RESERVATION BLUES!

Deseret wildflowers.

      Ah, Spring at last! You could smell it in the air. You could feel its warmth on your skin. Dormant plants stifled by a harsh winter were coming alive with new tender growth. Like an artist’s delicate touch wild flowers were slowly painting the bare landscape with subtle shades of the rainbow. Young sheep, goats, and baby animals of all kinds were teetering, bounding, and frolicking about. Even the bullfrogs lounging in our artesian swamp were croaking with delight. And to top it off, the letter I had just received from home was loaded with great news.

      As I lay on my bed reading and rereading my letter Elder Kurtz inquired, “Good news, I hope?” Rolling over and sitting up to face him I replied, “No. Not good news.” Then pausing for maximum effect I shouted, “It’s great news! My parents and youngest brother and sister are making plans to visit us. They want to see our place and meet the Blackie family.” “Maybe they would like to give the artesian showers a go,” laughed Elder Kurtz. “Do they know what they’re in for?” “I seriously doubt it,” I chuckled. “How could anyone know what it’s like out here without experiencing it for themselves.”

      Time passed and the date was set for my family’s spring break visit. They would leave Provo driving in their shiny new Impala and head south, stopping in Moab to enjoy Arches National Monument. Then they would drive to Mesa Verde, Colorado, to explore the famous Anasazi Indian ruins. The next day they would travel to Farmington, New Mexico, where they would hook up with us.

Mesa Verde Anasazi ruins.

      The weeks leading up to their arrival flew by fast. It wasn’t long before we found ourselves face to face with my family. I hadn’t seen them for close to nine months. Really? Nine whole months! That’s almost a year! We had been working so hard that the time just slipped by.  “Well, Dad, are you sure you want to drive your shiny new car onto the Reservation?” I questioned. “How bad could it be,” Dad laughed. “Then let’s do it!” I said excitedly and stepped into the truck. My brother Joel and I rode shotgun while Elder Kurtz drove. My parents and sister followed close behind in the Impala.

Karalee and Joel Rogers. 1965.

      “This isn’t so bad!” Dad thought to himself as we zipped along the first five miles of well-maintained dirt road. Then we dropped down into the Tsaya Badlands. Suddenly, things changed big time! Muddy ruts from the melting snow and spring rains had baked hard in the hot sun making smooth driving impossible. Every now and then the sound of Dad’s new car scraping bottom made us cringe. We hoped his muffler was still intact. After miles of difficult driving I asked Elder Kurtz to pull over.  I knew we all needed a well deserved stretch. “Are we there yet,” Dad joked. “This is the half way point,” I announced. “It was right here in this very spot that Elder Harward, his yellow dog and I spent a cold night hopelessly stuck in the mud.” “Ah, yes! I remember the letter you wrote to us that night. It had your dog’s muddy paw prints all over it,” Dad reminded me. I asked Dad how his new car was handling the roads. Lifting one eyebrow he quipped, “How do you spell DEPRECIATION!”

1965 Chevrolet Impala.

Francis's letter home decorated with a muddy dog footprint. December 1964.

      Back on the road we moved along slowly before finally climbing out of the rutted Badlands. The higher roads weren’t great but were definitely an improvement. Now moving along a little faster Dad’s Impala followed close behind our truck in a cloud of red dust. About an hour later we came to our last major obstacle, Chaco Wash. We carefully dropped down its steep bank and drove slowly across the wide sandy bottom, passing rusted-out skeletons of abandoned trucks that had been there for years buried to their cabs when their foolish owners had tried to cross the wash during a flash flood. We climbed the opposite bank and looked back, giving a sigh of relief as we saw Dad’s Impala successfully clear the wash. A short distance away loomed the Tsaya Trading Post.  We had reached civilized territory!

Tsaya Trading Post. New Mexico.

       As he climbed out of the Impala it was clear that Dad’s frustration level had peaked, or in boxing terms he had “thrown in the towel.” He slammed the car door shut and insisted, “This is as far as I go!” I thought to myself, “Good choice, Dad! You would never make it up the cow trail to the Blackies' hogan.” Instead I said, “Let’s go inside, rest up, and get something cold to drink.”

      Joel was the first to enter followed close behind by Karalee. “Wow,” Joel shouted. “A real trading post!” Suddenly his eyes got very big. “Is that who I think it is?” he almost yelled. On the wall behind the counter was a signed picture of Daniel Boone, or I should say Fess Parker, the movie star who had played both Daniel Boone and Davy Crocket for Walt Disney. They were Joel’s favorite heroes.

"Big" Fess Parker autographed Daniel Boone photograph.

