CITY BOY SHEEPHERDERS

Valley of Dreams. Whiterock, New Mexico.

        Back at the ranch the obnoxious buzz of our windup alarm roused us at 6 a.m. – the standard wake up time for missionaries. One of us, usually the junior companion, would slide out of his warm sleeping bag, stumble across the room, shut off the alarm, turn the propane heater up a notch, and fire up the gas lanterns. We always kept the alarm clock on the far side of the room. It helped us avoid the temptation to roll over, shut it off, and dream on. It was now time to study our scriptures for the next hour. You know, get our spiritual side tuned in. Then, like crazy jack rabbits, we were off, jogging the one mile up hill to the hot artesian shower. Ahh! A gift from heaven.

Artesian Well Shower. Whiterock, New Mexico, 2012.

        Now, feeling squeaky clean, and smelling like sulfur, we jogged back to our place for a delicious breakfast of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, topped off with apples, oranges, or bananas -- basically any kind of fruit we could get out hands on.

        The next hour was spent practicing Navajo, memorizing vocabulary, and learning our gospel discussions. Whoa, time to pump some gas from our fifty gallon barrels, jump in our “chidí bikéíjį́” (pickup truck) and get out among the “Diné” (People).

Lake Valley Elementary Boarding School

Sandy Wash bottom with resident cow. 2012.

        We carefully chugged through the sandy wash bottom next to our place doing our best not to disturb the resident herd of cranky cattle, then climbed the rocky bank and drove onto the Whiterock Road with its annoying washboard bumps and potholes. Our first stop would be ten miles away at the Lake Valley Elementary Boarding School located just around the bend from the Tsaya Trading Post. There we would be welcomed with open arms by the principal and the teachers. You see, two or three times a week we volunteered to teach physical education classes to 5-10 year-old boys and girls giving the teachers valuable preparation time. Working with these young Navajo children was a highlight we always looked forward to. In appreciation for our efforts we were often invited to a real sit-down school lunch. School lunch had never tasted so good! 

Lake Valley Boarding School. New Mexico. 2012

        The youngsters spent their days going to school and their nights living in dormitories. Very few of them lived close enough to home to be picked up by their parents on the weekends. There was also a Junior High thirty miles away in Crownpoint and a High School seventy miles away in Fort Wingate. Both of these were also Boarding Schools. The government allowed religious denominations one hour a week during school to give their students religious instruction.

        Surrounding Lake Valley School were about a dozen modest stucco homes built to house teachers and administrators. Most other workers at the school came from the local population. The school was one of the only outside sources of income available in their community.

The Pioches

        Next we were trucking off to the Lake Valley Chapter House to meet up with Earl Pioche, the Lake Valley Chapter president. The Pioches had been stalwart members of the Lake Valley LDS Branch for years. As our cloud of dust blew closer to the Chapter House we spotted Earl leaning casually against the bed of his shiny red pickup. In the Navajo Tribal government the Chapter President is similar to the mayor of a small town. Each Chapter had a Chapter House where local members would gather for social interaction and to conduct tribal business.  Members of the chapter could also pick up fresh water, plus hay and feed for their animals without having to travel long distances to nearby cities. The LDS Church rented the chapter building twice a week to conduct religious services.

Lake Valley Chapter House sign.

        It was an honor to be chosen as Chapter President and Earl played his role well. He was an outgoing character who enjoyed speaking and joking with the Elders in English. We had previously agreed to help him unload a large trailer stacked with hay. As Elder Harward and I hefted bale after bale of that itchy stuff, I thought to myself, “This is an excellent opportunity to practice my Navajo on a friendly native speaker.” So I began. As time passed I became more confident in my language abilities and was sure Earl was impressed. It was about then that he abruptly stopped what he was doing, turned to face me, and in a loud voice said, “Speak English. You’re disgracing the whole tribe!” Well, that wasn't what I expected to hear. Not much of a confidence booster. The rest of the job was completed in relative silence. Suddenly, with a smile and a deep belly laugh, Earl slapped me on the back and in perfect English thanked us for a job well done. He then invited us to his camp, a short distance away, where his wife was waiting to treat us to hot fry bread soaked in warm honey. Yum!

Navajo chapter president and wife wearing traditional clothing and jewelry.

        Sister Pioche was a happy, friendly sort of woman. She always had a twinkle in her eye, but shyly covered her mouth whenever she laughed. She conversed with her husband in Navajo but understood English quite well. She dressed in traditional clothing, wearing her hair tied up with spun wool in a “bi-tsiiyéél” (hair wrapped in bun at the back of the neck.) In the corner of her home was a tightly strung loom displaying her beautiful hand woven rug. I asked her if she had done all the work herself. "Yes," she replied.


