Many thousands of years ago, our ancestors walked north out of Africa, looking for a place to live. Some went west, some went east, and some went farther north and west and east and south again. They went exploring as individuals, as family groups, and as tribes. They spread across every continent and island that would sustain them.
When they found a place to live, they settled there and proclaimed it theirs. They adapted to weather, terrain, and availability of food. They evolved in time to an understanding of their own existence in terms of life around them and the history of those who came before them and told the stories of the People.
Before the Europeans came to America, there were probably more than a dozen different tribes living in the mountains of Northern California, and they had lived there for thousands of years, many thousands of years.
One can only imagine, and that's what I've done: Here is the story of an American Indian, born a thousand years ago in the mountains of Northern California. He learns the ways of the People, survives the trial of manhood, and lives to old age, a revered member of his tribe. He wonders about the Great Spirit of all living things, and finally, high on a ridge, a wind-blown tree reveals a secret; and the Indian dies, understanding the meaning and power of Life.