THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT!

“Chindi”

        It all started with an ear-splitting scream and ended with a loud boom! In Navajo the word “chindi” means devil. Well, for a few short weeks that old pest was working overtime in Whiterock.

The Naked Truth

        Our morning ritual of waking up early and jogging the mile to the artesian showers never changed. Even the frigid winter weather couldn’t keep us away. By the time we reached the showers, laid our clothes on the wooden bench and cranked the giant wheel releasing a flood of hot well water, ice crystals were forming on our sweat covered extremities. Stepping through a warm cloud of steaming mist and into hot gushing water was heavenly! It felt like standing beneath a warm cascading water fall. Knowing how cold it would be drying off, dressing, and walking back made lingering in the hot shower that much more enjoyable.

What's left of the artesian shower many years later.

        Washing my hair in the rich mineral water turned out to be a problem. I found that Prell Shampoo was the only brand that left my curly locks feeling clean and looking shiny. One morning after arriving back at our place I noticed my beloved Prell had been left behind. We jumped in our truck and raced back to the showers. I couldn’t let my magic shampoo fall into the wrong hands! Upon arriving I detected steam drifting out of the small window on the men’s side. Hustling over I peered through the opening and, YES, I spotted my green tube of Prell sitting on the wooden bench right where I had left it.

      Over the sound of pounding water I shouted to the steam shrouded bather, “Hey, shi k’is (my friend), can you hand me that shampoo?” When the surprised bather turned and stepped out of the steam I was horrified to see a woman, not a man. Ear-splitting screams filled the air! I don’t know which one of us screamed the loudest. I yelled, “Sorry!” and ran for the truck leaving my precious Prell behind.

        “The Mormon Elders are shower peepin’ perverts!” The topic might have come up at the next Chapter meeting. As we visited new camps with new faces I often wondered if the shower victim was one of the faces staring back at me.

        But she was showering on the men’s side!

Road Rage

        Elder Kurtz was a great elder and we got along fine – most of the time. However, driving the terrible reservation roads mile after bump mile, day after rutty day, after rutty day, after rutty day could make even the best of Elders a little crazy. And it did!

Elder Kurtz in his Wellington boots and coveralls, sitting on the rock we painted white. We felt the place needed a more celestial looking rock to reflect its name, Whiterock. New Mexico, 1965.

        It was our custom to trade off driving every other day. On this particular day it was my turn to drive. As the morning wore on we encountered some pretty bad roads. I was doing my best to navigate through the worst of the ruts and bumps by veering from one side of the road to the other. Meanwhile I noticed Elder Kurtz slouching lower and lower in his seat, arms folded in silent irritation.

       Suddenly, without warning he shot up in his eat and shouted, “Must you hit every bump in the road?!!!” “What,” I responded. “You heard me!” he said. “MUST you hit every bump?” I thought I had been doing quite well considering the condition of the road. So, I shot back, “No! If I hit every bump in the road, it would feel like THIS!” Then I proceeded to hit every bump in the road, thus jostling both of us wildly around the cab of the truck. “STOP, STOP!” Kurtz yelled. “I would rather walk than ride with YOU!” Upon hearing this I immediately hit the brakes forcing us into a sliding stop. Elder Kurtz flung open his door. slammed it behind him, and marched off in a huff. 

        There was no point in trying to talk to him. He was too riled up and needed time to cool down. So I bounced on down the road keeping an eye on my companion in the rear view mirror until I rounded the next mesa. There I parked and waited.

Navajoland in winter with low hills and stunted wild brush.

       When enough time had gone by for him to see the error of his ways, I returned to pick him up. I expected to find a friendlier face but to my surprise there was no face at all. No face, no body, no nothing! Elder Kurtz had disappeared. I honked the horn and slowly drove back and forth, hoping to spot him. I half expected that he would leap out from his hiding place, we would share a good laugh, and then be on our way. No such luck! Where could he have gone? We were a good eight to ten miles from home and there was nothing out there but hills and stunted wild brush.