Frontier Joel, age 10, breaking the peace pipe.

      Hearing the ruckus, Kay Ashcroft, the trading post owner, left his office in the back and came out front to see who was there. Observing Joel’s interest in the picture, the trader told Joel that Fess Parker and his television crew had spent time shooting one of their shows in the area. They became friends and Fess gave Kay Ashroft the signed picture. “This really is the wild west!” Joel exclaimed excitedly.

      It was now time to make some decisions. “How far is it to your place?” Dad asked. “About eight miles that way,” I said pointing west. “How far to the Blackies?” “About seven miles in the other direction,” I replied. “Let’s go to the Blackies. Mom and I have been looking forward to meeting them.” “Ok, but we'll need to load everyone into our truck,” I explained. “It’s an uphill climb.” Dad, Joel, Karalee, and Elder Kurtz climbed in the back and sat on the wooden benches. I took over driving and sat in the cab with Mom. I didn’t dare tell them how rough the trip to the top of the mesa would be.

      By the time we finally reached the Blackies and unloaded, everyone looked a little rattled. Their stares brought back the words: ”I’d rather walk than ride with you!” “Who else rides back there in that camper?” Dad almost snarled. “Usually just those who need rides to church, or ladies who need a lift to Relief Society,” I explained matter of factly. “You don't say?” he quipped, as if he didn’t quite believe me.

Elder Kurtz driving the Blackies' team of horses. 1965.

      The Blackies were great hosts. Willie hitched up his team and saddled his horse. Elder Kurtz gave wagon rides to the kids. I rode the Blackies’ horse with Joel and Karalee taking turns behind the saddle, hanging onto the leather straps for dear life. Meanwhile Mrs. Blackie showed Mom how she managed to  keep her family so organized even with all of them living together in a single small Hogan with no running water or electricity. As a young girl Mom had grown up on a farm with no indoor plumbing and a wood-burning stove. She well remembered dashing to their outhouse in the freezing cold of winter. Mrs. Blackie laughed as Mom shared these memories with her.

Francis and Karalee on a horse at the Blackies with Joel waiting for his turn.1965.

     Willie escorted Dad around the livestock enclosures, the chicken coops, and his small garden.  He explained to Dad that all the water needed for his family, his livestock, and the garden was hauled in barrels by his horse drawn wagon from a well seven miles away.

Little Navajo girl with her lamb.

 
      Karalee and Joel had a great time. They loved the baby animals that the Blackie kids showed them, and even got to spend a little private time in the old wooden outhouse. Before we left Mrs. Blackie treated everyone to some hot fry bread doused in honey. Warm goodbyes were exchanged, and Dad reluctantly climbed into the back of the truck with the others, made himself as comfortable as possible, and prepared for the torturous return trip down from the mesa.

Mrs Blackie and her two youngest children in front of their hogan on top of the mesa.1965.

      Back at the Tsaya Trading Post I dropped the tail gate and lifted the door to the camper shell. My father was a gentle, patient man who rarely raised his voice or got upset. I had never heard him swear, but as Dad with his bad knee stumbled out from the back of the truck I could tell he was awfully close to it. He was reaching the breaking point!

Southwest Indian Mission truck.

      “Well, we can still make it to our place if we hurry,” I said in an encouraging voice. The look on all of their faces was perfectly clear. “You’ve got to be kidding!” They had experienced a little culture shock of their own and driving on another bad road was not in the cards.  Dad smiled and said, “We’ll take another look at the pictures you sent of your place. That’s almost as good!” It was obvious the visit was over. My family had come to see me and visit the Blackies. It was now time for big hugs and tearful goodbyes.

The abandoned Whiterock trading post the missionaries called home. 1965.

      I asked Dad if he wanted us to follow him back to Farmington in case he ran into trouble. “No, we’ll be fine if we are careful,” he chuckled with a hopeful grin. I told Mom to enjoy the wildflowers on the way back. “What wildflowers?” she said. How could she have missed them, I silently thought. They were everywhere! I guess we had slowly become accustomed to seeing beauty in the small simple things around us.

Beautiful desert wildflowers.

      As Dad began loading up he noticed his new Impala was covered in thick layers of dust. It was hard to tell its original color. “Nothing a good car wash can’t fix,” he quipped. We followed them as far as Chaco Wash, and watched until Dad accelerated and cleared the far bank much to our relief.

Chaco Wash, New Mexico. Aerial view.

      Seeing them drive off filled me with mixed emotions. It had been great to see and visit with them. But now they were on their way back home to the hectic, fast-paced life I had left behind. Although it was a life with comfortable homes, smooth roads, and real flower gardens we were too focused on our work to let ourselves dwell on any of that.

