THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT!

“Chindi”

        It all started with an ear-splitting scream and ended with a loud boom! In Navajo the word “chindi” means devil. Well, for a few short weeks that old pest was working overtime in Whiterock.

The Naked Truth

        Our morning ritual of waking up early and jogging the mile to the artesian showers never changed. Even the frigid winter weather couldn’t keep us away. By the time we reached the showers, laid our clothes on the wooden bench and cranked the giant wheel releasing a flood of hot well water, ice crystals were forming on our sweat covered extremities. Stepping through a warm cloud of steaming mist and into hot gushing water was heavenly! It felt like standing beneath a warm cascading water fall. Knowing how cold it would be drying off, dressing, and walking back made lingering in the hot shower that much more enjoyable.

What's left of the artesian shower many years later.

        Washing my hair in the rich mineral water turned out to be a problem. I found that Prell Shampoo was the only brand that left my curly locks feeling clean and looking shiny. One morning after arriving back at our place I noticed my beloved Prell had been left behind. We jumped in our truck and raced back to the showers. I couldn’t let my magic shampoo fall into the wrong hands! Upon arriving I detected steam drifting out of the small window on the men’s side. Hustling over I peered through the opening and, YES, I spotted my green tube of Prell sitting on the wooden bench right where I had left it.

      Over the sound of pounding water I shouted to the steam shrouded bather, “Hey, shi k’is (my friend), can you hand me that shampoo?” When the surprised bather turned and stepped out of the steam I was horrified to see a woman, not a man. Ear-splitting screams filled the air! I don’t know which one of us screamed the loudest. I yelled, “Sorry!” and ran for the truck leaving my precious Prell behind.

        “The Mormon Elders are shower peepin’ perverts!” The topic might have come up at the next Chapter meeting. As we visited new camps with new faces I often wondered if the shower victim was one of the faces staring back at me.

        But she was showering on the men’s side!

Road Rage

        Elder Kurtz was a great elder and we got along fine – most of the time. However, driving the terrible reservation roads mile after bump mile, day after rutty day, after rutty day, after rutty day could make even the best of Elders a little crazy. And it did!

Elder Kurtz in his Wellington boots and coveralls, sitting on the rock we painted white. We felt the place needed a more celestial looking rock to reflect its name, Whiterock. New Mexico, 1965.

        It was our custom to trade off driving every other day. On this particular day it was my turn to drive. As the morning wore on we encountered some pretty bad roads. I was doing my best to navigate through the worst of the ruts and bumps by veering from one side of the road to the other. Meanwhile I noticed Elder Kurtz slouching lower and lower in his seat, arms folded in silent irritation.

       Suddenly, without warning he shot up in his eat and shouted, “Must you hit every bump in the road?!!!” “What,” I responded. “You heard me!” he said. “MUST you hit every bump?” I thought I had been doing quite well considering the condition of the road. So, I shot back, “No! If I hit every bump in the road, it would feel like THIS!” Then I proceeded to hit every bump in the road, thus jostling both of us wildly around the cab of the truck. “STOP, STOP!” Kurtz yelled. “I would rather walk than ride with YOU!” Upon hearing this I immediately hit the brakes forcing us into a sliding stop. Elder Kurtz flung open his door. slammed it behind him, and marched off in a huff. 

        There was no point in trying to talk to him. He was too riled up and needed time to cool down. So I bounced on down the road keeping an eye on my companion in the rear view mirror until I rounded the next mesa. There I parked and waited.

Navajoland in winter with low hills and stunted wild brush.

       When enough time had gone by for him to see the error of his ways, I returned to pick him up. I expected to find a friendlier face but to my surprise there was no face at all. No face, no body, no nothing! Elder Kurtz had disappeared. I honked the horn and slowly drove back and forth, hoping to spot him. I half expected that he would leap out from his hiding place, we would share a good laugh, and then be on our way. No such luck! Where could he have gone? We were a good eight to ten miles from home and there was nothing out there but hills and stunted wild brush.

