BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN!

Lone Ranger and Silver.

      Yippee ki-yay! We were back in the saddle again! Our trader, Don Smouse, agreed with Elder Stanley. My horse needed a hackamore. Using it on my small gray mare would give me much needed control. She still had the urge to take off running every chance she got, but the new bit helped bring her to a more manageable stop.

Bit, Bridle and Hackamore.

      You might think that riding horses on their mission would be every Elder’s dream. But it did have a downside. We quickly learned where the term “pain in the butt” must have originated. We also had a theory as to why cowboys walked bowlegged. After a week in the saddle our thighs and calves were rubbed raw, and just walking around made our legs feel like they were on fire. We were as bowlegged as any cowboy on the planet. Old Yosemite Sam would have been proud! It never ceased to amuse the locals as they smirked while watching us gingerly hobble about conducting our daily business. “What you boys need is some of them leather chaps,” they would smugly comment.

Yosemite Sam

      Except for a couple of bizarre situations, we coped with our painful riding days just fine. One particularly crisp morning when you could see the steam from the horses’ nostrils hanging in the air, we mounted up and were on our way down the canyon for a special appointment. The Little Toms expected us to arrive on “Navajo time” – which basically meant whenever we got there. Their place was made up of three hogans, several small outbuildings and the usual wooden sheep pens. Three of our best Relief Society women occupied the hogans. Hastiin Little Tom seemed to have a close relationship with each of the ladies and their families. Usually there were playful youngsters scurrying about the camp. Sometimes it was difficult to figure out just who belonged to whom.

Navajo Relief Society sisters from Little Toms' camp. 1965.

      On this particular visit we had been asked to bring my portable tape-recorder with lessons in fluent Navajo to help teach some of the older folks, who only understood Navajo. The younger generation were quite comfortable carrying on a conversation in English.

      Elder Stanley had purchased a deluxe speaker to complement my Panasonic reel-to-reel. He gently cradled his prize speaker with one arm while reining his horse with the other. I was doing the same thing guarding my precious tape-recorder.  About a quarter mile from our destination Elder Stanley shouted, “My saddle is loose! I need to tighten the cinch.”

Elder Stanley was using a saddle and cinch similar to the ones in this image.

     We stopped and he dismounted. I looped the reins tightly around the saddle horn and took his speaker for safekeeping, encouraging him to make it quick. I wasn't sure how long I could trust my restless mount. Perhaps it was Elder Stanley’s groan as he tugged at the cinch, or the snorting of his horse, but suddenly my little gray took off running. With the reins still tied around the saddle horn, it was all I could do to stay in the saddle while holding the speaker in one hand and the recorder in the other. I could have let go of either one and grabbed the reins to gain control, but this really wasn’t an option.  

Pegasus

      The rapid hoof beats of the approaching horse aroused the attention of the children who had been playing and waiting excitedly for the Elders to arrive on horseback. They must have been surprised to see me on my wildly galloping horse, with arms outstretched and flapping wildly like a giant bird. Together we probably resembled a winged Pegasus.

Old-fashioned wire clothesline

      My attention shifted to what lay ahead. The little gray was making a beeline for a wire clothesline stretched across our path. The horse would make it under the wire with no problem, but it was the rider I was concerned about. Ducking low in the saddle and dropping my arms as far to the sides as possible, I heard a loud “RIP” as the wire slid across my back. My runaway stopped at the first Hogan and casually looked back at me as if to say, “This is the place. Right?”

     When Elder Stanley finally caught up I asked him to take a look at the back of my sweater. “Looks like your sweater now has air-conditioning,” he grinned. “Really? My new birthday sweater!” I groaned. What would I tell Mom in my next letter home? Well, a ripped sweater was much preferable to a decapitated son.

Sweater before air-conditioning

      All in all the recorder and speaker were just what the doctor ordered. The older folks understood the lesson in Navajo and appreciated our efforts to make things easier for them. “Ahéhe, ahéhe, ahéhe!” were their parting words of gratitude as we mounted up to leave the Little Toms Camp.

 

Elderly Navajo couple

 
    On another occasion Elder Stanley and I saddled up and headed east toward the far side of our area to visit the Thompson-Livingston camp. We never knew if the adults would be home. If not, they usually left their oldest daughter Louise in charge of her brothers, sisters and cousins living in the two Hogans. Louise was a very capable young woman, and made sure all the youngsters were fed, had clean clothes, and went to school. She also wanted them to be taught by the Elders.

Postcard from Navajo country. 1960s.

      Getting to their place by truck wasn’t so bad, but getting there on horseback was a different story. The distance from where we lived was almost eight miles, and by the time we got close we were tired, sore and cranky. If you continued to follow the dirt road it was still a couple of miles to reach their camp. But if we could find an opening in the fence surrounding their property the distance would be considerably shorter. From where we sat on horseback you could almost see their place. It was just over the next rise.