      I admired my parents for making the trip and coming to check things out. I’m sure they went away with a new appreciation for the good Navajo people and the simple lives they led. As we drove the bumpy roads back to our place, passing patches of wildflowers here and there, I thought to myself, “Missionaries work hard to help people change their lives for the better, but I believe the biggest change of all is in the missionaries themselves. Instead of looking inward and thinking “What’s in it for me?” they learn to look outward and think, “How can I help?”

Spring wildflowers in the desert.

     

MYSTERIOUS WAYS

Winter sunrise on the Navajo Reservation.

        Back on the road again, Elder Kurtz and I forged ahead following almost any small road and cow trail in hope of finding new camps and new faces. Our long day of visits was winding down. We had made some progress signing up boarding school students for religious instruction. If parents wanted us to teach their children, it was necessary for them to sign a government permission form which we then forwarded to the school their kids attended.

        Whoa! What’s that? We had driven out this way before but had never spotted the small road leading into the nearby hills. Judging from the tracks in the snow a horse drawn wagon had recently used this path. Elder Kurtz glanced at his watch. It was about time to call it a day and head back to the ranch. We took another look at the wagon tracks. "Should we, or shouldn’t we?" Elder Kurtz felt a strong impression that we needed to follow the tracks tonight. “What do you think?” he asked. “It’s important to follow your impressions,” I replied. We agreed to go for it and turned on to the cow path.

Plateau and low hills on reservation in winter.

        It proved rough. Definitely a horse and wagon kind of trail! All went well as we wound our way through the hills, always moving upward toward the crest of a low plateau. After driving a mile or two the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness began easing over us. We turned on the truck lights and kept moving ahead, following the tire impressions in the snow. As time passed the trail became more difficult to follow. The snow on the north side of the hills was definitely deeper and frozen solid. With no moon and a cloudy sky, we were driving on nothing but a hope and a prayer.

        Suddenly THUD! Without warning the truck slid sideways into some deep ruts. Elder Kurtz gently rocked the truck back and forth, easing off the gas now and then to avoid spinning the tires. No luck! We looked at each other and shared the same thought: “Oh crap! Time to call on Super Elders!” With military precision we slipped into our coveralls. One of us released the tall axle jack from the side of the truck while the other dug out the metal tire chains and grabbed the shovel. We had done this drill before, even timing ourselves like a well-trained pit crew. In near record time we were chained up and ready for action, confident that we would out of this mess and on our way in no time.

Tire chains

        To our surprise the chains only dug us deeper and deeper into the ruts until at last we couldn’t move at all. Our back axle was hopelessly high centered. Disappointment pounded us like a sucker punch to the gut. We had been so sure that taking this road had been the right thing to do! We racked our brains for new strategies to attack the problem. Then, with renewed determination we hopped back in the hole working relentlessly for the next hour. The harder we struggled the worse our situation became. Nothing was working. Climbing out of the pit, we knew it was decision time. Stay the night in a cold truck or follow the wheel impressions on foot. We decided to follow the trail and see where it would take us. There had to be someone living at the end of these tracks.

Starry night sky

        At first we kept up a vigorous pace, our Wellington boots crunching the frozen snow. Off and on the clouds shifted, revealing clusters of bright stars. All was still and quiet except for the sound of our labored breathing and boots on the frozen snow. After trudging for what seemed like hours, we began to question our decision. We had walked a considerable distance and the temperature was dropping fast. We agreed to keep moving on until we reached the top of the plateau. From there we could search the horizon for signs of life. By the time we finally reached the top we were completely worn out and stopped to catch our breath. “What’s that?’ we exclaimed in unison. In the distance a faint light flickered. We quickened our pace. The closer we approached, the clearer things became. Our mystery light turned out to be fire eerily dancing above the top of a hogan’s single stove pipe. We moved toward the solitary hogan as quietly as possible. By now it was late and very dark, far past the time when Navajo families tucked themselves in for the night.

Legendary Navajo “Yee naaldlooshii” (skinwalkers)

        The reservation was steeped in native legends regarding creatures that stalked the night. Reluctantly I gave the door a quick rap. Time passed but nothing happened. I could hear soft whispers and movement inside. I knocked again and waited. Finally, the wooden door slowly opened a crack, just wide enough to see a young boy holding a lamp. “Háíshąʼ ánítʼį́?” (Who is it?) a deep voice from further inside the hogan questioned. “Gamallis” (Elders) the boy whispered. Inside Willie Blackie, his wife, and kids had all been asleep in one full sized bed, with grandma fast asleep on a pile of sheepskins on the floor. Soon the whole family was at the door except for grandma who stayed tucked away under her warm blankets. “Ya'at'eeh. O, ya'at'eeh.” Friendly greetings were exchanged and we were invited into the warmth of the small hogan.