        I continued to search for the next hour with no success. Finally I reluctantly decided to go back  to our place and wait for his return. Time passed. Morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon soon became evening.  Where was he? The sun was setting and in short order it would be dark. Now I was really getting concerned. Do I need to alert the members and start a search?

Hmmm. Where could he have gone?

       Just as I was beginning to panic our old wooden door slowly creaked open and there stood Elder Kurtz -- sunburned, sore, and covered in grime and red dirt. He stumbled in, flopped down on the edge of his bed, and started to explain. He said he needed time to think and mull things over so he had set out walking cross country, not really considering the distance he would have to cover. To my surprise he apologized and asked me to forgive him. Wow. I wasn’t expecting that! I accepted his apology warmly and offered him a heartfelt apology of my own. We ate what we could scrounge up for dinner, then knelt down for our nightly prayers. Tomorrow would be a new day and it would not be my turn to drive!

The Big Bang

        I had been through Army Basic Training, but nothing I had learned prepared me for what was about to happen. You see, there are unforeseen dangers living in a remote wilderness situation. Just outside the abandoned trading post we called home was an open fifty gallon barrel we used for trash. When it became full we simply struck a match and the contents went up in flames.

Old Whiterock trading post where the Elders lived. Trash barrel located behind the fence. 1965.

        Now that winter had arrived the garbage looked to be a bit wet and soggy. Matches proved to be useless in starting the fire. So, I went in search of something stronger. Inside our storage shed we kept a old metal container of white gas. It was a special mix we used to fill our lanterns.

Metal gas container.

       I topped off an empty soup can and headed back the trash barrel. This should do the trick, I thought, while sprinkling the white gas over the barrel’s contents. If a little is good, a lot should be even better. So I kept sprinkling and sprinkling until the soup can was completely empty. I waited patiently, allowing the gas a few minutes to work its way to the bottom. Then like any good boy scout I tossed in a match. KABOOM!

        The barrel went off like a cannon blasting hot burning trash thirty feet into the air. I found myself flat on my back, blown over by the powerful explosion, and looking up at fiery debris raining down from the sky. "Hells bells! I’m lucky to be alive," it slowly began to dawn on me. The smell of burnt hair filled the air. Frantically I began to inspect myself for damage. Yow! The hair on my arms was burnt to stubble. I had no eyebrows or eyelashes. And a sizable patch of hair from the top of my head was missing. Parts of my clothes had small burnt holes, some of which were still smoking. 

       The loud explosion brought Elder Kurtz running. After taking in the scene he remarked, “Man, you don’t look so good!” “What?” I questioned. The explosion had temporarily affected my hearing. I learned after the fact that white gas is much more explosive than regular gasoline. Guess I kind of over did it. 

       No serious damage done, missionary life went on as usual. I’m sure the people we visited were impressed. This hairless Elder with the burnt, red face must have recently returned from Vietnam they probably surmised.  After the endless questions of who, what, where, and why, I finally resorted to answering, “The “chindi”made me do it!!

       I already knew what Earl Pioche was going to say, "Do-ya-shonda, Bilagáana!" Stupid whiteman!

ANGRY TURKEYS and TASTY PRAIRIE DOGS

Navajo Nation in Winter.

        Ah, Winter, you old jokester, you! What have you been up to? First you lull us into warm complacency. Then when we least expect it, you douse us with freezing arctic ice. Yesterday was Indian Summer, but today we are digging out long johns and searching for winter clothes. I was half expecting that our desert surroundings would stay comfortable year round, but nonetheless the high plateau unleashed its frigid fury. There wasn’t much snow, but what blew in stung our faces and caused us to duck for cover.

