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. 

GRAVE DIGGERS

Pinewood Coffin.

        “Throw down that heavy bar!” I yelled up to Elder Cameron. “I need something to break up this  rock.”

      Why would anyone choose to put a cemetery in this God forsaken spot? It was a rock quarry from Hades. We had been digging away since first light. Now it was mid afternoon and we were still at it. The late August sun had been beating down on us all day. Purgatory couldn’t be any hotter! “Doing service should have its limits,” I silently thought to myself.

Blazing sun beating down.

      “I think we are about seven feet deep!” I called up to Bruce. “Oops! I mean Elder Cameron.” Bruce and I had been good friends in High School and now we were missionary companions digging graves on the Navajo Reservation. The irony was overwhelming. Bruce had written me over a year ago, expounding on the discomforts of digging graves and getting stuck in the mud. And now here we were, tag team partners digging graves together in Crownpoint, New Mexico. With thousands of missionaries and hundreds of missions, what were the chances?

Grave digging with a shovel.

      The only way we could continue digging deeper was to scoop up the rock chips with a small shovel, then lift the heavy bucket filled with rubble above our heads and hopefully into the hands of a waiting companion. While holding the bucket up high I began to feel light headed, a bit dizzy. I think the heat and lack of water were getting to me. You might say, I was losing it!

Crownpoint Cemetery. New Mexico.

       “Why are WE doing the digging, rather than the funeral party’s relatives?” I asked myself. Oh, that’s right – “superstition.” Fortunately for the deceased’s family, they had recently accepted the gospel, but unfortunately for the missionaries they still clung to a few superstitions such as digging graves and touching dead bodies.

      Even now the two sister missionaries assigned to Crownpoint were in the basement of the small rock-walled hospital dressing the body of the deceased woman. No doubt she would look great for tomorrow’s funeral service at the LDS chapel.

Gravel side of a freshly dug grave.

      Several months earlier I personally witnessed superstitions concerning the dead. After completing the grave site formalities the wooden casket was slowly being lowered into the deep hole.  Holding the ends of two heavy ropes, four strong men (two on each side of the grave) used extreme caution, carefully balancing the coffin as they eased it slowly downward.

      Suddenly, without warning, the gravel sides of the hole gave way sending the casket crashing to the bottom, followed close behind by all four men who landed in a tangled heap on top of one another. This may sound a bit irreverent, but the scene that followed was total chaos. Tumbling into an open grave and landing on top of a pine coffin was the worst thing that could possibly happen. It was unthinkable, an experience nightmares are made of!

      In an effort to escape the men in the deep hole were frantically jumping about in a desperate attempt to reach the outstretched arms of those trying to help. Unfortunately the gravel sides continued to collapse sending some of the unsuspecting helpers into the abyss. The screams of those witnessing the event and the mad scramble that ensued was almost comical. As an outsider it reminded me of the old Keystone Cops silent movies. As we watched the chaotic scene unfold, my companion and I struggled to maintain a dignified composure. Eventually ropes were used to extract the funeral victims and with great joy the problem was finally resolved. I’m sure a local shaman was called to assist in the cleansing process. Ah, those hard to shake superstitions!

Looking up from deep in a grave.

      Now where was I? Oh yes, at the bottom of a deep grave, delirious with impending sun stroke. Elder Cameron and I finally finished up work at the cemetery, the Sisters did their part beautifully, and the funeral service the next day went off without a hitch.

Crownpoint, New Mexico.

      You wouldn’t think that being assigned to Crownpoint, only 30 miles south of Whiterock, would have been a big change – but it was. Crownpoint was the cultural center of the southeast corner of the Reservation. There was a Bureau of Indian Affairs office and a very old rock hospital with minimal services (probably built soon after the Long Walk); a road service center sporting a dump truck, loader and a couple of graders, and, of yes, I can’t forget the one gas station! Hallelujah, hallelujah! No more hauling of 50 gallon drums of gasoline.

