Wupatki (photos)

As I revisited Wupatki Monument, I discovered it was built by the Kayenta Anasazi! Small world. I am still traveling within the culture. Last time I was here was with Celia Woloch in 1992. So it's a homecoming back to the self.

My friend Erik said the culture's "a mixture of SinAgua, Kyenta Anasazi and Cohonina peoples. The northernmost ceremonial ball courts, like Mexico, suggest contact with the Hohokam. Some may have become the Havasupai. 

 Others became Hopi clans. The Bear, Katsina, Lizard, Rattlesnake, Sand, Snow, and Water clans go there to remember their ancestors. There is a blow hole there which probably had sacred meaning. They grew corn and squash, harvested water and traded stuff all the way from the Pacific and Gulf of Mexico and Mexico."

I put my hat over the blowhole below the ball court and let it shoot up into the air. It smells of dankness and limestone and death. The sacred Quiché Maya twins Hunahpu and Hunahpu (or Xbalanque) played ball here too. In the caves of Xibalba, the Lord of the Underworld sighs.

Suddenly I am remembering, and missing John Oliver Simon, who took me to the underbelly of the world, and I am once again straddling parallel lives. Both coming and going. Time telescoping into itself like a Möbius strip. The jaguar sun fell from the sky, pierced to the heart by an arrow. I am counting katuns and facing the end of another relationship. Off with their heads. Let the games begin.

from Facebook notes, revised 4/23/16

Four Corners to Tuba City (photos)

Four Corners & Tuba City. Mffft. (Add California City to the mffft list. No there there.) Not impressed. The Navajo Nation have monitized the stateline boundaries and turned Four Corners into a tacky theme park. Define tourist trap. So irritated that there was an admission fee of $5 per person. I preferred the old geodetic marker without all the fanfare, and you could see clearly into all four states. Not that there was a lot to see.

The theme seems to be a build it and they will come mentality. Now the once unfettered view into four states is surrounded by a sea of concrete: a cement plaza, an auditorium, kiosks where native artisans sell trinkets, and portapotties. Tourists just love this stuff. Think they're getting a piece of the action. They need to be officially told with little plaques that they're having an authentic experience.

It's an artificial boundary after all. Really? Do they also charge the San Juan River admission? We parked under the Four Corners sign and argued about going in.

But the day was drawing to a close, and there was no place to stay for us Bilagáana at Four Corners, or at Teec Nos Pos (a circle of cottonwoods) which consist of a trading post a DMV, and a post office (cheap gas!), so we took a miss on Chaco Canyon. We'd just come from Kayenta (Tó Dínéeshzhee), a dry town of many churches, and didn't want to retrace our steps. Besides, there was only the ostentatious pricy Hampton Inn. We didn't know about the only other motel in Kayenta, the Wetherill Inn (no wifi). Notes for next time.



Agathla Peak (Aghaałą́—wool-gathering), or El Capitán, a sacred peak.

According to Wiki, Agathla Peak, at 7,099 ft, is a volcanic diatreme, or an eroded plug that rises more than 1,500' feet above the valley floor. Think of it as the many-chambered heart of the volcano. The breccia, cut by dyke arteries, and an unusual igneous rock, minette, are 25 million years old. Seconded only by Shiprock, these astounding monumental rocks are part of the Navajo Volcanic Field. By contrast, Monument Valley's minaret reefs are comprised of sandstone.

Church Rock, just east of Kayenta, near on the Navajo Trail (US 160), was astoundingly beautiful at sunset. I was not expecting that. I thought Agathla Peak and its sidekick, Chaistla Butte, or Little Capitán, were the the crown jewels. I didn't even know about Church Rock (we entered Kayenta late at night), so its surprise beauty was doubly astounding. No time to stop, we were chasing twilight. Neil wouldn't stop the car for photos, so I watched it whizz by in the rear-view mirror. All I have is a drive-by memory of Diatreme Alley.

Church Rock? or another outcrop on 160. It was a cathedral of a rock.

We followed the Navajo Trail through the canyon all the way to Tuba City. So much for seeing the Painted Desert in the dark.

In Tuba City Hopi and Navajo tension is palpable. Cop presence everywhere. Most of the police in front of Denny's and a monstrous casino/hotel are Hopi. We got questioned by the Navajo Police in a MacDonald's parking lot for sitting in our car. I was trying to find a motel on the iPad, So much for the free wifi at MacDonalds. Don't ever loiter in Tuba City.

Tony Hillerman's memorable character Sgt. Jim Chee, caught straddling two worlds, was a Tuba City Navajo Police officer. He left Tuba City behind—probably for a good reason.

Tuba City was named after Tuuvi, a Hopi leader who converted to Mormonism. He brought the Mormans in. Must explain the third arm of tension here. Tuvi means outcast or rejected one. The Navajo name Tó Naneesdizí means tangled waters, which is a good a metaphor as any. What was the Paiute name? There are two time zones here. Then there's Navajo time.