        The weather wasn’t the only change happening in Whiterock. My senior companion, Elder Harward, had received a transfer notice and would be moving on to his new area in Arizona. I was sorry to see him go. He had been a hard-working, patient Trainer. Ready or not, it was my turn to be a Senior Companion. Elder Kurtz, my new partner, had just arrived from Canada.  He was tall, enthusiastic, and couldn’t wait to get started. To say he was surprised by our rustic living conditions was an understatement! I couldn’t help smiling when I told him it was only one of many surprises yet to come.

Abandoned Trading Post where Whiterock Elders lived. 1965.

        Of course I gave him the deluxe tour starting with our unique artesian shower spot. We then visited the Tsaya Trading Post that housed the post office and provided a life line to home. Next we did a quick walk through Lake Valley Boarding School, and the Lake Valley Chapter House where we would be holding our weekly church meetings.

       Hmmm, what family should I introduce him to first? Why, the Pioches, of course. Mr. Chapter President, himself, would for sure make a good impression. Earl and his wife were impressed with Elder Kurtz’s gusto and got a kick out of his Canadian accent. But best of all Earl wanted to celebrate our new Elder’s arrival with a feast in his honor. So, the day and time for the great event were set. “Don’t be late,” were Earl’s parting words. It was right nice of old Earl to make Elder Kurtz feel so welcome! My detailed description of Sister Pioche’s crisp fry bread, hot out of the pan and smothered in warm honey, had Elder Kurtz’s mouth watering in anticipation.

Whiterock,, New Mexico, in winter. But where are all the people?

        As we began trucking through the back roads of Whiterock, Elder Kurtz asked, “Where are the people?” “Níláahdi. Over there,” I remarked and pointed toward the horizon with my lower lip, mimicking a common Navajo gesture. “Where? I don’t see anything,” he said puzzled. “Look harder,” I answered. “Can’t you see the small brown bumps nestled in the distant hills?” “I think so,” he said. “That’s where we’re going!” “On these terrible roads?” “You’ve got it, Elder! You better get used to them. They don’t get any better,” I chuckled as we bounced along.

Muddy road with icy ruts near Whiterock, New Mexico, in winter.

        Navajo camps are always hard to spot from a distance, but now that the cold weather had settled in the plume of gray smoke rising from a hogan’s smoke stack made the task a bit easier. As we drove into camp, we were most often greeted by a committee of yapping dogs. The dogs were generally friendly. However, we were once chased by an enormous turkey. We stayed in the safety of our truck while the feathered beast stalked us, fanning its tail, stomping its feet, while angrily shrieking and shaking its bright red gobbler. With some effort, the family finally chased the feisty critter back into its pen.

An angry gobbler.

        Visitors were a rarity in the far reaches of Whiterock, but our truck was easily recognizable. The locals knew we were “Gamallis” (Elders) and we were seldom turned away. Hospitality to visitors, even unexpected ones, seemed to be part of the Navajo culture.

Southwest Indian Mission truck with Gamalli above camper door.

      The arrival of colder weather kept family members closer to home. “How can we help you?” was usually our first question. Their answers were touching. Concern for family away from home was uppermost on their minds: “Could you pray for our kids away at boarding school?” “My son in Vietnam needs prayers.” “Could you pray for my husband away working with the railroad crew?” These were but a few of their immediate worries. Some of the families even asked us to bless a sick sheep or other livestock. Kneeling together on the hard clay floor of a humble hogan and sincerely asking the Lord to ease their concerns and lighten their troubled hearts was a choice experience. We then taught them the simple steps of prayer so they could seek these blessings on their own as needed.

Elder Kurtz, the Canadian mechanic.