       With Earl's help they took me through the whole process from beginning to end. They showed us bags of wool that they had hand sheared from their own sheep. Next she carded the wool, washed it, and spun the wool into a fine yarn. The final step before weaving was using natural mineral- and plant dyes to obtain the colors she wanted.

     The intricate finished product was right there before my eyes. She must have spent hundreds of hours preparing and weaving this artistic masterpiece. I asked them what they were going to do with the rug. Earl said they would take it to Window Rock and sell it for top dollar.

        I asked Sister Pioche if she would consider helping me design a small rectangular rug. It would be unique with the words “I NEED LOVING” on it. She covered her mouth in her shy manner, then laughed and agreed. The rug would provide a great conversation piece when I returned home. While Sister Pioche and I were drawing up possible designs, Earl pulled Elder Harward aside and asked an unusual favor. “Would the two of you herd my sheep this coming Saturday?” He had a tribal business meeting in Window Rock and his wife would accompany him with her beautiful rug. Because she was the weaver they could negotiate a far better price if she came along.

Herding Sheep

        Earl explained that herding sheep was a job even soft city boys could handle. You just saddle and bridle the horses. Then at sunup you open the gate and let the sheep out of their pen. It will be easy. You just follow them during the day. The sheep know where to find the best pastures. Just before sunset the sheep will lead you back to their pen. All you would need to do is shut the gate. Elder Harward happily agreed and signed us up for the job.

Earl Pioche's camp. Lake Valley, New Mexico.

        Saturday came and we arrived at the Pioches place before the sun had peeked over the horizon. Earl and his wife had already left for Window Rock. Neither Elder Harward or I knew much about saddling horses, but we did our best. I worked on the saddles while Elder Harward went to work bridling them. After gently laying the saddle blanket across the horse’s back, I threw one stirrup over the saddle horn and lifted the heavy saddle onto the blanket, found the cinch, threaded it, and pulled it tight. With both horses saddled, I gave the cinch one last tug, and we were ready to ride. Look out sheep. The city boys were ready for action! Elder Harward opened the gate, and sure enough, the sheep wandered over the hill and we followed their woolly behinds to their favorite grazing spot.

Flock of sheep working their way to a favorite grazing area.

        One of the many things I learned to appreciate on the Reservation was the sound of silence. No background noises, no traffic, no loud music, or people chattering. All was quiet and peaceful. There were only the simple wonders of nature to enjoy: the immense clear blue sky, a breeze gently nudging the tall grass, a bird’s delicate song. The occasional bleating of young lambs, the light ringing of sheep bells, or the squeak of saddle leather as the horses moved quietly through the herd just added to the bliss. Unexpectedly we caught sight of a red-tailed fox bounding about playfully on a distant hillside.

Sheep Pen. Navajo Reservation, Lake Valley, NM.

        Evening finally arrived and Earl was right. The sheep led us back to his camp and filed obediently into their pen. We dismounted and walked bowlegged to close the gate.  Before we had a chance to unsaddle the horses here came Earl bouncing up the hill in his red truck. Seeing us painfully hobbling about he quickly offered to take care of the horses. Shortly thereafter his gut wrenching belly laugh filled the air. “City boys!” he mumbled. The bridles had been put on upside down. That’s when Earl introduced us to a new Navajo phrase, "Do-ya-shonda, Bilagáana!" Roughly translated it meant, “Stupid white man!”

        Another day, another blessing! What can I say. We were racking them up big time.

        A few weeks later word reached us that Sister Pioche had a surprise for me. Sunday after church we chugged over to the Pioches. I was expecting another round of delicious fry bread. But when I stepped through the door, there stood a beaming Sister Pioche holding up the small rug we had designed together.

      “Wow! It’s perfect. Better than I had ever imagined. You’re the greatest! Thank you!” I felt like throwing my arms around her and giving her a big hug, but it just wasn’t the Navajo way. The $25 she charged me was well spent. The rug would become one of my prize possessions. It might even help lure a beautiful wife someday!

It worked. What a catch! Getting ready to leave for our honeymoon. June 1968.

MORMON CODE TALKERS

Navajo Code Talkers. US Army. World War II.

        During World War II the Armed Forces used Navajo speaking soldiers to communicate secret messages. They were called “Code Talkers.” These soldiers spoke their native language and the enemy never cracked their code. Not being a written language made interpreting Navajo a very difficult task. Because of their unique service to the Military, these men were honored with medals recognizing their vital contributions to the war effort. Today, those attempting to learn Navajo study words and phrases written out phonetically.

