MONUMENT VALLEY RIDE b y Ra y L aC ro ix
C
indi and I looked down tensely at the reddish brown, part rock, part gravel “road” cut into the side of the drop-off. We marveled at the way it snaked its way down what appeared to be about a 1000-foot drop into our destination, Monument Valley. The late March cerulean sky was a beautiful and dramatic contrast to the terra-cotta red and blue-gray striations cut into the majestic sandstone formations towering almost to eye level from the valley floor. This was a Sunday afternoon. We were to be in Monument Valley until the following Saturday. Cindi was beside me, our hearts pounding, as I let off of the brakes and inched our truck and horse trailer forward on a track that, once we started, offered no opportunity to turn back. At 38 feet long, our trailer was the longest in the queue of about 14 horse trailers. I watched intently as my friend Don inched his way around the first of many steep, narrow switchbacks. His trailer was about six feet shorter than mine, and I felt like I was having a heart attack thinking that I wasn’t going to be able to go forward, and I damn sure couldn’t
go back. I relaxed a little seeing that he made it look easy. It wasn’t. My front tires were only about two feet from a huge drop-off when I knew I could cut the angle and maneuver the trailer around the side of the rocky hillside without scraping the extruded aluminum siding of the trailer (my baby!). That first switchback turned out to be the second worst in a series of I don’t know how many. We had started the descent at about 3:30 p.m. and had six and a half miles of “service road,” including the switchbacks, to drive before we reached our campsite. The road was rough for rigs carrying horses (our other babies). About two and a half hours later, after we slowly crept up, over, and across sand and rocks among some magnificent rock formations, the road divided into a narrower one-way “trail.” At this point, the light was just beginning to fade as I feathered the throttle so as not to jolt the horses any more than necessary while our truck and trailer slowly bounced and swayed its way over the sandy and rocky service road. I had seen aerial pictures of our campsite, and the photos were spectacular!
A H W > 66 < 1 0 . 1 8
“
... AS I SOMETIMES DO,
I PONDERED THE WISDOM OF MY DECISION-MAKING PROCESS. HOW DID WE DECIDE TO BE HERE?
”
We were headed for a dramatic box canyon with hundred-foot red rock walls defining more than three sides. The photo depicted, from a sky-high vantage point only achieved by a drone, a cluster of tiny, neatly parked horse trailers, in what looked to be the most ideal and accommodating of campgrounds. As I recalled that photo from the slick brochure, I took stock of our new reality. At this moment,
the temperature outside was 45 degrees with a howling wind of about 30-35 mph, kicking up clouds of reddish pink sand that obscured my vision — vision which was really important as I very slowly eased my truck and trailer through the narrow opening defined by twin 100-plus-yearold gnarled ironwood posts guarding the entrance. The sun was setting behind the walls of the box canyon, and the campsite was deep in shadows. We were fifth in the line of trailers through the gate, and I had thought, two-and-a-half hours earlier as I white-knuckled my way into the switchbacks, at fifth from the front, that I had a good chance of finding a level place to park the rig. But once we cleared A H W > 67 < 1 0 . 1 8
the gate and were about 50 feet in, I saw a chaotic scene of horse trailers jockeying for position for the few level spots. I stopped the rig, because I could go nowhere until they settled, and, as I sometimes do, pondered the wisdom of my decision making process. How did we decide to be here? It was in late November of the previous year that Cindi and I were invited by our good friends, Don and Franny Garrigus, to go on a grand “adventure” to dry camp and trail ride in a primitive and restricted area in Monument Valley. There would be no electricity, water for horses only, and everything had to be hauled in and out. We had camped with them and with our horses a few years before in Prescott and had a great time. Don and Franny had a friend who had organized this ride several times, and this was to be her finale. We attended a sit-down dinner/meeting — a meet and greet to see who we would be adventuring with, along with a talk from our host as to what this ride was all about. We were handed brochures with photos and a well-prepared list of tips, and instructions on how to pack and prepare for, as the photos depicted, “a trip of a lifetime!” Attending the dinner was a group of about 30 people, all horsey, with good stories to tell. All but Cindi and I were trail riders with “real” trail horses. When we told the others that our horses were dressage horses, the looks on their faces told me that we would be the curiosities of the trip. Our ride organizer, Mindy, was one of “those” people who seem to have a knack for organizing and understanding who will fit in and who won’t. We left with such a warm and fuzzy feeling of sincere sureness that we, with our dressage horses, would fit in as well. That was then, and this was now.
