Bidahochi to the Monuments

From Bidahochi to the Monuments Hightail Travel on a Two-wheel Horse

My steed had two wheels instead of four feet, consumed gasoline instead of oats and grass, trotted along at forty-five or fifty instead of five miles per hour, and although it had a saddle, it didn't have saddlebags. A lightweight motorcycle was what it was, a late twentieth century technological horse, meandering down trails in Northern Arizona's Navajo country, which the fourlegged variety had been meandering down for ages. With the wind whipping my clothing, I looked around at the high desert September sunflowers, at the volcanic gravel which flowed out like black glaciers from volcanic cinder cones, at the sage-covered red earth farther east, and knew this was common ground between me and that true horseman of long ago. The sense of freedom, of expansive beauty, of enlarged spirit, are things which can't be modernized or brought up to date. Our steeds were different-mine and that of the Indian or cowpoke of old-but the universal benefits derived from nature in the wild are common ground, and become a communication link across the generations. The route I followed on this late summer day wasn't some historical trail duplicating the steps of a notable pioneer or westward movement. It was more a quest of the spirit. Like so many others, I had been enraptured by the romantic images of the Old West. This was an attempt-in addition to experiencing the simple joys of travel through a scenic wonderland-to recapture some of that romantic essence. I could have ridden a real horse I suppose, but all I had was days for this journey, not weeks-or months. Besides, that Old West flavor would transcend the form of my Machine Age steed. And why the Navajo reservation? It was because this 25,000-square-mile enclave was, in microcosm, a bridge to the past. The people here, many of whom still lived in the oldest forked-stick hogans, were descendants of those earlier folk. The reservation was in fact a living museum of a former time, even with the paved roads, power lines, and signs of modern industry. And there were those relics of a more distant Western past tooAs I rode toward Bidahochi, with the sun on its downward course, with ominous thunderheads scattered across the sky, and with the pothole-and-washboard dirt road starting to make itself felt through the small-bike suspension of my rig (at 175 cubic centimeters, the Honda was much smaller than standard touring bikes), I felt the first tinge of vulnerability at being out in the open desert, unprotected from the elements. No air-conditioned - tinted - window - shock-absorbed-completelyenclosed security now. It was just a rider and his steed, growling down a lonely Western trail. I looked back the way I came and to either side and forward down the roadand saw no signs of life. Just a whirling dervish crossing right to left, kicking up dust, and buzzards circling high above. When I shut down the engine for a moment there was complete and utter silence.... Civilization breeds dependence on those multifarious symbols of security-central heating, telephone, microwave, the convenient shopping centers and repair shops. What did I know about dealing with the perversities of nature out on the open prairie? I knew something of survival in the great outdoors, but, compared to those early pioneers, I rated as a true greenhorn. I bedded-down that first night in the campground at Canyon de Chelly, pitching my tent among the cottonwoods. Later, from the depths of my warm sleeping bag, I listened to the far off drum beats of a Navajo squaw dance and the yip of a lonely coyote. Navajo warriors would listen to such sounds in the old days. And perhaps a platoon leader did too, in the Army of the West, as it ran through this country pacifying the red man. For four years, starting in March of 1864, there were no more squaw dances, and very few Indians on horseback riding through the blue sage. For four years the Navajos languished at Bosque Redondo, 300 miles away, in New Mexico. But the coyote was still heard, baying at the stars, whichaccording to one Navajo legend-he created by dragging his tail through a moon-silvered puddle then swishing it into the air. Next day I pulled up in front of the stone-walled Hubbell Trading Post-forty miles south-and it was like drawing a horse up to a hitching post. But for the presence of some automobiles, and the stocking of modern-day goods inside, Hubbell's is like entering a time machine locked into the past. You step onto the creaking wood floor inside and survey the high wooden counters, and look at the black rectangular wood stove, and it's like 1878 again-with juniper logs burning, and John Lorenzo Hubbell standing there, bartering canned goods for wool and rugs. The Hubbell Trading Post is little changed since the old days (it's a National Historic Site now), and it reeks with the ambience of the past. How many trail-weary cowpokes entered this darkened interior? How many dignitaries and artists and passers-through came here looking for a glimpse of the Indian West? Many did.... And they still come-like me-their antennae out, looking for an inkling of what it was like back then. They'll see it in the antique trappings, in the old Hubbell home out back-and in the modern-day arts and crafts, too. But it is in those hand-made examples of a primitive art form, the Navajo rug, that one can catch a glimpse of yesterday, transmitted through the genes, transmitted by word of mouth, and seen in figures, crosses, diamonds, and architectural groupings. The Navajos have been weaving for over 300 years now, and there has evolved a familial tradition of motifs, passed down from generation to generation. And time becomes frozen in the patterned reds, blues, yellows and blacks, whites and grays of warp thread and weft yarn. As I went to mount my mechanical steed I noticed curious looks from Indians sitting patiently in a pickup. I would get the same curious looks everywhere I went on the reservation-from small boys, from grown men wearing black felt hats, from women in calico skirts and velveteen blouses. It was the little motorcycle they were look-ing at. Maybe the past was at the edge of their consciousness too-whether they knew it or not-seeing in their mind's eye a lone rider on an Indian pony, heading out through piñon trees and yellow rabbit brush.

