Hiking Canyon de Chelly, by Shelley Hopkins

Hiking in Canyon de Chelly

This is the fifth part of a series that describes a trip we took several years ago.  If you have not read the first part, click here.

In the morning we packed up and drove along the south rim of the canyon.  We pulled over to enjoy our first view of Canyon de Chelly, pronounced (Shey).   This canyon isn’t as deep as some are, but it was beautiful.  The reds and browns of the rock contrasted with the rich green of the canyon floor.  I watched a tiny pick up truck drive silently along a narrow line of road, turn, and pass out of view.  I changed my mind, the canyon was deeper than it seemed. 

We drove on to the White House Trail pullout and walked to the viewing area.  The waves and ridges of the rocks working their way down drew our eyes, and near the bottom we could see the tiny white Anasazi house tucked up against the red rock.  I was thrilled, this was a ruin older than any I had ever visited.  The Navaho didn’t know these Indians, but only knew of their ruins, and they called them Ancient Ones, or Anasazi.

“That looks like a long, hot, long hike, “said one kid. 

“Well, we will need plenty of water.”  I looked pointedly at Anna, who sighed but nodded.

“First, can we eat?” asked Joseph.

Back at our van we pulled out coolers to sit on, and made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. 

An RV was parked nearby with the screen door open and I could hear them eating lunch as well.  I said hello to a mom and her two kids as they walked by, and we quickly fell into conversation.  In a few minutes she asked me if I home schooled my children.  I nodded and she said she guessed as much because we were so easy going, just travelling around and eating peanut butter and jelly.  She and her children continued on to enjoy the view.  While lacing up my boots I smiled, thinking about her words. 

“Have peanut butter will travel, that’s us.” 

We gathered sunscreen, water bottles, hats and snacks, and started down the trail.  Quickly we were walking on rock, striated and beautiful.   The rock walls were colorful and busy, so bright that I felt dizzy.  We walked through a rock tunnel, and the shade was a relief.  This was only 10:30 in the morning.  As we continued down we were passed by different groups of Navaho.  A man nearly flew down past us, carrying a backpack full of tubes of long papers and art supplies.  I thought he might have been an artist hurrying down to catch the right light conditions. 

The walk was steep at times, and somewhat exposed, but it never felt dangerous or too difficult for our youngest, Laura.  Taken with the natural beauty, we all enjoyed the walk.  Finally we reached the flat of the canyon floor.   We walked past farmlands, and by a stream.  Soft purple flowers hung out over the trail.  We climbed a slight rise to reach the ruins, and found a crowded bazaar.  Tables were set up with displays of jewelry, pottery and art.  The Navaho that had passed us were cheerfully selling their crafts and paintings.  How unreal to find a craft fair at the end of a hike.  Of course my girls wanted to shop, but I had no money.  I’ve never hiked with cash in my pockets before; it isn’t like we find coke machines and beads behind every tree. 

A fence had been set up to protect the Anasazi house, and we stood gazing at the building and the petroglyphs.  The United States of America is a young country, and yet here is evidence that people were living here in societies just after the time of Christ.  I was in awe.  We didn’t need to go to Europe to see Ancient Cathedrals; they were here.  I had always wanted to travel the world, but I had no idea how interesting my own country could be, and how diverse. It is so easy to overlook the familiar, and to ignore our own history.

The first evidence of the Anasazi was dated to around 90 AD, but generally they were thought to be living here by the 4^th century, and they seemed to have disappeared around the 13^th century.  Although there are many theories as to why and where they went, no one really knows, not yet anyway.

After a long peaceful lunch, and some window-shopping, it was time to hike the 600 feet back up to the car.  Canyon hiking is mountain hiking in reverse, saving the uphill battle for the end of the trip, when we are tired.  The air was dry and dusty, and very hot.  We had to walk more slowly, pacing ourselves, and remembering to drink.  On the climb up the canyon we walked over fine red rock, and we enjoyed two small cave tunnels as we passed through.   Finally we reached the car, hot and dry.

 I looked over at the dusty children, pulled my water bottle out, aimed it at an unsuspecting sunburned neck, and squirted.  Instantly the 4 of us were squirting and dodging water, laughing and cooling off.  After another peanut butter and jelly sandwich we began the long drive towards the Grand Canyon.

Discovering Canyon de Chelly by Shelley Hopkins

This is the fourth part of a series that describes a trip we took several years ago.  If you have not read the first part, click here.

We ate our last hotel breakfast of western omelets and fried potatoes.  The morning was clear and bright and we talked eagerly about our plans.  Today we were driving onto an Indian Reservation.  I am ashamed to admit I was nervous, not knowing what to expect and wondering how welcome we would really be.

