Ancient Answers to Modern Questions: Lessons from the Puebloan Culture

The wind whipped up in a subtle gust, pushing dust in swirls, ruffling the feathers of an eagle caged with chicken wire and wood. The hot sun beamed down further baking the dry mesa, cracking the already dried mud intermixed with polychromic pottery shards. A mangy mutt barks, and whines then whimpers and as if trying to welcome the students emerging from the van squinting in the bright daylight.Students from the Sustainable Communities Masters program at NAU have arrived at the United States oldest continuously inhabited settlement of Orabi on the Third Mesa on the Hopi reservation. They are there to learn lessons from an ancient people, who have survived and preserved their culture in the same location for over 1100 years.
Dr. Miguel Vasquez proceeds to lead them on a brief tour through the village accompanied by the friendly dog that greeted them upon arrival. The students move into the plaza, surrounded by low stone housing with flat roofs and wooden beams protruding. “This is where the clans of Orabi have their ceremonial dances. The spectators sit around, sometimes 4 deep on the ground, and 4 deep on the roofs to watch. The ceremonies are also a time for the villagers to give. They share what they have, and make sure that everybody goes home with food. You have to be careful, though, one time I was hit in the nose by a flying orange.”
The students move through the plaza toward the end of the Mesa, and stop short of two Kivas, or subterranean places of worship. The kivas are identified only by the ladder that protrudes from a hole in the ceiling of the pit house. There, tribal members gather by clan to perform ceremonies, each clan having their own kiva. The mesas offer long views from three sides, which served as an early warning device for villagers against invaders. It also allows them to see their crops growing on the valley floor, and protect the structures against floods.
“You can see behind us the ruins of a Spanish mission, there at the edge of the mesa.” Dr. Vasquez motions with his head toward an incomplete stone structure with half of a tower still standing, “The Hopi destroyed the mission during the Pueblo revolt of 1680, when they eradicated the Spanish from the village. Again, it is we are not allowed to visit the ruins, so we can’t get any closer.” The Puebloans have had a rocky history, from the invasion of Spanish Conquistadors looking for the legendary gold ridden El Dorado then Spanish settlers and missionaries, to modern anthropologists and archaeologists, each force threatening their very survival. The town appears to be abandoned, except for a small shop vending cultural wares. There is, however, a small enclave of residents that continue to live there year round, usually elders spending their last days of retirement. Most villagers live on the valley floors, close to running water and electricity, but clan members occasionally return to the mesas for special ceremonial dances and re-inhabit the small structures.
Small raindrops fell from a partly cloudy sky in the village of Bacavi, home to the people “of the reeds.” The students are there to visit the ancient spring irrigated terraces that once flourished with corn, beans, melons and orchard crops. In the early 1990s the Hopis approached the NAU anthropology department with a reciprocal arrangement to restore their terrace gardens in exchange for cultural fellowship. This was a great opportunity for both parties. Historically anthropologists haven’t been well received by the Hopis due to their insensitive infiltration of their communities. “Intruders were not welcome, especially if they were dressed as anthropologists.” (Vasquez and Jenkins 1994) This was mostly due to the fact that the Hopi haven’t been on the receiving end of the academic study. No compensation was directed to the Hopis as a result. Since the leaders of Bacavi were trying to rekindle their agricultural traditions, they sought a reciprocal arrangement. The students had the opportunity to study an ancient culture first hand, and help the Hopi reinvigorate their terraces. The students worked together with the Hopi youth rebuilding walls, digging out spring fed pools, stabilizing the footpaths and documenting plot tenure and horticultural practices. They were able to motivate the villagers from a few families working tiny plots to as many as eighteen families cultivating gardens. But, alas, their efforts again became un-stainable. Reeds were planted, their pueblo symbol, ultimately began to draw moisture from the springs. This combined with declining interest in traditional horticulture practices, reduced the terraces to some tomato plants, and a few unproductive fruit trees.
The Native American work ethic is oriented toward necessity (Van Otten and Vasquez p7), and since the onset of the twenty first century it has become easier to shop for groceries, than to laboriously farm in hot fields for a meager yield. This along with the temptations of the modern world, the Hopi as well as other Native Americans, are starting to take another look at not only the preservation of their culture, but their continuance.
These problems are what the students have come to examine. Having looked at the problems of their own society and the growing disparity between the rich and poor it is becoming obvious that our habits are unsustainable. They have seen the writing on the wall and are looking at not only how to preserve what they have, but to continue and sustain itSmall puffy white clouds speed by as two elk and their calves hang closely to the arroyo cut by the muddy Chaco river. Slightly startled by gawking tourists they stand their ground, unwilling or unable to give up their meager source for moisture. The students emerge into the hot sun and sand to visit the Ancestral Puebloan ruins of Chaco Canyon, in the northwest area of New Mexico. They have come with the hope of understanding what mistakes this ancient civilization made causing their rapid decline. Here archeologists have discovered a striking similarity with the Ancient Chaco civilization, and modern society.
Once an intricate network of farms, roads and pueblos complete with multi-level structures rivaling the great civilizations of Central America, Chaco lays in ruins, producing little more than archaeological evidence to describe their rise and fall. The Chacos were in a delicate balance with their environment. When the rains came life was good. Across the Chaco farming districts, the farmers pursued this opportunity with all the obsession of those absolutely certain that good fortune will not last. With reliable rains, one good harvest became many. They were able to produce a surplus, and began to store corn and expand farmsteads to new even more precarious spots within the San Juan basin (Stuart p65-66).
Lasting from approximately 1020 to 1130, the Chaco phenomenon, as it is referred, was based on clusters of far-reaching communities interconnected by trade, ritual, and sharing (Stuart p.66). Farming, storing, trading, sharing food and pottery with other farmers allowed them to have more babies and finally separated them from the hunters and gatherers. Their whole identity was intertwined with their expansive community and their religion. The formation of Kivas, their ritual house, became an integral part of local family life. Between 1020 and 1080 “Great Houses” began to be constructed. These pueblo style houses began with 10 to 12 rooms. Without windows or doors they had to enter through a ladder in a hole in the roof, which doubled as a chimney. Soon these great houses expanded, and multiplied. Many became multi-storied and some included over 100 rooms. Much of the space in these Great Houses was used for storage of varieties of corn that were carefully separated. Combining ritual space, storage capacity, and some living quarters, the Chacos were able to maintain connections and trade among the expansive farming communities in the area (Stuart p107).
So, why did the ancient Chacos walk away from their civilization? Climate change and drought is what brought the civilization to its knees. Something happened in the early 1090s. There was no answer from the heavens to their rituals and prayers. The huge storage rooms lay empty and rains had begun tapering off. For four years the rains became more and more unreliable. In a stunning but final effort to “boost the economy” the Chacoan elites began to erect their grandest buildings and roads (Stuart p121).
The explosion in kiva building in about 1100a.d. indicates a ritual life that had become bloated and stopped nurturing the communities. The religious elite had grown increasingly demanding and obsessive and were requiring more and more resources to survive. The land was becoming over-hunted and the agriculture unsustainable, with the decreasing rains. Ritual alone was not feeding the babies or adapting new food-producing techniques. Failure to address these problems destroyed Chacoan society (Stuart p123). So the farmers walked away and returned to hunting and gathering or migrated to further upland communities. Their failure brought forth, however, a success story, that of the highly efficient Pueblo civilization. Stuart says, If we “listen carefully to their past, we can retrieve an important message for all surviving traditional societies, for the rest of us, and for all of twenty-first-century society to come (Stuart p. 8).The lessons that the students were able to take away are four fold. Foremost is that a successful community is egalitarian and unified (Stuart p163). The Hopi share their possessions and accumulation is seen as threatening and counter-productive. The well-being of the individual relies on the cohesion and reciprocity of the group at large (Van Otten and Vasquez p7).
Second is that a compelx and diverse economy is more sustainable. By the 1400s the puebloans had dozens of corn varieties that displayed selected characteristics such as cold and drought resistance, fast and slow maturation, deeper roots, and a variety of sizes and colors of kernels (Stuart p164). In modern times the puebloans have had to diversify economically in order to survive. The Acoma Pueblo may be the best example of using tourism to boost their economy, with their large visitors center, museum and bus tours. The Hopi have gone into the coal business with the Navajo, and even own shopping centers in Flagstaff. Other tribes are building casinos on their lands and use the gaming revenues to provide opportunities for their members.
The third lesson is that any investment into the infrastructure must focus on producing necessities and preserving their culture and environment. This is immediately evident on the less than aesthetic condition of their housing. Appearances are low on the list of priorities, and organized labor that was used to support great building projects for only one segment of their society was never used again. This dictum kept the religious leaders from imposing or gaining too much power (Stuart p165). Business decisions are made by consensus; if anybody disagreed the topic would be tabled for further discussion. This dramatically slows the possible economic development of the tribe, but at the same time reduces the possibility of being taken advantage of and making hasty decisions that could lead to mistakes.
Lastly the Puebloans realized that efficiency was more important than power. Efficiency was valued and enhanced in their high un-irrigated fields. They planted corn, beans and squash in microenvironments where the bean vines could climb the cornstalks, and the squash could retard weeds with the shade of their leaves (Stuart p167). By having a more egalitarian society it reduces the power that an individual can have, and by reaching a consensus for big decisions it keeps power out of the hands of the corruptEven though the Puebloans can teach us valuable lessons about sustainability, the threats of modern society have effected their very survival. The Hopi are concerned with their ability to weave ancient traditions with the modern lifestyle and continue to battle controversies over the environment, resources, joblessness and the erosion of their culture (Vasquez p83). These issues are same issues that threaten the sustainability of our entire civilization today, and if we cannot learn from our past we are destined to repeat the same mistakes in the future.