        Every camp was different. Some had prepared well for the winter weather. Piles of chopped wood, a stash of coal, and feed for their livestock were readily available.  Others were less able to stockpile needed supplies. We helped the best we could. Open veins of coal could be found tucked away in the nearby hills and canyons. Wood was harder to come by in the Whiterock area. There were a few cedar trees, but the nearest pine forests were forty or fifty miles away. Like Paul Banyan we used our brawny muscles to chop what wood we could find. The coveralls we kept in our truck came in handy on such occasions. We gave rides to elderly people who had no transportation so they could get to their Chapter House and pick up critical goods. For this they were extremely grateful. “Ahéhee, ahéhee, ahéhee!” (Thank you, thank you, thank you!) were their parting words.

An elderly Navajo couple.

        Off and on in our travels we ran into LDS members who, because of their isolated situations, couldn’t attend Sunday Services. So, just like Meals-on-Wheels, we were there to deliver the Gospel’s warmth, love, and spiritual nourishment to those in need. They almost always invited us to teach them more about Jesus Christ. Our memorized flip-chart presentations about Our Savior’s mission on earth, His atoning sacrifice, and subsequent resurrection were well received.

        A few camps had strings of drying peyote buttons strung around the interior of their hogans. This usually meant that some or all of the occupants were participating in a version of the Native American religion. Peyote, a strong hallucinogen, was used in their ancient prayer ceremonies.

Dried peyote buttons.

        After a handful of isolated stops and endless miles of jarring roads under our belts we wearily headed back to our place, arriving after dark. Just another blessed day in the life of two missionaries serving on the Navajo Reservation!

         

The Big Feast

        The day of Elder Kurtz’s welcome feast finally arrived. With empty stomachs we rattled our way to the Pioche’s camp. Approaching the front door a strange sight greeted us. Lying on the wooden steps were two very dead prairie dogs, both with fresh bullet holes through their hairy bodies.

Prairie Dog.

       Inside Sister Pioche was scurrying about her wood-burning stove, turning fry bread in hot oil, and melting butter over kernelled corn. Meanwhile, Earl sat at a modest wooden table surrounded by four folding chairs. Two places had been set and we were invited to sit down. On the table was a pitcher of orange Kool-Aid, a jar of honey, and a plate of piping hot fry bread. Earl suggested we start with the fry bread and honey. 

        While we were munching and joking with Earl, his wife stepped outside and retrieved the two prairie dogs. She then opened the heavy metal door to her stove, and carefully laid the dead critters on the red hot coals. Being the polite elders that we were, we tried to ignore the disgusting smell of burnt hair and the sounds of sizzling, popping flesh, and managed to carry on a somewhat normal conversation. About fifteen minutes later when the sounds emanating from the stove had subsided, Sister Pioche, with tongs in hand, carefully extracted the charred carcasses and laid them gently on each of our plates. Ah, a little Kool-Aid, buttered corn, hot fry bread, and a black lump of charred prairie dog.  What more could we ask for!

Delicious, toasty Navajo fry bread.

        With a knife and fork I began to dislodge a tasty leg. You couldn’t rightly call it a drum stick. While working on the leg, I would stop often to snack on some fry bread, nibble at some corn, and sip some Kool-Aid. I knew eventually I would need to take a bite of that leg I’d been working on. After putting off my first bite for as long as possible I gave the leg a quick twist and it pulled loose, thus exposing the abdominal cavity with its guts, organs and who knows what else. Mmm, yummy! I began nibbling ever so carefully at some well-done leg muscle when my attention turned to Elder Kurtz, who was ripping away at his prairie dog and expounding on how delicious it tasted. “Could I bother you for some salt and pepper?” he politely asked.

      At this, Earl burst out with a huge belly laugh, and continued chuckling and snorting until finally he choked out the words, “Do-ya-shonda, Bilagáana!" Roughly translated it meant, “Stupid white man!” Still fighting back a laugh, Earl squawked, “We just wanted to see if you were dumb enough to eat it!” It was then that Sister Pioche unveiled a pan of delicious fried chicken, removed the disgusting “course number one” and fed it to the dogs!

        Well, Elder Kurtz, welcome to the “Rez” and a little taste of Earl Pioche’s belly-busting sense of humor!