Blue Canyon

BLUE CANYON BY ELIZABETH RIGBY

We were, in some ways, a strangely assorted threesome. Harry Epperson, ex-Missouri farmer and over eighty, is still tough as a Missouri mule and far more venturesome. His niece, Julia Free, ex-Texan, knows more about odd plants and rocks than a roadrunner knows about lizards. I'm an ex-tenderfoot from the East with ten years residence in Arizona to my credit. But the three of us share, among other enthusiasms, Arizona fever-a compulsion to seek out every little-known spot we can get to in our magnificent adopted state. For no better reason than this, and no worse, we had

Set out one fine October day to try to locate Blue Canyon. Noted on certain maps only, it seemed to be far from the highway and more than halfway from Tuba City to Hotevilla on the Navajo and Hopi reservations. No one we'd questioned knew much about it, often not even the name, but Katharine Bartlett, the Museum of Northern

Harry nosed the jeepster into a hard-bottomed cleft in the rocky hillside to the left of the old dugway. Once through that, a sandy hill still separated us from the canyon. Seeing tire tracks, we blithely continued-and shortly the sand had us. We spent the rest of a beautiful afternoon convincing the Willys it had not reached its final resting place.

Next morning at dawn Harry was off like a deer into the canyon. When we followed and couldn't find him, Julia said evenly, "No need to worry. He never gets lost." So we paused near the foot of the hill to examine the ruins of a roofless two-room stone building, wondered if Mormons had once lived here, then headed east through thickets of greasewood and tamarisk across bone-dry Moenkopi Wash.

Yesterday's bright sky had been displaced by a grey mask, but other than to mourn the lost chance for good color photographs we gave the cloud cover little thought. By the looks of the country, it hadn't rained here in forty years. Past the tangled growth along the wash, we found ourselves in a wide flat valley, bounded north and south by tall cliffs. Across the oyster-white sand stretched sparse clumps of seepweed, saltbush, and Mormon tea, all indicators of an alkaline or saline soil. A cottontail darted out of a bush. East, three horses were grazing. Once a jet plane zoomed overhead. Except for these we were alone in a silent immensity. We headed north. Even at a distance the cliffs had hinted of spectacular shapes and colors, but we were unprepared for the fantastic never-never world which soon confronted us.

Guarding the westward approach was a great tur-reted castle of red and white sandstone. At the base of another huge natural structure, monolithic white columns with rounded capitals shielded a tier of dungeon-like caves. As we continued east, from the tops of red domes stone formations resembling animals and familiar objects looked down on us, among them the figure of a trained seal which seemed so real we almost offered it our lunch of canned tuna. Here on the ground lay a mammoth stone bottle, its stopper still in place, its decorated sides symmetrically embossed and incised. Behind it a similar bottle-like formation stood upright, supported in a high stone cradle.

Piled one upon the other were scores of curious red rocks, conical or rounded in shape and marked in white with startlingly legible symbols-letters, numerals, even brand marks. One could almost be persuaded that these were the art and record tablets of an ancient race of giants; but Julia said, "Mother Nature and Old Father Time have been doodling here for a long, long while."

Farther on, other red rocks, these lacking the gypsum or calcite veins of the "hieroglyphic" stones, were neatly stacked, row upon row, like a warehouse supply of full sacks of feed or flour. Beyond, on a ledge near the base of a sheer white cliff, grew a garden of gigantic stone mushrooms, their caps tilted at rakish angles. Such a concentrated wealth of natural architecture and apparent artifacts might, we thought, well be unique in America. And of this city of sculpture, who was in charge? Then we saw him, the silver-blue Moon Man, a grotesque creature with an enormous nose. Holding a red ball between white arm and thigh, he sat on the ground tall and relaxed, and as he surveyed his Blue Canyon domain, he was guarded from behind by a mighty lion as tall as himself.

But where in all this looming phantasmagoria was the color that gives the canyon its name? We came upon it first as an overlay on an enormous red stone figure which suggested the representation of an African fertility goddess. Farther east we saw more of this hue. In yesterday's sunlight it had been pronounced even from miles away. Under today's overcast, and viewed close up, it had a lavender rather than a true blue tone, while in other places it was a pale blue-green or a delicate turquoise. The search tempted us forward, but by now the clouds, which at first we had ignored, were gathering strength. Suddenly they sprang into action. A light sprinkle fell, turned swiftly into a downpour. In minutes waterfalls began cascading off the rocks. Even the caves of this astonishing place now spouted full-sized streams. We knew because we sought refuge in one of them and were almost swept away.