I was glad to leave Albuquerque and its traffic behind.  Soon we were driving on a flat dusty landscape.  Living in the east I think of wilderness as green, many multi hued shades of green, and of the sunlight filtering through the leaves.  Out west there are many colors of reds, oranges and brown, but there is also a green.  Cottonwood Trees and grasses, all of a faded dry green, surround every stream or waterhole.

 In Gallup we drove through town slowly, looking at everything.  We stopped at a visitor center for information on the Canyon de Chelly.  A beautiful Indian woman enthusiastically described the Canyon we hoped to see. She also pointed us towards a playground park for our picnic lunch.  We sat on the grass, in the shade, as all the picnic tables were full.  Indian families were taking advantage of a warm summer day and children climbed and slid on the playground equipment. 

After eating our lunch no one wanted to move, it was just too normal, relaxing on a blanket in a playground.  The kids made whistles from blades of grass and I lay back watching the sun sparkle on the leaves.  Eventually we gathered our things and drug ourselves back to the car.  After a grocery stop we headed towards Chinle.  Anna was feeling bad, struggling with a headache.  We found the sign for Chinle, and turned up the dusty road towards the canyon.    Canyon de Chelly was on an Indian Reservation, and much of the Canyon was only open to guided tours.  We could drive and stop at all the lookouts, and one trail was open for hikes.  The one free trail was called the White House Trail, and we decided to hike it in the morning.  The museum at the Visitor Center appeared interesting but we passed it in order to set up our campsite and let Anna rest.  Instead of a cold, we decided she was dehydrated.  The campground was free, and we could pick any site we wanted.  Driving around I noticed lots of Indians, men, just sitting on the picnic tables of various campsites.  Women and children were hanging out in the picnic area.  Feeling a little uncomfortable, like visitors from another culture, we picked out our site and set up camp.  Anna climbed into the tent and slept.  Joseph played his guitar and Laura entertained herself with a few toys.  Huge cottonwood trees shaded the campground.  It was early, 2 or 3 in the afternoon, and most campers were away, exploring perhaps.  I set up the stove to heat soup for Anna and noticed a lone man walking towards us.  He had a shabby look and I wondered what he wanted.  He looked us over, three kids and a woman, then turned away to sit at another table.  A dog wandered over and circled us, sniffing for food, then lay down by the tent door.  There were several dogs wandering around.  They weren’t afraid, or mean, they just seemed to take it for granted that we were in their home and they made themselves perfectly comfortable.  This dog, our dog, completely ignored us.  He rolled up against the tent side and fell asleep.  We shouted, clanged pots and tried our best to chase him away, but all we did was wake Anna.  Soup and water revived her and we decided to explore a little before dark.  We put everything away, left the dog sleeping on our tent, and drove to the canyon road.  We pulled into what we thought was an overlook only to find the drive blocked by a steel bar.  Everything was so different; maybe all the pullouts closed after 6:00.  We parked the car, hopped the gate and began to walk down the road.  I had a slight feeling of breaking the rules, but also the excited feeling of a completely unknown walk.  The sun was setting, and we had no idea how far the road would go before reaching a view of the Canyon.  We could hear dogs barking and the distant whine of an ATV.  Unlike most National Parks, people live in and along this Canyon.  We walked until it was nearly dark then gave up and headed back to the car.  Even though we missed any views of the canyon the walk was beautiful, and we saw our first tumbleweed roll across our path. 

Back at the campground the campers had all returned from the day’s adventures.  We walked around and found ourselves in a conversation with an older man beside his large RV.  The man chatted with us, telling us how much we would love seeing the canyon in the morning.  He had just come from his visit.  He had paid a guide to take him in his car all along the canyon bottom.  They had stopped for lunch at the guide’s home, and he had shared his candy with the children.  This man told me a little of the history of the area.  The Navaho ran the Canyon along with the Park Service.  Although the campground and one trail was free, the rest of the canyon was only open to guided tours, run by Navaho.  For years the Navaho had lived in the canyon until forced out by Kit Carson.  The Hopi had settled in the canyon next, eventually replaced again by the Navaho.  Neither tribe had been the first to settle here, the mysterious Anasazi had lived in the canyon years before, and left behind their petroglyphs and a few buildings.

