The Old Hopi Trail. One of the most noted aboriginal trails in the western
United States, is the old Hopi (generally called Moki) trail, leading from
the seven villages of the Hopi and their agricultural offshoot, Moenkopi,
to the Canyon of the Havasupais. This was the trail followed by Lieut.
Frank Hamilton Cushing--the noted ethnologist when he visited these Kuhne
kiwes while he was living at the interesting pueblo of Zuni, in New Mexico.
I have made the whole trip from Hopiland to the Havasupais and back twice,
and have ridden for many years over small portions of the trail. It is
intimately connected with the history of two of the people seen most at the
Canyon. According to one of the Havasupai legends, the Hopis and Havasupais
are descended from twin brothers. Hence they have always been friendly and
have traded continuously the products of their own manufacture. The Hopis
exchange their horses, sheep, and burros, laden with blankets, pottery and
silverware, for buckskin, Havasupai baskets (which they prize very highly),
dried peaches, etc.
Originally this was a foot trail; then horses, burros and mules were used;
and now, in some portions of its distance, notably from Moenkopi to Oraibi,
it is used for wagons.
A Six Day Journey. Let us leave the home of the Havasupais and go on a
visit to the Hopis. Our trip into Havasu Canyon is described in another
chapter. I discussed the matter with several of the leading Havasupais, and
they told me that the trip will be arduous and long. How long? Five, six
days!
A Side Trail. But before starting I decided to see one of the outlets to
Havasu Canyon, that used to be a part of the old trail, and that was used
as an inlet when General Crook and his soldiers came there. The trail is
called after a spring bearing the name Pack-a-tha-true-ye-ba. Never did I
have such a sense of the maze of canyons contained in this system of
canyons as on that trip. My guide was Sinyela, one of the most intelligent
Indians of the whole tribe. We left the Havasupai village early one
morning, each riding an Indian pony, with all the provisions we thought we
should need on our saddles. After awhile, we entered a side canyon I had
never before explored. During the whole of that day we toiled, riding as
hard as we could over the almost trackless canyon floor; trailing through
deep sand; climbing over masses of boulders that freshets or cloud-bursts
had. piled between the walls; forcing our way through dense willows;
scratched by thickets of mesquites. Again and again in the walls were seen
cliff-dwellings and corn storage houses. The heat was intense, and radiated
from the precipitous walls on either side.
The Camp at Night. When night came, we ate our frugal meal, our horses
standing by waiting to be hobbled and turned loose. For beds, we had the
nearest layer of sand we could find, with our saddles for pillows.
Suffering from Thirst. Early in the morning we started again, winding and
curving with the course of the Canyon. For nearly two days we had been
without fresh water, and the little we had brought in our wicker-woven,
pinion-gum-covered esuwas had to suffice for our needs. Suddenly we entered
a vast amphitheatre, with a rude arch at the end. It was flower-covered,
with occasional trees, and here, hidden from any but the view of an Indian,
was found a tiny spring of coolest, purest water. How we enjoyed it!
A Dangerous Slope. On the third day, we came to the place where the
soldiers descended from the plateau above into the depths of the Canyon.
There was no well-defined trail, and the slope was steep enough to make
one's flesh creep. The site was marked with disaster. Here a pack mule had
slipped, fallen, and been dashed to pieces; there a man had fallen and been
killed. It was a difficult descent, but nerve and pluck had accomplished
it. Beyond was the Pack-a-tha-true-ye-ba Spring, and after seeing its water
I determined that we must return.
Capturing Wild Ponies. On our way back, Sinyela made a proposition that, as
our ponies were exceedingly weary, we catch some fresh ones of his, for
this was his "stock range," and he knew where there were plenty of good
animals. The horses were wild, as range horses generally are, but Sinyela
was crafty. He knew of a blind ravine, or rocky pocket, into which we could
drive the horses we needed, and to that end all our energies were directed.