Windstorm and lone stop sign in Crownpoint, New Mexico. 1965.

      To put things in perspective, the town’s streets were almost all dirt roads with a few exceptions found around government buildings and housing areas. We did have one stop sign right next to the official post office. Crownpoint did have a trading post, but unlike the one in Lake Valley, it served mainly as a community grocery and convenience store where one could find fresh fruit and vegetables, along with some hardware items. Directly across the road from our LDS Chapel was a handy dandy laundromat. Chances were, if you used it, your clothes would come out dirtier than when they went in, especially after a previous patron had just washed their grimy saddle blankets, etc.

Current Crownpoint Elementary School, NM, with the familiar yellow school buses.

      The most notable difference was the number of children. Everywhere you looked there were kids, and more kids. This small town enjoyed the luxury of a public elementary school to which kids were bussed a considerable distance from the nearby communities of Burrego Pass, Dalton Pass, and Coyote Canyon. The town also had Government Boarding schools for both Elementary and Junior High students living away from home. The town’s population of about 200 adults was made up primarily of Native Americans, most of whom worked at the schools or for other services provided by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. 

Crowpoint LDS Chapel. 1965.

      One of the biggest changes was having our own chapel with a cultural hall and basketball hoops. For the Elders this was big deal! Even better, we had LDS adults who ran the Branch and took charge of church meetings. In addition to proselyting, the Elders and Sisters worked in support positions in the Branch, mostly teaching and conducting activities for the youth. Working with the youth was one of the most enjoyable parts of my mission!

Elder Rogers' Primary class with a bobcat skin. LDS Chapel, Crownpoint, NM. 1965.

      Elder Cameron and I lived in an old trailer next to the chapel. Wow! Indoor plumbing and electricity. How had I lived without these? From time to time, though, I missed the charms of the simple, rustic life I had led in the wilds of Whiterock. It was hard to beat the hot artesian shower.

Current view of the Elders' home in old abandoned trading post in Whiterock, NM. 2012.

      The Sister missionaries lived in a much nicer trailer close to the government housing area. Since there were no restaurants in town it was wonderful to have two Polynesian Sisters who loved to surprise us with tasty, mouth-watering “Island cuisine.” Not that they didn’t owe us big time for all the occasions when we dug their van out of the mud. They seemed to have a knack for finding the worst spots to get stuck! But, all in all, I was looking forward to the new experiences Crownpoint held in store. 

Elder Rogers digging the Sister Missionaries' van out of the mud. 1965.

MORMON CODE TALKERS

Navajo Code Talkers. US Army. World War II.

        During World War II the Armed Forces used Navajo speaking soldiers to communicate secret messages. They were called “Code Talkers.” These soldiers spoke their native language and the enemy never cracked their code. Not being a written language made interpreting Navajo a very difficult task. Because of their unique service to the Military, these men were honored with medals recognizing their vital contributions to the war effort. Today, those attempting to learn Navajo study words and phrases written out phonetically.

       At the time I was called on my mission there was no Language Training Center for missionaries learning Navajo. The Southwest Indian Mission created its own Navajo school for their Elders and Sisters. Once a month senior companions would team up for a week and send their “greenies” (new missionaries) off to Navajo School. With comfy sleeping bags in tow, we would meet at different chapels scattered about the reservation, and study vocabulary and memorize five or six critical gospel lessons: Christ’s Atonement, The Apostasy and Restoration, The Plan of Salvation, Baptism, and so forth.

Graduation Certificate from Navajo School. South West Indian Mission. 1965.

      After six separate weekly trainings we received a graduation certificate and were booted out the door. Good luck! This new batch of "Mormon Code Talkers" were about to be released upon the unsuspecting Navajo people.We weren't trying to speak in code or send secret messages, but in our attempts at speaking Navajo it might have come across that way. Without Divine help, understanding our message would have been difficult at best!

