FLAGSTAFF Pow Wow

FLAGSTAFF

Every summer in Flagstaff, the cool and high city in the pines, one of the big towns serving the northern Arizona Indian reservation country, there is held the picturesque Indian Pow Wow.

Generally held on the weekend nearest the Fourth of July the three day celebration includes street parades every morning, rodeo every afternoon and ceremonial dances every night. For the in-between moments there is an old-time carnival where dudes and local youngsters WEESE ride the carrousel along with Navajo children in their charming costumes. Flagstaff, seven thousand feet high, lies at the base of lofty San Francisco Peaks surrounded by a great forest of Ponderosa Pine. U. S. 66 glides right through the main street of the town, the Santa Fe trains skim main street, and Frontier Air Lines drops down daily at the local port. The crowd that lines the street is almost as colorful a colorful event for Indians and tourists alike.

POW WOW

as the parade itself. And when you feel the beat of tom-toms and hear the singing chant of strange voices, you will soon see Indian dancers in the bright colors of finery and feathers. You will see strong copper-colored bodies dancing a fast rhythm, with strings of bells laced to knee and ankle that beat a ringing accent to the throb of drums.

And there are not only Navajos and Hopis from the nearby reservations, but Apaches and Arapahos, Chey-ennes and Cherokees, Kiowas and Kickapoos, Pueblo tribes from Taos, Jemez and Zuñi, from Isleta and Acoma, Hualpais and Havasupais. Tribes from all the Southwest.

Zuñi women in striking costumes, draped with beads and silver, parade with water jars carried serenely on their heads. Navajo families in their covered wagons make a long caravan.

Navajos are everywhere and there, during the Pow Wow, is a more varied Western atmosphere than you will find outside a movie lot. On the railway freight platform sedate grandmothers, dressed in elegant velvet, sit drinking orange soda from bottles.

It was there we caught sight of Princess. She was about twelve and dressed in plum and saffron velvet. She was serene and lovely. Could we take her picture? Calmly, a little shyly, she posed under the watchful eye of Mama. It was only then we noticed her necklace and turquoise studded concho belt. They were worth half as much as Papa's shiny red truck.

At the fair grounds just outside the town the Navajo camp spreads through the pines. Covered wagons and tethered horses are everywhere. Mutton is drying in the sun or stewing on a hundred cooking fires. A dozen groups of both men and women are playing cards, seated on a spread of blankets. Many are watching. Some are just visiting and some are sleeping, rolled in blankets on the ground or slumped against a pine tree. Children stroll back and forth to the carnival with cotton candy and bottled soda.

Silversmiths and traders sit on the ground and spread their wares on blankets. Some ply their trade from the open ends of trucks. Money changes hands quietly, there is no loud talking, no voices rise above the low musical murmur.

The girls and women are dressed in long pleated skirts and velvet blouses, wearing their best turquoise and silver. Their hair is tied in bows at the back of their heads by strands of white yarn. The men wear boots and Levis, silver belts, shirts of all colors and tall Stetson hats. A few wear fancy pants and tie their hair with bright head bands. Babies are carried in cradleboards on the backs of mothers and even younger sisters.

If a rain cloud comes over the mountain, brightly striped Pendleton robes appear everywhere draped over heads and shoulders. Tarpaulins are stretched high over the blankets and camp things. The card playing continues all day long, rain or shine.

At the rodeo arena every afternoon dusky riders, raised in the saddle, compete at calf and steer roping, bronc and bull riding and all the rough and tumble of the rodeo. The Indian is a fine rider and one who knows and loves his horses.

But it is at night when huge bonfires push the darkness out from the arena when modern things fade away and time slips back to the old, old days of legend and ceremonial. Now you feel you live again in the time of the primitive people. The ceremonial dances of the southwestern Indians have never been surpassed anywhere, nor so well preserved.

The ceremonial dances with their singing chants are prayers to many gods. Prayers for good luck, good thoughts, good crops, for success in the hunt or in war, for rain, for peace, for agility, for many blessings.

The Katchina Dances of the Hopi are beautiful in costume and rhythm. No other people express their ritual and folklore with more charm than the Hopi and the Pueblo. Every dance is accompanied with its own group of singers and drummers.

The War Dance of the Arapaho is a fast staccato of foot work, and figures tossing like leaves in a wind. The Owl Dance of the Cheyenne is a pantomime from the plains legends. The Eagle Dance of the Jemez is a masterpiece of imagery and the Apache Devil Dance is whimsical and grotesque.

As a prayer for agility the Hoop Dance of Taos is both beautiful and amazing. These dancers skip through eighteen-inch hoops with the unbelievable ease of children skipping rope, and maneuver five hoops simultaneously from feet to shoulders with the agile dance movements.

