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!

WELCOME TO "DINE BIKEYAH" (The Peoples' Land)

Window Rock, Arizona -- capital of the Navajo Nation.

Leaving on a Prop Plane

        As the plane's twin engines droned on towards Holbrook, Arizona, I made myself comfortable and thought back over the past week. With the Mountain Rescue, a Farewell talk, last minute shopping, and saying goodbye to friends and family, it had been a bit hectic.

        In those days Missionary Farewells were a big deal. Special Farewell announcements were printed, and the missionary’s family provided the whole Sacrament Meeting program. It was an honor to have my Grandpa Francis and my father speak, as well as my mother and brothers and sisters take part.  
       

Mission Farewell program cover

R Max Rogers and Howard Francis.

Howard and Jessie Francis with their grandchildren at Francis's farewell. November 15, 1964.

        Following the farewell I was off to the Salt Lake Mission Home. The few days I spent there were a spiritual feast. We had been taught by Apostles and other General Authorities, our Savior’s personal representatives here on earth.

        We spent time in the Salt Lake Temple learning more about our sacred covenants and gaining spiritual strength for the challenges that lay ahead. By the end of the week we were on fire, ready to take on the world, and change lives for the better. Having been called by a Prophet and set apart by an Apostle, I felt blessed to represent Jesus Christ and His gospel.

Salt Lake Temple and Temple Square in the 1960s.

        The flight from Salt Lake City to Holbrook, Arizona didn’t seem like a long way from home. But, it might as well have been a third world country half way across the globe.

Holbrook, Arizona. 1964.

      After a brief orientation with President and Sister Baird, I was on my way to White Rock, New Mexico with my new companion, Elder Steve Harward. He was from American Fork, Utah, and had been out for about six months.

President J. Edwin Baird and his wife. Holbrook AZ Mission Home.

White Rock, New Mexico

        White Rock was located in one of the most remote areas of the Navajo Nation. It was about forty miles south of Farmington, New Mexico. Forty miles of terrible dirt road winding its way through the Tsé badlands!

Tsé badlands south of Farmington, New Mexico. 1964.

        If you continued south another thirty miles past White Rock you would reach the small reservation community of Crownpoint.

Map of the Navajo Nation.

        It was like going back in time. Many of the people were still using wagons pulled by horses, firing up wood-burning stoves, and their homes had no electricity or running water. Most of the families raised sheep, goats, or cattle, on land allotted to them by the Navajo Tribe. They lived in small isolated camps comprised of two or three hogans, livestock enclosures, and a few outbuildings, including an outhouse. In general most camps were located three to five miles apart. 

The Blackie family in their horse pulled wagon.

       The missionaries drove bottom of the line Dodge pickup trucks with aluminum campers. Inside the campers were wooden benches used to transport riderless members to church meetings.

Dodge pickup truck with camper shell and heavy duty jack. These trucks were used by LDS Missionaries on the Navajo Reservation in the 1960s. 

        The White Rock Elders lived in a "badlands" setting right out of the Old West. Our home was an abandoned trading post tucked away in a small desert valley. It had rock walls and was surrounded by an old picket fence. I half expected to see John Wayne leaning up against a hitching post.

White Rock Trading Post. November 1964.

       There were outbuildings where our drinkable water and gas for our truck were stored in fifty gallon drums. Inside there was only one room in usable condition. A propane heater provided warmth and white gas lamps gave us light. Late at night you could hear the eerie sound of wild coyotes howling off in the distance.

       I found a bleached-out bull skull with sharp horns to help decorate the wall above my bed, along with a Mexican shawl to give the room a little color, and a picture of a beautiful Breck girl from a hair product ad to remind me of what might be waiting for me when I returned home in two years.

Artesian Well Shower at White Rock, New Mexico.

        About a mile away was an ancient stone block shower fed by an artesian well. It had a men’s side and a women’s side. Hot water poured from a section of fire hose suspended from the ceiling. It would feel great on freezing cold mornings. But it did have its downside. The well water had the smell of sulfur and if you happened to swallow it the result would be smelly, gassy burps. 