But there's still something about a horse-untied as it is to gas pumps, parts suppliers, and roads-which endears itself to those of an independent mind.

There's something exhilarating about riding a motorcycle in open country. Especially when the country is spellbinding in its beauty.

There's something exhilarating about riding a motorcycle in open country. Especially when the country is spellbinding in its beauty. It accentuates the feeling of freedom. The horseman must experience the same sense of transport at times, of release from earthly bonds. Traveling along the south rim drive of Canyon de Chelly, feeling the crispness of the morning air, smelling the sage, catching glimpses of the great canyon maw as it runs in toward the road and back out again, gives the rider an unforgettable high. It can be addictive. It is addictive. As addictive as the horse must have been to the Navajo and other tribes back in the 1600s when it became an integral part of their lives. Descendants of those first Indian mounts still roam the reservation. They're symbols, links with a Navajo past when horses meant status, prestige, and unsurpassed mobility. The pickup is the medium for that mobility and freedom now. But there's still something about a horse-untied as it is to gas pumps, parts suppliers, and roads-which endears itself to those of an independent mind. As long as that image of independence lingers in the Navajo mind, horses will no doubt linger on the reservation.

The Navajos came to Canyon de Chelly after the Anasazi, who built the stone masonry dwellings. You wonder, standing at the edge of the canyon, looking down on ruins of the old cliff dwellings, whether the Navajos also looked down and wondered. You speculate whether they had any curiosity about the long gone inhabitants of those stone and mortar rooms clinging to alcoves and sheer cliffs. And the answer has to be, of course they did. Curiosity about the past isn't a thing only of the modern and educated. A search for roots is a universal human trait.

On a late afternoon before leaving Canyon de Chelly, I stood at the rim, watching the shadow move up and replace the golden light on Spider Rock. All the sightseers had gone, and the only sounds were the whir of a black swift's wings as he darted along the edge; the mournful cry of a canyon wren far below; and a dog's bark echoing in the distance. There's a folk tale about Spider Rock, told to Navajo children. If the child misbehaves, nearby Speaking Rock tattles to Spider Woman. Spider Woman then captures the naughty child and takes him to her lair high on Spider Rock....White stones, visible on top of the spire, are claimed to be the bleached bones of some of those unfortunate children. Folk tales. Legends. Old West fantasies....

Monument Valley, perhaps the best known trademark of Navajo country, an enchanting world of soaring spires and stalwart mesas, has become, in practice, a movie set. The romantic Western past has been distilled into reels of celluloid. I rode my "two-wheel horse" over the seventeen-mile sand and gravel road and looked at the red golden monoliths, at the changing shadows, at the stark beauty of it all, and mused about man's imaginings; about all the versions of the Western past played out here. And I wondered which one was the true version. Did Stagecoach evoke the true essence of the Old West? Did The Searchers? Did one of numberless others distill in its footage what the Western frontier was all about?

Probably not, I concluded. For the essence of this place lies largely in the beholder. Many beholders, many essences. And the Western flavor is indeed timeless. The fact that it can evoke so many feelings, can stir so splendidly the spirit of unbridled freedom and optimism, is a tribute to its universal depth.

Two days after leaving Monument Valley the trip odometer on the cycle had gone past the triple zero mark and on past 100 again. After nine days my haunches had quit complaining so much about the hardness of the saddle, and my skin had adapted itself to the sun and wind. As the Flagstaff city limits appeared in the distance there was a fleeting regret at the trip coming to an end.... But then, there's a time for all cowboys to come in from the range.