     

Strand of barbwire

     I was determined to find a shorter route by following the fence line cross-country. Elder Stanley felt that if there was no gate we would have to come all the way back, which seemed like a real waste of time, to say nothing of the additional pain. We were at a stalemate, both of us refusing to concede.  “Elders Pride” was a big deal, so a bet was made as to who would arrive first. There HAD to be a way through the fence.

     So, we were off, my speedy little gray following the fence and Elder Stanley’s horse doing a great imitation of a fast walk down the road. I followed the fence line carefully searching for a way through. No luck. To my disappointment, the fence eventually butted up against a steep cliff. The Thompson-Livingston camp was right there just over the hill, which happened to be just over the fence. Dang, dang, double dang! This dilemma was driving me crazy! Maybe Elder Stanley was right. But I would never admit it. There was only one solution: the little gray and I HAD to jump the fence.

Barbwire fence

     There were only four strands of barbed wire. What’s the worse thing that could happen? Well, the horse could stop short and throw me over its neck into the barbed wire. I  refused to consider anything but sailing over the fence. A short distance back I had spotted a place in the fence where the top strand of wire hung a little lower than the rest. This is where we would make the jump.

     I spoke encouragingly to the horse while stroking her neck. “You can do it girl. You can do it!” I softly whispered. Her ears twitched as if she understood my plan. At 30 feet from the fence I gave the little gray a quick nudge. She surged forward moving faster and faster as we closed in on our target. That’s when it happened: we were flying up,  up and over the sharp wires. Glory be! We made it. What a horse! Oh, what joy! We still had a chance to win. Maybe my pride would be left intact after all.

Bucking bronco

      As we crested the last hill a strange sight greeted us. There on the flat land leading to the camp was Elder Stanley, on foot, running after his horse. It was fascinating to see how fast that horse could move with him chasing it. Come to find out, Elder Stanley, in a desperate effort to win, took to whipping his horse with the reins. This made his horse run, but also brought out a new talent: he turned out to be a "world class bucker." It had launched Elder Stanley off his back like a rodeo cowboy on a losing streak.

James Livingston

       From the corner of my eye I saw one of the Livingston boys on horseback streaking to the rescue. Expertly swirling a lariat above his head and lassoing the runaway horse, he brought it under control, making the capture look easy. We all shared a good laugh before the three of us rode into camp. After witnessing the fiasco, we found everyone in high spirits and beginning to gather for a gospel lesson. Just another spectacular entry! -- This incident clearly demonstrated that even broken pride and stubborn Elders couldn’t stand in the way of the Lord’s work.

Mesa scenery near Borrego Pass, NM.

      It was a long, sore ride back up the mesa to our place. Maybe riding horses wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.  The next day our District Leader contacted us and explained that we were to ride in the back of their truck to an All-Mission Conference in Mesa, Arizona, where a replacement vehicle would be waiting for us. For better or worse our horse riding days were coming to an end. 

SCAVANGERS

    

Turkey Vulture (Cathartes aura)

       “Hey! You boys better git down off that church roof before our menfolk gets home. You're liable to git shot!”

      From atop the roof I could see that a small group of women had gathered near the building. They weren’t happy. Not one bit. When I tried to explain that we had received permission from the Church Building Committee to salvage a few usable items for our small meeting hall in Borrego Pass, it fell on deaf ears. They didn’t want to hear about it.  I turned to Elder Stanley who was urgently unbolting the small copper steeple! “You better hurry. The natives are getting restless!” With a grunt, he muttered, “One more rusty bolt and we’ll be out of here.”

Old copper church steeple

      When Elder Stanley and I had approached Don Smouse, proprietor of the Borrego Pass Trading Post, about upgrading the room in which we were holding church services, he alerted us about an old unused chapel in the small town of Blue Water about forty miles away. It hadn’t been used in years and was wasting away. The doors had been left unlocked and it basically had become a place to play for the local children during the winter months. They were using the cultural hall for a roller-skating rink.

Old Blue Water Chapel as it looks today (2016). It has been sold to a family who is using it as a home and daycare center.

      Time had taken its toll on the old structure that had originally been constructed at great sacrifice by early settlers in the area. Ever since a new chapel had been built ten miles away in Grants, some of the “old timers” had held onto the idea that it should have been built in Blue Water. Evidently a burr was still festering under their saddle.

Freeway road sign for Blue Water Village, NM

      Upgrading our Borrego Pass meeting hall was number one on our bucket list of projects. We were on our second eighty-mile round trip to salvage what we could from the old building. The first time around, we had secured four small carved wooden benches, and the lettering that read “THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS” from the side of the building.  This was to be our final trip. We had already loaded two more benches, a podium, and a rolling blackboard, and were presently working on removing the quaint copper steeple. It was the last item we thought we could use. But if we didn’t get out of town soon we just might become the first Elders to be tarred and feathered by their own church members. Not exactly a good PR move!
 