Then we remembered The Wash; we should have to cross it to reach the car, and we were a long way off. Dust-dry a few hours before, by the time we got back to Moenkopi Wash it had become a turbid, sullen torrent. No telling how deep; or how slippery the footing. We talked of waiting for the flow to subside, but a glance at the clouds convinced us otherwise. We'd have to chance a crossing, perhaps a dunking.

"And what," I asked somewhat apprehensively, "do you suppose Uncle Harry is up to? Not his neck, I hope."

Julia wiped the water out of her eyes and again reassured me that Harry, the octogenarian, is unsinkable. Although the water swirled above our knees, boiling at a dizzying rate, the sandy bottom of the wash granted good footing and, with the aid of long sticks cut from the scrub on the far bank, we crossed over. And there he was, just beyond the bend on the other side, waiting for us. Too bad we hadn't continued on the north bank a bit farther, he said, bobbing his whitethatched head for emphasis. We'd have come to a natural rock bridge. Never mind that now-he had discovered something more intriguing than a canyonful of wonders. He had found the ruins of some sizable rock buildings like the one at the foot of the sand hill, also roofless and their walls tumbled, which gave evidence of having been inhabited not too long ago.

Again the possibility of a Mormon settlement flashed through my mind. At the moment, however, we were urgently concerned to leave our hazardous position while we could. In the aftermath of the emergency the question recurred. Those buildings . . . would they lead to a story, possibly some dramatic paragraph of Arizona history, buried in that unlikely place?

Upon our return home to Flagstaff and Sedona, initial inquiries yielded a blank. Blue Canyon might have been Limbo for all anyone seemed to know about its history. Books consulted were equally barren of information. Finally I stumbled on a clue. Then one source led to another, until it was possible to reconstruct the story with its charming side-road to romance and its melancholy ending.

To those who helped, I am grateful, chiefly to Laura and Walter Runke, whose 57-year-old glass-plate photographs appear here for the first time in print; to Hubert Richardson and his nephew, Gladwell Richardson, who know the Navajo country inside out; Frank Banicevich, secretary to Senator Carl Hayden, whose expert assistance

Has made it possible to establish the accuracy of certain circumstances and dates; and Billie Williams Yost, granddaughter of Jonathan and daughter of William Franklyn Williams, whose book Bread Upon The Sands [The Caxton Printers, Ltd., December, 1958] tells of life at another isolated trading post-Red Lake on the Navajo Reservation-in the early years of this century. Our little modern adventure pales before the interesting chapter of pioneer history which their knowledge of the facts here brings to light.

Early in 1882 a stalwart six-footer with the strength of three men in his body and a dream of lost gold in his heart set out from Watsonville, California, headed for the new settlement of Winslow, Arizona, then westernmost terminus of the Atlantic and Pacific (later Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe) Railway. With Jonathan Paul Williams in their horse-drawn wagon, prepared to brave the perils of Indian-infested desert and mountain, rode his young wife, Annie Mullins Williams, and their three children, Ben, Bill, and Mary.

Jonathan most likely told Annie he hoped for a railroad job; for when his hankering to discover gold was at stake, this black-haired, blue-eyed giant who had been the first white child born at Marysville, California, during the Gold Rush year of 1849 (he was born in a wagonbed), was good at disguising his motives. And he did get a job for awhile, while, digging wells for the railroad at Albuquerque. But in California a man he had encountered had told him there was gold, plenty of it, in the vicinity of Navajo Mountain in southern Utah, and, thought Jonathan, this veteran of the Navajo country should know. Navajo Mountain is about 140 miles due north of Winslow, and although the country between is as rugged and wild as any in the nation, Jonathan figured that from Winslow he could find a way to make a living for his family and still have time left for prospecting. The Albuquerque wells and his resultant stake taken care of, he returned to Winslow. There he hit upon the idea of establishing an Indian trading post. The first post to serve the Navajos had been opened a scant decade before, and trading posts were still few and far between. Winslow, the railroad town, would be his source of supply.

