FRIJOLES
A Hidden Valley in the New World
_by_
J. W. Hendron
_Edited by_
DOROTHY THOMAS
_Drawings by_
JOCELYN TAYLOR
THE RYDAL PRESS, INC., SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO
1946
_Copyright, 1946, by J. W. Hendron
All rights reserved.
Manufactured by The Rydal Press, Inc., Santa Fe, New Mexico, U.S.A._
[Illustration: NORTHWESTERN NEW MEXICO]
FRIJOLES,
A Hidden Valley in the New World
THE POTSHERD
To a layman like me it helps a lot
To know a potsherd is just a piece of broken pot;
To know, behind the talk of color, shade, design,
It helped a hungry aborigine to dine;
To see in this broken bit of clay
A brown-skinned baby, clumsy at his play
Cuffed by a weary mother, and whimpering so
Because he broke a dish a thousand years ago!
Hugh M. Miller
By special permission of
_New Mexico Magazine_.
Printed June, 1936.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My grateful acknowledgements are due to Dr. H. P. Mera and Mr. Stanley
Stubbs of the Laboratory of Anthropology, Santa Fe, for their expert
advice and criticism in their respective fields; Dr. Leslie Spier,
Professor of Anthropology, University of New Mexico, for his helpful
suggestions; the late Professor Lansing B. Bloom, Professor of History,
University of New Mexico, for helpful information on history; Mrs.
Evelyn C. Frey, Bandelier National Monument; Mrs. M. H. Sharp, for the
many hours she gave to patient listening and constructive suggestion;
Mr. Wayne Mauzy, Museum of New Mexico, for permission to use photographs
and cuts; Mr. Natt Dodge, Region Three Office, National Park Service,
for his helpful suggestions and time spent in obtaining cuts; my Mother,
Mrs. J. H. Hendron, for her encouragement and assistance; and to all
others who rendered services.
_For my wife_
“MISSIE”
who made this book possible by her patient listening and constructive
criticism.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Some Twenty Years Ago 1
II. The Pueblo Indian Meets The White Man 6
III. Tyuonyi 18
IV. Building In The Great Period 32
V. Living In The Great Period 55
VI. Cliff Dwellers Again 66
VII. The Spanish Era 76
VIII. Present Times 79
Source Material 83
Glossary 85
Index 90
INTRODUCTION
Because of my association with the beautiful Canyon of the Rito de Los
Frijoles in Bandelier National Monument, New Mexico, and because of my
deep interest in this Monument, the loose ends of a story, about the
primitive people who made it their home, have been shaping themselves
into a history beginning in America long before either Spaniards or
Englishmen came to this country.
The material is based upon the work of many students who have done
actual research in Frijoles Canyon and adjacent areas. It is a
combination of legendary material, observation, speculation, scientific
fact and logic. The text in the following pages is not presented as
absolute and unquestionable fact in its entirety, and the author does
not intend that it be interpreted that way. There will be some, no
doubt, who, for the sake of convenience, will mutter indiscreetly about
its content—that it isn’t scientific—as if the book had been intended
for the exact scientist. Rather, it is meant for the lay reader who
visits the Monument area and who would like to understand some of the
customs and ways of life of its ancient inhabitants. This ancient world
of the cliff dweller of New Mexico is recreated for the visitor through
the firing of his imagination by an understanding of the archæological
facts revealed here.
Until a great amount of research is done, a more accurate account of the
archæology of this area will not be had. But because of the thousands of
visitors to Bandelier National Monument each year, and their interest in
its ancient inhabitants, this popular narrative is presented. Throughout
the text are many uncommon words and names used frequently in New
Mexico. The reader will find a helpful list of these with simplified
pronunciations and meanings at the end of the book.
