Navajo National Monument, Arizona

After a journey to the far reaches of the four cardinal directions, several clans of the Hopi Indians found their way to the high deserts of northeastern Arizona. Here they finally ended their long migration and settled down in what they consider their promised land.

Along their migration the Hopis crossed many fertile lands, but they choose this desert as home. According to their mythology the Skeleton Man known as Maasaw, told the Hopis to settle in a land that was not too comfortable. Here they would have to rely on faith and maintain a deep connection with the land in order to have their needs met. This land requires them to develop their faith, their strengths and their souls to survive.

At first glance, the high desert of Arizona appears to be a barren place. It’s full of tall rocky mesas and sprawling plateaus stretching out in all directions. Seasonal rivers carve deep winding canyons through the red rocks that become thin ribbons of life in an otherwise deserted landscape.

Tsegi Canyon is one of a myriad of canyons shaped by ancient desert rivers. On a map, it looks as lonely and desolate as any of the others, but for a brief moment in time it was the thriving home of ancient Hopis, also known as the Anasazi or the ‘ancient ones’. No one is really sure why the Anasazi left this area or where they went. The only clues to their existence are stories passed down through generations and the ruins tucked away in the depths of this canyon. Buildings made of mud and stone, shards of pottery and ghosts from a forgotten time are all that remain.

The morning air was cold and brisk. Under the pine trees, the shade still held the frost from the previous night. A small crowd gathered at the edge of the parking lot, standing in the few spots of sunshine they could find. They mingled and spoke of nothing important. I sat in a small patch of sun trying to warm up. A little before seven, a man in a ranger uniform came out to greet the group. He was a younger man in his early twenties with the dark hair typical of the Indians in the area. He spoke softly but confidently.

“Yá'át'ééh. I’m Woody Tsosie and I’ll be your guide today. We’ll be heading down to Betatakin, the home of my ancestors. Betatakin in Navajo means ‘House built on a ledge.’ That’s the current name, but it was the Hopi tribes that first settled here. It’s about a four to five hour hike and about a 700’ elevation drop down to the base of the canyon. We ask that you stay on all the marked trails and not enter into the any of the buildings.”

He went on to describe the hike as people adjusted the straps on their backpacks, checked their water bottles and did all manner of things other than paying attention. About ten minutes later the group started shuffling along as we were led from the asphalt parking lot onto the dusty trail that led into the wilderness.

The trail curved along the top of a ridge sparsely covered in squat pine trees that cast long shadows on the red earth. Wizened trunks of ancient trees stretched their dead roots across rocky ground searching for water that never came. Towards the horizon one could see a repetitive land of mesas and valleys disappearing into towards the horizon. A few birds flew past, startled by the passing hikers. The sound of their tweets and flapping wings stood out in sharp contrast to the silence of the desert. They flittered off between two trees as the desert reclaimed its silence. Other than the trees, this would be the only visible sign of life I saw the entire trip.

After walking for about forty-five minutes, we stopped to let the others catch up. While we waited, Woody answered my questions about the history of his people. The Anasazi had lived in this area for centuries. Farming and hunting in a barren land. They thrived despite the high elevation and harsh conditions. Now this area is empty apart from memories and the occasional group of tourists like me who come to intrude upon the solitude. Gone are the fields of maize, beans, and squash. The homes full of families sit silent. Their culture and society moved on to other locations.

Sitting on a boulder, a stout, older man with a short buzz haircut reminiscent of a sergeant in the army asked where the closest McDonalds was. His question was asked mostly to the group in order to gain recognition for his superior wit. A few courteous chuckles were the only response. Once the last person caught up, the group continued on the trail to the switchbacks that snaked down the edge of the canyon walls.

The shuffling of our boots were the only sounds. The dust we kicked up settled softly on the pine needles as we meandered deeper into the canyon. The sun was rising now, but we were in the shadows of the cliff walls and it was cold again. The coolness of the shaded walls added a slight humidity to the area. Here one could taste the moisture in the air as compared to the dry, desiccating air above.

The trail flattened out on the canyon floor. Smaller shrubs grew out of cracks in the rocks, sheltered by the high cliffs walls. The trees were a little bit taller here. A scattering of deciduous trees flashing bright shades of green stood out from the dark, monotonous pines. Every time I asked Woody the name of a particular plant, he knew it. Pinyons, Firs, Junipers and Oaks populated the canyon floor. He knew all the names of the trees, shrubs and grasses.

Even without an interesting destination, the hike was through beautiful country. The tall red cliffs contrasted against the stark blue sky and the greenery of the trees. Vistas offering spectacular views surprised us at every turn. The longer I walked, the more I felt a growing connection to the area. It’s stark beauty seeping slowly into me. I thought of how the people who settled here appreciated the land in ways I can’t imagine. This was merely a pleasant walk for me. I was a visitor. Those that lived here must have had a deep connection to the rhythms of the land and the cycles of the seasons.