Ron Swartley lives in Flagstaff and writes and photographs for such publications as Sports Afield, Americana, and Westways.

Arizona Highways Magazine/43

BOOKSHELF RAILROADS OF ARIZONA VOLUME III: CLIFTON, MORENCI AND METCALF RAILS AND COPPER MINES.

By David Myrick. Trans Anglo Press, available from: Interurban Press, P. O. Box 6444, Glendale, CA 91205, 1984. 342 pages. $44.95, hardcover, plus $1.50 mailing.

For decades the economic health of Arizona has been tied to that of its copper industry. It still is. Thus it is quite fitting that David Myrick, consummate railroad historian of the West, has given us a precise picture of east-central Arizona's mining districts, copper companies, towns, and associated rail lines. As in his earlier volumes (I: The Southern Roads and II: Phoenix and the Central Roads, both published by Howell-North Books), the author provides very human sketches of many of the people who braved great economic risks, Indian raids, floods, and other hazards to build empires, make fortunes or just survive. There are an astounding 335 well-captioned blackand-white photographs and thirty-nine detailed maps, in addition to five appendices, meticulous locomotive rosters for Arizona short line railroads, an index, and the writer's always gracious acknowledgments. Devotees of Arizona history and of railroad history will be elated at the appearance of this latest product of scrupulous research from the prolific, frequently humorous pen of David Myrick.

HASHKNIFE COWBOY: RECOLLECTIONS OF MACK HUGHES. By Stella

Mack Hughes. Illustrated by Joe Beeler. University of Arizona Press, Sunnyside Building, 250 East Valencia Road, Tucson, AZ 85706. 1984. 248 pages. $17.50, hardcover. Mack Hughes went to work as a cow-hand for the famous Hashknife outfit in northeastern Arizona at age eleven. In his fourteen years there he had ample time to observe his hardworking father, Pat, to experience the rigors of ranch life, and to participate in a variety of cowboying activities-mishaps and all. Through Mack's eyes and his first-person account, man and horse take on real character. The author, Stella Hughes, has retained the true spirit of the drama and excitement of oldtime ranching by using the lingo of the cowboy. Noted Cowboy Artist Joe Beeler has contributed splendid artwork, and the author's introduction and glossary of

HASHKNIFE COWBOY

Here is Arizona ranching history at its dynamic best. (See story page 3.)

ARIZONA ADVENTURE: ACTIONPACKED TRUE TALES OF EARLY ARIZONA.

By Marshall Trimble. Golden West Publishers, 4113 North Longview Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85014. 160 pages. 1982. $5.00, softcover. Packed into one small volume are fascinating stories of people and places-from Coronado and Anza to Buckey O'Neill and Tom Horn; from Tombstone and Pleasant Valley to Flagstaff and Prescott. Noteworthy Spanish explorers, miners, lawmen, cowboys, government scouts, and business entrepreneurs receive masterful treatment from writer-historian Trimble. There are small black-and-white photos of most of the persons mentioned, as well as maps, a selective bibliography, and an index for easy reference, For a highly readable, informal introduction to many of Arizona's early makers of history, this is just the book.

HIKING THE SOUTHWEST: A SIERRA CLUB TOTEBOOK, by Dave Ganci. Sierra

Club Books 2034 Fillmore Street, San Francisco, CA 94115. 1983. 416 pages. $9.95 softcover.

From the Pecos River in west Texas to the Colorado River in Arizona, Dave Ganci guides us through 250 hiking trails in Arizona and New Mexico. Packing each hike full of natural and human history, recreational opportunities, trail mileages and elevations, closest support points, and best hiking seasons, the book explores national parks, forests, and monuments, plus wildlife refuges, Indian reservations, museums, public gardens, and state, county, and urban parks. Ganci urges the reader to experience each of these areas firsthand, but emphasizes proper care of the fragile desert ecosystem of much of the Southwest. This book is a must for all backpackers, and a handy reference book for every Southwest library.

FATHER EUSEBIO FRANCISCO KINO AND HIS MISSIONS OF THE PIMERIA ALTA.