Earlier, Jacob Hamblin, the Mormon missionary, had marked out a trail along an old Indian route which led from the Hopi villages into the Navajo Mountain country. It was fairly well traveled, and Jonathan set out to explore it. Roughly halfway between Winslow and the mountain of his dreams he came upon Blue Canyon, swiftly decided this was the place. In addition to its strategic (for his purposes) position, it contained a wealth of building stone, as well as sand and clay from which mortar could be made. Most important, he had soon located a spring. So he hired some Navajo Indians and, with the help of his two young sons (Ben was 14, Bill 12), the post that would be the Williams' home for seven years was constructed.

The door and window jambs were hewn from cottonwood. The roof was fashioned of clay. Tarpaulins served to keep out the weather at first, although eventually Jonathan brought doors and window glass from Winslow. The post was stocked with the trade goods of that day-food staples such as flour, sugar, salt; for the Indian men, hats, shirts, and pants; bolts of calico for the women; and 2-inch-high spools of Number 8 black and white thread. The canned goods consisted chiefly of tinned tomatoes, and in winter these were the only vegetables the family had. Even years later W. F. (Bill) Williams used to say he could hardly bear the sight of a can of tomatoes.

From the Hopis and Navajos Jonathan bought, or took in trade, chiefly goat and sheep hides, wool and blankets. Such purchases had to be paid for in silver. The Indians had many ingenious excuses for refusing paper money. “It burns,” they would say. Or, “No good when wet.” Actually, according to Billie Yost, they were wary because certain unscrupulous traders had once cheated them by paying them with worthless Confederate bills.

In summer the family had beans, melons, and squash from the Hopi gardens. Navajos brought them field corn; and occasionally cabbage was available from Tuba City, a 25-mile horseback ride by the route then used. Cattle and sheep were purchased on the hoof for the family's own use, not for resale, and the men butchered as need arose.

One late afternoon Jonathan, Ben, and Bill were skinning out a steer when they saw a lone horseman, a white man, approaching. This was unusual, but when he reined up they asked no questions. You never did. For a time the stranger watched them, then remarked, “I killed a beef myself last night.”

Jonathan invited him in for supper, gave him lodging for the night, and next morning at daybreak the man went on his way. Not until three weeks later, when a deputy came looking for him, did the Williams family learn what their guest had meant by killing a “beef”-he had shot another man in a saloon brawl at Ashfork.

As the best route out of the state to the north, the Blue Canyon trail was traveled not only by Indians, missionaries, and prospectors, but by an ungodly number of outlaws as well. Which is why when Mary, the older Williams girl, went to Winslow, she would make the long horseback trip in a single day, leaving long before sunup, Mrs. Yost says, in order to be there by sundown. It was an excessively hard journey, but she would not have dared camp out overnight.

Much about life in the canyon was hard. The two youngest children, Lillian and John, were born there without help of a doctor. Jonathan himself officiated at Lillie's birth, but when Johnny was due the father brought a midwife from Tuba Čity.

Sociable Annie, who had been a dance hall girl before fore her marriage, hated the canyon. “It's such a Godforsaken deep hole!” she used to say. “All I can see is the sky.” And of course it was terribly lonely.

Not for Jonathan and his sons. They left the canyon often, hunting the elusive metal the promise of which had brought them there. They saw Rainbow Bridge in 1884, twenty-five years before it was officially “discovered,” and at a time when Bridge Canyon was still known by its picturesque Navajo name, “Under-TheArm-Canyon.” They knew of many other natural bridges in the area and were familiar with just about every canyon, peak, mesa, and Colorado River crossing now considered important. In 1885 they visited the historic ruin later called Inscription House. They discovered fossil shells and prehistoric animal tracks engraved in sandstone. But although they prospected wherever they went, they did not find the gold they sought.