Pile of soft sheepskin rugs.

      After explaining our situation, Willie Blackie, in broken English, said he and his team of horses would help us in the morning. The Blackie family thought nothing of offering us their soft, warm bed for the night. They would all sleep with grandma on the floor. Can you imagine?  Here we were, complete strangers and they were extending us such hospitality! Of course we would never let them give up their bed, so Elder Kurtz and I made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the floor with “amá sáni” (grandma). To begin with the sheep skins were comfortable, and the red hot stove kept us overly warm. But, as the night wore on, the stove cooled down and the floor became very cold.

Willie Blackie family hogan with the very stove pipe which we saw spewing fire. Spring 1965.

        I was never so glad to see the morning light creeping through the small window. It must have been about 6:30 a.m. The whole family was up and about. Some were bringing in wood to stoke up the stove. Others were busy at a small table preparing Navajo tortillas. The oldest girl came in with fresh eggs and some thinly sliced mutton. Soon the room was filled with delicious aroma of breakfast cooking.

Immaculate and orderly interior of a Navajo hogan.

        The Blackie’s camp was immaculate inside and out. There was a place for everything, and they kept everything in its place. The corrals and coops were clean, and well organized. Even the outhouse was in pristine condition. There were bowls of fresh water outside the door for washing up. Against the side of the hogan leaned a tub and washboard. The kids pumped water from a fifty gallon drum, then hauled it in buckets to the horses, sheep, and chickens.

        After munching on mutton and beans all rolled up in a tortilla and sipping orange Kool Aid, we were ready to head out. While Elder Kurtz and I thanked Mrs. Blackie and helped her clean up, Willie and the kids hitched the team of horses to his wagon. Except for the rubber tires, the wagon looked like it had been around for a hundred years or more. Willie threw a couple of empty fifty gallon water barrels in the back of his wagon. We waved goodbye to Mrs. Blackie and her youngest kids and, YEE-HAW, we were off!

Mrs. Blackie and her kids in front of their hogan. Spring 1965.

       Willie and I bounced along on the spring-loaded buckboard seat, with Elder Kurtz behind us hanging on to the sideboards while the two older kids shared a horse and trotted alongside. As the horses ambled down the trail their clopping hooves, jingling harnesses, and the sound of Willie commanding his team with shouts, clicks and whistles, brought back pleasant memories of riding in a similar wagon on my Grandpa’s farm years earlier.

Navajo kids on horseback.

        We finally reached our truck. Willie let out a slow whistle, followed by, what else: "Do-ya-shonda, Bilagáana!" (Stupid whiteman!) He then unhitched his team and carefully attached them to the front end of the truck. It wasn’t easy, but with Willie’s skill and the strength of the horses we were soon out of the “freaking” pit, and were ready to roll! After shaking hands with Willie and thanking him for his hard work and hospitality, we waved goodbye to the kids and were finally on our way.

        This unfortunate incident led to a sound friendship between the Elders and the Blackies. You may have heard of the term “Golden Contacts.” Well, the Blackie family was pure gold. They were ready and waiting for the Gospel. We taught them each weekend when all their children were home from Boarding School. (Not your typical neighborhood schools: their oldest daughter attended Albuquerque Indian School, and their oldest son attended Boarding School in Crownpoint.) 

The Blackies were like a nugget of pure gold.

        Each lesson was a spiritual feast. Kneeling on the floor of their humble hogan and listening to Willie and his wife ask the Lord if the things they had been learning were true deeply touched our hearts. We all felt the warm presence of the Holy Ghost confirming the answer to their prayers. After completing all the lessons Willie, his wife, and their children over eight years old were baptized. Seeing them all dressed in white, surrounding the baptismal font at the Crownpoint chapel, was an emotional experience bringing tears to everyone’s eyes. Elder Kurtz had the honor of baptizing them. Following their baptism I laid my hands on their heads and, using the power of the Melchizedek priesthood, confirmed each of them members of the Church of Jesus Christ and conferred upon them the gift of the Holy Ghost.

Willie Black and his wife with their youngest kids, and good friend Alfred Begay (in sunglasses). Spring 1965.

        Each Sunday the Blackie family drove their team of horses nine miles off the plateau to attend church meetings at the Chapter House. The Blackies joined the Begays, and the Pioches as the pillars  of the Lake Valley Branch.

        You’ve heard it said, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Well, the improbable way in which we met the Blackie family certainly falls into the “mysterious ways” category!