FRIJOLES,
A HIDDEN VALLEY IN THE NEW WORLD
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
Looking Up the Canyon From Ceremonial Cave xvi
The Old North Trail 1
Bandelier National Monument and Vicinity 8
The Painted Cave 14
Stone Lions of Cochiti 15
Ruins of Long House 30
A Part of Long House Ruins 31
Artist’s Restoration of Puwige 42
Aerial View of Puwige.—Restored 43
Ceremonial Cave 44
Kiva in Ceremonial Cave 45
A Section of Long House 60
Reconstructed Cliff House 60
Ruins of Puwige 61
Ruins of Large Kiva 61
The Author at an Old Hidden Trail 76
A Party of Visitors at Long House 77
PLATES
(in pocket)
Large Kiva. Ground Plan
Large Kiva. Section Drawings
Ceremonial Cave. Ground Plan
Ceremonial Cave. Section Drawings
Ground Plan of Frijoles Canyon. Ruins Area
Northern Wall of Frijoles Canyon
[Illustration: PHOTO BY GEORGE THOMPSON LOOKING UP THE CANYON FROM
CEREMONIAL CAVE]
[Illustration: PHOTO BY U.S. FOREST SERVICE THE OLD NORTH TRAIL]
CHAPTER I
Some Twenty Years Ago
It has been some twenty odd years since I, as a child, first peered over
the north rim of Frijoles Canyon. This was not so long ago when one
thinks of the hundreds of others, still alive, who passed this way
before me. I do not pretend to be an ancient but the number of
individuals who saw the Frijoles in those days are microscopic when
compared with the multitudes who have seen it since. There is not
sufficient room here to discuss those who knew the place in the early
days, long before my time, except to mention such personages as Adolph
Bandelier, Charles Lummis, H. P. Mera, Edgar L. Hewett, Sylvanus G.
Morley, A. V. Kidder, Jesse Nusbaum, Kenneth Chapman and many others who
have distinguished themselves in the field of archæology or related
fields. They all knew the place in its infancy, so to speak, and have
contributed their share to the story of primitive Pueblo Indians who
lived in the Valley of the Rito de Los Frijoles in times anterior to the
coming of the Spanish.
As I remember it, there was a short-cut road into the Frijoles, little
more than a cow path which left the Albuquerque-Santa Fe highway just on
top of La Bajada Hill. It must have been fifteen miles across La Bajada
Mesa west to the Rio Grande. Over the rolling hills of mesa-land the
gears of our car ground a good part of the way in low until the little
settlement of Buckman on the banks of the Rio Grande was reached. A man
by this name, Buckman, used to cut and haul timber from the high
potreros; he built a sawmill, and also a narrow bridge across the river
here. It was a rickety old bridge with planks for runners but we got
across. The winding, bumpy road led us up a steep climb from the Rio
Grande to the forested land extending toward the high mountains. Once on
top the mesa we drove between two of many high potreros and on into
Water Canyon where the road followed the narrow valley for a few miles.
We crossed a winding creek several times and drove through green
pastures until the high-walled canyon became narrow.
Presently, the road turned to the left winding up the side of the
mountain. Fortunately it was not muddy or we might never have made the
steep grade. Once on top of the plateau the road headed south and a
little west in the direction of Frijoles Canyon a few miles distant. We
wound through majestic yellow pines, piñons and scrubby junipers. Here
the road turned again and paralleled the Canyon for a few miles, up and
down hills, ever twisting and turning. We drove to the top of an old
trail which might have been used by ancient Indians some four hundred
years ago. I walked to the brink of the Canyon, my mother constantly
reminding me not to go too near. The height was terrific. It must have
been six hundred feet to the bottom of the gorge—almost straight down.
It made me dizzy. I had never seen such a thing before in all my life.
It was to me a Hidden Valley and I wondered why any people wanted to
come away out here to live—even prehistoric Indians. Of course, it was
awe-inspiring but I was too young to be inspired.
There were saddle horses at the brink of the Canyon for folk who
couldn’t or who were too lazy to walk down the trail. And then there
were benches and tables underneath the pines for picnickers who wanted
to eat either before they began the long descent into the valley, or
after they returned from it. For years and years people walked or rode
horseback up and down the steep old trail. Perhaps some never reached
the bottom. Individuals came from all over the world. Some painted, some
viewed, some fished, some wrote and some prayed to God that they might
make it back to the top. Others, enthralled by the grandeur of the
Canyon, desired to cast themselves off its rim into the mystery of its
depth. I myself distinctly remember climbing down that old winding trail
from the north rim. It seemed that we would never reach the bottom. The
trail was a precipitous one, zigzagging and narrow, to the valley floor
far below.
