Malu and I came out here for her spring break. Navajo country — it's a national monument on Navajo land run by Navajo, so it has a less officious vibe than some of the other government-run parks. Plus, it's fairly out of the way, so it's not heavily trafficked. Malu had loved the horseback riding on previous trips here — they let you actually run the horses along the flat land at the bottom of the canyon. It's glorious, unbelievable. But that horse rental place was closed now — mysterious reasons were given. (drunkenness? A new zealous government supervisor sent by Washington?)
However, another horse place just outside the park was open and we drove there and there was a man named Shorty taking care of the horses and a middle aged man in total cowboy drag sitting by the stables. No one else was around.
Shorty has a weather-beaten face and a gnarly beard with a hand-rolled ciggie stuck into it — but I couldn't tell if it was in his mouth or just in his beard. He said sure, we can rent horses, but the guides are all out (you must be accompanied by a Navajo guide to enter the canyon.) A car pulled up and out stepped Victoria, a young Navajo woman who was promised to guide Mr. Cowboy into Turkey Canyon. Shorty said we could join if we want. It's a 4 hour trip. We did.
Not ten minutes into the thing Victoria is lost. She is off the trail, there are no markings, no hoofprints, and the instructions from Shorty were incredibly vague. We continue through the brush, ducking under low tree limbs and heading more or less in a southerly direction where the canyon should be. One can't see it, though — there are a few ridges and ranges in the distance, but any canyon ahead of us is well camouflaged by the more or less flat landscape and monotonous scrub. Even the larger Cañon de Chelly is invisible except from a few select overlooks — otherwise all one can see is an endless vista of trees and some mesas in the distance.
We spend almost an hour of hunting and pecking for the trail, making some sure but limited progress towards the canyon. Then Levi appears, another guide who does in fact know the way down into the canyon. He escorts us a bit, gets us sorted, and then he departs.
I wonder to myself about the legendary Native American sense of the land, of the earth, the oneness with the stars and the land and the plants... maybe that part didn't get handed down to Victoria. I suspected that my sense of direction was better than hers.
Whatever, the cañon, when we finally got to it, was lovely, deserted and silent. Anasazi ruins, more intact than those in Cañon de Chelly, nestled halfway up a canyon wall. The roof beams and even a roof were still intact. We stopped to rest.
Victoria said she thinks the Anasazi are related to the various pueblos in New Mexico — Yldefonso, Black mesa, Taos, etc. Their clumped villages are sure enough similar in form, as compared to the Navajo (or the Diné, as they refer to themselves) who live in houses or hogans out here on the desert flatlands.
Furthermore she claims that the Ana prefix in Navajo means enemy. She shares the beautiful Navajo lilt — their accented English is relaxed, calm, musical.
She studied art in Santa Fe and in some of those places felt discriminated against — that the Latins and Pueblo people who predominate there are given the benefit of the doubt, at least over Navajo folks, in those parts. Further north, in Durango, she felt more at ease.
She ruminated as she smoked a handrolled ciggie of Indian tobacco, grown nearby. She said the Navajo are matriarchal, and therefore the self-image of the men sometimes suffers. This sometimes joins with the genetic susceptibility to alcohol with devastating results. She herself, though only in her early 30's, is a recovering alcoholic, she told us. Rumor is that the other horse rental place run by her dad was closed on account of drinking. The pueblo people, in contrast, are patriarchal — the men can have affairs but should a woman be caught they'll adjust her nose so it looks like Michael Jackson's.
On the way back we passed elk prints, mountain lion prints, deer and bear — all near a waterhole... When we emerged from the canyon onto a dirt road the horses sped up as they recalled their way home and Victoria said, "you can run them if you want."
So Malu and Mr. Cowboy took off and Victoria and I took up the rear. My galloping horse suddenly veered off the dirt road, so I pulled up on the reins, only to spy both Malu and Mr. Cowboy sitting ahead of me in the dirt. At first I thought they were in a gully, as I couldn't see their horses. I immediately asked if they were OK They said they were, but people always say that. Malu had a huge rip in her jeans and I hoped she hadn’t be gouged by a sagebrush or one of the leafless hardwood bushes around here. She hadn't. She was lucky, those little spikey tough things are everywhere. A couple of bruises and cuts on her face, but otherwise she's O.K.
Mr. Cowboy tried to stand, but couldn't manage very well — his left ankle kept giving way — he said it was his boots. He claimed they were not good for walking. Uh huh. Whatever. If he'd seriously twisted or sprained his ankle I think he would have been grimacing — so I guess he was OK, but I offered him my horse to get him back to the stable, as he really couldn't walk at all.
He claimed he got off his horse "voluntarily" (his words) as the low hanging branches he saw approaching would have knocked him off. Sort of plausible — I had to duck and hug the horse plenty of times to avoid getting clunked, but really?
