Knucklehead & Other Stories by W. Mark Giles Page B

surround it. The edge of the escarpment is a soft hump among the foothills. The cliff drops away only eight or ten metres down to a green meadow that stretches in a long slope to a meandering creek.
    At the base of the slope, cars and recreational vehicles crammed into the exposed parking lot. I found myself checking for Michigan plates. When I unclenched my jaw, my hands began to shake. Walnuts, I thought, raccoons. I concentrated on the reason I was there. I found my notebook and jotted a few notes:
    Glinting chrome, enamel paint, shimmering tarmac. Mob in T -shirts and neon caps moving to and fro across slope. Detracts from the understatement of the building. Compromise: public building in the middle of nowhere needs significant space for vehicle access. Nowhere to hide.
    Interpretive centre itself handsome piece of architecture from the exterior. Set into steep hills, angles, & exposed façades match the rocky outcroppings of surrounding landscape. Between each level native grasses planted, cover the structural elements.
    At the bottom of the page where these notes appear, I’ve added a single comment, the only documentation of the incident on the road:
    Close call w/ a motorhome on drive in. Saw dead horse in field.
    I parked in the overflow lot, even further away. As I locked up the car, a courtesy minibus pulled up. The driver was a plump, middle-aged woman. She called out in a flat, sing-song voice: “Give you a ride up the hill.” Her round brown face broke into a wide smile. I read the name on her tag: Lenore.
    â€œNo. That’s okay. I’ll walk,” I said. I realized I was mumbling through clenched teeth, so I added, “Thanks anyway, Lenore.” My voice sounded loud.
    Lenore shrugged. “It’s a hot day.” I shrugged back, then turned away from her and busied myself wiping down my camera. I heard her clank the door shut and drive away. I snapped a few photos of the exterior from beside the car. Some 250 metres to the right of the centre sat a squat prefabricated shed. I assumed (later confirmed by my tour) this was the actual buffalo jump; I learned that the shed protected the archaeological diggings at the site. I made the last entry that day in my book:
    Science and entertainment in conflict.
    It was a hot day. By the time I climbed up the path to the entrance, my shirt clung to my back and stomach. I could feel the sting of perspiration at my collar and under the strap of my bag slung over my shoulder. My teeth were beginning to ache, especially the right side where I have had extensive restoration work. Crowns and root canals on almost every tooth. When I closed my eyes, the ghosted image of the spotted horse swirled in my view, and the echo of its word filled my head.
    I was here to work, I reminded myself, so tried to focus on the architecture. I discovered that my bag was empty save for a half-full bottle of water. I had left my notebook and wiped-down camera at the car. I tried to make them out among the flashes of sun-baked chrome, concerned I had left them on the hood or the trunk deck. I dropped a dollar coin into a telescope on the wide stone patio at the entrance and checked it out. There was my car, sure enough. No sign of the camera or book. I figured that the items were either gone or inside the car, so there was no reason to rush back. Later, I found them in the back seat, where I had no recollection of putting them.
    I bought my entry ticket at a glass booth that reminded me of a movie theatre. The baking heat of the sun bore down on the south-facing entrance without respite. I noted a huge overhead door like a warehouse loading dock facing one side of the patio—it seemed a strange utilitarian element, another compromise for a building with no back door. A few planters cast from a rough aggregate were scattered, filled with wilting annuals.
    Inside, the air-conditioned cool was both welcome and uncomfortable. One of the guides handed me a map of the