       

Elder Harward on top of an old coal shed showing off his climbing skills.

      Home sweet home! I could tell right off this was going to be one great adventure.

MOUNTAIN RESCUE

   Time was ticking down. I had received my mission call to the Southwest Indian Mission. My farewell was coming up Sunday and in a matter of days I’d be off to save the world – at least a small part of the world – a very small portion of the Navajo Nation. 

   But there was still enough time to make one last trek to the sheepherders’ cabin located high in the mountains above Rock Canyon. It wasn’t much of a cabin -- one small log room with a dirt floor, one window, a wood plank door, and a rock fireplace missing half its chimney. It most likely had been built by early settlers grazing their sheep in the mountain meadows nearby.

What remains of the sheepherders Cabin. Rock Canyon, Provo, Utah

  The cabin was one of my favorite getaway places. I had stumbled onto it quite by accident while hiking the canyons behind Y Mountain. Nestled back in the tall pines and surrounded by scenic mountains, very few people knew of the cabin’s existence. 

Overlooking Provo and Utah Valley from Rock Canyon.

   I would be leaving home for two years with no girlfriend attachments, but I did invite a girl I had just met to tag along. It would be my last jaunt to the cabin before leaving on my mission. We would drive up the canyon, enjoy the scenery, hike to the cabin, barbecue some steaks, and be back home before dark. At least that was the plan. We loaded our supplies into Dad’s red VW Bug and headed up Provo Canyon to the Rock Canyon turn off. The sun was out and the trees were still showing some fall color. It was a beautiful November afternoon. What could possibly go wrong?

Rock Canyon. Provo, Utah

   After ten miles of climbing along the winding dirt road we began descending the steep curves into Upper Rock Canyon. Turning off the main road we bumped along the overgrown trail leading us closer and closer to the secluded cabin. We found a good clearing, parked the car, unloaded our gear and began our hike into the thick pines. Upon reaching the cabin my new friend exclaimed, “It’s definitely rustic! Not much to look at.” In no time at all the fire was crackling, the steaks were sizzling, and our mouths were watering.

Steak sizzling over the fire.

   Meanwhile, outside the sky had morphed from bright and sunny to dark and ominous. Strange how fast things could change! We had just started enjoying our perfectly grilled steaks when I noticed a few white snowflakes drifting past the open window. I thought, “We had better finish up quickly and get back to the car. This isn’t the place to get snowed in!”

Ominous sky before an impending show storm.

   By the time we packed up and hiked back to the VW Bug there were 2 or 3 inches of snow on the ground. I quickly assured my worried friend that this would be no problem. The rear engine of the VW would give us plenty of traction to climb out of the canyon.

   Things went fine making our way back over the trail to the main road. But as we edged our way upward along the steep climb out the back tires began to spin. This couldn’t be! We hadn’t even reached the steepest section yet. By now the valley was socked in and we found ourselves in blizzard conditions. The snow was piling up faster than ever. I got out of the car to check the rear tires. Surprise, surprise, the tires were bald! I convinced my skeptical friend to stand on the back bumper to give us more traction.  A few more futile attempts and it was obvious we weren’t going anywhere.          

   We mutually agreed to get back to the cabin and wait out the storm. Following our tire depressions in the snow we finally made it to the meadow and parked the car. By now the snow was almost 8 inches deep. And the blizzard wasn’t letting up. Trudging our way through the snow we finally stumbled back into the cabin, shut the door and shuttered the window. It was dark and very cold. Our wet clothes didn’t help. We weren’t prepared for a freak November storm. And the snow just kept on coming! 

Winter blizzard in the mountains.

   For now we needed to prepare for the worst, build a fire, wrap up in the picnic blanket we had brought along, and conserve as much heat as possible. If we were careful there was enough wood to keep a fire going until daylight. Then we could think seriously about forging through the deep snow, and making our way down the canyon to the valley many miles below. We settled in for a long cold night.