The nearest they came to it was in 1885. Jonathan had set up a small trading camp near Willow Springs, Utah, not far from Navajo Mountain, but business was poor, the lost gold still not to be found. Soon discouraged, he left the boys there to sell the stock they'd packed in. In a statement later dictated to his own daughter, W. F. Williams, son of Jonathan, tells the story:

“Before going, father arranged with the Navajos to bring in every rock they thought might have silver or gold in it. We didn't number these pieces or try to mark any of them for future identification. Nothing the Navajos brought us looked promising. We just dropped them all into a sack and when we

came out to Blue Canyon turned them over to father. He selected samples and sent them to an assayer. One specimen showed gold, but we didn't know where it came from, nor could we find any Navajo at Navajo Mountain who remembered that he'd brought it to us. We never did find out where this piece of rock came from.” By 1889 Jonathan Williams had given up hope of finding gold in the Navajo Mountain area, but not of finding it elsewhere. He closed the post at Blue Canyon and moved his family to Winslow. It was, he said, for the sake of the children's education, but more likely he wanted greater freedom to pursue his golden dream. At least that's what his son always believed. After an unsuccessful interlude of trying to extract flour gold from the waters of the San Juan at an economically feasible rate, he went alone to Mexico, still on the glory trail. Only forty-five years old, he ran afoul of hostile Yaqui Indians. No one knows where he lies buried, only that for Jonathan Paul Williams there never would be any gold this side of the pearly gates.

From 1889 to 1899 the post at Blue Canyon remained vacant. West of the reservation boundary when built, it was, according to Gladwell Richardson of Flagstaff, originally a "homestead" embracing 160 acres. But soon the reservations were extended westward, and Jonathan, more concerned with prospecting than with deeded land, apparently did nothing to retain his claim. Buildings on reservation land belong to the government, and so when the Indian Service decided to establish a Western Agency for the Navajos and a school to serve both Navajos and Hopis in the area, the old Blue Canyon Trading Post was available. Some rebuilding was required, and Milton J. Needham, first superintendent of the Western Navajo Agency, and his wife, who would be school matron, went down to supervise the work. Opened in 1900, the school at first had only 14 students but before long the enrollment had grown to over a hundred. (One of the teachers, Minnie Braithwaite Jenkins, later wrote a partially fictionized account of the school's first years.) To handle so many the staff was inadequate, and Mrs. Needham thought of her niece, Laura A. Williams (no relation to Jonathan). Laura was young, not yet sixteen, and she'd never been west of Missouri, her home state. But she was an expert seamstress-she could teach sewing at the school -and she had an adventurous spirit. For her, a trip to Blue Canyon might be quite an experience.

It was high noon on a sizzling July day, 1901, when the girl with the taffy-colored hair stepped off the train at Winslow. She wore a long skirt, city shoes, and a flowered hat. And she was about to travel across a stretch of country of which that hardy reporter, George Wharton James, a veteran of travel through the wilds of Northern Arizona (on the reservation he was known affectionately as "Gee Willikins") spoke with respect and occasional trepidation. "Even to the Hopis," James once wrote, describing a journey from Blue Canyon to Oraibi, "this Sahara of America is the hottest of all earthly places."

In those days travelers going north from Winslow had to cross the Little Colorado and bridgeless Cottonwood Wash at the juncture of the two streams about three miles east of the railroad terminus. On the day of Laura's arrival both river and wash were in flood. Mr.

Needham took the mule-drawn wagon across the river as far as a sandbar. The other members of the party walked the railroad bridge to the same point, then clambered down one of the bridge piers to rejoin him. "We took off our shoes," Laura says today, "but if anyone else had been around, we'd have kept them on." By wagon the trip usually took two and a half days, but weather conditions were such that they needed an extra day. When they reached Dinnebito Wash, for example, where James on his excursions had to dig into the sand to obtain a pittance of water, they were held up for hours by a flash flood. They had spent the first night at Cresswell's Ranch on the Little Colorado. The next two they camped beside what passed for the road. "All I knew about Indians," says Laura, "was what I'd read in books. When a party of Hopis clad only in gee-strings camped near us and built an enormous fire, I thought, this is the end of the world. I thought the same thing when at sundown of the fourth day we arrived at the steep Blue Canyon dugway and the mules took the wagon down at a fearsome rate, scattering rocks as they went. We made it, though, and after that I was all right."

