This classic western two lane highway, maybe the one which inspired the Eagles, or the Pure Prairie League song, lays out much the same as it was so many many years ago. Today, the old cowpoke hitchhiking on the vinyl album cover would have to ride on his saddle strapped onto our roof rack. We do have that sense of heading home, it’s been several weeks, yet we are still a long way from point A and point B.
This asphalt ribbon takes us through under-populated, yet overburdened reservation lands. This is an indigenous people’s nation. It is huge, bigger than many countries. There amongst the wondrous geology and subtle color is poverty. This vast land holding appears to be something that the white settlers didn’t really want, at least for a while.
I have to wonder how these people fare. They may be more secure than their ancestors, but less than most Americans. Some are feeling in their place and their heritage, some are wallowing in a confusion of two worlds, dysfunction and despair. I don’t see happy in general, but I suppose that that comes in glimpses, a few highs, lows and what lies in-between.
There is a lot of space in-between, as we look out our windows, but then, who am I? I haven’t grown up here and know a wholly different perspective from my own blessings. The attitude inside doesn’t always match a metaphor of the surroundings.
One chubby fellow, obviously a local, leans against a car. He is miles from any place of significance, but perhaps there is significance. He is staring out across the surreal gift. He is parked on a dirt road next to the paved highway, which leads to seemingly, another horizon in the sea. Is he contentedly being, or contemplating his way to peace? There is something out there that has him ignoring another tourist zipping down the highway. We are the only thing that moves, the only sound, the only excitement, a passersby. Something is more important. Maybe he is trying to ignore the machines, drown them out with something more pleasant, or more significant? Maybe he is coming up with a plan, deep in thought?
I’m in thought, as we pass in this desolate landscape with its reminder of eternity. Perhaps he is thinking/feeling what I am, from the prayer book that I read this morning:
“My life is a journey of discovery. Sometimes the roads I travel are easy and the terrain gentle. Other times, the route may twist and wind and the way may feel rocky and rough.
With eyes and ears open, any journey can be one of discovery. When I am alert and aware, the world becomes bigger and exciting. With my mind and heart open, my spiritual journey is also one of discovery. Sometimes I must navigate the challenging path of doubt before I can turn onto the smoother path of faith and joy.
No matter whether my journey feels easy, or more challenging, or takes place within or without , I am heartened and comforted knowing I’m traveling with a Divine presence.”
Sometimes, just looking out into something vast and amazing makes that moment a journey in itself and I want to stick there. Out here in this landscape, I’ve got the sense that we’re all fellow travelers.
Each town along the way is dominated by a big building dedicated to education, surrounded by barbed wire. They seem like factory towns; only the major industry seems to be education. Obviously an illusion, but what ARE people doing?
DF struggles to take photos of hogans at as we pass at 65 mph.
At the visitor’s center, there is a Hogan display. Heavy wood beams, not from around here, create six, or eight sides. We look in from the traditional eastern entrance.
Log cabin walls are nearly round. Each piece and belonging is planted in its place by Navajo, or Dine Feng Shui.
It has its spiritual aspect. The door opens to the east and sunrise, a new day, a new beginning, in tune with the natural energy. These are cozy, protected, safe from elements, with an earthiness and supportive like a womb.
Next to the Hogan is a structure supported by stakes with the leaves still attached, but dry. The branches are upright, or laying across the roof. I walk in to join DF and am stunned by a dramatic difference. It is a comfortable temperature on a hot dry desert day. It is pleasant. I don’t want to leave. Maybe, I could use something like this in my yard at home.
However, by the time Canyon de Chelly looms below my feet, I feeling uncomfortable. The big “White House” overlook and trail that we have come here for, is closed. Vandalism and break-ins have made an impact. It has been closed for four years, while the powers that be sort it out. We are warned, “Lock your car and bring your valuables with you.” I’ve waited years for this sight. Disappointment couples with my accumulated sense of too many people’s desolation.
We drive several miles next to a deep chasm to a parking lot. We get out, me in a kilt and DF her handy sundress. There are just a few people here. A punked out gothic young girl is contrasted with her apparent tourist grandparents, frustrated by the lack of cell service. She is fiddling and walking around, placing the instrument in the air. She is searching for the familiarity that the box holds and seeing this place as irrelevant. I walk away, thinking of the warning about thieves and that soon my belongings will be left alone. How sad it is, when young people desecrate heritage and tribal income, and I hear myself surmise why.
The canyon has a wide bottom, framed by massive high stature, coated in reds. These cliff faces rise monumentally above it to where we stand. It is beautiful.
Down below, there are impressive ruins with multiple kivas.
This place could support greater populations and communities, more than any other that we have known, during our explorations. Now, it still supports these children of the children of the ancients. The contrast of then, now and after is also monumental.
Hours Later:
Hours later, we are still driving through the desert, or the juniper covered pine hills of this reservation. It is huge and sparse.
It reeks of solitude. We know whose land, whose nation we are still in by the sight of occasional hogans. Even fine houses have a traditional Hogan next to them. We can be assured that we have not missed the exit sign into the State of Arizona.
Still, it is wonderful to pull off of the absolutely straight two lane highway, turn off the motor and stand naked. The roar of the motor and the blast of blues jams coming out of speakers, are replaced by… Nothing.
I think that I could sit down nude on this centerline strip and enjoy my lunch undisturbed.
An old cow pen sits off to the east. There, a very old windmill for an empty water trough begins to make its distinctive lone creaking sound, calling out for nobody.
This place is isolated, but doesn’t feel lonely. It is instead a long road stretching into an infinite horizon, unbothered, also naked, right here, right now.
Finally, arriving back in Arizona, after being in the corner of the state for a long time, we come to one of the old Mormon settlements turned into a town, St. Johns. This is familiar, we’re nearing the mountains and our destination. Again, there is that contrast of busy activity and for us, at a drive through, two tacos to go. Sitting in a parking lot, a drip of salsa falls to my leg. A swipe of an index finger cleans the mess up.
We need to make our White Mountain camp before sundown.
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