PEACH FESTIVAL IN SUPAILAND

A truck infinitesimal on the last mile to Hilltop, edges along the first of many steps into the canyon.

Isolated Hilltop, where the road ends and the trail begins, is approximately 65 miles from U. S. Highway 66.

distance on foot, on horseback, or by larger groups in trucks. By dusk the rock promontory is again deserted except for an empty cattle truck, a pickup or two, and maybe a weather-beaten sedan. Where the car tracks end, it is written with footprints in the dust of the trail that many horses have recently passed that way, and many people. They will be on the trail three or four hours, zig-zagging down steep canyon walls, across barren flats, through narrow winding crevasses of red sandstone, and down dry washes. They will see no water until at last they round a rocky corner where close by, out of springs, bubbles Cataract Creek. Supai lies at their feet. It is dusk, and the moon yet low in the East blankets the canyon in deep shadows. The stars in the narrow strip of sky glow like reflections of the supper fires on the canyon floor. The twinkling fires of the Havasupais seem to be reflections of the stars. A timeless moment to hesitate, as though on a cloud, enveloped above and below by the heavens as an evening breeze brings a fragrant whisp "SANDSTONE AND SUNFLOWERS" BY ALLEN C. REED. Tall sandstone monoliths high on the redwall overlooking Supailand symbolize the ancient gods of the Havasupai Indians, whose canyon home is at their base. The golden crowned sunflowers (Helranthus annuus) spread at their feet probably have no particular significance other than that this is a fine field in which to raise a food crop just as the corn and squash are plentiful in bordering fields. This photo was taken about twenty yards from where the dances and rodeo are held at the Festival. Crown Graphic, f16 at 1/10th second on 4x5 Ektachrome.

The only means of supplying Supai's needs is by pack horse or mule down one of the two trails from the rim.

The well-kept trail winds down the white wall, across a desert plateau to work its way into deeper canyons.

of wood smoke blended with the scent of clover, flowers, willows, and cottonwoods that abound in this blessed canyonlocked oasis. What a thrill the unveiling of this sudden, astonishing contrast must be by daylight to the trailweary traveler. The Indian visitors, however, except for the youngest, have been here many times to celebrate the harvest. They melt into the darkness of the canyon to appear again in small groups at each of the many rings of firelight where friends and relatives have been awaiting their arrival. The canyon walls ring with the echo of happy voices and laughter and the fires burn brighter in the night. For two days and nights there will be visiting, dancing, gambling, rodeo contests and games as the two hundred canyon people play host to their brothers from the outside world. There is no artificial pomp and fanfare, no superficial makeup solely to entertain tourists, although the white tourist is always more than welcome to join in all the fun with these friendly soft-spoken people. The celebration will go on the same if there are no white visitors or if there are several dozen. Since this annual event is called the "Peach Festival" one might expect to see a great display of peaches. But no scantily dressed Indian maidens are to be found posing on heaps of peaches Hollywood style. The term is merely symbolic of the harvest time celebration. The peaches that still remain on the trees are destined to follow those already halved and drying in the sun onThe trail leads down many dry washes under cover of stately, colorful red walls that echo with each step.

No picture can capture the charm of Supai in the moonlight, the restfulness, little sounds, a fragrant breeze.

The rodeo consists mainly of contests in team-roping, calf roping, wild cow milking, and fast bulldogging.

A lineup of rodeo contestants. When you visit Supai, one of rock ledges of the canyon walls. The Supai is honest, kind and thrifty. He is good to the earth and the earth is good to him. He respects the bounty it offers in his little paradise and stores it to be used wisely. Much has been written and illustrated about the scenic splendor of Supailand by day with its magnificent falls of sky blue water but venture down during the Peach Festival for then the charm does not lift with the setting of the sun. You'll find yourself standing in dry warm sand, a vertical atom beneath towering red walls, with no light other than a gentle yellow moon bathing your surroundings. The throb-throb of the tom toms and the soft wailing chant of the singers swells over you, punctuated by the rythmic chink chink chink of the dancers' spurs, as their bobbing moonlight shadows cross your path. The far away world ceases to exist and a heady impulse pulls you to the ring of dancers where you grasp friendly brown hands on each side of you and for hour upon hour your feet fall automatically into the pattern of that peculiar little rythmic side shuffle while singers seated on the ground in the center of the ring are chanting. You feel a pleasant something stirring from the depths of your soul. A tingling overpowering sensation that has slumbered deep within Gambling is a favorite pastime of the Havasupais. Many an hour is whiled away in poker games.

