On a sunny July morning, in 2000, high in the plateau country of the Ramah Navajo with pinon trees surrounding us, I sat next to an old man, who had just finished checking the rusty barbed wire and aging wooden fence posts of his small corn field. Even in his eighties the old man, hammer and nails in hand, still seemed very capable. A cool brisk breeze blew now and then and kept us cool from the hot sun. We sat on the ground for hours while he related, in the Navajo language, stories about his childhood, Hweeldi, and life in his community. With his gnarled finger, he pointed toward the east at Tsoodzil, the sacred mountain, and stated his gratitude for living in the shadow of this mountain. ...

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