Darting back and forth to arrest the dodging and fleeing animals, we at
length succeeded in "penning" about a dozen horses in the pocket. Then I
watched Sinyela, hand extended, slowly and stealthily approach the pony he
needed. Time and again, as he got nearer and nearer, all the time making a
peculiar sissing sound, the horse would suddenly swing around and endeavor
to dash away. But I was "guard of the gate," and it was my business to see
that none of the band escaped. It took us fully two hours to catch the two
horses. At last they were ours. Neither was well broken, though both had
been ridden, and the first thing Sinyela did was to blindfold them. The
saddles were removed from our jaded ponies, and placed upon the new ones.
The starts of terror and anger showed what we had ahead of us. Bridles were
adjusted, and then, with our fresh ponies still blindfolded, we sprang into
our saddles. When our feet were firmly placed and all was ready, we lifted
the blinds from the horses' eyes and then braced ourselves. Digging our
heels into the ponies' sides, off we started, at a jerking, bounding,
half-bucking pace. Shouting directions to each other, helter-skelter, over
and around boulders, we dashed along as if we were after the hounds on a
genuine old-fashioned fox-hunt. I suppose we kept it up a full hour, at
topmost speed. The horses didn't want to stop, and Sinyela knew that the
best way to break them was to let them have their own way. But before the
day was over, the ponies were considerably tamed down, and it was a weary
band that stopped for camp that night. The animals were duly hobbled and
turned loose; I lit a camp fire, though we had nothing to cook and no
kettle for boiling water, and dirty, dusty, with every nerve and fibre of
my body weary and aching, I finally stretched out on the solid earth and
wooed "balmy sleep." The ride was resumed next day. We finally got
ourselves to Sinyela's camp in safety, where a sweat-bath and a swim in the
delicious waters of Havasu fully rested us.
The Hopi Trail Ascent. We decided to leave Havasu Canyon by way of the
"Make" Trail. This is the same trail as that described in the chapter on
the descent into Havasu Canyon from El Tovar, as far up as the point where
the pictured rocks appear. Here the Hopi trail turns and follows the course
of the main Havasu Canyon. Cushing counted forty-four knots in his buckskin
fringe from the village to the exit, each knot denoting an abrupt curve or
angle in the winding canyons. The Topocobya Trail descends a sheer cliff of
stupendous majesty, and the Wallapai Trail is enough to shatter the nervous
system of any but the most experienced; but the Hopi Trail ascent out of
the Canyon is different, in that, in several places, it passes through
narrow clefts, with ponderous, overhanging rocks, the whole course barely
wide enough to permit a laden mule to get through with its pack. It is an
almost vertical ascent of about twelve hundred feet which winds around and
up the clefts, up steps hacked out of the solid rock with flint axes and
hammers, by the patient hands of long-dead Indians.
The Legend of Ahaiuta. The Hopis and the Zunis believe this to be the spot
where the Zuni god; Ahaiuta, one of the twin gods of war, after the waters
of the world had arisen and overwhelmed the nations of their ancestry, and
flooded the whole earth from the far west to the Rio Grande, dug a little
outlet for the waters. The flood, finding this hole, had rushed down into
the interior of the earth, and had thus worn this terrific cleft, and the
gorge below, leaving the marks of its strife upon the banded rocks which
surrounded and hovered over us.
Now we scrambled over great rocks, then along a foot-wide trail, and at
length wound our way out along a massive bank of talus. Around at the head
of the trail, I sent Sinyela back, and started alone along the historic
trail across the plateau. The general scenery of the plateau already has
been described.
A Roundabout Drive. At this point, I prevailed upon Mr. Bass to hitch two
horses and two mules to his ambulance (which had once been a United States
Army ambulance and was used in his Arizona campaigns by General Nelson A.
Miles), and drive--a roundabout way to the northeastern slopes of the San
Francisco range, thence to the Little Colorado River, where we would again
strike the Hopi trail from Moenkopi to Oraibi. There were four of us in the
party. From the rim of the Canyon direct to the Little Colorado the route
is, at present, inaccessible for wagons. It is a horse trail, and somewhat
of the same nature as all the plateau trails through the Kohonino
(Coconino) Forest. Hence our roundabout wagon trip.
On the Fringe of the Painted Desert. Filling our canteens to the nozzle, we
drove over the western fringe of the Painted Desert. Skirting the mountain,
we made a "dry camp" that night, and used up every drop of water next
morning. Some went for our coffee, and the rest was given to the animals.
