TRIP OF A LIFETIME

Today my brother David and I are standing together facing the Yei Bichei rocks near where our father photographed a Navajo family more than 60 years ago. A biting dust storm slows us down as we search for the family's descendants and ponder Dad's journey by pack mule into this land where an enduring culture understood life and nature far better than this sister and brother standing by the roadside. Photographs in hand, our search for the unknown family ends when, at last, we find some of the grandchildren: Jerry, Genevieve and Lorraine. Lorraine Cly Black greets us from the shelter of her Diné Trail Ride Tours stable at John Ford Point. Clinging tightly to our photographs flapping in the gritty wind, we talk and laugh and listen as she finds the familiar face of her now-deceased grandmother, Happy, and ponders some of the other family members, wondering which aunt or cousin each might be.

"That looks like my grandfather Willie standing there under the shadehouse," she says, pointing to the silhouette of a slender figure in a cowboy hat leaning against a timber. "And I think that's Aunt Mary weaving."

She tells us that her grandparents had 11 children, some of whom were deceased before she was born. I show her a photo of the rug my father purchased from the family. She's not familiar with the pattern, but believes it resembles the "eye dazzler." She is close. Dad gave me the rug many years ago and it still dazzles my eyes, but also my heart. My father is here with us at this moment in time - with us at this stable, near these rocks, under this sky. I hold the photographs in my hand and remember his words: "Take care of these images, Jan. One day people will know what I have done."

I exchange addresses with Black and promise to send some of our father's prints to her and her family. My photographer brother captures images of the smiling woman against the backdrop of horses and saddles and sand. He's smiling, too. David's lively steps and bright, crinkly eyes tell me he'll be returning with his camera. The shutter clicks and captures one last shot of Willie and Happy Cly's granddaughter standing with me beneath the shelter at John Ford Point.

Can Cal Crook's son follow in his father's footsteps? Can I? I shield my eyes from the dust storm and walk back to the car with my brother. Our footprints already get lost behind us. Footprints. Footsteps. I'm thinking about a pack mule now - a pack mule carrying a man who held on to his dreams in spite of the storms. Dad....

MONUMENT VALLEY, JUNE 1946: Sand and rock shimmer beneath a frybread sun as Cal Crook locks up his '41 Chevy and trailer and climbs onto a pack mule, embarking on an unforgettable journey into the heart of Navajo civilization. With special permission and escort from Navajo guide Albert Bradley, he secures his gear, including his trusty Exakta single-lens-reflex camera, tripod and telephoto lens.

"There was no road, only a trail into this fascinating land of red rock and sand," he writes in a makeshift journal. "We soon came upon some girls returning to their family after enjoying the water in a nearby streambed." The Navajo, or the Diné (the People), as they call themselves, welcomed this sojourner - a teacher on his summer break. Cal walked and talked with them, photographing them grinding their corn and coffee, carding sheep and goat wool, spinning and weaving on the looms against a backdrop of the Yei Bichei rocks where sky and sand wove an even more magnificent tapestry. The family shared food and coffee beneath the shadehouse, exchanging gifts and friend-

In 1946, members of the Cly family (preceding panel) from Monument Valley, who befriended Cal Crook, trek across sand dunes near Yei Bichei and Totem Pole rocks. Among the images Crook captured more than 60 years ago are (clockwise from bottom left): Crook's '41 Chevy and its trailer; members of the Cly family prepar-ing fibers for weaving; Hunts Mesa creates a stunning backdrop as family members follow in each other's footsteps; a young boy poses with boxes of food. Retracing their father's journey, Janet Crook Pierson and David Crook pose with the rug the Cly family made for their father.

The colorful rug/saddle blanket woven by the matriarch and her family became one of his most cherished possessions.

But this photographer could only taste, touch and capture a few moments in time in the ever-changing landscape of sandstone monoliths. Spreading across 30,000 acres of desert splendor, the landmark formations resemble human or animal forms and objects: Totem Pole, The Mittens, Spearhead, Eagle Mesa.

The Diné view this land as their sacred hogan where the Gray Whiskers Mesa is its doorpost and The Mittens are the hands left behind by the Holy People as a reminder that one day they will rule again. The hogan, constructed of logs, bark and packed earth with a dome roof, is a microcosm of their homeland and constitutes one of the most sacred places for the members of a Navajo family, binding them to the land of their birth.

Little did they know that the man with the camera, who walked on the trail beside them, had worked his way out of poverty with a broom, a mop and a dream. Born on December 25, 1904, in Zillah, Washington, Cal Crook, the next to the eldest of five boys, spent his earliest years riding the rails and picking fruit in the orchards of eastern Washington.

Determined to stay in school and get an education, he worked his way through college as a janitor, obtaining his teaching degree from Central Washington University (then a state normal school), with later postgraduate studies and administrative credentials from the University of Washington. Cal became a successful teacher of science and physical education and, later, an elementary school principal. But photography was his first love. He served as the audiovisual director for his school district, and took the opportunity to travel with his camera during his summer breaks.

The newly divorced father of four returned to Monument Valley in 1950. His two summer journeys to the plateau land of the Navajo people remained vivid in his memory and were, perhaps, cathartic for him, as well. For those of us who remain, the images become a legacy left by a man who called himself the "best accidental photographer in the West." He retired on five acres near the Columbia River Gorge in south-central Washington and spent his remaining 45 years walking lively and realizing his dreams as a photographer.

In In 2000, at the age of 96, Cal Crook laid down his camera and tripod forever. But he is not gone. His rich photographic archives unravel stunning images of a people who live quietly, without pretense.

I won't forget him. I lost touch with my father after the divorce, but once I'd married and had children of my own, we reconnected. Gradually he began to interact with his four children, his grandchildren and, eventually, his great-grandchildren. I shared in his final years, driving back and forth across the state so we could crawl under fences or down creek beds to get that perfect shot. He remained single and became a local legend, loved as a friend and sought-after as a photographer. The striking black hair turned gray, but his clear blue eyes still crinkled with the same light and energy that set him apart. Summer after summer, we loaded his little bluegreen Honda Civic with his photography and traveled to area shows and festivals. He insisted on driving. His "New York, London, Paris, BZ Corner" bumper sticker reminded the lineup of cars behind him to slow down, smile and enjoy the scenery.

We matted and framed photos in the simple house he built in the Mount Adams countryside near BZ Corner. It wasn't always easy to find BZ Corner, but Cal's reputation grew and people eventually found him when they crossed the Little White Salmon River and spotted "Crooked Lane," marked by a handcrafted sign that was nailed to a tree.

Last summer I walked down Crooked Lane to see if his roses and lilacs were still blooming, and if there were going to be apples in his rundown orchard. I wondered if the deer were still coming through to share the bounty, if the ladybugs were still nesting in his old boots. My eyes welled up, but they were glad tears. He'd photographed them all. He loved them.

He loved life. I can still hear his words: "Listen to your heart. It takes more than luck to get a good photo. Sometimes you need to leave the road and do some walking." Even near the end of his journey, he refused to use a cane, gripping his sturdy walking stick instead.

Crooked Lane. Monument Valley. My heart. Some footprints in the sands of time and memory will never disappear.