I’m in the Navajo Nation, the largest Indian reservation in America. I’m sitting on a tan-and-white pinto called Bandit in Monument Valley. We’re following our guide Larry Lynch. Larry isn’t one of the Irish Lynches. Hardly. His great-grandfather was one of the reservation’s early hanging judges.
There’s a strong wind blowing and some menacing black clouds dancing in formation to the east. Larry is shouting prayers in Navajo to Tó Neinilii, the rain god who appears to be listening; the wind changes direction. It should be a cause to celebrate, to rope a bull or at least coax Bandit to gallop eastward and chase the storm well and truly out of town. But I don’t do either. Thing is, I want to go home.
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