       At the time I was called on my mission there was no Language Training Center for missionaries learning Navajo. The Southwest Indian Mission created its own Navajo school for their Elders and Sisters. Once a month senior companions would team up for a week and send their “greenies” (new missionaries) off to Navajo School. With comfy sleeping bags in tow, we would meet at different chapels scattered about the reservation, and study vocabulary and memorize five or six critical gospel lessons: Christ’s Atonement, The Apostasy and Restoration, The Plan of Salvation, Baptism, and so forth.

Graduation Certificate from Navajo School. South West Indian Mission. 1965.

      After six separate weekly trainings we received a graduation certificate and were booted out the door. Good luck! This new batch of "Mormon Code Talkers" were about to be released upon the unsuspecting Navajo people.We weren't trying to speak in code or send secret messages, but in our attempts at speaking Navajo it might have come across that way. Without Divine help, understanding our message would have been difficult at best!

Elders in the South West Indian Mission teaching the Gospel in Navajo.

        In a way Navajo School was akin to isolated mountain men coming out of the wilds for a long awaited rendezvous. After working hard in the scattered corners of the reservation it was great to get together, study hard, learn Navajo, share experiences, laugh, play ball, and enjoy each others’ company. There were Elders and Sisters from all over North and South America. I was surprised at how many Polynesians had traveled from their tropical island homes to serve missions on the desolate Navajo Reservation. My old high school buddy, Bruce Cameron, turned out to be an “ace” instructor at the school.

        One of the most colorful new elders I met was Elder Mike Stanley. He had recently joined the LDS faith while attending the Church College of Hawaii. Mike was an extrovert in every sense of the word. When I first met him, he was wearing a blue blazer with a fraternity patch, tan pants, and a very loud tie. He stood out in sharp contrast from the sea of black suited, white shirted, conservatively dressed, Bible toting missionaries. You could always tell where he was by his loud, infectious laugh.

Elder Michael Stanley in front of the Elders' trailer in Crownpoint, New Mexico. 1965.

       One afternoon, while on a break from class, he challenged all takers to a footrace. To make things interesting he offered ten dollars to anyone who could beat him. Inspired by Elder Stanley's  challenge, some of the Elders were soon digging out their wallets and placing bets – a rare activity among missionaries. My money was on the big guy! He was obviously athletic, and had played water polo for his college in Hawaii. Well. Surprise, surprise! Elder Stanley won every race, and both of our wallets got a little fatter.

        It turned out that Elder Stanley’s racing challenge inspired others to lay down challenges in their areas of expertise. One night a Tongan Elder, with muscles on top of muscles, challenged anyone brave enough to take him on in a wrestling contest. It was easy to see that he was a great fighter. Any kind of fight would have pushed his buttons. It was about this time that my soft sleeping bag and I found a quiet, isolated closet and laid down to catch some well deserved “zzzzzz’s.” Meanwhile, after watching the Tongan destroy some well put together Elders, Elder Stanley began working his mischief. “So you think you’re a tough guy?” he taunted The Hulk. “What?” snorted the Tongan. “You may think you’re tough,” smirked Elder Stanley, “but Elder Rogers said he wouldn’t waste his time with a wimp like you!” You could almost hear the steam whistle out The Hulk’s ears as his face turned three shades of red, and his muscles began flexing wildly. “Where is this Rogers dude? I’ll teach him to mock me!” he roared.

Tongan missionary in traditional dress.

        Have you ever been awakened from a sound sleep, jerked out of your sleeping bag, and spun like a top before landing on the ground with a two hundred pound fighting machine tying you in knots? “So you think I’m a wimp?” the Hulk grunted. “What? Where did you get that idea?” I moaned. From on my back, under this muscle bound giant, I spotted Elder Stanley enjoying the blood sport and yucking it up.     
        

        You would think that a shenanigan like that would have made me steer clear of a guy like Elder Stanley, but deep down I admired his prankster skills. It wasn’t long before we became good friends. You might even say “kindred spirits.” We were total opposites. He was tall and loud, and I was short and reserved. But inside we both found humor in the ironies of life, especially life on the Res! It was inevitable that our paths would cross again as we got deeper into our mission experiences. In fact, we discovered we were both in the same Southwest Indian Mission district in New Mexico with Bruce Cameron as our District Leader.

Reservation Chapel. South West Indian Mission, New Mexico.

