Ghosts of Childhood

Childhood is full of illusions. And of made-up heroes. It was they who galloped around on a stick horse, squinted like John Wayne, and knew for certain: the real Wild West looks exactly like this - red rock buttes, the famous Mittens, the endless desert from John Ford's westerns. Cowboys and Indians. Only later, grown up, did I learn this place is called Monument Valley. And now here I finally am, an adult with a camera, ready to step straight into the frame of my childhood. Except stepping in isn't so easy. Up top, onto Hunts Mesa, they let you go only with the Navajo - it's their land, and the keys to "cowboy country" are theirs too. A fine little irony: to the most cowboy view on earth, you're driven by Indians. The road is long and dull, you can't climb up in the dark, so you come in the evening and spend the night at the top. Sounds great, doesn't it - "a night on the mesa under the stars of the Wild West"! And in reality you shiver with cold in a tent, toss for ages on the hard stones, barely sleep, and around four in the morning you seriously start wondering - what did I get myself into all this for? But the sunrise pays for it all at once. Light floods the rocks, shadows stretch across the valley, and before your eyes the scene rises - the one from every western at once. Only the stage is empty. Not a single rider, no chase, not one shot fired. The only "cowboys" left in this legendary valley are a handful of frozen photographers with tripods at the ready instead of Colts. And the real ones... are only on old film now. But then - stones clatter down... Someone here, at this hour? A ghost, or a horseman? Headless... Mwa-ha-ha-ha...