Bibliography
Stuart, David E., Anasazi America, University of New Mexico Press, 2000.
Vasquez, Miguel, The Hopi in Arizona, unknown.
Van Otten, George A. and Vasquez, Miguel , Economic Development On Arizona’s Native American Reservations.
Vasquez, Miguel and Jenkins, Leigh, Reciprocity and Sustainability: Terrace Restoration on third Mesa, Practicing Anthropology Vol. 16 No 2, 1994.

Flip flops in Paradise

This was written as a creative essay tongue-in-cheek:

“Absolutely no rental cars,” read the sign, “ 4 wheel drive vehicles only. Vehicles traveling uphill have the right-of way.”
After looking down the steep 25 percent grade I decided to heed its advice. It was extremely steep. Although paved, I couldn’t imagine a rental car getting up that road. A normal road would switch back. Not this one. The road descends into the Hawaiian valley from high on the cliffs and drops to the rumbling surf below. We parked our rental car at the small area at the top, got our backpacks out and headed on foot down the concrete ramp scored for better traction.
Our destination was Waimanu Valley, a distant and remote valley only accessible by a trail. We first had to pass through the beautiful and more visited Waipio Valley to reach the best backpacking the Big Island had to offer; the Muliwai trail. My girlfriend, Kristi, and I try to escape the stresses of modern life as much as we can afford, and this trip was to be a respite from society’s constant bombardment of advertisement, rampant consumerism and the consequent war over depleting resources.
We stopped half way to rest our calves.
“Feel the burn!” I said stepping to the side to catch a glimpse of Kaluahine Falls plunging off the cliff face in to the surf. “Wow.”
The paved road ended at the bottom in a wet marsh, then switched back to reveal some rental cars that had dared to make the journey. They were flipped over and burned by the locals in retribution for the drivers not reading the sign.
“I hope they got the full damage waiver,” I said smugly.