Speaking on the measurement of time, we also missed out on seeing the dinosaur tracks and visiting the Navajo Code Talkers museum. Tuba City, a boomtown, struck it rich on uranium, is an uneasy city.  I just wanted to get out of Dodge. I don't want to see that kind of glowing desert landscapes.

We gassed up (a full tank is a must, gas stations are few and far between. Gas is also cheaper on the reservations), We pushed onto Flagstaff during the wee hours and were met with hellacious rain! Next morning it was snowing at the pass above Flagstaff so we abandoned our Grand Canyon plans. Road closed. Revisiting Wupatki was our grand consolation prize.

I think this is Chaistla Butte, or Little Capitán.

added, extensively revised 4/17
(I got into it! You never know when a line or two will yield a post.)
from very skimpy Facebook notes

Across Navajolands, (photos)

We've been traveling for travel's sake across Navajolands to see what was there. We took a jeep deep into the back country with a new friend who lives in the canyon where we're staying. Though he's lived here for over a year, he's still discovering new places. Bill was a medic in the army, and serves as a nurse health practitioner at the Diné Health Clinic, so we're in good hands.

The jeep lumbers over rock reefs, and surfs and bucks in deep red sand. We yell Heehaw! Sing Surfin' USA. Myriad tracks braid their way through the bluffs and gullies of Mystery Valley, I worry about getting lost, but Bill's son, young Samuel from Brazil knows the way. He leads us unerringly through the slot canyons to the arches, and holes in the walls.

The sandstone hills are steep. I scramble on hands and knees. My knee braces are only of so much use, so I can't see the inside of the Toilet Bowl. I scoot down cliffs on my butt when all else fails. I cannot crawl on my hands and knees for my knees cannot take any pressure. again with my hands and elbows and drag my body along like a gila monster.  I can't fathom using the handholds etched into cliffs. Not on the descent.

Yesterday we traversed Anvil Mesa where a petrified forest once stood. Downed logs the size of young redwoods, turned to stone, as if they had gazed upon Medusa's eyes. Some trees looked like huge swamp cypresses. Not junipers. The brewing storm had us shrieking as we stood patiently for the obligatory photographs, as an arm of lightning, the size of a vast tree limb, struck behind the photographer. Talk about using a flash.

Last night I dreamed that I ran into an old childhood friend at the ruins. It was an odd telescoping of time. What was Pete Sutton doing in my dream? It was great to see him. We reconnected on Facebook, but I haven't physically seen him in decades. Was a time when I saw Pete almost daily in the ceramics lab at College of Marin. I realized we had a common shared  history. If anyone would understand, it was Pete. A spirit guide of sorts. 

We found makeshift homage altars made of potshards and food offerings of tiny teosinte cobs at the Kayenta Anasazi pueblos. I was explaining to our hosts how the pots were made. How the thin walls were made by hand—by touch, not sight. A I demonstrated the process, I felt the secret fleshy curve of the long dead potter’s thumb. I explain that some pots were formed by pressing them into baskets, or against woven mats, others were pinch pots. I didn't see any evidence of coil pots.

The Anasazi used a slow black reduction firing, the designs were painted on with calcium and iron ore stains, no glaze was used. The pots were burnished with smooth stones to align the silica spicules in the clay. I rub shards thousands of years old, still smooth as skin, against my lip.

The Navajo or Diné people are superstitious, they won't visit the ruins, they say there are ghosts and evil buried within bone. The Anasazi are not their ancestors, however they are the caretakers of the land.  If the Navajo guides do visit, they lay shards as offerings to belay any present danger. Leaving shards in remembrance for the Anasazi ancestors. There are many shards stacked up. The infrequent tourists have followed suit. Better than everyone taking a small shard home. 

Suddenly I remembered our pottery teachers Jim Brown and Thano Johnson telling us how to construct pots when we were young. I explain to young Samuel and Sarah how the pots were made, using the models at hand. In that split-second I realized that I was passing the old knowledge onto the next generation.

Anasazi ruin, Mystery Valley, Kayenta, AZ (photo)

Anasazi ruin, Mystery Valley, near Kayenta, AZ. (Next door to Monument Valley). At the base, a makeshift altar has developed, filled with pottery shards. To get to this canyon is a journey unto itself. There is a petroglyph story wall on the DeChelly sandstone to the right. I cannot decode it. The pueblo was once inhabited by the Kayenta Anasazi, who also settled Monument Valley. I don't know its name. We call this place Navajolands, but this place wasn't Navajo territory in 1500 AD. 