Unlike Jonathan's lonely Annie, young Laura Williams loved Blue Canyon. She had ample companionship, and a whole new world to discover. Undismayed by hardship, she did not mind the outdoor laundry, the roofless dining "parlor" with its plank tables and tarpaulin walls, the diet of mutton and canned goods. Back of the school near a cottonwood tree (the only one south of the wash) was a natural rock tunnel, inside it a spring, the school's source of drinking water. It was fun, if a bit backbreaking, to stoop down, climb through the tunnel, and dip out a basinful at a time. For the young girl it was fun to explore the canyon with its unbelievable formations, its unexpected beauty spots. Laura at seventy-three still recalls, with a pleasure that brings stars to her blue eyes, a lovely pool surrounded by small trees some three or four miles up canyon where they used to go on picnics. They called it "Diana's Bath." She remembers-and would like to revisit-a narrow passageway between sheer rock walls which they named "Lovers' Lane." If you stood inside, arms akimbo, your elbows would touch both walls. There were the honeycombed rocks which-she never knew why-the Navajos considered chinde or evil. And farther afield were such curious sights as the well-preserved Indian cliff dwellings high above Togus-Jay Wash on the way to Tuba City.

For Laura, life in the remote canyon became even more interesting after November 20, 1901, the day on which a lanky, handsome young man named Walter Runke arrived from Algoma, Wisconsin, slated to be the school's Industrial Teacher. This was Runke's first assignment in what would be a twenty-year Indian Service career, but when he arrived he was as green as Laura had been. At Winslow he hired a man and wagon to take him to Blue Canyon. With them was an "old maid school teacher" from Indiana, also bound for the Agency. The first night, the party camped beside the Little Colorado. The men placed the woman's bedroll to one side of the fire, on the other, at a discreet distance, their own. Before turning in, the driver, intent on edifying this pair of greenhorns, told them how coyotes would often raid a camp at night. At midnight, as though by appointment, a coyote arrived, ran across the woman teacher's bedroll. Startled, still half asleep, she grabbed

Her revolver, pressed the trigger-and shot off the toe of the driver's boot. Says Walter Runke with a twinkle, "I suspect she thought the creature was one of us. So it couldn't happen again, we took the gun away from her. For a kid from the East, this was quite a Wild West introduction. I'd heard about wild Indians, but not about wild eastern women."

At the school, Laura loved tending the younger children, hardly minded when she caught smallpox from one-it meant she could not return to Missouri in February as her family had expected. Next summer, though, she did go home for a year, and when, in 1903, she came back to the Indian country, "Walter had found himself another girl." The girl was Laura's cousin, Nettie Morris, who had also come to stay with the Needhams. "And I soon found myself another boy," smiles Laura. He was Samuel S. Preston, the trader for whom Preston Mesa north of Tuba is named.

The two couples were married in October, 1904, remained fast friends over the years. Until 1917 the Prestons lived on the reservation, then moved away. In 1932 Sam Preston died, and before long Laura returned to Arizona. Walter Runke's career took him to reservations in half a dozen states, brought him back to the Western Navajo Agency as superintendent on July 7, 1914. On April 30, 1920, he resigned from the Indian Service and moved to Flagstaff. He was postmaster there during the Harding and Coolidge administrations and served two terms as state senator from Coconino county. In 1942 Nettie Runke died. Two years later Laura and Walter came together again in a revival of their early romance, and this time they married.

At their Flagstaff home today the Runkes still like to reminisce about Blue Canyon, have an amazing memory for details of the life there, even recall the names of many of the children and what they were like as individuals. In his well-thumbed album Walter Runke will show you with special benevolence a picture of a tiny Navajo boy sucking on his first stick of candy, wideeyed with wonder and delight. Another photograph is mysteriously captioned: "CHRISTMAS-JUNĚ 14, 1902." On that date, I am told, the Navajos and Hopis had come to take their children home for vacation. It was an occasion for feasting and rejoicing, so it was Christmas-in June. The Indians, it seems, called all celebrations "Ch'istmas."

As the first headquarters for the Western Navajo Agency, Blue Canyon, with its available buildings, had been the best the government could immediately provide. But even for those times Annie Williams "deep hole" was inaccessible. In bad weather, a month or more might pass before the Indian freight wagons could get in with supplies from Winslow. Mail came once a week from Flagstaff via Tuba City on horseback, and the carrier took two days for the Tuba-Blue Canyon round trip. In 1902 the government bought Tuba City from its Mormon settlers for $45,000, and throughout the fall of that year and the winter of 1903 Walter Runke worked at moving the agency and school equipment to new headquarters there. Once again Blue Canyon was deserted.