Book One: The Side Altars, 1982; Book Two: The Main Altars, 1983; Book Three: Facing the Missions, 1983. Southwest Mission Research Center, available from: Cabat Studio, 627 North Fourth Avenue, Tucson, AZ 85705. $5.00 each, plus $1.50 mailing; set of three plus housing sleeve, $17.50, plus $1.50 mailing.

Tucson artist Ernie Cabat provides a fresh and different look at the Kino Missions in his colorful impressionist paintings executed between 1975 and 1983. Each thirty-two-page volume of this delightful softcover trilogy contains reproductions of Cabat's expressive watercolors of seventeenth-century Spanish missions in southern Arizona and northern Sonora, Mexico. The brief but authoritative text was written by Jesuit historian Charles W. Polzer and translated into Spanish by Carmen Prezelski. Cabat has captured the essence of these missions in warm, vibrant colors that are a direct reflection of the living mission tradition.

Readers will also like LIFE ON THE TANQUE VERDE, Book One: The History. 1983. Thirty-two pages. $5.95, softcover, plus $1.50 mailing. Here are more lively paintings by Cabat and a text written by Charlotte M. Cardon, Tucson archeologist and journalist. The historic Tanque Verde Ranch area has witnessed a great deal of history, which the team of Cabat and Cardon skillfully recalls.

ARIZONA CACTI AND SUCCULENTS,

Book One (1984, thirty-two pages. $8.95, softcover, plus $1.50 mailing), is the newest addition to the Cabat line. His paintings, other illustrations, and a factual text by Rodney G. Engard make this booklet a gem for cactus lovers.

YOURS SINCERELY

The middle of April I spent flora and fauna viewing in the southern part of your variegated state. The weather was pleasantly hot the first two days (100 F.), then someone turned down the thermostat and turned up the blower fan. The experience of hearing strong winds sing through the saguaro can be felt nowhere else, and is an amazing sensation: Sibilant throb through Spines encompassing pale spireWind in saguaro.

We have enjoyed the Arizona Highways for many years without any complaintsjust praise and enjoyment. However, in the last few issues, articles are started and then instead of running them from page to page, they are continued in the back of the magazine. This is especially frustrating to the handicapped, who must, by necessity, turn pages slowly with gadgets to help them. If they have to continue reading the pages in order, the theme of the article is lost before they come to the end of the story. Can something be done about this, to bring peace, quiet, and enjoyment back into our home when the Arizona Highways arrives? Not only for us but for the many other subscribers who find turning pages hard?

Every issue of Arizona Highways is a jewel unto itself, mainly due to the magnificent photography. However, the article, "A Texan Looks At Arizona," in the May issue, should be must reading for everyone. It's a crown jewel.

The dirigible Shenandoah did crash September 3, 1925, as stated in the article "The Shenandoah Vs. Picacho Peak," (June, 1984) but split into only two parts (not three) near Ava, Ohio. The rear portion of the dirigible landed on the Andy Gamary farm home near Ava, and the forward part drifted for several miles, striking the ground near Sharon on the Ernest Nichols farm. My mother and I (being fourteen years of age) were eyewitnesses to this scene.

Also, common logic would indicate that the distance between Ava and Greenville, Ohio, would make it practically impossible for the supposed third section of the dirigible to land near the home of its Lieutenant Commander, Zachary Lansdowne.

Oops, that mistake was our fault, not Dr. Fontana's. The source we used for the Afterword was incorrect.

I just received the June 1984 edition, and I truly loved the article on "God's Country." I was born in the St. Johns area and raised in Show Low. I love this area and always will.

I wouldn't trade this beautiful "God's Country," for anyplace else.

I want to thank you for the lovely [DeGrazia] print. It fit the frame we had already purchased perfectly and now hangs next to an arrangement of Papago baskets (circa 1930), kachinas, and pottery.

I thought we ought to have at least a print of Ted DeGrazia's beautiful work since I sat beside him and compared notes in a geology class at the University of Arizona years ago.

Do want you to know that I like the new approach that Arizona Highways is taking ing and find myself reading the articles although the subscription was strictly for my husband's reading pleasure.

Your article on the Shenandoah in the June '84 issue brought back memories. I was six years old, and my parents and I were on one of our annual Labor Day trips from our home in Cumberland, Maryland, to Pleasant City, Ohio. This time we went to see the wreck of the Shenandoah, and for many years afterward, my dad kept a piece of the silver outside covering and a piece of the yellow gas bag as souvenirs.

