I should have listened when she told me not to say the name.

It was my first time on Navajo land.

I'd taken freelance gigs before, cultural pieces, remote travel stories, but this one was different.

A buddy of mine from Arizona tipped me off about the folklore stories around the four corners.

Said no one had really covered them properly,

that if I played it right, I could walk away with a photo essay that had sell to National Geographic or the Atlantic.

The plan was simple.

Fly into Gallup, rent a jeep, and drive north toward window rock.

I booked a few nights at a modest little motel on the outskirts.

Cheap, basic, didn't even have a real front desk, just a buzzer.

I'd already reached out to a local fixer, someone who could help translate, drive,

and hopefully get me access to some elders willing to share their

stories. Her name was Elsie Nez. Quiet, traditional, had this kind of presence where she didn't

need to say much to make you listen, wore a red velvet skirt and silver jewelry that clicked

softly when she moved. The kind of person you didn't want to disappoint. We met for

the first time at a small cafe across from the tribal offices. I had a note pad out, camera in my bag,

trying to seem casual. After a few polite exchanges about the land and the people, I asked the question,

So, do people still talk about Skinwalkers out here? Her eyes locked on mine.

The clinking of her bracelet stopped. You shouldn't say that, she said quietly. Not here.

I gave a little nervous laugh. Sorry, I just meant the stories. I'm not trying to offend anyone.

I just want to understand the...

You said its name, she interrupted.

...