Then we started for the far-away Tanner Crossing of the Little Colorado,
across the thirsty desert. As we were without water, it was natural that,
on that particular day, the elements should combine to make it hotter than
usual. A few clouds sprang into existence, but we felt no breath of cooling
air, and as the day grew, the clouds became burning glasses to focus the
sun's heat more powerfully upon us. Late in the afternoon, our eyes were
delighted with the sight of what seemed to be a pool of water, in the road
ahead of us. Parched almost to keen suffering, we drove our weary and
thirsty horses right into it, scaring away, as we did so, several horses
that were standing there, and then, not waiting for cups or ceremony, each
man threw himself flat on his stomach and began to drink the uninviting
compound. A heavy shower had fallen in this one spot, and the pool had not
yet had time to evaporate.
A Dash Across the Little Colorado. The day was sultry and betokened a heavy
rain storm, so, when we reached the Little Colorado, we decided to get over
that night, since, if the storm came, it might render crossing impossible.
Our ambulance was heavily laden, and the crossing dangerous. Before I
ventured, we unloaded about half the weight, and then I undressed, save for
my undershirt, and went to investigate the bed of the crossing for
quicksands. As soon as I had determined where to drive, we started across.
Whipping up the mules, and keeping their necks well into their collars, we
dashed across in safety. Immediately the wagon was unloaded, I turned it
around and crossed alone. The remainder of the load was put in, with our
two men, and, one of them seated by my side with the whip, we "yelled"
ourselves across again. Our wagon was stopped in a sandy drift, our grub
box thrown out, a fire lighted, and with the impending storm in close
proximity, we hurriedly cooked and ate our evening meal. No sooner was my
plate cleared than, taking my roll of blankets, I wearily threw them down
not more than ten feet from the wagon, too utterly "played out" to seek
shelter in the cliff beyond, where a number of cave-like shelves afforded
good level sleeping places, secure from the storm. As I unrolled my
blankets, I called to the men to be sure to put out the camp fire and place
the sugar sack, etc., in the grub box and close the lid. I was no sooner
stretched out than I was sound asleep.
A Storm at Night. One of my companions insisted upon unrolling his blankets
close to me, in spite of the fact that a terrible storm might break over us
at any time. Poor fellow! He had scarcely gotten to sleep when a frightful
gust of wind swept down upon us. Awakened with the noise, my eye caught a
glimpse of the flaming brands from the fire being tossed into the wagon,
and I rushed to the rescue. In a fierce wind, with a wagon and its contents
dried out by the fierce Arizona sun, I knew there was not a moment to lose.
Fortunately, I had left a pail, of water close by, and with this I doused
out not only the flames in the wagon, but the remnant of the camp fire. It
was pitch dark by now. All at once, with a light that was blinding in its
intensity, and with a terrible clap of thunder, the storm burst upon us. It
was, without any question, one of the fiercest short storms, accompanied
with the most vivid lightning, I have ever seen. The darkness was so black,
that, like that of Egypt during the plague, it seemed almost as if it might
be felt. With a suddenness that was awe-inspiring, it became light as
noonday. The lightning was of a brilliant, violet tint, and shone with
fervent intensity. And it was not merely a few flashes. It came down in
millions of jagged streaks, completely filling the heavens to the horizon
in every direction.
A Frightened Traveler. In one of these blinding flashes, I caught sight of
my neighbor. His face wore an expression of anguish. In his dread he had
arisen, and had tried to pick up his clothes and blankets, in the hope of
reaching shelter. In one of the sudden lulls of the tempest, I heard him
talking to himself: "Shall I ever live through this awful night? Can I
get to those cliffs? Why doesn't some one come to help me? I'm going to
die. There's no help for it!" Taking advantage of the next flash, I picked
up my blankets and carried them to the cliffs; then returned to him,
gathered up his belongings, and urged him to follow me. As soon as he was
secure, I spread out my sopping wet blankets in the first space I could
find. Wet through as I was, I rolled myself up in my wetter blankets, and
soon should have been asleep, had it not been for the moanings of the man I
had rescued. He wished he hadn't come; he was sure the exposure would kill
him, and he wondered why people were such fools as to take unnecessary
trips. Just then the storm waters from above, seeking their accustomed
drainage channels, found their way down to a rock which overhung my
sleeping-place as a rude spout, and began to pour upon me in bucketfuls. Yet
I vowed I would never admit that my sleep was in the slightest disturbed.
