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Anthropological Quarterly 78.1 (2005) 151-177



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Portraits of a Storied Land:

An Experiment in Writing the Landscapes of History

Center for Desert Archaeology

The surface of the world is beautiful in its chaos and order when seen from among the clouds. That is why flying can be so wonderful, sitting in a window seat watching the world take on new shapes. Even one hundred feet up in the air, the familiar is transformed into the exotic. A road is no longer a segment between two points, but a strand in an elaborate web spun of concrete. Seen from the ground, cities feel like the center of the universe, but soaring above them we can see that they are only islands of human life in the midst of an infinite expanse.1

The yearning to fly is an urge shared by humankind's most ancient ancestors. There is Icarus in the Greek tradition who flew from the Minotaur's labyrinth with such ecstasy that he strayed too far into the heavens and the sun melted his wings of wax. And in the desert of Peru are the lines of Nasca, vast fields of geometric and animal designs sculpted into the earth thousands of years ago that can be seen in their completeness only from far above. This hunger for flight is not about the exhilaration of speed and height, but in essence the desire to see our world in new ways. Flying offers a perspective unlike any other pursuit bound by gravity. The first image of the earth from the thermosphere told all of us that the borders humans create—between [End Page 151] nations, between civilization and nature—are illusory for all life sits, without boundaries, atop a giant blue marble floating in the blackness of space.

Such ideas were the muse that beaconed Adriel Heisey to the sky in a plane made of, or so it seems, matchsticks. Growing up on a Pennsylvania farm, Adriel dreamt of flying, building model rockets, and at the age of 14 a hang guilder, which never quite took to the air. Several years into college Adriel decided to leave other interests aside, and find expression for his pining for flight, unrequited since youth. After receiving his license and qualifications, in 1984 Adriel became a pilot for the Navajo Nation in the four corners region of the American Southwest, a position he held for twelve years. Although Adriel enjoyed the work of transporting Navajo politicians around the country, he eventually became frustrated by the confines of planes designed only to travel as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Inspired to fly more slowly and in the open air, Adriel began building his own plane. Eighteen months later, a 450-pound "ultralight" aircraft was humming down a runway. Adriel crafted the plane to his own designs. From a distance it resembles a mosquito on steroids with a spindly framework, a simple seat in front, no front nozzle, a propeller in the rear, and wings that fold back so the plane can fit in a trailer and be transported to just about anywhere.

And so he flew. As Adriel journeyed across the land in intimate encounters exposed directly to land and sky, he saw sights more beautiful than he had thought possible. The geography of the Southwest, with its asperous mountains, verdant plateaus, and desert valleys seemed infinite in its variety, its colors and textures. Flying, for Adriel, became knowledge of the senses. The moist clouds rushed against his body. The scent of wildflowers was ever present in the spring.

But Adriel's flights gave him more than the privilege of aesthetics. He began to see the ways in which the elements of the world are inseparably entwined. "I could see all the delicate, living connections of one place to every other place in a single sweeping gaze," Adriel wrote in an essay.2 "It was as if I was peering into the dreams of the earth, glimpsing the workings of a vast and rich unconscious that was chillingly...

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