Elders in the South West Indian Mission teaching the Gospel in Navajo.

        In a way Navajo School was akin to isolated mountain men coming out of the wilds for a long awaited rendezvous. After working hard in the scattered corners of the reservation it was great to get together, study hard, learn Navajo, share experiences, laugh, play ball, and enjoy each others’ company. There were Elders and Sisters from all over North and South America. I was surprised at how many Polynesians had traveled from their tropical island homes to serve missions on the desolate Navajo Reservation. My old high school buddy, Bruce Cameron, turned out to be an “ace” instructor at the school.

        One of the most colorful new elders I met was Elder Mike Stanley. He had recently joined the LDS faith while attending the Church College of Hawaii. Mike was an extrovert in every sense of the word. When I first met him, he was wearing a blue blazer with a fraternity patch, tan pants, and a very loud tie. He stood out in sharp contrast from the sea of black suited, white shirted, conservatively dressed, Bible toting missionaries. You could always tell where he was by his loud, infectious laugh.

Elder Michael Stanley in front of the Elders' trailer in Crownpoint, New Mexico. 1965.

       One afternoon, while on a break from class, he challenged all takers to a footrace. To make things interesting he offered ten dollars to anyone who could beat him. Inspired by Elder Stanley's  challenge, some of the Elders were soon digging out their wallets and placing bets – a rare activity among missionaries. My money was on the big guy! He was obviously athletic, and had played water polo for his college in Hawaii. Well. Surprise, surprise! Elder Stanley won every race, and both of our wallets got a little fatter.

        It turned out that Elder Stanley’s racing challenge inspired others to lay down challenges in their areas of expertise. One night a Tongan Elder, with muscles on top of muscles, challenged anyone brave enough to take him on in a wrestling contest. It was easy to see that he was a great fighter. Any kind of fight would have pushed his buttons. It was about this time that my soft sleeping bag and I found a quiet, isolated closet and laid down to catch some well deserved “zzzzzz’s.” Meanwhile, after watching the Tongan destroy some well put together Elders, Elder Stanley began working his mischief. “So you think you’re a tough guy?” he taunted The Hulk. “What?” snorted the Tongan. “You may think you’re tough,” smirked Elder Stanley, “but Elder Rogers said he wouldn’t waste his time with a wimp like you!” You could almost hear the steam whistle out The Hulk’s ears as his face turned three shades of red, and his muscles began flexing wildly. “Where is this Rogers dude? I’ll teach him to mock me!” he roared.

Tongan missionary in traditional dress.

        Have you ever been awakened from a sound sleep, jerked out of your sleeping bag, and spun like a top before landing on the ground with a two hundred pound fighting machine tying you in knots? “So you think I’m a wimp?” the Hulk grunted. “What? Where did you get that idea?” I moaned. From on my back, under this muscle bound giant, I spotted Elder Stanley enjoying the blood sport and yucking it up.     
        

        You would think that a shenanigan like that would have made me steer clear of a guy like Elder Stanley, but deep down I admired his prankster skills. It wasn’t long before we became good friends. You might even say “kindred spirits.” We were total opposites. He was tall and loud, and I was short and reserved. But inside we both found humor in the ironies of life, especially life on the Res! It was inevitable that our paths would cross again as we got deeper into our mission experiences. In fact, we discovered we were both in the same Southwest Indian Mission district in New Mexico with Bruce Cameron as our District Leader.

Reservation Chapel. South West Indian Mission, New Mexico.

        Each time we got together for Navajo School, we had a great time. But I was always amazed that so many nineteen- and twenty-year-old young men and women with such different personalities, interests, and backgrounds, could unite in a common cause and totally dedicate their lives in selfless service. Can you imagine? There were less than 200 of us on the Navajo reservation, but there were tens of thousands of us all over the world. We weren't perfect by any means, but each one was doing his or her best to live worthy of representing Jesus Christ, and helping to change lives for the better.