action.

3. When something fits — literally or metaphorically — it feels like a win for everyone.

Jack’s cargo pants moment reads like a small miracle. It’s amazing how a single item that fits well can restore a sense of normalcy, even pride.

4. Asking for what you need can be an act of courage.

Brian asking for underwear — that’s vulnerability. We need to meet that vulnerability with compassion rather than awkwardness or pity. That matters more than you know.

5. Language shapes self-worth.

When Mike said, “Beggars can’t be choosers,” I couldn’t let it stand. No one should shrink themselves. Gentle correction can shift someone’s internal narrative. Everyone deserves to be treated like a person with preferences, not a burden.

The next time you see a street person panhandling on the corner, if you're inclined to give them a couple of dollars, please do so...and remember to ask their name!

Wishing you and yours a healthy and peaceful New Year!