        I continued to search for the next hour with no success. Finally I reluctantly decided to go back  to our place and wait for his return. Time passed. Morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon soon became evening.  Where was he? The sun was setting and in short order it would be dark. Now I was really getting concerned. Do I need to alert the members and start a search?

Hmmm. Where could he have gone?

       Just as I was beginning to panic our old wooden door slowly creaked open and there stood Elder Kurtz -- sunburned, sore, and covered in grime and red dirt. He stumbled in, flopped down on the edge of his bed, and started to explain. He said he needed time to think and mull things over so he had set out walking cross country, not really considering the distance he would have to cover. To my surprise he apologized and asked me to forgive him. Wow. I wasn’t expecting that! I accepted his apology warmly and offered him a heartfelt apology of my own. We ate what we could scrounge up for dinner, then knelt down for our nightly prayers. Tomorrow would be a new day and it would not be my turn to drive!

The Big Bang

        I had been through Army Basic Training, but nothing I had learned prepared me for what was about to happen. You see, there are unforeseen dangers living in a remote wilderness situation. Just outside the abandoned trading post we called home was an open fifty gallon barrel we used for trash. When it became full we simply struck a match and the contents went up in flames.

Old Whiterock trading post where the Elders lived. Trash barrel located behind the fence. 1965.

        Now that winter had arrived the garbage looked to be a bit wet and soggy. Matches proved to be useless in starting the fire. So, I went in search of something stronger. Inside our storage shed we kept a old metal container of white gas. It was a special mix we used to fill our lanterns.

Metal gas container.

       I topped off an empty soup can and headed back the trash barrel. This should do the trick, I thought, while sprinkling the white gas over the barrel’s contents. If a little is good, a lot should be even better. So I kept sprinkling and sprinkling until the soup can was completely empty. I waited patiently, allowing the gas a few minutes to work its way to the bottom. Then like any good boy scout I tossed in a match. KABOOM!

        The barrel went off like a cannon blasting hot burning trash thirty feet into the air. I found myself flat on my back, blown over by the powerful explosion, and looking up at fiery debris raining down from the sky. "Hells bells! I’m lucky to be alive," it slowly began to dawn on me. The smell of burnt hair filled the air. Frantically I began to inspect myself for damage. Yow! The hair on my arms was burnt to stubble. I had no eyebrows or eyelashes. And a sizable patch of hair from the top of my head was missing. Parts of my clothes had small burnt holes, some of which were still smoking. 

       The loud explosion brought Elder Kurtz running. After taking in the scene he remarked, “Man, you don’t look so good!” “What?” I questioned. The explosion had temporarily affected my hearing. I learned after the fact that white gas is much more explosive than regular gasoline. Guess I kind of over did it. 

       No serious damage done, missionary life went on as usual. I’m sure the people we visited were impressed. This hairless Elder with the burnt, red face must have recently returned from Vietnam they probably surmised.  After the endless questions of who, what, where, and why, I finally resorted to answering, “The “chindi”made me do it!!

       I already knew what Earl Pioche was going to say, "Do-ya-shonda, Bilagáana!" Stupid whiteman!

CITY BOY SHEEPHERDERS

Valley of Dreams. Whiterock, New Mexico.

        Back at the ranch the obnoxious buzz of our windup alarm roused us at 6 a.m. – the standard wake up time for missionaries. One of us, usually the junior companion, would slide out of his warm sleeping bag, stumble across the room, shut off the alarm, turn the propane heater up a notch, and fire up the gas lanterns. We always kept the alarm clock on the far side of the room. It helped us avoid the temptation to roll over, shut it off, and dream on. It was now time to study our scriptures for the next hour. You know, get our spiritual side tuned in. Then, like crazy jack rabbits, we were off, jogging the one mile up hill to the hot artesian shower. Ahh! A gift from heaven.

Artesian Well Shower. Whiterock, New Mexico, 2012.