Supai, deep in a branch of the Grand Canyon shows muchthese horsemen will meet you at Hilltop to be your guide.

your inner being a thousand generations wells up and it seems that it would be delightful to stop time right here and hold that pace forever. But the sky is graying in the East and your legs ache and the moon reluctant to leave such a pleasant setting has paused like a big yellow prize peach on the canyon rim high above for just a moment before it slips from sight to make way for another day.

When planning to visit Supailand it is wise to first telephone or write “The Indian Agent, Supai, Arizona” to get information and to make arrangements in advance for horses and Indian guides to meet your party at Hilltop. Sleeping accommodations are available in a U. S. Indian Service building with all modern conveniences and facilities for cooking, etc. It has in the past been necessary to take provisions along as there are no points of purchase in Supai. In the company of your competent, friendly, Indian guide it is a safe, easy, never-to-be forgotten trip for anyone who can ride a horse and can thrill to an unusually impressive experience with an out-of-this-world flavor.

evidence of the Havasupai's skill in working with the soil.

The P. A. system is a megaphone, the judges equipment is a shady cottonwood tree, a stopwatch, and a pad.

Along towards morning many sleeping forms are to be seen on the ground around the dance ring.

From dusk till dawn the Havasupais clasp hands and dance. When some drop out to rest others fill in.

Quong Kee PIONEER OF TOMBSTONE

The four o'clock sky of a January afternoon in 1938 was shaded by great white clouds, shifting their positions in the blue sky as though they too were interested in watching the curtain drop on the last scene of a great drama of western life. On the rocky knoll of Boothill Cemetery a gathering of people was waiting the burial of Quong Kee, Tombstone's last Chinese.

Those who waited were school children, officers of the state of Arizona, men in overalls, men in chaps, men in business clothes, and even women in fur coats from the east attracted by the unusual news of a burial at Boothill Cemetery. They all stood pensive, watched and listened to the reading of the Scriptures. After the services were read, the tones of brass instruments muffled and softened by the wind accompanied the choir as they sung, "Abide with Me." He was laid to rest among the friends of his adopted country, and relatives of his native land. Quong Kee's life on this earth was over. He had long out-lived the hell raising days when the west was young, for Tombstone, his home, one of the wildest was now tamed.

Facts concerning the birthplace of Quong, and his boyhood days are disputed. Some say Hong Kong, others say Canton. It made no difference to those who knew the benevolent, good samaritan who had lived a life of service to the needy. Quong Kee believed, as all Chinese do, that food is medicine, and no one ever left his place hungry.

Quong came from China to Virginia City when that camp was ripping the gold lining from earth's deep pockets. There, Quong obtained a job as a cook's helper in the mining camp, and there he watched history develop poor men into millionaires.

He was in the street when the Vigilantes hanged a member of the notorious Plummer gang. Although years later, Quong shook his head from the eerie thoughts of his experiences in that wild city where there was no law, nor consideration of justice. A ping of bullets generally answered all doubts.

"Me scaird all the time, plenty wild men. All the time in Virginia City some one get robbed-bang, someone die in the streets. When the Vigilantes come, they brave men. They catch robbers and hang five in one day. Plenty excitement in Virginia City."