We arrived at what the Hawaiians called the Valley of the Kings. Traditionally taro, bananas, guava, and coconuts were grown here among the native trees. This was a favorite destination for King Kamehamea, and also where he was commissioned as guardian of the war god Kukailimoku. They celebrated luau style by hunting wild pigs, and cooking them buried in the sand with banana leaves. The ceremony is still observed by torch carrying “Night Warriors,” to this day.
Toursits delivered here in masse by four-wheel drive, frolicked in the waves where the Waipio River meets the sea. Then something sinister caught my attention: a lost and abandoned flip flop. I started to look around, another one, and another, littering the beach. They remained, after the tourists had left, flipping and flopping in the waves. One moment they appeared to be headed for open sea, the next they were washing up on shore. Our hike had begun with a slap, a wake up call: did I actually think I could escape society’s blatant disregard to its natural counterpart? There was a war going on over the same resources that constructed the flat rubber soles, and they were cast away, left floating like flotsam. There was something wrong with this picture.
I don’t spend too much time thinking about fashion, but flip flops were becoming more difficult to ignore. They’re found in the most far-reaching places in the world, and cheap enough for even the poorest to rely on them, but seeing them half buried in the sand made me take a closer look at the negative effects that these seemingly necessary footwear has had on the environment.
I tried to put up a wall, and deny the existence of man’s destructive wake, and headed back to the trail, after all I was also culpable. I had a pair of rubber flip flops strapped to the outside of my pack. The trail quickly left the beach and made it’s way up the valley wall. The jungle closed in as we trotted over fallen berries that stained the rotten trail floor. The smell of leaf matter mixing with ginger root stimulated my olfactory nerves in alternating cycles of curious pleasure.
The trail dipped into smaller and more rugged overgrown valleys and wound over the course of 12 more miles. Occasionally I was reminded that the ocean was only a few hundred yards away from the top of a valley cliff. Rising and falling 500 feet, each valley became more and more difficult to navigate. Rain and fallen leaves made it wet and slippery, providing a constant challenge.
The humidity and the mid-day heat was relieved by a small waterfall and pool, right off the trail. We stripped down to our skivvies, put on our camping flip flops, and plunged into the jungle run-off. Drying off our feet, we put on our boots, ate lunch and continued. Valley after valley we snaked our way down the coastline.
My mind kept flashing back to the littered beach we left. I couldn’t keep from thinking of the flip flop as a metaphor for the destructive effects society imposes on the natural world. My fascination with the flip flop stems from what the sandal means to modern society. Were we ever going to be able to shed our unsustainable dependencies in favor of the environment? I started to take stock of the social and physical ramifications that flip flops have brought upon the world.
The first traditional flip flops were designed by the Japanese and were woven bamboo, or wooden soled sandals. Ironically they are called “biisan” in Japan, derived from English meaning “beach sandal.” The flip flop has infiltrated almost every country, spawning specific nomenclature in many languages. For example in Italy they are refered as ‘infradito’ translated literally as ‘inter-toes.’ Danes call them ‘Klip-clapperes.’ New Zelanders call them ‘Jandals’ condensed from Japanese sandals. The Hawaiians affectionately call them “jap-slaps.” Like the pig, the flip flop was introduced to Hawaii as a foreign species. Now they are deeply ingrained into the society.
I kept hiking and thinking. Was I opposed to flip flops? No, they were useful, after all I had a pair. Comfortable and perfect for camping, they are light and pack down to a minimum. I can wear them at river crossings to keep my boots dry. They are perfect for drying out my feet after a sweaty day locked in hikers. They are too useful to be opposed to… until they’re trash.
There is a fine line between something utilitarian and trash. Two flip flops are utilitarian. They provide protection from the rough rocky ground, a necessity in today’s tender-footed world. One flip flop is trash. Not only is it trash, it is trash that lasts forever. The rubber will not decompose. They will last and last until a pile of unmatched flip flops gathers on shore, or in a land fill. Eventually the world will begin to fill up with unmatched flip flops. Perhaps an environmental organization will need to be developed to battle the population explosion of lone flip flops. The groups mission: to gather mis-matched flip flops of similar sizes and re-sell them to concerned conservationists. Transients will collect them like aluminum cans then trade them for a few meager bits, proud that they contributed to the mitigation of the destruction of the natural world. A new fashion trend will be born; the ‘U2 Unmatched Flip Flop Special Edition,’: all proceeds to help fight foot fungus cancer- coming soon to a retailer near you.
We arrived at the top of Waimanu Valley with plenty of daylight to spare. This was the steepest and slipperiest valley yet. Layers of wet fronds and leaves lined the trail. We slid down 500 feet to the valley floor. Covered in mud and little cuts we stumbled out of the jungle and onto stable river rock. Before we could access the camping area we had to cross the Waimanu river. We took off our backpacks and put on our flip flops again. The river was deep. We had to carry our packs over our heads and navigate submerged boulders. Waves broke on shore and flowed upstream creating surges that kept us unbalanced. Slipping and falling forward I managed to toss my pack to the opposite shore. Since I was already wet, I swam up the lazy stream and frolicked in the luke-warm water.
Emerging from the water I found my self at an impasse. I was actually thankful for my flip flops. This was a symbol of wanton destruction and resource depletion. It was made from fossil deposits for the comfort of my foot. This disturbed me. Modern variations made out of rubber and plastic are un-sustainable, and float. The backless sandal is easily lost in strong currents. The freedom that it gives the foot is directly disproportional to the dependence society has on its consumption. Why couldn’t they just be made out of bamboo, I wondered. Then they could decompose when they were lost.
My thoughts of the evil sandal faded with the beauty found at the bottom of this remote Hawaiian valley. The ocean breaking on the rocky shore provided a soothing soundtrack. Distant water falls cascaded down steep green cliff faces. The swirling clouds that obscured the top of the valley gave fresh water to feed each fall.
Stumbling into camp we plopped down our packs to take it all in. We were alone amid a dozen campsites. We decided to look around to see which site was the best.
“Grunt, grunt.”
We both turned around to face the source of the grunting: a large pig was rustling in some leaves a few feet away. Startled, it squealed slightly and scampered off toward the far side of the valley. “Oooh, there are wild pigs here.” I said.
“Cool,” Kristi said, “Lets try to get a better look.”
We followed what appeared to be a game trail. It took us into the muddy and mosquito infested jungle. We could see depressions in the ground where many pigs had made their beds.
“There.” She pointed at a huge daddy sized pig. Behind him there were three or four piglets. They scampered away making little pig sized grunts. Weaving through the jungle we pursued them, catching quick glimpses until we could no longer keep up.
“Bananas.” She said. Sure enough, there were a bunch of bananas just lying there, with no banana tree in sight.
“The pigs must collect them from the jungle.”
“Pigs can’t climb trees!” I shrugged, baffled.
A distant rumble of a waterfall piqued our interest, and we followed a game trail in that direction. Slightly overgrown, we couldn’t gain direct access to the falls, but we got as close as we could. It was cascading down a cliff face and into a dense gathering of bush and bamboo. Slipping on the wet rocks, we approached the falls. There, at the base, obscured by leaves and mud, was my nemesis, the source of much internal debate.
“A flip flop!” I declared. “Only one.” It blew my mind. I had been “jap-slapped” again.
“What?”
“I can’t believe this! I just hiked 12 miles into the jungle to get away from people, found wild pigs and a remote inaccessible water fall only to find an f-ing flip flop!”
I was livid. This was it. It was time to do something drastic. A short rant ensued, but was short lived. After all, I was preaching to the choir. We returned to camp with the flip flop, not sure what was going to be done with it. It wasn’t going to stay there.
We set up camp and started a fire, then passed a Nalgene bottle of wine back and forth. I began to relax and return my thoughts to nature. The sun had set and a subtle glow lingered in the canyon. While looking through the other campsites for firewood I found some animal remnants.
“Check this out!” I said returning to camp.
“What is it?”
“A pig skull.” I declared. Grabbing a short piece of string laying on the ground, I tied the skull to a tree near the fire.
“Just like Lord of the Flies!” That was it! My primal instinct took over. I knew what I had to do. I disrobed, applied some soot to my face and began to chant. Holding the flip flop over my head like some holy grail, I danced around the fire. Our silhouettes flickered and reflected off the trees while the pig skull peered over our shoulders nodding in approval. I’m not sure what happened next, as the effects of alcohol and mounting frenzy took over. I was channeling some ancient Hawaiian pig ritual. It was time for the great ‘Jap-slap’ sacrifice. I offered a few choice words, mostly unintelligible, then, committed the flip flop to the fire. It resisted a few seconds, as if to reinforce its perseverance. It would not disappear so easily, it was destined to exist forever! Slowly it succumbed, drooping, lowering into the flames, then, finally, it caught fire. The light from the burning plastic flashed and died: the final catharsis.
“Nature, One, the Corporate Flip Flop Conspiracy, Zero!”
“We should throw all our flip flops on the fire!” Kristi said caught up in my psychotic episode.
“No don’t!” I stopped her. I was overcome with a moment of clarity, “We need those!”