At a short distance across the narrow Rito we could see a little stone
ranch house surrounded by huge pine trees and box-elders. A woman was
standing on the porch probably wondering if we were to be guests for the
night at the famous “Ten Elder Ranch.” But my father and I were fishing
for mountain trout, and, if I remember correctly, it was he who caught
the limit because he was the fisherman, not I. I might have been
included among those unschooled people who had in their blood simply the
desire for “pioneering” and “roughing-it,” but who understood little
about what they saw.
This excursion of ours took place when roads in New Mexico were almost
nil. A buckboard would have been better than an automobile with high
pressure tires which blew out about twice a day. We broke an axle on the
way home and had to spend the night on La Bajada Mesa between the Rio
Grande and the highway in what was locally known as “Old Man Pankey’s
Pastures.” The Valley of the Frijoles impressed me, then a little boy,
and, I well remember the hundreds of smoke-blackened caves hewn out of
the soft cliffs by Indians sometime in the dim past. But I knew not the
significance of these caves. I knew nothing of the story of how
prehistoric Indians lived four hundred years ago. They were merely
blackened holes to me occupied by a people about whom I knew little. I
remember the ruins of the big community house. It was located across the
little river from the stone ranch house. I thought it foolish for
Indians to build houses out in the sun when there were so many shade
trees close to the Rito. I now believe that this first visit of my
childhood created within me the desire to solve for myself the questions
then arising in my mind concerning the Canyon. Since that time hundreds
of famous personages have passed this way: artists, archæologists,
doctors, botanists, psychologists, statesmen, preachers, governors,
engineers, students and romancers, each finding satisfaction in his own
particular line of interest.
Life in this place two decades ago can best be described by the owner of
the old ranch, Mrs. Evelyn C. Frey, who has made Frijoles Canyon her
home for twenty odd years. She can tell some very interesting stories
about the early days. She knows the country and the trails, the flowers
and the birds; and she still calls folks, who live thirty miles away,
her neighbors. She recalls many lonely hours spent with her baby in the
stillness of the Canyon. She remembers how the sun would go down over
the south cliff at twelve noon and then how the day would change toward
cold evenings and bitter winter nights. Ofttimes a howling wind would
arise, then followed a calm, and in the morning a foot of deep snow. And
there was no way out of the valley except over the old north trail. She
tells how deer pranced around in full view, unafraid. Wild turkeys
rested upon the wall behind the old ranch place and could be seen from
her kitchen window. But she was never afraid and said she knew how to
use a six-shooter if she had to. Mrs. Frey had told me many times, how,
after a rough and tiresome drive from Santa Fe over fire trails, all
supplies were packed on horses and mules and brought down to the floor
of the Canyon.
A heavy pack mule, once upon a time, loaded with lumber, just didn’t
make one of the sharp turns in the trail. It dropped one hundred fifty
feet and went to mule heaven, bumping from first one level to another,
lumber and all. The carcass was left for the scavengers of the air to
feast upon. Mrs. Frey has described how she often bundled her tiny baby
up in blankets to protect it from the cold on bitter winter nights, and,
bearing the child in her arms she herself had swung into the saddle at
the top of the old trail. The narrow path was covered with snow all the
way down, and although she was afraid, the faithful horse had always
carried them safely to their home.
The time came when pack horses were replaced by a cable-way strung from
the north cliff to the floor of the Canyon. It was a thousand feet long
and the tram-car was operated by a gasoline engine. This was the way
supplies were brought in for the operation of the dude ranch—even the
winter’s supply of wood. It was not until 1933 that the old trail was
abandoned. At this time an automobile road was blasted from the side of
the steep cliff in the lower end of Frijoles Canyon.
The history, if written, might prove far more interesting to many people
than the prehistory. There would be some interesting tales to tell about
folk and their affairs, but our main concern is with the prehistory. I
do not think I exaggerate the situation when I say, despite a visitor’s
interest or profession, most guests have come to Frijoles to visit the
hundreds of ruins of homes built by the ancestors of some of our
present-day Pueblo Indians. The Canyon and its extensive cliff dwellings
and pueblo ruins are well-known the world over. Neolithic people, stone
age people with implements of bone and stone and wood, lived here in
ancient times and when they deserted their homes in the cliffs and on
the valley floor, they left one of the most outstanding and spectacular
sites in the southwestern part of America to be preserved for posterity.