that if conditions didn’t improve, we might have to pack up and try to haul the trailer out. (As an aside, for those who are older, did you ever see Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz in “The Long, Long Trailer?” There is a scene where their convertible car is pulling this impossibly long trailer up this steep dirt road dug into the side of a mountain ... and it gets stuck. Those were my thoughts at this moment.) Two glasses in, the rain stopped, the wind died, and though really cold, conditions improved enough for Cindi and me to go to the first night get-together where everyone was to bring a heavy appetizer and cheer on the coming five days. Don Garrigus and his Quarter horse JACKSON, and Franny Garrigus and her Arabian horse STEWART. Two of our very best friends! The get-together was held in the only fifth-wheel toy hauler trailer It was cold, windy, and getting dark, and I still had on the trip. It was a big one, commandeered by Mindy to maneuver the trailer to a mostly level spot, get the and her husband, Rob, with a ton of room for tables horses attended to, and then get the rear wheels of the and chairs. We all shared appetizers, drank beer trailer onto leveling blocks and set up for the evening. and wine, and lamented the conditions. As we were When I looked at the horse pens, which were thin in a primitive area, there was no reception for cell pipe rails held together with bailing twine, abutting phones. Those who were prepared had recorded the the sheer rock walls, all I could think about was forecasts for the next few days, and the forecasters Marble, Cindi’s Warmblood mare, who is supremely were calling for clear, but cold conditions for the alpha. She could, on a whim, walk right through the morning. Good conversation, and really good food piping. Chipper One, my Half-Arabian (and half Dutch and drink, properly adjusted everyone’s faltering harness horse) was a different story. Meek and kind, attitude. Thirty strong, all as a group, we decided that Chipper was never one to look for trouble. He was we would be undeterred in having an adventure for the only horse we owned who had a temperament the bucket list! subservient enough to get along with Marble, and Afterward, Cindi and I, flashlights in hand, walked thus, they are the best of buds. To be safe, we had back to our trailer, quietly wondering to ourselves to wrangle an extra pen so that no one was beside what tomorrow would bring. Marble but Chipper. Before putting the horses in, we Monument Valley is a stunning plateau located on had to clear the floors of the pens of the large rocks the Arizona/Utah border, close to the four corners that had been blown over the canyon walls by wind. I area. At between 5,000 and 6,000 feet in elevation, asked Mindy about this and she said no horse, to her the arid desert land was deemed worthless by our knowledge, had ever been hurt by a falling rock ... government, and subsequently given to the Indians, Getting the horses settled was no easy feat, as the becoming a part of the Navajo Indian Reservation. wind was blowing so hard the doors on the trailer were Monument Valley is now designated an Indian difficult to open and keep open. One didn’t dare use Tribal Park, a designation similar to the national the metal fasteners, as they would have been ripped and state park systems in the U.S. proper. As such, out of the housings that secured them to the trailer. public access is controlled. There is one main road Then the rain came... through the park, U.S. 163, which offers some views Dirty, wet, and exhausted, with horses blanketed of the monuments to motorists in passing, but the and cared for as best we could, and with the trailer complexity and richness of the many formations, leveled, Cindi and I huddled in the living quarters, ruins, arches and petroglyphs can really only be turned on the furnace, opened wine, and with a little appreciated by those who enter the park and take an alcohol, contemplated our predicament. We decided Indian guided tour, either by Jeep or horseback. A H W > 68 < 1 0 . 1 8
What is not well known is that much of the land in the park is privately owned by Indian families. These families still make their living off of the land. While sheep herding was a bigger enterprise in the past, it still plays a major role in the daily lives of the families living in the valley. The wool is used to weave the famous Navajo rugs and blankets that are ubiquitous with the Southwest, and some wool is exported. Tourism, however, is the main attraction. Each family runs tours on their own land and in concert with other participating families. Our own tour was organized Franny, Don, Cindi, and Ray enjoying the chilly air and sights of the first ride. with Lonny and Effie Yazzie, the children of weaver Susie Yazzie. I walked to the other end of our trailer so I could Effie Yazzie, in her 70s, guided some of our rides, along take a look at the rest of camp in the daylight. The air with two of her younger relatives. was crystal clear