My grandfather was a member of the Confederated Tribes and Bands
Of The Yakama Nation, but strangely we did not discuss my native
american heritage much. He was half Cherokee and abandoned by
his father at a young age. He grew up in a time when a native
american man would struggle to find a good job and I think he
learned not to mention it. He had the olive/tanned skin of the
tribe, but his blue eyes were enough to throw off suspicion of
his lineage. It was later in life that he began to celebrate the
pride of his bloodline, and he would occasionally tell me
stories of the 'First People'. These were the fables that often
explained the geology of the landscape, or the behavior of
animals with a rich mixture wit and character. I'm not sure if
this is the origin of my fascination with the scattered bits of
rock art that survive in the West, or it just an appreciation
for the deep history of they represent. Nonetheless, when I see
a gallery of ancient rock art I feel instantly connected to the
past, and I try to