The Colorado Trail

This post outlines the backpacking trip Kristi and I took along the Colorado Trail just out side of Durango, Co. All the photos taken here were from my Canon S80. We got up not extrordinarily early, and it was already raining. We had breakfast, which consisted of left overs from dinner the night before and the remaining hard-boiled eggs we still had. We drove up the short rough road to the trail-head parking, then locked up the Bus. It was still raining, but shortly after we started hiking the sun came out, and we started a game of hide and seek. This game consisted of not only rain and the sun hiding but a constant rotation of clothing trying to keep up with the moisture and temperatures. We passed a couple of lite hikers and exchanged iteneraries. They appeared to have spent the night in thier clothes and ate grubs or something. They each had a small day pack and crocs. I could see no sleeping bag, tent, or food per se. I personally would like to pack some comforts, even if it takes longer to get to a destination. They were bushed, and still had to hike to Silverton. They were considering hitch-hiking the rest of the way. We told them where we were headed, and they grunted a little and said "big climb." We parted ways and continued down the trail. The sun came out to display beautiful wild flowers, then hid again behind rain clouds. After about a mile the trail came to a deep canyon. We could see the Animas river below backed by tall 14k peaks surrounded by swirling rain clouds. Every so often we could catch a glimpse of the Durango-Silverton railroad tracks as it paralleled the river. The rush of the surrounding cascading water falls permiated the still forest. It was the relaxing soundtrack as we zig-zagged on the innumerable switchbacks 4 miles to the bottom. Just as we reached the canyon floor we heard a whistle. It was the Durango-Silverton train. We rushed across the bridge over the raging Animas. It was the same bridge the forest service built in the 70s for hikers. Story goes, it was built in response to a backpacker who drowned trying to cross. Krisiti and I agreed that neither of us would have wanted to cross that river, no matter what the conditions. We could see the plume of black smoke progressing closer, then the chug a chuga, and around the bend we could see the head- light shining brightly. I quickly got out the camera and shot as many pics I could get. We waved at the passengers who looked at us like we were interesting wildlife. Then it was gone. Black smoke and the smell of burnt coal still lingering in the air. Cool stuff. From here on it would be up hill the rest of the way to camp. We moseyed up the trail a piece more and came upon some Boy Scouts who were determined to get to an old mining camp just below the pass. They were impressed with the dog's saddlebags and were even more impressed that they were carying the wine. Again I reiterate the necessity of the simple comforts in life, especially if I don't have to carry them. We stopped at a nice rest stop next to Elk Creek, a tributary of the Animas, for lunch. The trail will now parrallel Elk Creek up to the contintental divide topping off at about 11,480 feet. The trail follows the along the canyon passing talus slopes and glacial boulders, as Elk Creek rushes below. At times the trail becomes steep in all directions, not forgiving any mis-steps. According to the trail guide there would be a few level campsites below the treeline. One such place was located just below a boulder field, and on the other side of some beaver ponds. After some wet rock-hopping with backpacks we came upon a camp that was left by mountain climbers who used it as a base camp for some nearby peaks. Protected by trees somewhat, we arrived and sat in the rain shadow of the bigger trees, admiring the view of the near-by peaks. The large can opener looking rock formations were creatively named peak one and peak two. Anyway we arrived about 4 pm and leisurely set up the tent, started a fire, and cooked dinner. We had packed in some Mahi, and seared it in a wasabi-teriyaki sauce. Yum. The dogs suddenly started barking, and looking around a hill I noticed we had neighbors in the less desirable camsite next to ours. A couple of other campers just arrived. We dried out our wet pants and socks, ate some smores and went to bed shortly after sunset. Then it rained. And rained. And rained. And rained. Oh did I mention it rained. Yes until 6 am it rained. Fortunately, I had brought some other creature comforts for occasions just like these. No not an instant hotel room, ear plugs. Something you wouldn't think you would need when you are away from traffic, train horns and children. Well, when large rain drops are pummeling the tent for 10 hours you can see how hard it would be to sleep. That was the problem our neighbours had. I don't think ear plugs made it to thier list.
We woke up the next morning not too sore. We ate oatmeal for breakfast and prepared our day-packs and dog's saddle bags, ready to leave Extreme Base Camp and push for the Summit. The rain had lightened to a faint mist as we left camp. As we were passing our neighbours camp, Kristi asked how their night had been. He muttered some expletives ranting about how he and his wife had to be camping through the worst thunderstorm all year, and couldn't get any sleep. I don't think Kristi knew how to respond to his rants, all she could have said was "earplugs." For fear of any repercussions she just continued smiling. The first couple of miles were really relaxing. The soft forest floor padded the sound of our footsteps. We passed a camp, and had to grab the dogs so they wouldn't spook their horses. After we passed over a couple of creeks, we heard the pounding of water. We followed the sound and came upon a beautiful waterfall. At the waterfall we took some pics and discovered a really pretty flower. I will have to look up what kind it was. Soon the trail became steep and passed through more talus and glacial remains. After the recent rains the canyon was now cascading with little waterfalls all around. Soon we met up with more Boy Scouts at a deep creek crossing. They had their boots off and were trying to wade through. Kristi and I didn't pause and trudged right through, hoping our Gore-Tex boots would live up to their name. For the most part they did. The trail squeezed through a notch dripping with seep springs, then came to an old mining camp. An old cabin sat dilapidated with wall boards strewn about. Since it was above the treeline some campers tried to use the boards for campfires. With out adequate kindling it would be tough to get it going. Judging from the number of unconsumed boards burnt on one end laying around they weren't entirely successful. Luckily we arrived at the cabin before the Boy Scouts did. I was able to get some great pics. After leaving the cabin the trail continued along the now dwindling Elk Creek. The trail then took a turn straight up. Then another turn. It continued to switch back about 30 times. We actually counted. There was some debate where we were counting from, however. Either the corner, or the entire tier. Since Kristi was the one keeping count, she decided to count the corners. Eventually Elk Creek disappeared into the mountain. Talk about headwaters. The trail continued to switch back all the way to the top. I always love coming to the top of mountain passes. The anticipation of what awaits is always worth the climb. Sure enough there was no disappointment. There were a couple more cabins down a thousand feet on the other side. The sun was out and we were surrounded by hills of wild flowers and snowy mountain peaks. Time to collapse and eat lunch. I think I heard Kristi snoring. She was feeling a little light headed. We were right up there at 13,000 ft with the 14,000 peaks surrounding us. Clouds swirling around, and distant rumbles of thunder. At the top we had some choices to make. There were trails going off in many different directions. The guide book steered us toward a couple of high altitude lakes. After some more climbing we reached a ridge, then followed it past Lake El Dorado. The trail kept going along the continental divide, so since it wasn't raining we thought we had better look to see what was around the corner. Another mile or so and we reached what seemed the end of the world. With clouds below us swirling around we were awe stricken. We spent two hours exploring the various trails, careful not to loose too much elevation. Alas, it was getting late and the clouds were closing in. As we started to leave the Boy Scouts were just arriving. They remarked that we were like a couple of jack rabbits for having gotten up there so fast. It makes a huge difference if you don't have an extra 40 lbs on your back. We were actually thinking how hard it would have been to summit with our packs, not to mention not having any shelter away from the thunderstorms. The decent back to base camp seemed to take forever, and the adrenaline faded fast. Our feet were pounding by the time we got to camp, and I could feel my blood sugar level falling. We quickly made an Indian Tofu dish, with fresh vegetables and wolfed it down. Bellies full, we crawled into bed. Then it started raining again. It was a replay from the night before. The dogs curled up at our feet and we slept.
We woke up late the next morning, and leisurely made breakfast. We drank a few extra cups of coffee, with our neat coffee press that fits inside a Nalgene bottle. Since we only had to hike 8 miles that day we just hung out at the campsite. The weather was nice, the view spectacular. A little creek dribbled by. The dogs were entertained by ground squirrels. We didn't want to leave. Food was running low, and we were out of dog food too, although they would have loved squirrel fricassee. Oh well. All good things must come to an end. Slowly packing, we bid farewell to our base camp. We hiked to the train crossing again, calves sore from the previous 12 mile day. It was lunch time, and starting to rain. Just as we got grumpy about having to eat lunch in the pouring rain, we discovered a huge spruce tree. It made a perfect shelter. We watched the train pass by again, with the little chase cars behind (I'll fill you in later). The camping party with the horses passed by. Now for the 4 mile climb up the switchbacks. We didn't count the switchbacks this time. We did pass by some campers with a 2 way radio. They had two parties of parading ponchos. Must have been a sale on ponchos. It never quit raining. It was pouring buckets by the time we got to the van. We were ready to get dry by this time. Off to Silverton. As were were driving down the hill we could see a campground. That's where we would be headed. As we pulled in, the sign said no vacancy. Kristi went inside, and no one came to help her. We left, and pulled around the corner to find 3 more campgrounds. We chose the farthest one away. It was the emptiest. I went to the mobile home office and inquired within. They were practically empty and I chose a spot with a great view, and no campers blocking it. They had a jacuzzi, showers, and a sauna. And the sun came out. With our site secured, we drove to the brewery to get dinner. It was closed. So we went next door. They had a nicer place than the brewery, it looked like an old time bar. I ordered an interesting looking taco. It had home smoked pork, smoked on the premises by the proprietor, using apple wood. It was so yummy. We returned to our site, with beer in hand. We laid out our gear to dry, showered and relaxed in the jacuzzi, then dried off in the sauna. Then we snoozed.