and cold, but quiet, with no breeze. Back in our trailer, Cindi and I finally drifted off to an The camp was still more than half in shadows, and uneasy sleep; the sleep of those who don’t know, and the colors of the rocks, not evident in the failing light are aware that they don’t know, anything about what and storm of the last eve, were spectacular at the will transpire. brilliantly illuminated west side of the box canyon. In At daybreak, Cindi and I awoke, and our first the center of the campsite, thoughts went to the roped down to large rocks horses. Quickly throwing THIS EXPERIENCE WAS A RETURN TO HORSEMANSHIP, AND A and one lone dead tree, on some clothes, I stepped was a dirty, old porta-potty, out and looked to my right CHANCE TO CREATE A DEEPER BOND WITH OUR HORSES. THE its side creased by wind. I to where our horse pens ARABIAN HORSE LIFESTYLE CAN BE SO MUCH RICHER WHEN WE knew the reason for all of were, and both horses were upright and still in SHARE EXPERIENCES SUCH AS THIS WITH OUR EQUINE FRIENDS, the ropes after last night’s storm. I chuckled. That their pens! As I grained AND IF THOSE FRIENDS ARE SHOW HORSES, IT IS EVEN BETTER. porta-potty was for those and tossed hay, I looked true campers — the brave at the line of pens abutting ones — not us glampers. the sheer rock face, stretching in a gentle arc to my The eating area for our group consisted of a left. The 25 or so pens were filled with trail horses of number of tables, chairs, grills and griddles, and was all kinds and a smattering of donkeys and mules. As I set up at the side of Rob and Mindy’s fifth-wheel at walked to fetch water at the water tanks (where water the north end of the box canyon. Cindi and I made was hauled in for the horses daily), I mused about the coffee in our trailer, took military showers to conserve donkeys and mules, wondering why one would need water, and walked out at about 8:00 a.m. to have a those in these flat lands. I smiled a crooked grin when I light breakfast. looked at Marble and Chipper. It was obvious that the For the five days, our group of about 30 people two on the far right end, our horses, were dressage were split into groups of two to four people for horses. The short cut manes with fastidiously clean purposes of cooking. Each group was responsible lines, clipped muzzles, show horse style blankets, and for feeding 30 people either a dinner or breakfast. tails in tail bags were in stark contrast to the other trail Cindi and I were grouped with our friends Don and horses, mules and donkeys, content with their trail type Franny Garrigus (who are both fabulous cooks), and blankets or, for some, simply the late-spring version of we had the dinner for Wednesday night. Fortunately, their winter coats.
“
”
A H W > 69 < 1 0 . 1 8
As I stewed, I thought the only thing we could do is take them, bridled, for a long hand-walk, and hope for the best! This we did, and in 20 minutes, with everyone else mounted and intently watching the two “dressage people” walking their horses for obvious reasons, we approached our mounting block and got on. The horses were good, but for insurance, we kept them busy walking until our Indian guides arrived. As we were walking and waiting, I immediately understood why some had donkeys and mules. Those with long ears and excessive bone around their orbits were taciturn and steadfastly calm in demeanor, truly a pleasure to be with. Hmmm … Marble is a 12-year-old Oldenburg warmblood just starting into Prix St. George, and Chipper One is a 13-year-old Half-Arabian, half-Dutch harness horse cross, ready to transition to fourth level. Marble is as tough as nails but loves Cindi. Those two have a real bond. Chipper, Stopping to listen to the guide explain the historical significance though meek, is, as Arabians can be, emotional. of this particular trail bend in both real life in the past, and in some of the old western movies. Fortunately for me this morning, he was out of his element and was looking to me to help him survive we didn’t have to do any breakfasts! The two couples in his predicament, and he let me direct his every charge of that breakfast had set up a breakfast burrito movement. bar that had scrambled eggs, crushed bacon, minced We were up and we were safe, and to have this onions and peppers, shredded moment of the first ride go well was cheese, sour cream, salsa, and WHEN WE TOLD THE OTHERS a relief. Our Indian guides arrived on soft steamed flour tortillas. Yum! THAT OUR HORSES WERE DRESSAGE HORSES, sturdy paints that looked like they We shared a huge burrito, ate were four-wheel-drive versions of quickly and started back to the THE LOOKS ON THEIR FACES TOLD ME THAT WE what we were mounted on, and off trailer to prepare the horses for we went. WOULD BE THE CURIOSITIES OF THE TRIP. the first ride of the trip. Our guides were easy in their Marble and Chipper looked at saddles, and their horses, not overly muscled but Cindi and me like we had lost our minds. We had them not thin, were resolute in their demeanor; this