Woody and I were resting and waiting for the other people to make their way down the trail when I asked him how I could pay our respects to the those that used to live here. I was felt a little conflicted coming to places like this. Part of me wanted to see and learn and draw, but another part of me wanted to leave this place serene in it’s solitude. I know sites like this will never become the touristic circus similar to Niagara Falls or the Eiffel Tower, but I don’t like to leave a negative impact on the places I visit. The more people that visit, the more of an impact we leave here. First comes a visitor center, then a few bathrooms, then a restaurant or two followed by a hotel and gas stations. It’s a cycle that’s repeated around many areas of natural beauty.

From behind a boulder, the stout sergeant looking fellow appeared and said “We pay our respects by buying things in the gift shop of course!” He looked around and laughed at his own joke, but his peers weren’t there to support him and his joke fell flat.

Woody suggested it’s best if I just, “be respectful, stay on the trails and not leaving any trash.”

Sargent Buzzcut started to open up a pack of cigarettes only for Woody to remind him that smoking wasn’t allowed. With a furrowed brow, he capitulated but mumbled under his breath about this being America and something about freedoms.

We continued on. Woody and I walked ahead of the rest of the group. I started to break a little sweat as the rising sun reflected off the rocks. Woody told me he had been working as a ranger here for almost a year.

“Do you like working here?”

He gave a half hearted answer saying it was fine but I sensed something unsaid in his response. So I asked him what else he’d like to be doing if he wasn’t here.

“I’d like to be going to school to study nuclear energy.”

Upon further digging I learned that uranium mining and coal mining were some of the only job opportunities in the area. Gone were the days when people in this area lived with the land. Now they lived off the land. There was a switch to taking instead of giving. These jobs bring much needed income to the area, unfortunately they also bring radiation poisoning and polluted water.

Suddenly we rounded a bend and saw our destination. Nestled in the mouth of an enormous alcove were the remains of several buildings made of sandstone and mud. The roof of this shallow cave was over one hundred and thirty meters tall and stood facing south into the morning sun. There was a sacred feeling to the place. We stood quietly for a long time before the silence was broken by the idle chatter of the rest of the group finally rounding the bend.

Woody gathered us all together and told us about the geology that created these unique formations. The Navajo Sandstone resting above an older layer of rock created joints in the stone where water would seep through eventually causing the some rocks to fall and creating these large alcoves. He repeated to us to be please be respectful and stay on the marked trails as the group dispersed. I took a seat on a boulder to sketch the ruins. Woody took a seat close by. I told him that I was taking a tour of the Southwest and visiting various native american parks and ruins.

“In some places, I felt like I was in a foreign country. No one spoke english and they all looked at me like I didn’t belong.”

“Some of these small towns away from the parks don’t receive many visitors. Where else did you…”

Woody stopped and I followed his gaze to see the sergeant sneaking into an area off limits.

“Please stay on the trails, sir.”

I asked Woody what he thought about taking tourists down here.

“It’s my job.”

“Do you think your ancestors would appreciate it?”

He looked pensively into the alcove for awhile but he didn’t answer. People below were taking pictures of themselves in front of the ruins. The canyon echoed with the sounds of their conversations about history, good restaurants, and the long walk back.

I wasn’t sure if my questions were too personal, but I was prodded a little more.

“Do you think there are spirits here?”

“Sometimes I feel things when I come down here.”

“I’ve heard that native americans don’t like to return to the places they abandoned.”

“They left for a reason. It’s not good to return to the abandoned places. The ancestors are there to watch over them.”

“Have you ever seen any ghosts down here?” I asked feeling slightly intrusive.

“There have been times I’ve been here and felt their spirits around me. It’s not ghosts like in movies, just feelings and energy.”

“I can imagine it’s hard to come to a sacred place like this with a bunch of people who seem more interested in crossing something off their bucket list than paying respect to the past.”

“Yeah. It can be.”

I was conflicted because I like visiting these places, but I also feel like I’m contributing to desecration of the area. I try to be respectful, but I still wonder if my presence is welcome at all. Seeing the sites where others lived in peace with the earth does give me a deeper appreciation for the natural world. It’s the least I can do in return for having the opportunity to be here.

Woody sat quietly lost in his own thoughts. I continued to sketch while listening to the mumbled voices of the others and enjoying the soft breeze. After a while, Woody said more to himself than to me, “Today’s my last day. I don’t want to come down here again.”

I felt a like I pushed him into thinking about the role he played in taking others down here. In reality, I’m sure these thoughts had weighed on him for awhile now. My presence was just push he needed.

On our walk back Woody seemed lighter somehow. Like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. We both turned around one last time to look at a place neither of us would ever see again.

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