Lake Powell

Lake Powell is one of the most beautiful lakes in the world. I rented a boat for the 4th of July and Kristi and I piled our dogs and camping gear in it and we drove that thing up to Dangling Rope, over to Rainbow bridge. It was here that my Nikon gave up the ghost. I thought I could wrap it in a plastic bag and swim up a cool slot canyon. Nope. It got wet through the plasctic bag. Once I got it back on the boat I pulled the batteries, and could smell that it was fried. Never to turn on again.

Arches & Moab

We were having an extremely warm, dry spring. It was perfect weather to go to Moab. The intent was mostly to go mountain biking, but as usual I brought the camera. We also did a quick tour of part of Arches NP. No, we didn't get to Delicate Arch, or Mesa Arch, just some lesser known arches. As a matter of fact I can't seem to remember the names of most of them. We've got Kristi on her bike, and my dog Max with his backpack, and some arches. Some were taken on bike rides, others hikes. We had to cross some railroad tracks to get to Elephant arch, and found a scene where the cliffs were carved out, and the tracks... disappearing. Moab is definately a place to return to. There is just so much going on than what you can do during spring break.

John Muir Trail

Photography and hiking have always gone hand in hand with me. It was very exciting when I got my first digital camera, a Nikon Coolpix 2000. It meant that I didn't have to deal with carrying, loading, and developing the film, or deal with archiving the pictures and negatives. I've lost a lot of photos, simply because I did not keep well enough track of them. The Nikon was a decent enough camera, during a time when 35mm film still reigned supreme in quality. Truth is, I've sold photos from every camera I've owned, so the adage 'It's not the camera it's the photographer' rings true. Kristi and I have caught some what of a 'epic hiking bug' between the Na Pali Coast, Havasupai, and Paria Canyon trips. Since we had so much experience under our belts, we thought we could handle the logistics of the John Muir trail. My good friend from college, Rich Hoffman, is quite a bit older than me. He returned to college in his forties, graduated and moved to Klammath Falls, OR. He got a teaching job there in Theatre at the high school. He was an adamant backpacker from way back, which is why we got along so well. We missed our trips to West Fork of the Oak Creek Canyon together, and frequently talked about rendezvousing somewhere in the middle ground in California. Yosemite was a natural selection, mainly because I had not been there, and he was excited to return there. Kristi and I had devised a plan to do somewhat of a shuttle-rendezvous with Rich. We were to start from Mammouth Lakes and hike to Yosemite, meet, ascend Half Dome, and he would drive us around back to Mammouth Lakes when we were done. We were ready to go, made reservations for the trail at the Inyo National Forest ranger station, and set up a time and exit point on the trail to meet Rich. Since we were going to be in the wilderness, there would be no way to contact us. We were continuing on faith that we would have a ride at the end. The first day of the journey was driving from Flagstaff to Bishop, in our little Ford Escort sedan. I remember how hot it was crossing the desert, the A/C barely keeping up, even with the car's tinted windows. We arrived at a campground between Bishop and Mammouth Lakes. It had a creek along side of it that was just rushing with water. It was early July and the Sierras had a record winter for snowfall. We had heard that the trail was still snow-packed, and as a precaution brought our snowshoes, with hopes that we wouldn't have to carry them. We still had some loose ends to tie up, as we didn't have bear canisters, which were required to hike anywhere in the Sierras. The plan was to go into Mammouth Lakes buy some canisters, and ask around at the sports stores what the trail conditions were. Finding the canisters was no problem, finding trail conditions proved to be more difficult. The owner of the store knew that there was a whole lot of snow up there, but couldn't tell us how deep, or how hard the snow would be. He hadn't known anybody that had hiked it that year, mainly because of the heavy snow that still lingered. He warned us about the sun-cups, and not to eat or drink the red snow. Evidently the sun melts the snow at different speeds, making fields of parabolic cups. There would be some red dust that blows from the desert and lands on the snow, which supposedly carries a bacteria that could be harmful. It also causes early snow-melt, not able to reflect the sun's rays, which wasn't an issue this year. Our reservation for the trail was to start the next day, so we hung around town looking at maps, and asking more questions. Originally we wanted to start the hike from Agnew Meadows trail head, but were concerned that if we started there we would need to cover more ground so we could meet Rich at the rendezvous point. Since the trail conditions were still unknown we decided to modify our starting point to Reds Meadow, five miles closer to our destination. It was fairly easy to make the decision, since we discovered that there was a shuttle from Mammouth Ski Resort to a number of trail heads along the John Muir Trail. We spent the night close to town, ready to get to the Ranger Station when they opened at 8. We hardly got any sleep due to the excitement, and were ready to go by 6 the next morning. Since we were so early, we went to a local diner for breakfast, then lined up at the Ranger Station waiting for them to open so we could get our hiking permits. The Ranger wasn't too keen on changing our starting point, since they gauge the permits by how many people enter each specific trail head each day. He changed it for us (since there were hardly anybody daft enough to hike the trail with such snowy conditions) with a bit of bureaucratic finger wagging. Anyway we got our permit to start from Red's Meadow, drove up to the Mammouth ski resort, parked the car, got our shuttle passes to the trail head. The old school bus filled with people, and we loaded our packs in the back third of the bus. It lumbered slowly down the road into the canyon to the trail head, where we disembarked, and immediately became swarmed with mosquitoes. We hastily applied our 100% Deet and picked up the pace as if we could get away from the bugs. Red's Meadow was a little less than a meadow, and a little more a soggy marsh, a beautiful marsh, though. Wild flowers, reeds, and cattails adorned the field, back-dropped with the snow capped peaks. The trail soon began to gain elevation, and we began high-stepping up giant granite steps leaving the first of many lakes behind. A couple of does froze at the sight of us, just a few hundred feet away. Without a lot of time to stop, we kept heading toward Garnet lake, our first camping spot for the trip. So far there was very little snow, and we were wondering if we should have packed our snow shoes or not. The more we ascended the more snow we came across. The trail was still pretty clear cut, and only once did we loose the trail and our bearings. Just as we were approaching the pass we were left with a choice to go left or right. Since there were no footprints to follow we made a calculated guess to go left, and we were right. So far we were headed up the south-side of a large basin, the side facing the sun. Once we made it to the top of the hill we could see the beautiful Garnet lake with Ritter and Banner peaks towering above the water. It took our breath away. Once we regained consciousness we looked down, and kept looking down- for the trail. It was completely obscured by a field of snow and ice. We had to proceed to the far side of the lake to camp on a little patch of grass. The snow and ice was still 3 feet thick- but the coolest part was that portions were hollow, where running water had carved caves, crevasses, and under ice creeks. Occasionally we post-holed through, but over-all the