They are gone now, as he is, but I can't help wondering if, by using the imagination just a little, maybe we could be somewhere in the picture on page 14.

Congratulations on your June, 1984, issue. The photos and stories are excellent. In particular, the article "God's Country." I'm amazed at the contrast of terrain and climate in Arizona.

Unfortunately, my family and I have never seen your state. Our time will come. I can see why Arizona's White Mountains are called "God's Country."

Publisher-Hugh Harelson Editor-Don Dedera Managing Editor-Richard G. Stahl Art Director-Gary Bennett Picture Editor-Peter Ensenberger Associate Art Director-Lorna Holmes Associate Editor-Robert J. Farrell Contributing Editors-Bill Ahrendt, Jo Baéza, Joe Beeler, Bob Bradshaw, Duane Bryers, Ed Cooper, Paul Dean, Dick Dietrich, Jack Dykinga, Carlos Elmer, Bernard Fontana, Barry Goldwater, Pam Hait, Jerry Jacka, Gill Kenny, Peter Kresan, Herb and Dorothy McLaughlin, Ray Manley, David Muench, Charles Niehuis, Earl Petroff, Lawrence Clark Powell, Allen C. Reed. Jerry Sieve, Joe Stocker, Jim Tallon, Larry Toschik, Marshall Trimble, Lee Wells, Maggie Wilson Business Director-Jim Delzell Operations Director-Palle Josefsen Circulation Director-Sharon Vogelsang Marketing and Sales DirectorAlberto Gutier

Governor of Arizona-Bruce Babbitt

Director, Department of TransportationWilliam A. Ordway Arizona Transportation Board Chairman: Hal F. Butler, Show Low: Members: Sondra Eisberg, Prescott; Lynn M. Sheppard, Globe; Doug Kennedy, Tucson: Ted Valdez, Sr., Phoenix: Arthur C. Atonna, Douglas; Don Cooper, Mesa.

Here's a sampling of the exciting features in store for you in the months ahead...

Possibly the world's fastest growing city. Phoenix, Arizona. in a little over 100 years grew from nothing to a megalopolis of nearly two million people. Within its city limits Phoenix holds the ninth-largest population in the United States. Drawn by near-perfect climate, relaxed life-style, and ample employment. the population tide continues unabated. Phoenix has experienced some growing pains along the way but has a vision that ensures quality living in this shining capital of the Sun Belt. Find out how in the special seventy-two page metro Phoenix and The Valley of the Sun issue... In October.

A holiday gift for all America will be in the December Issue. So varied Is Arizona's geography, you can find a little bit of every state there-the cornfields of Nebraska, the Badlands of South Dakota, the granite mountains of New Hampshire. America the Beautiful as found in Arizona... In December.

OCTOBER 1984 DECEMBER 1984 NOVEMBER 1984

Once the great desert crossroads on the southern Immigrant trall to California, Yuma, Arizona, on the Colorado River, now reigns both as a successful agricultural area, and as one of the more popular desert havens for winter visitors. Why do so many snowbirds flock to Yuma? Sunshine and friendliness is the unanimous answer... In the November Issue.

JANUARY 1985

World leader in astronomy... major cancer research facility .most advanced arid lands agriculture study anywhere... one of the larger core campuses in the world... these and more all came to pass in one century of academic excellence at the University of Arizona in Tucson. The UofA centennial celebration with a look toward tomorrow...In January.

MARCH 1985

Hidden treasure, lost mines. ghost towns, untold fortunes found with only a gold pan or a metal detector, wandering the wide open deserts and the piney mountains in search of riches-that's what awaits the treasure hunter in Arizona. Find the best and most beautiful places to strike it rich... In March.

(BACK COVER) Each year brigades of sturdy hikers converge on the Grand Canyon, their special target for crosscanyon adventuring. (See "Grand Canyon Trek," beginning on page 16.) Larry Ulrich photo (INSIDE BACK COVER) Buck Farm Canyon in the Grand Canyon. River Mile 41. Gary Ladd photo Subscribe, renew, or extend your subscription today. Our one-year subscription rate is only $15, two years for $25. Or enjoy our new three-year rate: $35. Order one subscription at any of the three rates and send one-year gift subscriptions for only $13. (Foreign rates: $18 per year.)