The Navajo is represented by the Twelve Dancers of the Yeibechi with a weird and haunting chant that is handed down from their earliest ancestors. In the darkness it is sometimes like the lonely cry of coyotes and then like the rising whine of the wind. Finally the Navajo climax the whole evening with the Fire Dance. The dying bonfires are heaps of glowing coals and the claycoated dancers running wild strike the embers with sticks and drive them over the field in a thrilling shower of sparks. The drum beats fade away but not the vivid picture memories of the Flagstaff Pow Wow.

YOURS SINCERELY PRESBYTERIAN MISSION:

Our hearty congratulations to you and your staff for the excellent April issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS depicting the wonderful thrills of Monument Valley. I couldn't resist the temptation to see at first hand some of the beautiful pictures which make up this issue and enjoyed tremendously the trip through the valley.

On page 31, in the article entitled, "Mission in the Valley," you state that "In 1950, a Seventh Day Adventist minister, Elder Marvin Walter and his wife, Gwendolyn, a registered nurse, arrived on the scene in Monument Valley with a mobile clinic trailer. Until then the nearest medical assistance was at the government hospital at Tuba City, 103 miles away over poor reservation roads." Actually we would like to correct you on this since we have had a trained nurse in the person of Mrs. Andrew McGaffin, wife of our Presbyterian Minister located at Kayenta, Arizona, rendering medical aid to the Navajos of that entire area for the past score of years. Our medical team at Sage Memorial Hospital, Ganado Mission, also makes a monthly trip to Kayenta augmenting Mrs. McGaffin's work. I have actually seen two hundred people go through that clinic on a Saturday between the hours of 9 A.M. and 5 P.M.

J. A. Poncel, Superintendent Ganado Mission Ganado, Arizona

GOAT COUNT:

On page 1 of your April issue, you say that one Mitten is in Arizona and on page number 35 the map shows both are in Arizona. Neither one is in Utah as stated. We think the map is right.

This old town is in a dither as to the number of goats in the picture on your frontcover. They argue from 8 up to 10. Even one man contends there are 11. Considering the shadows in the picture, I guess there are 9.

Irvin Green Hinsdale, Illinois

BIG LEAGUE POWER:

On page 33 of your March, 1956, issue you make a statement in regard to the Hoover Dam which must be challenged.

It is in regard to the capacity of the dam. You say that it is the largest producer of hydro-electric firm power in the world with an annual output of 4,000,000,000 KWH. The total firm output by Grand Coulee Dam in Washington for the Year 1954 was 14,000,000,000 KWH which is really big league.

E. J. Hayes St. Regis Paper Co. Tacoma, Wash.

NAVAJO RUG IN SCOTLAND:

I feel I should write to you giving my deep appreciation of the wonderful magazine which was subscribed to me as a Christmas gift. There is unsurpassed beauty in every picture and I would find it difficult indeed to choose a special one to frame. Perhaps "Navajo Camp" would be my choice to put beside my Navajo rug which hangs on my room wall and which came from the Two Grey Hills Trading Post, Tohatchi, New Mexico. I wonder if there hangs in your town an Edinburgh woven tapestry called "Phoenix?" I know this work well, also the artist who wove it. C. Davidson Edenburgh, Scotland

DESERT STORM

The needles of rain are testing whether They can stitch heaven and earth together. While the whipping wind-a wild upstart, Is trying his best to tear them apart.

ENOLA CHAMBERLIN

THE PARAGON

She never speaks ill of a friend, She doesn't tell tales that offend; She never argues or gives offense, She never betrays a confidence; She never gossips, never lies, She never deigns to criticise; Her days are filled with good clean fun, With love for all and malice towards none; Some day to temptation she'll no doubt succumb, Start talking and stop sucking her thumb.

EMILY CAREY ALLEMAN

STORM IN THE WEST

Across the dark mesa of heaven He spurs through the night Shouting thunder; His lightning reata Flows in fiery loops Above the milling Black Angus clouds. Still bright in its orbit, The moon is a gold coin El Gaucho will spend When the roundup is over.

NATALIE FLOHR

DEAD TREE

Without a single leaf or bud to show, It should have been a sad, pathetic sight, So naked there, so black against the green Of other trees; and yet it waved a bright Brave hint of Spring, of other springs to come-The tattered remnants of a crimson kite.

BETTY ISLER

DESERT SCENE

Sun-bleached, Far desert hills Are faded calico, Wrinkled, old, and smudged with shadows Of clouds.

VESTA N. LUKEI