A fallen Saguaro decays into the desert earth of the Superstitions Wilderness, its woody ribs exposed like the bones of a whale carcass rotting on a beach. I size up cobblestones before stepping, judging their stability, predicting their movement—lest I roll my ankle. With each step, stones collapse onto each other with a sharp clank the wind ferries across the silence in Peter’s Canyon. 

The Superstition Wilderness gets its name from legends told by the Indigenous People from whom the land was stolen. The Apache believed the wilderness contained a deep hole, a portal to the underworld. 

The O’odham tell a story of a wrathful creator who flooded Earth and killed the men he made after they grew selfish and quarrelsome. Only Suha, a shaman, heeded his warnings, which came through the voices of the winds. The Earth-Maker communicated with Suha directly, instructing him to build and stock an ark so he and his wife could survive the coming floods. They did, and after many moons landed on Superstition Mountain as the floods began to recede. Suha and his wife began a new civilization in the fertile valley beneath it. On his deathbed, Suha predicted his people would make the same mistake again: grow arrogant with wealth, covetous of the lands of others, and wage wars for gain. Another flood would come then, and spare no one. 

It is easy to feel small in the company of boulders. As I hike in the life-giving winter sun in Arizona, the North Wind warns again of the arrogance with wealth our world reveres. A total disregard for humanity, letting nothing get in the way of their mission not to spend money, much different from an effort to save money. 

We seem about due for a flood.

In Tennessee, the state guards a golden treasure of funds for low-income families like a green dragon in a cave. The amassed fortune, $741 million for the Temporary Assistance for Needy Families program, dwarfs the average state surplus of $87 million, not to mention the states with $0. Millions for families at a time when they need it the most: a pandemic. Perhaps there will be rainier days. 

In Michigan, conservative policies led directly to the poisoning and death of citizens in Flint. Blinded by the zeal to not spend, a state-installed city manager diverted the city’s water supply,  not taking into account the community’s input, nor the workers at the old water treatment plant they were resurrecting. Corroding pipes as it flowed to houses, schools, and community centers, the new, cheaper water carried lead and Legionella. The governor, elected in 2010, used the word “disaster” to characterize Michigan’s economy to get elected. In 2016, he would call the consequences of his administration’s deadly decision in Flint worse than “Katrina.” He has since been charged with the misdemeanor of “willful neglect.” 

Our economy over our lives. Our free market ideals traffic us into a feudal system of yore. Our city governments devise ways to wring money from the poor with fines. Tributary demands from the rich who have conquered us—or tax breaks—leave our roads pot-holed, our teachers without chalk. Internet companies profit off our children’s need to stay home during a pandemic. 

We seem about due for a flood.

The Mexica, or the Aztecs, predicted the world would end in 2012. It didn’t. We place our belief system above theirs. The Mexica believed in a blood debt, the need to replenish the blood of the gods—who had spilled so much to give them life—by offering the blood of their own. We consider this practice barbaric. But how can we claim superiority? The botched response to a virus has cost over 400,000 American lives in one year. Sacrifices to vanity, to arrogance, to the god of just wanting to keep things open. At the top of our great temple, our leaders cut into us, remove our hearts, and watch our bodies tumble down the rocky steps. We ignore the thud of each body as it settles on the floor, much like we ignore the warnings of the winds.