BY JONATHAN BAILEY
As a child I would climb in the back of a pickup truck that took me to a house nestled between walls of cheat grass and Russian thistle. There, the man was, with the blue eyes that overstepped the frame of his weathered face. He had always brought something, placed it in my palm, and sent it back in the pockets of my second-hand jeans. He was a flint-knapper, regularly sending me home with his world-class projectile points that he had crafted from the rows of hammer stones and antler fragments that lined his driveway, or given me stones that I had never seen within the deserts of Utah.