ice was solid, and we didn't bother with the snow shoes. We skipped over some boulders at the headwaters to Rush creek, and made it to the other side of the lake, where the snow had melted revealing some flat patches of grass to camp on. The lake was so crystal clear you could see dozens of feet right to the bottom. The water looked so inviting we threw off our boots and poked our tired dogs into the water, brrrr. There will be no bathing in that water. We made dinner, and discussed the trail conditions. We both drifted off to sleep wondering how much snow covered the rest of the trail, and how long it would take us to stay the course. We awoke the next morning to flat water on the lake, perfect photographic conditions. At the time I had not studied the works of master photographers Ansel Adams, or Galen Rowell. I was vaguely familiar with their work, but did not have the chance to really study them. I knew that this was their terra cognita, but was not consciously trying to emulate them. It wasn't until years later that I realized I had photographed the same subjects with the same fresh eyes and wonder that they had. To this I feel a sort of bond with those pioneers of photography, knowing the value and magnitude of trying to capture the wonders of nature. I'm not saying that my work can compare to theirs in anyway. I just realized that we were all drawn to the beautiful and picturesque High Sierras, at different times, with different reasons, eyes, and lenses. We packed up and headed to Thousand Island lake, without any real issue with snow. We took some more photos, and could see some people fishing, the first people we've seen so far. The trail continued up and down some valleys, and we camped the night next to a creek. The next morning we made the push for Donahue pass, continued up the mountain, through some run-off water falls and toward the pass. The trail here is just beautiful, green grass, large boulders, marmots, and the Minarets as the backdrop. There were a couple of groups camped here, and if I had known the area better I would have loved to have camped there. The views were far and wide. We continued up toward the pass. The trail was spotty, but the goal firmly in sight. We had lunch at the top, sitting on a giant granite boulder surrounded by wild flowers. We could see the trail appear below the ice cap, and the sun-cupped snow field. Until this point we hadn't actually needed the snow shoes we brought, but thought they might be useful spanning the snow cups on the way down. So we strapped them on and down. The snowshoes were helpful in that it made the sun cups like steps, gently easing us down the ice field. We picked up the trail and continued down. The melting snow gained momentum and flowed over the trail in many spots. Eventually the trail was starting to cross bigger and bigger creeks. One such creek had stepping stones crossing it. Kristi made it across, but - SPLASH- I was facing down in freezing water, backpack on. Kristi became a little alarmed seeing me face down in water, thinking that the backpack was keeping me under, but I quickly gained composure and lumbered to shore. My first concern was my camera. Tucked away in my non-water proof camera bag, it was only slightly damp. I quickly removed the batteries and memory card and dried it off, as well as rung out my socks. We sat there for a half an hour in the sunlight, reassembled the camera, turned it on, and BAM. We were back in business. We arrived at a pretty glacial pool, another prime camping spot. The plan was to continue to a bridge lower in elevation, so we bid adeu and turned back to the trail. We were faced with another crossing. This time it was about waist deep. We took off our packs and carried them overhead to the other side. We did make it down to the wooden bridge a bit lower, but were a little dis-enchanted with the spot. It was pretty by normal standards, but another mile and half back the spot we passed up was just too georgeous to ignore. We made the decision to return, since it was early enough in the day. We spent the night there, not complaining at all that we had to make the river crossing two more times, Brr. The next morning was the day we were to meet Rich. Since we went back a little way, it was now by far the farthest we had to hike in one day. It amounted to a twelve mile day, but fortunately it was all down hill meandering along the small river through a lush green valley. At lunch we took a dip, and headed to Tuolumne Meadows. It was getting to be around four o'clock and we were about a mile away from the trailhead in Yosemite when "Bork!" It was the cry of the Farquar hiking society, an elite society of hikers known only to Rich. I returned the hail "Bork!" And he responded "I have beer!" He held up some canned Guiness, as if it were the holy grail. We knelt down and gave thanks, then consumed the beverages. Our next stop was to secure a campsite at the campground at Tuolumne Meadows. We then walked down to the commissary and got a couple of chicken sandwiches, just before they closed. The rest of the evening we sat down and surveyed the trail system in Yosemite, and devised a loop going up Clouds Rest and on to Half Dome, then back to the car. There was a bit of excitement when some rangers came barreling through the camp in four wheel drive golf carts chasing and shouting "Go on Bear, go on Bear." Evidently a bear was in the site next door, and had grabbed a bag of candy from thier picnic table. It was thier job to shag the bear back to the forest. Sorry, Yogi. The next day we started up the back side of Clouds Rest, and made it to the top, pitched camp and celebrated with another round of Guiness. Some other hikers passed by, and marveled at the sight of backpackers drinking beer. Soon other hikers came by to witness the event. The word had spread, and we became the talk of the park, attracting campers like flies to honey. Alas, we only had enough beer for our immediate party, and had to turn away the thirsty masses. (They really did ask if we had extras.) The next day was to be gruelling. We had to travel down the front of Cloud's Rest, then on to Half Dome. The down was a killer, and steeper than any trail to date. By the time we got to the camp spot at the bottom our shins were burnt. We still had two miles to go before we got to the base of Half Dome, and Rich bowed out. He decided to stay at camp. Kristi and I weren't about to pass up the once in a lifetime opportunity. Standing at the base of half dome looking up at the wire ladder was a bit overwhelming. We were already exhausted from the hike, but anxious to get to the top. The park kindly leaves a pile of gloves at the base, which you have to pick through. We slowly climbed the cable rungs of the ladder, mindful that any mis-step could be the last one. We got to the top to find we were the only ones there, possibly because there was a storm brewing not to far away. There was a sign at the bottom explaining that lightning has struck the top of Half Dome every month out of the year, and that even storms miles away can produce lightning there. Needless to say we took our photos gave each other hugs, and lingered no longer. After climbing down, we returned to camp, made dinner and slept like babies. The next morning we bathed in a nearby creek, hardly awknowledging the small tame deer meandering through camp. This was our last day with Rich, and once we returned to the car we hung out for the last of the Guiness left inside the cooler. He drove us back to Mammouth Ski resort, and handed us the entrance pass for Yosemite, so we could return the next day and visit Yosemite Valley. Once we drove through the valley, took the obligatory tourist shots, we headed back home, stopping at a Mammouth Motel 6 for the last night. Hiking the JMT was definately an epic trip. If I get a chance to do it again, I might start at Mount Whitney and end at Donahue pass or Tuolumne Meadows. Although Yosemite is beautiful, nothing beats the lakes and peaks of the High Sierras. Oh, and a perfectly timed Guiness.