        Now, feeling squeaky clean, and smelling like sulfur, we jogged back to our place for a delicious breakfast of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, topped off with apples, oranges, or bananas -- basically any kind of fruit we could get out hands on.

        The next hour was spent practicing Navajo, memorizing vocabulary, and learning our gospel discussions. Whoa, time to pump some gas from our fifty gallon barrels, jump in our “chidí bikéíjį́” (pickup truck) and get out among the “Diné” (People).

Lake Valley Elementary Boarding School

Sandy Wash bottom with resident cow. 2012.

        We carefully chugged through the sandy wash bottom next to our place doing our best not to disturb the resident herd of cranky cattle, then climbed the rocky bank and drove onto the Whiterock Road with its annoying washboard bumps and potholes. Our first stop would be ten miles away at the Lake Valley Elementary Boarding School located just around the bend from the Tsaya Trading Post. There we would be welcomed with open arms by the principal and the teachers. You see, two or three times a week we volunteered to teach physical education classes to 5-10 year-old boys and girls giving the teachers valuable preparation time. Working with these young Navajo children was a highlight we always looked forward to. In appreciation for our efforts we were often invited to a real sit-down school lunch. School lunch had never tasted so good! 

Lake Valley Boarding School. New Mexico. 2012

        The youngsters spent their days going to school and their nights living in dormitories. Very few of them lived close enough to home to be picked up by their parents on the weekends. There was also a Junior High thirty miles away in Crownpoint and a High School seventy miles away in Fort Wingate. Both of these were also Boarding Schools. The government allowed religious denominations one hour a week during school to give their students religious instruction.

        Surrounding Lake Valley School were about a dozen modest stucco homes built to house teachers and administrators. Most other workers at the school came from the local population. The school was one of the only outside sources of income available in their community.

The Pioches

        Next we were trucking off to the Lake Valley Chapter House to meet up with Earl Pioche, the Lake Valley Chapter president. The Pioches had been stalwart members of the Lake Valley LDS Branch for years. As our cloud of dust blew closer to the Chapter House we spotted Earl leaning casually against the bed of his shiny red pickup. In the Navajo Tribal government the Chapter President is similar to the mayor of a small town. Each Chapter had a Chapter House where local members would gather for social interaction and to conduct tribal business.  Members of the chapter could also pick up fresh water, plus hay and feed for their animals without having to travel long distances to nearby cities. The LDS Church rented the chapter building twice a week to conduct religious services.

Lake Valley Chapter House sign.

        It was an honor to be chosen as Chapter President and Earl played his role well. He was an outgoing character who enjoyed speaking and joking with the Elders in English. We had previously agreed to help him unload a large trailer stacked with hay. As Elder Harward and I hefted bale after bale of that itchy stuff, I thought to myself, “This is an excellent opportunity to practice my Navajo on a friendly native speaker.” So I began. As time passed I became more confident in my language abilities and was sure Earl was impressed. It was about then that he abruptly stopped what he was doing, turned to face me, and in a loud voice said, “Speak English. You’re disgracing the whole tribe!” Well, that wasn't what I expected to hear. Not much of a confidence booster. The rest of the job was completed in relative silence. Suddenly, with a smile and a deep belly laugh, Earl slapped me on the back and in perfect English thanked us for a job well done. He then invited us to his camp, a short distance away, where his wife was waiting to treat us to hot fry bread soaked in warm honey. Yum!

Navajo chapter president and wife wearing traditional clothing and jewelry.

        Sister Pioche was a happy, friendly sort of woman. She always had a twinkle in her eye, but shyly covered her mouth whenever she laughed. She conversed with her husband in Navajo but understood English quite well. She dressed in traditional clothing, wearing her hair tied up with spun wool in a “bi-tsiiyéél” (hair wrapped in bun at the back of the neck.) In the corner of her home was a tightly strung loom displaying her beautiful hand woven rug. I asked her if she had done all the work herself. "Yes," she replied.