        Each time we got together for Navajo School, we had a great time. But I was always amazed that so many nineteen- and twenty-year-old young men and women with such different personalities, interests, and backgrounds, could unite in a common cause and totally dedicate their lives in selfless service. Can you imagine? There were less than 200 of us on the Navajo reservation, but there were tens of thousands of us all over the world. We weren't perfect by any means, but each one was doing his or her best to live worthy of representing Jesus Christ, and helping to change lives for the better.

CULTURE SHOCK

Navajo woman herding sheep on the Navajo Reservation. New Mexico.

“Ya'at'eeh.”

    The first Navajo family I met was the Begay family. “Ya'at'eeh.”  “O, ya'at'eeh" seemed to be the greeting. Elder Harward conversed in a mixture of Navajo and English. Their handshakes were not a firm, tight squeeze like I was used to, but felt more hesitant and limp.

The Begay family. Lake Valley, NM.

       This sounds a bit rude, but after stepping over the threshold and into their rock house I wanted to back out and run. The mixed smells of fried mutton, dogs, goats, wet wool, and cedar smoke stuck in my throat. Baby goats were hopping about on the furniture, mutts were everywhere, each one mangier than the next. The Begays seemed to have more dogs than sheep or goats. And the flies. They were everywhere! Hordes, no legions of them, all vying for the most annoying place to land. And in the middle of all this, sat Alfred’s wife with one bare breast exposed, serenely nursing a suckling child. Strange, but I seemed to be the only one who noticed.

      The Begays had been a stalwart, faithful family in the Lake Valley Branch for years. As time passed and I began to see beyond first impressions, I was drawn in by their genuine kindness, loving hospitality, and gentle natures. Someone was indeed changing, and I don't think it was the Begays!

NAVAJO FUNERAL

       Our next stop was the Tsaya Trading Post in Lake Valley. I would live there nine months and never see a lake (maybe it had existed in prehistoric times). The trading post was a great stop over for cold pop and a friendly face. Since there were no phones, it also served as the post office and message center for the community. Kay Ashcroft, the trader, handed us a note with a hand drawn map requesting us to dedicate a grave the upcoming Saturday somewhere out in the Badlands.

Tsaya Trading Post. Lake Valley, NM. 2012.

        Saturday came and we were off following the map and driving over some of the worst roads imaginable before finally reaching our destination. Situated in a small valley was a well-organized camp. You could tell immediately they took pride in keeping things looking neat and orderly.

Well kept Navajo sheep camp on the reservation. New Mexico.

        On a sandy hillside above the camp about thirty family members were gathered, most wearing traditional clothing. The men wore crisp cowboy wear and the women were dressed in colorful velvet tops with silver buttons and full length skirts. Their skirts were held up with a wide woven tie or a silver Concho belt. They were all decked out beautifully in their family’s collection of turquoise and silver jewelry. Most of the women and some of the elderly men wore their hair tied up with handspun wool, in a traditional bun called bi'tsiyeel. Standing next to a fresh grave they waited in quiet dignity.

Navajo woman in her tradition dress and jewelry with her hair tied in a bi'tsiyeel.

Navajo man in his western wear and traditional jewelry.

        We were greeted warmly and ushered close to where the casket lay open, the body gently draped with a beautiful Pendleton blanket. Reverently relatives would approach the modest pinewood casket and deposit expensive items next to the deceased. There were new clothes: hat, shirt, pants, and boots. Then came the jewelry: turquoise and silver bolo, squash blossom necklace, rings, bracelets and a very expensive Concho belt. The coffin was then securely nailed shut and covered with an exquisite Two Gray Hills rug, handwoven just for this sacred occasion. Riding tack was then placed on top: a new saddle, bridle and saddle blanket.

Traditional Navajo jewelry.

Two Gray Hills Navajo rug.

 
       Just as it appeared to be about time to dedicate the grave, a young man leading a shiny black horse stopped close by, retrieved a hand gun from a leather holster strapped to his leg, placed it to the side of the horse’s head and pulled the trigger. The blast rang loudly through the still air. The horse stood momentarily stunned, then crumpled lifeless to the ground. Elder Harward and I seemed to be the only ones totally bewildered by what had just taken place. Talk about culture shock!

Shiny black horse on the Navajo Reservation.

        We were reminded it was time to dedicate the grave. Then the casket was carefully lowered by sturdy ropes into the grave dug in the sandy side of the hill. Later on we asked a younger member of the group if she could explain what we had just witnessed. It turned out that the new clothes, expensive jewelry, riding gear, and the shooting of his horse were all part of an old tradition meant to honor well respected clan leaders. He and his horse would be wearing their finest as their spirits rode proudly into the afterlife.

      Who would have thought? Things were getting more and more interesting day by day!