In Navajo, 'Ana'í means alien, enemy, foreigner, or non-Navajo. A veiled insult. The Navajo became the enemy of the Pueblo people who left piles of small corn husks and broken pots behinds when they fled. Perhaps the story wall is an exodus story, after the rains failed. I am glad we're here alone in this canyon, without a Navajo guide. It seems wrong to bring an ancestral enemy here.

Earth Day in Navajolands (photos)

We celebrated Earth Day deep in the outback of Monument Valley, somewhere between Utah and Arizona. In Navajolands, every day is Earth Day. Tsé Biiʼ Ndzisgaii, or Monument Valley, is the "open area between the rocks." There are certainly strange rock formations everywhere.

Earth Day from Rock Door Canyon, mid-earth. View from our cabin at Goulding's Resort. Sentinels or gargoyles? We arrived in the wee hours, on a whim, we made a mad dash from Las Vegas, so the sentinels were a surprise.

We no sooner moved in, then we had to move out. A glitch in the booking system. No room at the inn. Our cabin was rented out from under us. Not a lot of choices for places to stay in Monument Valley. It was either Goulding's or the Navajo luxury hotel monstrosity called The View across the valley. And both were booked up. Apparently because of a glitch, we were lucky to get the one night.

However, we were temporarily homeless, literally with no place to go. We'd come so far... We sadly packed up our gear, and as we drove down Rock Door Canyon, saying our goodbyes to the incredible land, we passed an old woman hobbling hellbent down the deserted road to what looked like the road to nowhere. 

We managed to return the little old lady to her home, despite the fact that she didn't know where she lived. She had dementia, but told us she lived in a house with hay out front. We drove around and eventually found the place, it had a trailer-load of alfalfa hay parked out front. I screamed: hay! Hay! Stop! A bright alfalfa mosaic on the red, red sand. Like Christmas.

We returned the old woman to her family who happen to also run the Dinė Health Clinic. One thing led to another, as we chatted, they asked if we'd like to stay on longer. Like, yeah! It was as if the gods had answered our prayers. We were homeless. We return an old lady to her home, on our way out of "town," and are offered shelter for the night.

We're staying in the clinic, up-canyon, and will play music tomorrow for the elderly Dinė shut-ins. The clinic is built in the shape of a hogan. An octagon. Earth household.

April 23:
We've been staying in the Navajo Dinė Health Clinic behind the cinder-block post office (N 5th St.), where everybody comes to load up on water. There's a pump in the parking lot. The old spring and catchment system dried up, or the spring altered its course. So water is carefully guarded. I found myself waving to everyone. It was kind of like a line party. All the trucks are equipped with permanent water tanks. Everyone waits patiently for their turn.

There seems to be a good water table in Anvil Valley, we passed the main well. It's patrolled every two hours. The well is well guarded. Water thieves everywhere. In a land of little water, water is everything. Drought is an eons-old way of life here. It's been a particularly dry four years on the Colorado Plateau. A land of little rain: 7 to 16 inches, part of a larger 22-year drought cycle. Ironic in that water formed much of this land.

Our host friends bought a trailer-load of hay for his horses, and now everybody comes by to buy hay. An accidental business, but there's not enough forage grazing for horses or cattle. Sheep do OK in this arid landscape. Alfalfa puts puts some fat on the cattle and horses. Many rail-thin horses wander the bluffs around Anvil Mesa. You can tell the feral horses by their haggard stance.

The place where we were staying after we were kicked out of Goulding's Resort, would make a great AirB&B if you've friends who want to visit.  It's behind the USPO. Look for the flagpole at the top of the canyon. But no one has wifi. So It's hard to reach people.  Over 40% of Navajo homes don't have running water, or indoor toilets, let alone, internet or electricity.

Someone said there's also a woman who also rents out a log hogan near Goulding's. Her last name means silversmith in Navajo. She plans to reopen the Oljato trading post. Her mother was a famous weaver.  Was it Salee? We saw a documentary on Salee at Goulding's. But I don't know her last name.

You can see the Anasazi handholds in the cliff.  Near the Artist's Point, I noticed handholds on the mesa cliffs, more handholds at Rock Door Mesa too. Mygawd, they climbed straight up. Handholds on the face of this earth. A ladder to the sky. Colorado means tinged with red, as in to blush. An astonishing embarrassment of riches in an otherwise parched landscape.

Practicing my Navajo:
Hello: Yá'át'ééh
Goodbye: Hágoónee' ("okay/alright then")
Thank you: Ahéhee

I am amazed by the glottal stops in Navajo, the accent marks do it little justice. I've been here just long enough to properly greet people and say thanks, and goodbye, but not much more.  I've shaken more hands in the past two days... 

April 24: Yá'át'ééh! This morning, we met an 89-year-old Dinė elder, Jesse Holiday, and sang for him. He's a shut-in, doesn't get out much, wheelchair not much use in deep desert sands. So the world comes to him. I said something in Irish: Conas ta tu? and he repeated it in Spanish. Jesse Holiday has a modern hogan, sheetrock octagon. A traditional house is attached.