       With Earl's help they took me through the whole process from beginning to end. They showed us bags of wool that they had hand sheared from their own sheep. Next she carded the wool, washed it, and spun the wool into a fine yarn. The final step before weaving was using natural mineral- and plant dyes to obtain the colors she wanted.

     The intricate finished product was right there before my eyes. She must have spent hundreds of hours preparing and weaving this artistic masterpiece. I asked them what they were going to do with the rug. Earl said they would take it to Window Rock and sell it for top dollar.

        I asked Sister Pioche if she would consider helping me design a small rectangular rug. It would be unique with the words “I NEED LOVING” on it. She covered her mouth in her shy manner, then laughed and agreed. The rug would provide a great conversation piece when I returned home. While Sister Pioche and I were drawing up possible designs, Earl pulled Elder Harward aside and asked an unusual favor. “Would the two of you herd my sheep this coming Saturday?” He had a tribal business meeting in Window Rock and his wife would accompany him with her beautiful rug. Because she was the weaver they could negotiate a far better price if she came along.

Herding Sheep

        Earl explained that herding sheep was a job even soft city boys could handle. You just saddle and bridle the horses. Then at sunup you open the gate and let the sheep out of their pen. It will be easy. You just follow them during the day. The sheep know where to find the best pastures. Just before sunset the sheep will lead you back to their pen. All you would need to do is shut the gate. Elder Harward happily agreed and signed us up for the job.

Earl Pioche's camp. Lake Valley, New Mexico.

        Saturday came and we arrived at the Pioches place before the sun had peeked over the horizon. Earl and his wife had already left for Window Rock. Neither Elder Harward or I knew much about saddling horses, but we did our best. I worked on the saddles while Elder Harward went to work bridling them. After gently laying the saddle blanket across the horse’s back, I threw one stirrup over the saddle horn and lifted the heavy saddle onto the blanket, found the cinch, threaded it, and pulled it tight. With both horses saddled, I gave the cinch one last tug, and we were ready to ride. Look out sheep. The city boys were ready for action! Elder Harward opened the gate, and sure enough, the sheep wandered over the hill and we followed their woolly behinds to their favorite grazing spot.

Flock of sheep working their way to a favorite grazing area.

        One of the many things I learned to appreciate on the Reservation was the sound of silence. No background noises, no traffic, no loud music, or people chattering. All was quiet and peaceful. There were only the simple wonders of nature to enjoy: the immense clear blue sky, a breeze gently nudging the tall grass, a bird’s delicate song. The occasional bleating of young lambs, the light ringing of sheep bells, or the squeak of saddle leather as the horses moved quietly through the herd just added to the bliss. Unexpectedly we caught sight of a red-tailed fox bounding about playfully on a distant hillside.

Sheep Pen. Navajo Reservation, Lake Valley, NM.

        Evening finally arrived and Earl was right. The sheep led us back to his camp and filed obediently into their pen. We dismounted and walked bowlegged to close the gate.  Before we had a chance to unsaddle the horses here came Earl bouncing up the hill in his red truck. Seeing us painfully hobbling about he quickly offered to take care of the horses. Shortly thereafter his gut wrenching belly laugh filled the air. “City boys!” he mumbled. The bridles had been put on upside down. That’s when Earl introduced us to a new Navajo phrase, "Do-ya-shonda, Bilagáana!" Roughly translated it meant, “Stupid white man!”

        Another day, another blessing! What can I say. We were racking them up big time.

        A few weeks later word reached us that Sister Pioche had a surprise for me. Sunday after church we chugged over to the Pioches. I was expecting another round of delicious fry bread. But when I stepped through the door, there stood a beaming Sister Pioche holding up the small rug we had designed together.

      “Wow! It’s perfect. Better than I had ever imagined. You’re the greatest! Thank you!” I felt like throwing my arms around her and giving her a big hug, but it just wasn’t the Navajo way. The $25 she charged me was well spent. The rug would become one of my prize possessions. It might even help lure a beautiful wife someday!

It worked. What a catch! Getting ready to leave for our honeymoon. June 1968.