Later I researched the history and realized, like so many things we know, the history of a place is the history of the people, and like people, it grows and changes.  The group he called the Anasazi are now known as Pueblo people, an ancient race that left in the mid 1300’s.  The Hopi migrated in to the canyon, planted corn and peaches and farmed the land for years.  The Navaho came later, also farming.  During a dark time in our history, the Navaho were forced out, made to take a long walk to New Mexico, to starve in a place called Bosque Redondo, only allowed to return years later.  Now the Navaho families farm and tend their animals in the canyon, and other families run tour guide companies, opening their lands and homes to the tourist, teaching and showing the beauty of the land.

Finally we returned to our tent, pushed the strange dog away from the door, and went to sleep.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=127575126

Walking Against Depression, it is working!

More from the Series on my Walking Against Depression.  It is working!  

As a teen I used to backpack with my family.  Backpacking was very enjoyable.  I loved being in nature, hiking through the woods and eating under the trees.  It could also be very hard.  We carried what we needed on our backs, in heavy cumbersome packs.  Our feet hurt, legs were sore, and lungs burned with deep breaths as we trudged along, up and down mountains.

With the start of the day we had plenty of energy, the miles ahead seemed easy and the sun’s rays filtered between the leaves on our path.  Insects buzzed, breezes blew, and adventure lay ahead.  We walked.  As lunchtime approached we started feeling tired, and we were happy to stop and rest.  Lunch tasted great, whatever it was, and the food and rest renewed our energies.  In the afternoon we walked, the sun beating down in hot waves, sweat dripping and insects biting.  Aches and pains showed up, the pack became heavier, digging into hips and shoulders. I couldn’t imagine walking the 3 or 4 miles left before we could stop and camp.  Three miles felt like 300, a number beyond reach.  We began to focus only on the next mile, then the next hill, then the next step.  Step after step, all I had to do was make one more step.  One step wasn’t so bad, one more was OK, I think I could go up one more hill, maybe one more mile was OK, and suddenly we had arrived.  We were at camp, and the day’s hike was over.

Yesterday I went for a walk, a good 6 mile walk, in the morning before the heat became unbearable.  Walking, along with family, faith and medicine, was helping the depression, and now I walked for pleasure as well as prevention.

I left my neighborhood and walked along the sidewalk beside a somewhat busy road.  It had been at least a month since I had walked longer than 2 miles, but I was determined to go 6 today.  I passed an old school building that offered Head Start classes.  I passed a Catholic church and a Baptist church, a few homes and our brand new library.  A woman pulled into the parking lot but the library wasn’t open yet.  She dropped her books in the outdoor return and left.  I turned at the railroad tracks and now walked in full sun.  It was hot, very hot.  My legs were tired and my tummy hurt.

I thought about the things that had depressed me.  Walking was supposed to help.  The physical act of moving, of being outdoors, the adrenaline, all of these factors helped to lift my depression.  This is why I’ve been writing about the walking.  If it helps me, it could help others as well.

I thought about my faith.  I’ve been struggling in this area for over a year, and I had this image of me living for the next 30 years, still struggling, still depressed.  My life loomed in front of me, a dark tunnel of struggle.  I shook the image away. 

I was now at the local ballpark.  A few people were mowing and preparing the fields.  A pair of hawks had built a nest in one of the field lights, and I squinted to watch them.  The midpoint of my walk was ahead, the Hanahan Amphitheater and view of the Reservoir.   I sat and rested in the shade, enjoyed the view, and watched a couple of fishermen in a boat.

Once rested, I stood and began the walk back home, back in the hot sun, much hotter as the day advanced.  I had three hot miles to go, and I was tired.  OK, think only about walking to the shade further ahead, I reminded myself.  On I walked.  The dark tunnel of 30 years of faith struggles returned.  The thing was, I had been praying, feeling good about my faith, and loving my daily reading of the book of John.  Why should I worry about the future of my faith when the present was fine, not great or strong, but fine.  Today, I believed, and I trusted.  Today is where I am.

Shade reached, one mile down, two to go.  All I have to do is believe today, follow God today.  Tomorrow I will pray, ask for help, and follow God, just one more day.

I passed the library; the parking lot was now full.  That made me happy as I imagined all those cars full of readers.  I walked on.  The dark tunnel had receded.   I thought about my job.  Being a Real Estate Agent terrified me, and I knew I didn’t want to do this forever.  But today, I was working on a project for a family.  I knew how to help them.  I knew the tasks I needed to do so they could move here.  That project wasn’t bad, I was enjoying myself and I was capable to the task.  Focus on today, do what I can do. 

I passed the churches, the Head start and only one mile was left.  I knew I could finish the walk.  I knew I could face the future, one day at a time, one step at a time, one prayer at a time.