Even the stockade post which the Tuba City trader, C. H. Algert, had built near the school was abandoned, although it had given Blue Canyon its first postoffice name of Algert. No trace of the log trading post remains. The rock structures erected in 1882 by Jonathan Williams were more durable. For a year or so Algert moved into them. Then he, too, went away. Without repairs and under the assaults of desert cloudbursts, it is true, the earthen roofs fell; but in the fall of 1913 when Hubert Richardson applied for a license to operate a trading post at Blue Canyon, he knew the old buildings could be restored.

The post was opened for business in early spring, 1914. Just inside the western boundary of the Hopi (then Moqui) Reservation, Blue Canyon was under the jurisdiction of the Indian Bureau office at Keams Canyon. Due, however, "to the difficult terrain in the area of the trading post, the distance to the Keams Canyon office, and to permit easier inspection of cattle transactions," writes W. Barton Greenwood, now Deputy Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Richardson first received his license through the Western Navajo Agency at Tuba City. Even today Blue Canyon in actuality is more Navajo than Hopi country; but the technical differences in regulations between the two agencies, particularly those concerned with cattle, were to lead to a series of complications as a result of which, on September 28, 1916, Hubert Richardson (who by then had formed a partnership with his brother Claude D. and was in process of expanding his trading operations) was notified by Walter Runke, then superintendent at Tuba City, acting on behalf of the Washington office of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, that henceforth he would have to obtain his Blue Canyon license through the Keams Canyon superintendent under whose jurisdiction the post rightfully came.

From then on the post had its ups and downs. The Richardsons, who over the years have owned many successful stores, including the well-known one at Cameron, no longer lived at Blue Canyon and were soon to have their main place of business at Winslow. After an interim they hired a man to serve as "resident trader" at Blue Canyon. The arrangement worked out badly. Before long, a number of untoward happenings added up to the suspicion that the man was out to take over the post, either for himself or for someone else. There were controversies over in whose name the license should be renewed; and although it was at one time reissued in the name of Richardson, the legal difficulties had not been resolved. In 1920 the post was temporarily closed. On March 9, 1921, it was abolished.

Then from Washington came orders that the old buildings be demolished and "the materials therefrom" used to repair the Hopi day school. In accordance with these instructions the pioneer landmark was bulldozed into rubble. To a few people it seemed, as it does today, a lamentable official decision. Some blamed the Keams Canyon agent, a man who, as it happened, always wore a black glove to conceal an artificial hand. At his own post at Red Lake not far away, Jonathan Williams' son Bill mourned posterity's loss, for he felt an important historical landmark was destroyed. Although the blame for its destruction may have been disputed, the old post had come to the end of the trail. But the stirring ruins we three came upon in that lone and astonishing place remain to testify to the aspirations and sufferings, to the fortitude and quiet gaiety, and to the occasional bitter feuds, of those who once lived in Arizona's Blue Canyon.

YOURS SINCERELY SEDONA ART CENTER:

All of us here at Arizona State are deeply grateful for the wonderful article by Ed Ellinger, and for your complimentary words in your editorial in the May issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS.

The article was sensitively written and should help to draw the high caliber of student we want. In twenty years, Sedona will be one of the leading art centers in America. I am sure that in this development, ARIZONA HIGHWAYS has marked a significant milestone.

Dr. Harry Wood, Chairman Art Department, Arizona State University Tempe, Arizona

Thanks to the inspired guidance of the Art Department at Arizona State, the Sedona Art Center will undoubtedly grow into one of the leading art centers in America. One thing sure: you couldn't find a prettier place for an art center...

The articles in your May issue were wonderfully written and the entire magazine was as beautiful as could be. The only sour note was that someone inadvertently Miswrote the author's name for the article, "A Bell for Sedona." The name should have been Ray Glade or R. J. Glade, but the magazine has it printed as R. J. Slade. I wish that you would print a "correction" so that my friend, Ray, could get public recognition. This has already been done over radio station KCLS in Flagstaff by transcription.

You have a most beautiful magazine, but errors are possible.

Ellsworth Schnebly Sedona, Arizona

Apologies to Mr. Glade and thanks to Mr. Schnebly for calling the error to our attention. The article was beautifully done.

CORRECTION:

... In the May issue of your very fine magazine, we note that you have a photograph of The Chapel of the Holy Cross

on page 15; however, under "Notes for Photographers" on page 12, we note with amusement that you name the architect of said chapel as Keith Monroe, a well-known sculptor who designed the Christus in the chapel.

