The silence of the Valles Caldera is remarkable, even compared to the familiar solitude of northern New Mexico. It strikes me when I first step out of my car at the overlook on N.M. 4 west of Los Alamos to gaze across the three-mile wide Valle Grande, the national preserve’s largest valley. A steady breeze pushes through this grassy bowl from the west, hinting that this must be a severe place in the winter. But the cold has yet to set in, and today, hundreds of mountain bluebirds hover like miniature kites above the dun-colored plain, their indigo wings flashing brilliantly, while dozens of cattle graze contentedly in fields still thick with grass, and a handful of horses rest nearby.
“Hello, my name is Russell Means. I’m an American Indian activist.” It’s an overcast summer Saturday during Indian Market, and Means—one of the most outspoken defenders of American Indian rights in contemporary history—has taken the stage of Borders Café in downtown Santa Fe. Three or four rows of black plastic chairs sit vacant in front of the podium; a dozen listeners are scattered haphazardly along the counter and at tables, deliberately distant, noncommittal. To properly see Means, they must turn their heads or swivel their chairs, angling their bodies in uncomfortable positions toward the stage. They are armed with double lattes and books and newspapers. They are fidgeting. The palpable fear of booksigning letdown hangs in the air like a threat