A fan of Bruce Lee, Jesse was an artist/sculptor, and was also in several John Ford movies. Lots of homage to The Duke here. I reckon all the horses here are descendants from the western film days. Last night we watched She Wore a Yellow Ribbon at the Goulding's Theater. It was a noisy movie house. Everybody was exclaiming whenever they recognized a monument. Look! The Mittens! We sat through two showings.

My friend Ken Bullock said those lightning flashes in the chase scene were very real. "The camera crew didn't want to shoot during the storm, but John Ford told them, Do it & I guarantee you an Oscar for cinematography. And they got it."

Another friend, Erik Painter said "The Searchers was filmed there too. All the native people who are extras are not Comanche but Navajo. They are all telling jokes and insulting the director in the background in Navajo. They all are from around there."  

That afternoon, we went to the Seventh Day Adventist school and sang Celtic songs for the kids, who sang Jesus Loves You right back to us in Navajo.

We were planning to visit Oljato, the place of the "full moon spring" near the eastern tip of Lake Powell, but a fierce storm blew in. The lightning storm was zapping everything so we headed for Anvil Mesa and visited a petrified forest. Downed logs the size of sapling redwoods, turned to stone, as if they had gazed upon Medusa's eyes. Some trees looked like swamp cypresses. Another era redolent of water.

The brewing storm had us shrieking in terror as we stood patiently in line waiting for the obligatory photographs. An arm of lightning, the size of a tree limb, struck right behind the oblivious photographer. Talk about using a flash. He didn't even notice. Thought it was his camera. We were very animated in that photo, I'm sure. We headed home as fast as the jeep could carry us over the deep sandy roads to Rock Door Canyon. The thick odor of ozone and petrachor filled the air. But no rain fell.

Not liking the wind. Angry. Angry. Sand lashing at our every pore. Inside my ears. Between my teeth, in my crotch, everywhere. 

Took off my black bra last night, only to find the cups loaded with red sand (sand found its way through several layers of clothing, I might add.) Erik Painter said: "That kind of storm is called a male one."  It's also COLD! As I packed my bags one last time, I gave my sweaters and leggings to a girl... 

Apparently Wednesday flea market is the place to go in Kayenta. Kayenta is the hub if you want to shop, get money, gas, etc. It's also the way out of Navajolands. Next stop, Tuba City. Maybe next time we'll get a chance to visit the Code talker exhibit at the Kayenta Burger King. The owner's father, King Mike, was a code talker.

Appropriate the wind's howling like a banshee, as there's a funeral in Horse Canyon. Sad story. A young man was killed in a head-on collision on the dirt roads that lace Navajolands, so everybody's been potlucking it. We got caught up in the swirl of neighbors. Almost like an Irish wake. We ate traditional greens last night. Yum. It tasted like dock. They couldn't tell us the names of plants, only in Navajo. So we drank Navajo tea, nodded and smiled. Nodded and smiled.

We didn't get to say goodbye to lots of folks. In retrospect we should've gone to the funeral too, but we were too shy. We abruptly entered into these people's lives, and left them the same way. It felt so wrong.

Erik posted: they believe that when someone dies, no matter how good they were, the residue of what was bad stays with the bones or grave site. This is called a chʼį́įdii (chindi). All the rest of your spirit is made of different parts which go off and become parts of new beings. There is no unitary soul. In older times they did not have graveyards or burial grounds. No one would knowingly visit a grave. It would make you out of hozho, spiritually and physically sick. Most very traditional people would not go to Anasazi ruins. There was no way to know where the dead were. (a little like why Orthodox Jews don't go on the temple mount.) Contact could make you sick. You would need an expensive and lengthy ceremony to be healed.

Nizhónígo háádíílyįh.( have a restful night)
Są́'ah naaghai bik'eh hózhǫ́ (according to the principles implicit in the universal order and the continuous reoccurrence of the completion of the life cycle moving into old age be in harmony/ beauty/ balance/health")
hózhǫ́ náhásdlį́į́ʼ
(harmony/beauty/balance/health has been restored)
hózhǫ́ náhásdlį́į́ʼ
hózhǫ́ náhásdlį́į́ʼ
hózhǫ́ náhásdlį́į́ʼ
Get up at just before sunrise and run to the east for me!

Instead, we ran contrary-wise to the west at sunset. Towards Wupatki.  

There were lots of horses wandering on the road. No cattle, though. We were lucky. I really had to haul-ass from Teec Nos Pos's trading post. Didn't want to be caught out after dark. The road's an equal opportunity bloodbath alley after dark for both biliganna and Diné alike. I prayed to the four directions, turning soleil, just in case. Perhaps we will also be able to walk in beauty as we walk.