was tied to the trailer and were finishing brushing and were just another day at the office. But what a view! As about to saddle them. I’m sure they thought that these we exited through those old twin gnarled posts primitive surroundings were where we were going to that anchored wire fencing to the sides of the box drop them off to die. They had survived last night’s canyon, a huge meadow opened up with sparse storm, not even getting very wet, as the canyon wall had greenery, pinkish mounds of sand, and in the not-sosheltered them from most of the wind and rain. Now, the far distance, the iconic monuments of the American morning’s cold air, ushered in by the storm front, amped Southwest, made so familiar by many of our old up their anxiety level and made me wonder if there western movies. It was almost as if John Wayne was anywhere we could longe them a little before we himself would join up with us around the next bend. mounted. The open center of camp was slightly crowded In that moment, all of the fear of the unknown, the with other people and their horses preparing to mount. sketchy drive in, the storm the night before, the wet, This being the first ride, other horses were sharing the the dirty and cold, was erased and replaced with anxiety and nervousness, as it was easily transmissible, a sense of awe and wonderment. This was why we like it was everyone’s first day at school. There was came. A bucket list adventure was underway! Cindi nowhere to longe, so this would be our first test of the and I locked eyes and both winked at the other at trip, as both horses were used to being longed before almost the same time. This was a moment chiseled in their first ride at a horse show. Marble, in particular, was time that we will both remember forever. always wild on her first time on a line.
“
”
A H W > 70 < 1 0 . 1 8
THAT MOMENT ALL OF THE FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN, THE SKETCHY DRIVE IN, “THE INSTORM THE NIGHT BEFORE, THE WET, THE DIRTY AND COLD, WAS ERASED AND REPLACED WITH A SENSE OF AWE AND WONDERMENT. ”
We paired up with Don and Franny at the end of a 20 or so horse, mule, and donkey trail line. Chipper is a notoriously slow walker, and he could care less that others were in front, and getting farther away. Marble is really quite brave, but doesn’t like to be left behind. Don’s horse, a sturdy, large, older Quarter Horse, is a true trooper on rides; steady as he goes. And then there is Franny’s horse, Stewart, a small, bay, purebred Arabian. He is an ex-show horse and at 18 acts like a four-year-old. He is a small but mighty trooper who will go anywhere. We soon sorted ourselves out again with Cindi and Marble joining Don and Franny as a threesome, and Chipper and I firmly by ourselves, in the rear, occasionally breaking into a trot to briefly close the distance. The scenery on this first ride (and every ride) was spectacular; the deep blue of the sky painting the perfect backdrop. The reddish, rust, and earthen-brown hues painted the amazingly complex monuments that look like fortresses with sheer walls, or huge red sand doodles a child on the beach makes by dripping wet sand from his hand, the sand accumulating in a sort of stalagmite form. The trail footing is varying depths of Muffin the donkey. She was absolutely the sweetest! soft, light, pink sand,
with scrub bushes scattered everywhere. Slightly taller junipers are less frequent, as well as a few mesquite trees and gnarled ironwoods scattered throughout. The floor of this meadow is relatively flat, making this ride easy for both riders and horses. Occasionally, we all stopped as a group and the guides explained a point of historical interest. This first ride lasted about three hours, taking a circuitous route through meadows and wrapping around the rock and boulderstrewn bases of some spectacular monuments. We were back at our campsite shortly after noon. This ride was, in reality, a test for Mindy and our guides to see how horses and riders reacted to the environment, and what kind of rider everyone was. Back at camp, we untacked and rubbed down the horses with sponges and a little water. The horses were tired from their three-or-so hour ride, walking up and down mild to moderate slopes through sand that was alternately shallow and sometimes hockdeep. They were relaxed and at ease now, munching on hay, and just possibly noticing the majesty of this box canyon. Nature this raw has a not-so-subtle undercurrent of spirituality. Here, humans and animals historically have been placed on equal footing by this rugged land that has now become a sanctuary for the mingling of past and present lifestyles. The spiritual energy of this mix of souls, human and non-human, past and present, ripples tangibly in the sharing of this spectacular space, creating a vibe of wellbeing. Cindi, myself, Don, and Franny added to this sense of wellbeing with tasty sandwiches, craft beers first, then wine, all while sitting in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Bucket list!