Carved old wooden church pew

      “Got it!” Elder Stanley yelled. Like rats jumping from a burning building we scurried off the roof, ready to load up the steeple and hit the road. On the ground the steeple was much bigger than it had looked on the roof. It would never fit on the back of the truck. We didn’t have time to readjust the load before the “menfolk” would be arriving home. They could be here any minute. After a quick assessment we agreed to leave the steeple in the tall grass behind the building and retrieve it later.

      As we slowly began our drive out of town, we smiled and waved goodbye to the cluster of scowling women who were still standing near the dilapidated building and made our getaway. Elder Stanley and I looked at each other. We both had the same thought, “Why do we feel so guilty?" After all, we weren't criminals. We had received permission from the Church Building Committee!

Road from Thoreau to Borrego Pass, NM

      Racing along the roads back to Borrego Pass, we began reminiscing about a week spent together in Whiterock some months earlier. On one particular day we started out with a quick stop at the Lake Valley Boarding School before heading off to investigate a little used dirt road just south of the Chapter House. We traveled east across the desolate landscape in the direction of Chaco Canyon for what seemed like hours. Along the way we stopped more than once thinking maybe we should turn back, but it was obvious that someone had been using this road so they must live out here somewhere.

Desolate Navajo Reservation scenery near Lake Valley NM

      A short time later, after skirting sand dunes and dodging some very large boulders in the road, we found ourselves entering a small canyon. The steep sandstone walls narrowed as we carefully negotiated the rough road, curious to discover what lay ahead. To our surprise the canyon opened up revealing a picturesque valley protected on all sides by red cliffs. At the center of this tranquil scene was a Navajo camp laid out so perfectly it could have been featured on the cover of an Arizona Highways magazine.

Narrow canyon surrounded by red sandstone cliffs

      Below us near the crowded sheep pens, a group of fifteen to twenty men, women and children were busy shearing sheep and bagging the thick wool. No fancy tools for them! They were using handheld shears similar to large scissors. The friendly group invited us to join them. In no time we were busy trying our luck at shearing while a few youngsters held down the squirming animal. It turned out to be much harder than it looked. If we weren’t careful we would nick the sheep’s flesh in our attempt to cut away the wool.

Crowded sheep pen on the Navajo Reservation

Navajo women hand-shearing sheep in the traditional way.

      Our visit had provided a needed diversion from the family’s morning of hard work. They got a kick out of watching city slickers attempting to shear sheep and chuckled each time we spoke Navajo. Eventually we asked the family if we could teach them about Jesus Christ. They readily agreed, left the sheep, and gathered in a large wooden Hogan at the center of the camp.

Simple interior of a traditional Navajo hogan

      There wasn’t much inside: a handful of wooden chairs and a black wood-burning stove. It must have been the family’s gathering place for special ceremonial occasions. They made sure we had the two best chairs and seated themselves around the Hogan, some on chairs, and others on sheepskin rugs on the floor. They were ready to listen. Elder Stanley and I began delivering our memorized flip-chart presentation in Navajo. We took turns explaining Christ’s atonement, crucifixion, and subsequent resurrection.

Playful baby goat.

      Just as I was nearing the crucifixion portion of the text a baby goat pranced through the sunlit doorway, looked playfully around the room, then bounced over towards me and snuggled up against my leg. I thought to myself, “What a cute little fellow! He must like me.” Before the thought could even clear my mind the goat’s small body tensed and with a grimace it began peeing on my boot. I glanced down at the goat, then over at Elder Stanley, who was shielding his face with his hand and fighting back laughter. I looked around, expecting chuckles and giggles from the family. But there weren’t any, not even a smile. They were so focused on the presentation that they hadn’t even noticed the small goat and its blessed deed.

      When we finished the lesson, the adults expressed their gratitude to us for traveling so far to visit them. We were treated to a cup of cool water. It tasted great! This family must have had a fresh water spring or a deep well nearby. We thanked them for their hospitality and the sheep shearing lessons. One of the teenage boys teased us saying, now that we were experts we could come back and help out any time!

Navajo children with sheep and goats.

      Looking back at the blissful scene in the truck’s rear-view mirror, I couldn’t help thinking, “What a great family! We need to stay in touch.” It was unfortunate they lived a half a day’s drive from the Chapter House. We left their camp with deep respect for their traditional way of life and family unity.

Borrego Pass, NM, LDS Chapel. 1965.

      Time passed quickly as we continued our drive back from Blue Water, chatting about good experiences and fond memories. In no time at all we found ourselves back in Burrego Pass with our truckload of much needed treasures. To our delight we found that the local members had finished giving the meeting hall a new coat of whitewash. Painted celestial white and with our new additions, the place was on its way to a heavenly makeover!

       

     

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!