The buckled and broken spires of Monument Valley rise like some series of lewd gestures from the mittened fingers of the desert. Perhaps it remembers after all. But, even the stones’ defiance, even the whorls of desert varnish and the light shattered into a million shards by the crumbling buttes and mesas, even all of this is not enough to dispel that odd feeling that gathers itself somewhere behind my belt buckle as I cross into the Navajo and Hopi Reservations of northern Arizona.