The Curse of Niwot

“In the American Southwest, I began a lifelong love affair with a pile of rocks.” - Edward Abbey

Manifest Destiny, the westward expansion of the American populace, abutted settlers from origins as diverse as England, Germany, Scandinavia, Ireland, ex-slaves from the South, wealthy Easterners that saw dollars signs cresting the peaks of the continental divide against, not only the mountains, but against Native Americans and “God's dog”; the coyote.

The word coyote comes from the Aztec word for the canine, “coyotl,.” To the Aztecs the coyote was the manifestation of the god Huehuecoyotl, the Old Coyote. He was a trickster god, playing cruel pranks on the other gods, throwing great parties worthy of any rock star's debauch, and prodded humanity into war to assuage his boredom. It seems, according to local news, that the coyote is living up to his trickster ways:

“There have been recent human-coyote interactions in Boulder. Open Space and Mountain parks and the State of Colorado Division of Wildlife encourage people to:

1. Avoid Coyotes

2. Never approach a coyote or any wild animal

3. Do not deliberately or accidentally feed coyotes

4. Do not leave food where it may be available to coyotes

5. Use extra caution around dusk or dawn

6. Avoid den sites and thick vegetation

Do not allow dogs to interact or play with coyotes

Report any unusual coyote behavior immediately”

- From the City of Boulder, Colorado's Facebook page

This posting, meant to instill caution into the populace, seems to sell the coyote short. Native American tribes (including the Aztec) thought that the coyote was, besides a representation of a god, the smartest animal on earth (whether or not they counted humans into this equation is unknown). Besides ancient superstition, science has found that coyotes are one of the most vocal land mammals known to be in existence (besides humans, of course).

We have all heard, or at least heard-of, the coyote's classical and chilling howls in the night. There is something more sinister in their wailing that trumps the wolf's lonely howl and maligns the cougar's roar. Perhaps it is the smallness of the animal. The coyote is barely over a foot tall and barely three feet long (on average). We picture the coyote and his cohorts, small beasts in the immensity of the landscape, screaming for recognition, much like ourselves. Like a great book, profound poem, immortal song, or poignant film, the coyote's call is chilling in its ultimacy. That forlorn cry at the edge of night, so strangely akin to a baby's scream for milk, yet mutilated somehow, bizarre and inexplicable.

And it is this cry of God's dog that informs Boulder, as can be seen by the recent “human-coyote interactions.” Boulder, as is known to those who live here, is bounded by a majestic scenery that is truly awesome in its scope. The Flat Irons (named for their resemblance to, of course, flat irons) are a constant sight, overhanging the city like benevolent shafts of divinity. And all about them are trails and parks which match them (though on a smaller scale) in beauty and breath-taking stop-for-a-second-and-let-your-mind-go-blank impressive aesthetics. And all of these areas are, of course, coyotl's domain.

But, for the past who-knows-how-long (thousands of years, most likely) coyotl has shared the land now called the City of Boulder with humanity. The Utes were the first known tribe of (Native American) humans to live in the area. After numerous wars and decades-long encroachment, the Arapahoe, a Great Lakes tribe forced into what would become a permanent diaspora because of incessant westward white settlement, took over the land where the Utes once ruled. But, in an odd twist of historical karma, white settlers came to “Boulder” in 1858, beginning the Arapahoe's further displacement. According to a local website, Boulderguide.info:

“Chief Niwot, also known as Left Hand, was a leading chief at the time of the arrival of the first settlers. When the first settlers arrived at Settlers Park in 1858, Chief Niwot went to tell them to leave and that they were not welcome. The settlers refused and Niwot, seeing that they were well armed, decided that it would be better to try and keep the peace with them. As the story goes, Chief Niwot uttered these words 'People seeing the beauty of this valley will want to stay, and their staying will be the undoing of its beauty.' And they [the words] became known as the curse of Niwot.”

When one comes upon Settlers Park it is obvious (somewhat) why the first settlers chose the area for a campsite. Though the land seems out-of-the-way and rather windy for a campsite, it does provide a magnificent view of the surrounding territory (good for keeping watch against Indian raids). But there's an obvious reason why the settlers chose this patch of ground for their first campsite. The place is overwhelming. The rock formation that erects itself from the ground like a maimed hand of some gigantic titan long-ago cast underground, rises above the top of the hill, its red rocks crest like a cockscomb, strutting across the base of the Rockies.

Clambering up the rocks, one will see carvings, not so old as the Arapahoe or Ute, but instead from the 1920's, 1930s, etc. The kind of markings one would expect to see on the side of a rail-car, sprayed in an artistic hand, proclaiming the love between Jose and Greta (another interesting fact about coyotes: they mate for life, only taking another partner if their spouses die). But these markings attest to the permanence of the red stone. These scars in the stone (much less charming than those made by wind and water) are withered, facing perhaps—at most—another hundred years of existence. These minor scars, like faded green tattoos on an old sailor, remind one of the ephemeral nature of one's life, and that, we too, like the Utes, the Arapahoe, the settlers, will pass, and the rock, shedding its skin like an eternal serpent, will remain.

