A few things up front so you understand why I was there,

why I stayed longer than a normal person would,

and why I'm going to sound weirdly calm describing moments that didn't feel calm at all.

I'm a field investigator for an environmental consulting outfit that does compliance work.

Reclamation inspections, site verification, chain of custody on samples, the kind of stuff

you can explain to your parents without them understanding what you do.

Most days it's tanks, berms, pads, access roads, and the boring miracle of watching

a place get put back together after it's been chewed up by industry.

The work is procedural.

It's clipboards and checklists, maps with fold lines, GPS points, and the kind of quiet

you get out on public land, where the nearest

person is a ranch hand you'll never meet.

I'm not Navajo.

I'm not from New Mexico.

I'm not an expert in anyone's traditions, and I'm not going to pretend I am.

I'd heard the word Skinwalker the same way most people have.

Half is a dare, half as a joke, half as

something you don't say at night if you want your buddy to quit messing with you. You'll see

me use the term in this post because it's the shortest label for what people around me kept

circling without wanting to say plainly. If that term is offensive or misused, I'm not

trying to be cute with it.

I'm telling you what people said to me and what it felt like the shape of it was, without

...