So I turned over in my watery bed, and kept up the play until morning came,
while the angry man complained the entire time. Funny? In spite of my own
misery, it was funny enough to make a burro laugh.
Two Days' Rest. It took us a couple of days to get well dried out, which we
spent at Tuba City, a Mormon town since abandoned by order of the Courts,
which found that it was illegally located on an Indian reserve. Then we
enjoyed a day or two at Moenkopi, watching the Hopi Indians at their
interesting occupations, caring for their fields, and preparing to go on to
Oraibi, forty miles distant, where the Snake Dance was soon to occur.
Camp at Blue Canyon. The heat was fearful--it was the middle of August -and
the sand made hard pulling for the horses. It was late in the evening
before we reached Blue Canyon. The road was uncertain, so we camped on the
rim above, leading our animals down, as best we could, to a Navaho hogan,
where we thought we might get water and some cornstalks for them. We got
both, and then decided to hobble the animals and turn them loose in the
Canyon, while we returned to our wagon above. The wind had come up, and was
blowing fiercely, so, in the dark, I chose for a sleeping place a piece of
ground that was somewhat sheltered from it. It was irregular, rocky and
rolling, and as the wind continued to blow, the fine sand blew over and on
to my face, while the coarser sand settled into my blankets. It was not a
refreshing and comforting night.
An Exciting Descent. In the morning, when we went down for our animals, we
found that they had broken through the flimsy fence of the Navaho, and had
worked considerable havoc in his corn-patch. The Navaho grumbled and
gesticulated, and showed unmistakable anger, but I took the matter coolly
and, after seeing the extent of the damage, quietly asked the head of the
family: "Tu-kwe peso?" (How many dollars?) On receiving his answer, I
offered to give him sugar and flour to that amount. We became friends at
once, and he invited us to bring our wagon down and spend the day with him.
As we were all wearied, we decided to do so. To save going around by the
wagon road, he showed us a quicker way of descent. It was a sand bank not
quite vertical, but as nearly so as ever any one drove down and lived to
tell the tale. So, harnessing the animals, we brought the wagon to the edge
of this sandy descent; then, tying all the wheels securely, so that they
would drag, all of us holding on to the hind axle and with weights trailing
behind, the whole mass went over. Though we threw ourselves into the sand
and held on to our ropes, it was only by expert driving that the animals
were kept from being crushed.
Experience with a Navaho Pilot. The next day we pushed on to Oraibi,
piloted by a Navaho. When we reached the western side of the mesa, I
decided to go up the foot trail directly to the village, so as to have
water and corn fodder awaiting the animals, when they got safely around to
the eastern side. The Navaho got it into his head that the wagon was to be
driven up the slope on to the mesa, an impossible thing without making a
road. There was a trail for horses and burros, however, and the driver
yielded to the Navaho's guidance. At last a sheer cliff was reached, up
which only trail stock could possibly go. There the party was, with four
saddle animals harnessed to a wagon, in a cul de sac, consisting of a spot
barely large enough for the wagon to stand on, a deep precipice on the
right, a steep cliff ascending on the left, and the animals ahead on a
sandy slope as steep as the one we had descended at Blue Canyon, a day or
two before. Fearful for the safety of animals and wagon, the only course
was retreat. A crude road was built, and, after tying wheels and trailing
ropes on as before, with the help of a number of Indians who had come to
look on, the whole outfit was lowered to the level below in safety.
An Unforgetable Memory. Thus we had come over a large part of the historic
Hopi trail, never designed or planned for a wagon, with our ambulance; and
the memories of the trip, arduous though it was, linger in the mind, side
by side with experiences of the Snake Dance, and other unforgettable and
delightful remembrances.