One of my
favourite places on the planet is Writing-on-Stone historic site, in the extreme south
of the province. It’s a magnificent landscape, first of all, with a view across
the Milk River of the Sweetgrass Hills of Montana rising out of the plain. At
sunrise and sunset in this valley the colours of the bands of rock strata rock
light up and glow with an otherworldly beauty.
And then
there are the petroglyphs and pictographs, the drawings and paintings on the
faces of the rock. The Blackfoot call this place Áísínai’pi, meaning “it is
written” (or “it is pictured”). Aboriginal people see this valley as a home to
powerful spirits, and many of the carvings in the rock depict encounters with
these beings. But the carvings also commemorate historical events, such as the
arrival of horses and Europeans to the area.
When Sharon
and I first visited here, before we were married, we arrived on a sizzling hot
day, the heatsink of summer in southern Alberta. We nearly ran over a
rattlesnake (well, a snake, anyhow) basking in the middle of the road. We were
parched, but as we were camping in a tent on the flats, there was little relief
from the heat. We clambered among the rocks, marveling at the art we found. I
saw a figure with its arms raised to the sky, and over its head a line in an
arc, like a rainbow. I didn’t take a picture of it, and I’ve never seen it
reproduced in any articles or websites that I’ve found since about the
park.
In the
evening, a huge dark wall of cloud rose in the west. Briefly the clouds broke and
sunset fell across the world like a path of gold. We could see the tiny shapes of pronghorn
antelope dotting the plain, miles away, like stars. Then the clouds closed back
in and that night a torrential rainstorm was unleashed on the valley. Our tent
was flooded and nearly washed away. It looked as if we’d managed to camp in a
dried-up creekbed.
The next
morning, cold, soaked and miserable, we left the park and stopped for gas in
the nearby town of Milk River. The attendant, an older man, said they hadn’t
had a storm like that here for years. Which was more proof to us that we should
hire ourselves out as rainmakers, since wherever we go when we’re tenting, no
matter how unlikely the chance of precipitation, there’s sure to be a downpour.
I came back
to Writing-on-Stone years later with a writer friend. This time we took a
guided tour with a group of other visitors. The guide showed us some of the
rock art, and told us what was known about it. He also carefully explained that
the art, while it might look crude by contemporary standards, was not meant to be
representational but was highly symbolic and stylized, as much a script as it was pictorial. Hence the
name Writing on Stone. This idea
didn’t sink in with one of the other tourists, who pondered the carvings with
the rest of us and then, at the end of the tour, loudly gave his verdict: “Man,
them Indians sure couldn’t draw good.”
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