Grand Canyon's Havasupai: The Trouble with Paradise

A helicopter announced its arrival, echoing a thunderous cacophony I could feel in my chest. It landed in one of the abandoned fields, pumping dust throughout the canyon. Plastic bags skittered across the ground and caught in the jagged fencing. The door slid open and a half-dozen children emerged, decked out in pinks and purples all with Mickey Mouse ears on and little child size suitcases.

“Where did you guys go?” My girl friend, Kristi, inquired one of the little girls.

“Disneyland!” She said with a giddy smile.

“It’s a small world after all,” our mutual friend from New Jersey quipped.

This was the greeting upon our arrival at Supai, a small village at the bottom of Cataract Canyon, a tributary to the Grand Canyon. Only accessible from trail or helicopter, it is the capital of the Havasupai Indian Reservation. One of the most remote cities in the US, Supai still receives its mail by mule, and the Havasu ‘Baaja or “the people of the blue-green waters,” are the stewards of the world renowned series of travertine waterfalls. Travel articles chronicle the Havasupai Reservation as being a Shangri-la, a garden of Eden, and a paradise, with beautiful falls, and a rustic village, complete with it’s own indigenous culture; a natural amusement park for the adventurous enthusiast.

It was my third time visiting the rustic and ruggedly beautiful waterfalls. I backpacked here twice in the early 1990s, while still in high school. The trail was how I remembered it, eight miles of sinking deeper and farther into geologic time. Beginning at Hualapai Hilltop, the trail offered long views of stratified plateaus stretching across the horizon. It wound and switch-backed, meandering through the dry, dusty riverbed. Hawks circled above, riding the thermals, as the canyon walls closed in.

I noticed things had changed as we approached the tiny village. We passed broken down tractors, and emaciated horses teetering on thin frail legs. Plastic water bottles, and empty beer cans began to accumulate the closer we got. Our first glimpse of Supai revealed weather beaten government tract homes with broken windows and large flags of Bob Marley covering the openings. Rusted farm implements, and empty water troughs populated make shift corrals. Satellite dishes adorned each roof.

We lumbered into the town center, comprised of a few dilapidated buildings contrasting against some modern ones. The general store and the chapter house were old and used. Across the dusty ‘street’ the restaurant was buzzing with tourists speaking a myriad of languages lounging on the large wooden veranda eating hamburgers and fries. At the end of the road stood the new and modern school and a motel-style hotel, ironic since there were no roads or cars. The first two times here we had to get our permits from the general store, but now they had a new air conditioned tourist office, complete with a fresh water fish tank, and polished flagstone flooring.

“Do you have a reservation?” The clerk lisped in an uncharacteristically feminine manner.

“No, I tried…” I was interrupted by a pinch from Kristi. “No.”

“Well we are pretty booked, but I think we have some camping spaces closer to Mooney falls. That will be twenty dollars per person per night. Cash or charge?”

“Cash.” I tried to make a reservation. The web site said they were booked, but I knew from experience they probably would not make us turn around and go home, especially if I had cash. So we went anyway.

We were awarded our permits, not more than a tag with a wire, which we affixed to our backpacks. It was two miles to the campground, and another mile to Mooney Falls. We lifted our packs and continued down the sandy trail, followed by a small pack of bloated rez mutts, hoping for a spare scrap or morsel. A plump dark man sitting on a chair in front of the chapter house glared at us as we left town. The feeling of hospitality began to diminish. We continued cautiously, wondering if the Havasupai was loosing its battle against modernity.

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The Havasupai have been nomads on this land for the last 800 years. Their territory spanned from Indian Gardens in the Grand Canyon to Havasu Canyon and the surrounding areas. They hunted in the winter and fall on the plateaus, and spent the summer and spring months farming in the canyons. In 1882 the US government upon dedication of the Grand Canyon National Park, evicted the Havasupai from their ancestral lands. The 518-acre Havasupai Indian Reservation was formed and the people were confined at the bottom of the remote canyon for the next 93 years. The internment lead to an increased reliance on farming for survival, and more recently and almost exclusively, tourism for revenue. In 1975 the US government did award the tribe with 185,000 acres of the surrounding area, but remains largely unused.

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A short distance from Supai, Navajo Falls cascades down what looks like a staircase from a height of seventy feet. There were a few vantage points from which to take photos, and we visited every one. A mile down the steep dusty trail is the next, and most photographed falls, Havasu. The water makes its way over a calcium carbonate spout at the top, and crashes into a giant blue-green pool at the bottom. The high mineral content, combined with leaves and branches, gather at the edge of the pool to create natural travertine terraces. The terraces stack into each other making little separate pools each one lower and smaller than the last. Tourists were frolicking in the water, and lying in their own travertine tubs. The giant falls surrounded by even bigger cliffs made us feel lowly. Awed by the natural beauty, we lingered until the sun left only shadows high on the canyon walls.

Heading toward the campground, we entered the gate. I cast a glance at the man passed out amid empty bottles of malt liquor, asleep at his post. If he was the only one checking permits, we could have left our money at home, I thought.

The clerk was right. They looked packed. Most people camped as close to Havasu falls as they could get. Large Boy Scout groups took any and all open spaces. We wound our way through the tents, tables, and coolers, nodding at passing teenagers. Shrieks and squeals emanated from groups of kids busy at horseplay. Not the respite from society that most backpacking trips offer.