Tough hike in the snow.

   We took turns tending the fire and doing our best to dry things out. We talked about what might be going on at home. Maybe my friend's roommates would raise the alarm if she missed her dorm curfew. I couldn’t remember telling my family where we were going. It was supposed to be a short trip up and back. Between refueling the fire, we passed the time by telling scary stories. We soon had to stop when our imaginations kicked in and we started hearing creepy noises and seeing movement in the shadows. Who knew what creatures were lurking outside in the quiet darkness. Our conversation deteriorated to meaningless chit chat just to pass the time. About the time my friend started droning on about the virtues of her boyfriend in Idaho sleep overcame me and I dozed off. Hours passed. I woke several times to check on the fire. The relentless snow just kept piling up. By now it was well over 2 feet deep with no signs of stopping. I made myself as comfortable as possible and continued my fitful sleep. Slowly the hours passed.....

Glowing embers

   Suddenly I woke with a start. The fire was down to red embers. But that wasn’t what woke me. I checked my watch in the dim firelight. It was 3:15 a.m. Then I heard it. It was a soft sound, barely above a whisper, like someone was quietly calling my name through a hollow pipe. Was I dreaming, or maybe hallucinating? I stood up, opened the shuttered window and listened carefully. There, I heard the ghostly whisper again.  “Francis, are you up there?”  From far off I thought I heard my father’s voice. Was this for real? I woke up my sleepy-eyed friend and we both listened intently. “Francis, are you up there?” Yes. It wasn't loud but we both heard it this time!

   We quickly gathered our things, wrapped up in our picnic blanket, and pushed our way through the snow, following the sound of my Dad’s voice. “We’re coming!” I yelled as loud as I could, my voice muffled by the deep snow. Leaving the tall pines and moving into the clearing, a welcome sight greeted us.  There was Dad, standing next to the front bumper of a very large Search and Rescue vehicle. He was holding a megaphone in his hand and leading the charge. He was thrilled to see us, but no more than we were to see him!

Search and Rescue emblem.

   The rescue party soon had the Red VW securely chained behind their huge 4-Wheel Drive truck and we began the climb up and out of the canyon. What a relief to be warm and safe as we pushed through snow drifts three to four feet high. “How did you know where to find us?” I asked Dad. It turned out my sister, Kay, had overheard me talking about going to the sheepherder’s cabin, and my younger brother Joel knew where it was located. Joel and I had stayed in the cabin while camping in the mountains.

    As luck would have it we made the news, both on T.V. and in the newspaper along with several others who had been trapped in the mountains by the storm. I took quite a ribbing from all the locals seeing how my mission farewell was only days away. I would soon be on my way to the Navajo Reservation. But my unfortunate friend, being a BYU student, was left behind in Provo to face the music with the Honor Code Committee. I never saw that girl again, but I still remember the smirking men who rescued us at 3:00 in the morning.

Daily Herald Article. November 12, 1964.

FIFTY YEARS LATER:

   My brother Joel had been horseback riding through the high meadows of Rock Canyon, and ran across what was left of the sheepherders cabin. He took a photo and text messaged it to me. This inspired my hiking buddy, George Taylor, and I to go in search of it.

Picture of the Sheepherders Cabin taken by Francis and George on their hike. Rock Canyon, Provo, Utah. 2014.

   It took us two separate trips behind the mountain before we located the cabin. A single window and some of the pine log walls were all that remained. My memories from fifty years earlier are far more vivid, but it was a good trip down memory lane and a great excuse for a beautiful fall hike with my friend George.

Francis Rogers. Rock Canyon in the fall. 2014.

George Taylor. Rock Canyon in the fall. 2014.

Two happy hikers: George Taylor and Francis Rogers.

     As we were leaving the canyon, George turned to me and quipped, "You're not going to write about this, are you?"