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!

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!