The Treasure Beyond the Veil

by Nicholas Vergara

I remember vividly the collective fears from elementary school. Naturally, those
who faced these obstacles were the ones most admired by all, so it should come
to no surprise that I was one of those who did some of the most unimaginably
stupid things.

In northern Texas, my elementary school was hounded by fire ants: aggressive little hellions hell-bent on ruining your day. Their mounds towered over the sparsely-grassed areas of the playground, beckoning the reckless minds of 5^th grade boys to kick them. And kick them we did.  Those nimble few, I included, were the ones who returned to class with stories to tell; on occasion, you would give such a whole-hearted romp that the squirming queen was exposed, her drones trying hard to protect her. Those who proved less agile enjoyed a humbling stay at the nurse’s office, plucking fire ant mandibles off their feet and legs and coping with the insanely bothersome rashes that formed thereafter.

We would have races to see who was fastest, declare dares to each other to see who was bravest, and slither down the slide with the wasp’s nest hanging overhead like a dangerous mistletoe.

Curiously, though, there seemed to be one spot tabooed by the boys: a certain briar patch that loomed near the main playground. One boy had ventured deep into the grove only to return of horror stories of sticker bush travesties and blazing red centipedes. It seemed too painful and too strenuous to even venture near the area.

On one particularly hot day during the waning weeks of 5^th grade, we were gathered by one of the few trees on the field; by Northwest standards, it was but a twig in the arid ground. But to us Texan ten-year-olds, it was a challenge that we needed to accept. The tree was hardy and dry, and most likely dead. It loomed over that forbidden briar patch like a mourning funeral goer over a casket, its brittle branches kissing the leaves of the sticker
bushes.

We dared each other to out-climb one another on this tree. A group of girls stood off near the scene, eyes darting amongst themselves. One of the boys climbed a few feet, and decided that was enough.  The next boy climbed a little higher. It went like this, as our group slowly inched up the trunk.

I, being the lightest of the group, decided to give the tree a try. Many of the boys complained that the tree wouldn’t be able to bear their weight; something I knew wouldn’t affect me. I endeavored on my climb, grappling the parched branches with my tender fingers. I ascended higher and higher, until I surpassed the limit of my predecessors. Some begged me to get down. The girls on the side were looking at me as I went higher.

The vestige of a common sense I had at that time alerted me that something might possibly go wrong. But there was this urge, a sort of manifest destiny that pushed me to keep going and establish my place as “the one who climbed the highest”. I trekked upwards.

I reached the top of that tree, smiling down to the kids below me.  Secure with my position, I began to descend.

Underneath me, branches began to give way. My brain processed the following consequences far more than my elementary-school body did and I tumbled down towards the briar patch. I don’t remember a scream; my friends surely would’ve heckled me for that if I did. Rather, there was a sharp panicked breath: a silent, horrifying descent into the patch.

I’m not sure if it was trajectory or dumb luck, but I only marginally scraped the thorns of the sticker bushes. There was a new sensation now: that of child against rock.

I could see from my fall that, contrary to our beliefs, it wasn’t one huge patch of sticker bushes but rather a periphery of foliage surrounding a large gorge. I fell down the slope of the quarry, kicking up dust behind me. The rocks were blinding: the entire gorge was composed of a snow-like chalky limestone that layered themselves like paper in a book. There were probably shouts and yells from my friends beyond the veil, but I couldn’t
tell.

I squinted my eyes from the sheer luminosity of the limestone, for it was almost painful to see its blanch whiteness under the merciless Texan sun. As I steadied myself up, eyes adjusting to the starkness, I beheld a marvelous bounty.

Layer upon layer of fossilized seashells created enchanting formations before me. I was captivated, silent, and absolutely still. I was mesmerized by their every aspect. I realized I myself was lying on such a bed of fossils. I rolled over on my back to some bare strata in order, so I didn’t disrupt their preservation.

I would learn later that Texas was part of an inland ocean, that this limestone was from the bottom of that ocean, and that these fossils dated to the late Cretaceous Period. But in that moment in time, I was spellbound.  I was just like my childhood hero, Alan Grant from Jurassic Park, finding fossils. Sure, it wasn’t a raptor, but it was something uniquely my own; a moment all to myself. The thought crossed my mind that I was the first human to
look at these animals in millions of years. Looking back, the transition between climbing a tree and fossil existentialism was comical and oddly mature, but in retrospect, it all led to the same conclusion.

It was love at first sight.