It would be appreciated if you would correct this error. The architects of the Chapel of the Holy Cross are Anshen & Allen.

Robert Anshen Anshen & Allen, Architects San Francisco, California

• We're sorry all around, but now the record is straight.

IN ALASKA:

... May I take this chance to tell you what a boon your magazine is to teaching? Here, where water and rain is more than plentiful, it is difficult to teach the concept of "desert" and "irrigation" to pupils who have never been to a "drier" climate. This I leave up to your magazine. Through the medium of pictures, my 6th graders now know what a desert looks like, can almost visualize a desert in bloom, and envy people who live in a climate where the sun shines almost every day! The magazine is also in great demand by fellow teachers for your articles of the Indians of the Southwest, by students studying the Southwest, and by my classes for bulletin boards! Your February issue captured the attention of one of my Eskimo students (something that mere books had failed to do) when he saw pictures of trout streams. The picture of the trout caught at Lake Mead led him to exclaim, "You mean they have fish that big in other places besides Sitka!"

Again, thank you for providing many happy hours for teachers and students in one small part of the 49th state!

Mrs. James E. Allen Sitka, Alaska

• Greetings to Mrs. Allen and her pupils in Sitka, Alaska. We surely would like to trade a little of our sunshine for some of your rain.

OPPOSITE PAGE

"ZUÑI SILVERSMITH-CHESTER MAHOOTY" BY JOSEF MUENCH. 4x5 Linhof camera; Ektachrome; f.11 at 1/50th sec.; 6" Schneider Xenar lens; blue flash bulb was sole light source. It is not always easy for photographers to take pictures of Indians at work. This one, of the Zuñi silversmith Chester Mahooty, was taken by courtesy of J. W. Kennedy and Larry Lee at the Gallup Indian Trading Company, Gallup, New Mexico, and credit should go to each of the three men for their friendly cooperation. The smith is seen hammering on a sandcast bracelet of silver. Other cast pieces and turquoise and shell inlay specimens are on his workbench in the foreground.

BACK COVER

"RUNNING WATER OF SUPAI" BY DON DE MUTH. 24x214 Rolleiflex camera; Ektachrome; f.11 at 1/25th sec.; 3.5 Tessar lens; early July; bright sunlight-1:30 p.m.; DW-48 meter reading 15 in sunlit water areas. This shot was made a little way downstream from Havasu Falls in the Havasupai Indian Reservation. The camera was mounted on a tripod rather than being hand-held due to the rather slow shutter speed used. 1/25th sec. seems to be just about right to impart the feeling of motion to trembling water and yet retain a fair amount of detail. This shutter speed also permitted the use of f.11 aperture, which gave the desired increased depth of field.

CANYON POOL

Green shadow of oak, Gray shadow of stone, And the still stream's crystal Undertone-

Pale patterns aslant A hidden pool Where eddies ripple, Secret, cool, At the silver hooves Of a spotted deer As green and gray shadows Blur and then clear.

-ETHEL JACOBSON

FLIGHT OF A HUMMING BIRD

Splinter of rainbow striking the eyes, Catching the breath in wordless surprise, Nature perfecting, in miniature art, Beauty so sudden it clutches the heart.

-PAULINE HENSON

GARDEN HAPPY

Catalog listings, from arm chair position Radiate promise packed with nutrition. I relish my garden of anticipation Minus blisters and sweat of realization.

-MILDRED HOSKINSON

SCENE IN THE SUN

Impudent chatter, Saucy frisk of a tail, Bright-eyed alertness, On stone wall or rail.

Inquisitive daring, Questioning fright, A little brown chipmunk Flashes from sight.

-BERTHA R. HUDELSON

WORLD NEW MADE

I saw it! Yes, I saw creation new again as out across the void of desert night, the dark stretched . . . infinite . . .

And then I heard! I heard the words, "Let there be Light!"

The graying sky breathed with first dawn awareness, and the hills themselves stirred in their purpled sleep; then it was there a burst of glory . . . instantaneous . . . as day spilled golden on a new made world.

-LORRAINE BABBITT

NIGHT TRAVEL

The car holds steady to its course Along this lonely road. The force Of wind plays frenzied violins Against the partly opened fins, And sealed in darkness, we succumbTo silence and the motor's hum, Suspended in monotony, Each to his private reverie, Until abandoning the night At city's edge for life and light.

-BETTY ISLER