Like so many of the early western boom camps, Virginia City took her turn in becoming a ghost camp, so Quong polished his pots and pans, and served stew to the Union Pacific workers as they started its long strips of steel across the continent. Quong watched with interest as each rail was laid, until the gold spike connecting the rails united the life of a great nation. During the ceremony he watched solemnly with the others, afterwards he made “Whoopee,” with the others. “Lailload men work plenty hard, in rain, snow, mud, but pay-days they raise plenty hell.” When Stockton, California’s boom railroad town, bubbled and seethed with new people and excitement, Quong Kee was numbered among them. There he opened a restaurant, and watched others throw their easily earned money on the gambling tables only to be scooped or raked in by the gamblers, but not Quong, “he smart man,” he worked from early dawn to the wee small hours of the morning, always patiently smiling, but at the same Time saving his money so he could return to China. He returned to his native city just once, but not before he established his citizenship. In China he left a wife and an unborn son whom he was never to see. The son died when a very young man. Upon his return from China, Arizona let it be known to the outside world that she held rich deposits of silver, and it belonged to the first one who came and found it. Adobe houses, stores, and saloons sprung up like magic in a new mining camp called Tombstone. In its youth this wild, rich camp true to the form of the early 80’s played the game of life fast and furious. Some of her people found the rich ore, others drank, gambled, and shot up the town for amusement. Money was spent freely and carelessly, but wise Quong Kee worked through the long hours of each day, and far into the night in his restaurant that he operated with his cousin, Ah Lum. It was the famous Can Can restaurant, which today still shows marks of bullet scars of Tombstone's hey-day.

Quong called everyone his friend. Some men were worthy of the honor, others were not. He knew Wyatt Earp, who was good to Quong, although others when they saw Wyatt coming their way detoured down another alley. Quong paid respect to young Billy Clanton who was killed by Virgil Earp at the O. K. Stables. "He good man, always paid his bills."

Quong was also a friend of Curley Bill, the rustler. Quong in his quiet smiling way would say, "Curley Bill he pay quick, laugh a lot, some say Curley Bill bad fellow, he restler, he never bad to Quong." The eyes of the old Chinese twinkled as he smiled and said, "Curley Bill know Quong has no cows."

Quong knew them all, good and bad. He had fed them, laughed with them, and grub-staked many, some when they found their pot of gold remembered Quong, others forgot. In his restaurant, he served good meals and plenty of food. He had everything but fresh milk, "No catchum cow, just tin cow." The gambler, cowman, miner, rustler, officer and gunmen all ate at Quong's Can Can restaurant.

Quong in his aging years loved to live over the days of the past, and many an interesting story he has told, for his life had been the life of the west; it was the boom towns of the rough and roaring railroad camps, of the smoke hazed rooms, and the clinking of poker chips. It contained a vivid picture of the high comedy, and the deep tragic life of the colorful days of early Tombstone, where he spent most of his life.

One of the interesting stories showing the reputed wisdom of the Chinese was of an incident when five cowboys rode into town after many long months on the range. They landed at Quong's restaurant after visiting all the saloons that lined both sides of the street. Their spirits at that time were at high tide, and the cowboys were looking for something to do, which they did. They turned Quong's restaurant upside down. The frightened waiter and cook fled out of the back door. Quong, not very far up the street, heard the disturbance, hurried back to his place of business. He opened the door and looked about at the unsightly mess of sugar, canned milk, and catsup smeared on the broken dishes strewn on the floor, with every table and chair turned upside down. He quietly, and smilingly said to the hilarious cowboys, "You sit down, and be quiet, if you want dinner Quong serve you, if not, get out."

The cowboys amused at his unspirited defense made Quong the unwilling witness of further hilarity. When they left, his friends wanted Quong to have them arrested, but he refused. "No arrest them, when they sober up, they sorry. They come back and pay for everything. Arrest them, no, Quong lost five friends. They get mad and not pay."

Several days later one of the cowboys did return and in a repentent shameful manner said, "How much do we owe you?" The cowboy paid for all the damages, and Quong kept his five friends.

There was a time when he had so much money he didn't know what to do with it, but those days became like pages in an old book, as the mines in Tombstone closed, and the streets became lonely and forlorn. Many of the famous old places closed, and the windows wore a wooden patch. Quong's restaurant in Pearce, Charleston, and Tombstone "go bust," as he would say. His books held more money than the till. Quong never believed in going to court to collect any of his bills, as he would shake his head and mutter, "In court the lawyers collect money, but lawyer take money. Quong have no money, no friends."