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True, indeed, I muse, as
Harold maneuvers our jeep along the bumpy road through the unspoiled
landscape. Fluffy cumulus clouds drift across a pale sky that turns bluer
by the minute, and we make our first photo stop by a group of horses
grazing on the roadside.
Harold regales me with
Navajo myths,
and then explains why he started Simpson's Trailhandler Tours six years
ago -- to share with others his experience as a
Navajo
growing up in
Monument
Valley.
He conveys his love of
the land by fondly pointing out arches, buttes and columns with enchanting
names such as "The Three Sisters", "Sleeping Dragon", and "Ear of the
Wind." He and Richard laugh as they recall childhood adventures here, such
as sliding down winter snow-covered dunes on the hood of a car.
Rounding a large rock
formation we behold our next stop -- a genuine Hogan where an elderly
Navajo woman
named Suzie Yazee will demonstrate the art of weaving.
From the outside, the
round, mud structure blends into the umber sand. We duck through the
east-facing doorway, leaving the brightness behind to enter the one-room
home.
Warmth radiates from a
crackling fire. Suzie gives us a gap-toothed grin as we examine the
sheepskin rugs that cover the clay floor, the smoke hole that pierces the
domed roof, and colorful woven carpets that decorate the floors and walls.
The word Hogan (Hooghan)
means "place home", combining the meaning of "home" and a "sense of
place." Despite the primitive lack of electricity and running water, it's
a cozy shelter against whipping winds, summer heat and winter cold.
"Navajos
began demonstrating rug-weaving to tourists in the 1940s," Harold says,
explaining the process while Suzie spins and weaves. Seeing her pull loose
a strand of soft, grey wool through the border, I remember the legend of
Spider Woman, a Spirit Being who taught that every
Navajo
blanket must be woven with a pathway in the border, to keep the weaver's
spirit from being imprisoned by the blanket's beauty.
We say good-bye to Suzie,
and then hike to an arch called "Big Hogan", where a natural Indian
profile appears on the wall. Harold walks behind a nearby dune, and we
rest against the cool rock.
"Look up," says Richard.
Overhead, skylight filters through the hole in the arch. Suddenly, the
earthy strains of Harold's Native American flute echo off the walls,
followed by a mesmerizing chant to the beat of a primeval drum.
We are brought back to
the present when we hop in the jeep and drive to a rock formation called
"The Titanic." Needless to say, the rock has been weathered into the shape
of a ship, sinking into a sea of sand.
At John Ford Point, the
filming location of Stagecoach, we see Frank Jackson, the "Navajo
John Wayne." Clad in vivid red, he rides his horse out on the mesa – a
perfect opportunity for photographs.
In this unchanging vista
time seems to stand still, yet my watch tells me hours have passed.
Tomorrow I will see the
Ancient Puebloan
ruins in nearby Mystery Valley, but already the trip scores high. I came
here for the stories, and I'd heard many – from Harold's ancient
Navajo myths
to Harry Goulding's Hollywood tales.
We drive back to the
Visitors Center, and I see the Mittens once more, still waiting for the
Gods to return. They are symbols of this enduring land, a place, I am
certain, that will inspire people for ages to come.
© 2005 Melody Moser, Added January, 2006
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