After the first settlers came to “Boulder” the Arapahoe (who, in honor of their usurpation, have a street named after them) attempted to keep peace with the settlers. But as the settlers numbers increased exponentially year after year, rogue Arapahoes started attacking the settlers (the incubate town of Boulder, in the territory of Colorado). The relations between the settlers and the natives deteriorated, obviously, with murders, rapes, and thefts, changing sides like a bottle of drink.

The problem, as most “Indian problems,” was solved by the US Army. On November 29, 1864, Colonel Chivington—a hero of the Union for the Wild-West—attacked the Sand Creek Reservation, the last residence of the Arapahoe people (after being pushed there from continued white settlement). According to the Boulderguide.info website:

“Colonel Chivington and his army of men attacked the Sand Creek Reservation at dawn, surprising a sleeping village of poorly armed Native Americans. It was a massacre in which estimates 150-200 Native Americans died, mostly unarmed woman and children.

“The attack was basically the end of what was left of the traditional Southern Arapahoe tribe and system. A few warriors escaped and went on a warpath pillaging and killing any settlers they saw for years. But most survivors spent the rest of their lives in poverty and despair on reservations.”

Another of Boulder's sights is Mt. Sanitas. This “mountain,” a hike way from Settlers Park, is, in contrast, a cropping of algae and moss-covered rock that looks a nauseating green from a distance. Yet, once one is up in its boulders and rock croppings, it may be even more spiritual in aspect than the red rocks of Settlers Park. If one approaches the Mount, at the cusp of night (though that part of the park is now off-limits to hikers until July while the Raptors roost—no not dinosaurs, birds), especially when the moon is out, you'll have quite the experience. The rocks rise up before you, often in sudden groups of tight rocks and giant monoliths of rock that look like demons or deities in the dark. Yes; there is some fear attached to the feeling that stuns you while you walk past them, but, in general, they're benevolent.

But one must wonder. The inhabitants of Boulder, the old and young, prance about these rocks and mounts as if they were part of some poverty-level gymnasium. As if there were no history. No Arapahoes (besides the street) and no Utes, no dead settlers, no blood christening those high elevation red rocks. Blood and bone acting as a perpetual fertilizer. People trace back and forth like mice in an indomitable maze, jogging, forcing their dogs to jog—pretending that these parks are the extensions of their living-rooms and quaint streets—somewhere to run the dog, let 'em poop, pick it up, rid some calories, converse, and pretend to be hip and in-tune with the surrounding community. But, whether you believe in superstition or not, the inhabitants of Boulder tread on ghosts.

Indeed, like much of America and especially the west, Boulder too is a grave-site of the poisoned relations between Natives and settlers, relations that usually ended in the latter's eventual disillusion through famine and poverty and outright massacre. Though, besides the olde worlde ghost hauntings related by locals and often not predating the 1900s, it seems that the city and its surrounding majestic parks and hiking trails are emptied of any apparitions. Instead the only ghostly figures prowling the land are coytle, the wily and mischievous dog of God whom the Natives revered. Perhaps it is the coyotes who take the place of insubstantial Indian ghosts and bleeding settlers?

Whether or not the coyote represents some mythical retribution for the Arapahoe and Utes who once lived here, there still remains the fact that the land, besides its obvious beauty, has unseen scars. Chief Niwot's curse, that the land will lose its beauty, remains open to interpretation. Settlers Park, Mount Sanitas, and the Flat Irons astounding beauty is evident, but the valley below, covered in pavement and concrete, fumegated daily with bus, car and truck exhaust, may not have been so lucky. As a character in Thomas Pynchon's novel, Mason & Dixon, says:

"To rule forever," continues the Chinaman, later, "it is necessary only to create, among the people one would rule, what we call...Bad History. Nothing will produce Bad History more directly nor brutally, than drawing a Line, in particular a Right Line, the very Shape of Contempt, through the midst of a People,-- to create thus a Distinction betwixt 'em,-- 'tis the first stroke.-- All else will follow as if predestin'd, unto War and Devastation."

The valley and its gridded streets indeed have not only buried the ghosts, but have also produced just those lines of contention, whether imagined or actual. And in between those lines, in between the daily commute, the afternoon hikes and healthy jogs, the coyotes stalk and scream into the night, as they did before the lines and the humans that created them. Vocal witnesses to the bloody history underlying Boulder—reminding us by their constant and unmoving presence, that there are things more ancient here than humans and their futile creations.