About a mile from the campground gate we finally found a spot, a few hundred yards from the end. The creek flowed along side of camp, and we were far enough away from the large groups, that we were satisfied with our locale. We were lulled to a state of wonder by the thundering water. Surrounded by cliffs hundreds of feet high, we camped near the abrupt end to the trail. The earth appeared to have ended here at Mooney Falls. The creek suddenly freefalls down the sheer 200-foot drop to the canyon bottom. We gazed down into the darkening shadows and reeled from vertigo.

We spent the remainder of the evening in camp, cooking dinner and visiting the overflowing ‘facilities.’ Our choices to get back to nature consisted of full outhouses, or the equally full off the beaten path bush. Even deviating a few feet from the trail revealed a nest of toilet paper and flies. I wondered what the twenty dollars per person per night went to. If it wasn’t spent protecting the canyon from waste, what was it spent on? I was beginning to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

· · ·

Will the natural world will end up just an ill maintained tourist attraction, a Disneyland for outdoor enthusiasts? Will it be a place for insensitive people to fly in, take photos, eat fast food, and leave trash and feces? The wonders of the world will be reduced to an amusement park. There was no stopping it. If the native ‘stewards’ were powerless against the tourist dollar, how can anyone be? Lost are the days of hunting or farming. The fields lay abandoned, and littered with Doritos packages. TVs blare mesmerizing mindless satellite television through broken windows. Tribal members are now ticket takers, hotel clerks, ice cream vendors or mule train conductors, catering to your need for adventure. A culture sequestered in Adventureland, welcome to the future of America.

It didn’t use to be like that. I had been there once before the great flood, then once after. The fields were plowed, and grew squash, corn and melons. The Havasupai smiled more and vegetation overgrew the trail, people had room to breathe. The facilities were rustic, but not overflowing, and you could drink the water straight from the spigot screwed into the canyon wall. The feeling of the immediacy of society seemed hundreds of miles away.

In the fifties, the tribe had the opportunity to accelerate their entrance to western society by building a road to the falls. They declined the chance to be like Grand Canyon Village, host to millions of visitors per year. Their canyon and way of life could not withstand the hoards of people and the influx of human waste. Only about 20,000 visit per year, but they still struggle with maintaining their culture and striking a balance between nature and tourism.

The Havasupai are trying to hold on to their culture. They teach their language and customs to their children, boasting a 100% fluency in Pai, the principal source of their cohesion. Some children who go away to boarding school for high school, return after years of city life, their language and identity tugging at their heart-strings. There are even talks about building their own high school on their newly acquired lands, at the top of the canyon.

But, it is human nature to want the best of both worlds. Conveniences like electricity, refrigeration, running water and entertainment are hard to fight. Why shouldn’t they be allowed to enjoy the same privileges as any American? There is a trade off for embracing Western culture. Drugs and violence are influencing the children. They’re turning to victimizing the tourists with petty theft, harassment, and just recently, murder.

The Havasupai are not strangers to death. Life in the canyon has always been precarious. Heavy rainfall brings not only flash flood danger, but, the peril of falling rocks. There are many news stories of falling boulders and breaking tree limbs landing on unsuspecting sleeping campers in their tents. Many have left the canyon on stretchers attached to the helicopter. But the most recent and disturbing death was that of Japanese tourist Tomomi Hanamure by Randy Wesogame, stabbing her multiple times in a crystal meth induced frenzy. Her body left bleeding, riddled with stab wounds floating in the beautiful blue-green water.

This story reads like many modern news stories, one you might see on a typical day in any major city. This isn’t a typical modern city, but the sleepy stronghold for a small 500 member tribe fighting day in and day out to preserve its culture and heritage. Tribal spiritual leaders blamed the “dark spirit” and had sweat lodge ceremonies to purge the evil spirits from the canyon.

After hearing this story, the sinking feeling returned. It wasn’t an evil spirit that is to blame; it is me, my culture, my people, my government, my tourist money, and my drugs. All those things together inundated this innocent culture, confined to a reservation. The murder was the predictable result of an increasingly dysfunctional society, imposing itself on an imprisoned indigenous tribe at a microcosmic level. Nobody informed them that there would be a trade off to accepting Western Culture. With all the wonderful conveniences they also had to accept its dysfunctions.

· · ·

Later the next evening, after supper, Kristi and I were sitting next to the fire. We just had the most incredible day. We climbed down the cliff face of Mooney Falls to the last of the series of falls; Beaver falls. It was a day-long obstacle course. There were rope swings, ladders and under water caverns that we visited. We swam, hiked and relaxed in fields of ferns and vines.

It had been hours since we had seen our best friend. We started to be concerned. Then she appeared from the shadows into the flickering firelight. Her face was dirty, bleeding and scraped. She looked like she had seen a ghost.

“I am so stupid!” she remarked.

“What happened?” I asked, alarmed by the look on her face. She broke down and bawled.

“I was hiking around by myself,” she started off between sobs, “ From a distance, I thought I saw a little boy go into a mine shaft. It was dusk and I didn’t have a flashlight, but I decided to investigate. I entered the shaft despite the warning sign posted.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

“I went into the shaft, and I couldn’t see a thing. I slowly made my way inside, then suddenly the floor gave out from under me and I went down head-first. I was upside down sliding further and further, until I scraped and grabbed the wall and was able to stop myself. I had to crawl out backwards and upside down. I could have died. I am so stupid!” She broke down again and sobbed some more. We all agreed that was stupid.

“What about the little boy?” Kristi asked.

“There was no little boy!” She said. “I’m not sure what I saw or why I went into that mine shaft in the dark!”

· · ·

Some force inspired Lindsay to do something completely without reason. Maybe it was the ‘dark spirit,’ maybe not. I wish we could blame the negative forces that plague society, and this remote canyon, on evil spirits, because it is easier than blaming our selves.

Society is falling into a mineshaft. Knowing the dangers and the pitfalls, we still continue deeper and deeper in to the cavern. Trash, drugs, alcohol, greed and apathy are all the dysfunctional failures of dominant society. When put in a microcosm, Shangri – La becomes hell, and we have to shake our heads harder and harder to see the beauty that still exists in this world.

We left the Havasupai changed. Although glad to be alive, our hearts hung heavy on the long hot dusty hike out. By trying to escape life and our daily hustle and bustle, we hiked to a world struggling with what we were leaving behind. The absence of a road to Supai village wasn’t enough to keep out that evil proverbial carrot, and I felt the burden of being, a least partially, the cause of it. A plaque at the entrance of Disneyland reads: “You leave today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow, and fantasy.” No, this was nothing like Disneyland, but we had entered a world stuck between yesterday, tomorrow and fantasy. That’s the trouble with paradise. It’s fantasy. It doesn’t really exist. The Havasupai are a socio-indicator of the health of society. If a culture so linked to nature and the earth struggle to survive, how can we? If we are not more careful with those beautiful places and cultures, they will only exist as an amusement park attraction.