A H W > 71 < 1 0 . 1 8
The week was segmented with two rides a day for Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday was a day of rest for the horses and a trip to Kayenta, a small town on the reservation, with the highlight being a visit to the Indian flea market/swap meet. Thursday and Friday were, again, two rides a day. Saturday was a short ride, and then time to go home. For Cindi and I, and Don and Franny, one ride per day was enough. In the afternoons we ate great lunches, took naps, did some hiking, and spent extra time with our horses. Dinner time was for camaraderie and stories of the day, as well as generally great food and drinks. At each dinner, a member of the Yazzie family would be in attendance, and afterwards, would tell stories of back in the day, or sing traditional Indian songs and relate them to either daily life, or a moment in history. The days went by in a blur of seeing one after another astounding formation and the petroglyphs. The highlights of this adventure were, of course, the ever-changing monuments, the sand dunes that were a blast (with our dressage horses, who, like the “real” trail horses, tucked their haunches and slid down the slopes), the petroglyphs which were eerily amazing, and the trip to Kayenta and the Indian flea market, where Cindi and I ate woodfire-grilled mutton! Greasy but delicious! At the end of an outstanding adventure, on Friday evening, we were invited to Effie Yazzie’s hogan for a traditional Indian dinner. Effie actually had two hogans. One was modern and updated with electricity, a real floor (instead of swept, hard, clayish dirt), and contemporary walls. This is where she lives. The second hogan was over a hundred years old, built of Ironwood and adobe in the traditional octagonal form, and contained an actual loom for weaving rugs. The walls of this hogan were decorated with historic memorabilia, rugs and blankets well hung, and a few pictures and paintings. A museum of sorts. Both had entrances that faced east, to greet the morning sun, as it rises. The modern hogan had an eating area in back that was partially sheltered with some wind breaks formed of corrugated tin and ironwood posts with a slatted, wooden latilla shade style roof. Underneath stood a homemade grill and smoker that was absolutely ingenious! There was a grate for grilling that swiveled over a wood firebox for heat control. There was also a large griddle incorporated into the structure. On one side of the griddle was a large container of hot oil for making the fry bread (that was delicious). We made do-it-yourself fry bread tacos, Indian style. Comprised of homemade chili verde, pinto beans, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, salsa, and sour
cream, the fry bread and the homemade chili verde combined to make an extraordinary meal out of an everyday idea! Throughout dinner, many Yazzie family members were in attendance and told more stories of life in “the Effie Yazzie’s hogan. Valley” (as the Indians call it) with past and present experiences starkly juxtaposed with the religious spirituality of the Navajo tribe. On Saturday morning, Cindi and I packed up instead of going on the last ride. We had a sevenhour drive back home and wanted to arrive before dark. We raked up Marble and Chipper’s pens, putting the manure in bags, and placing them in the back of the truck with the others from the previous days. The manure, all garbage, everything, had to be packed and removed from this pristine wilderness area. We loaded the horses and headed out. Personally, I was dreading this part. I was frightened that, on one steep stretch of the road out, we would get stuck. We had actually slid 30 or more feet in the gravel on our way down! Suffice it to say, we made it. And, it was easier going up than down, by far. On the drive home, with Marble and Chipper safe from this adventure, Cindi and I agreed that Monument Valley is one of the greatest experiences we have ever had. This experience was a return to horsemanship, and a chance to create a deeper bond with our horses. The Arabian horse lifestyle can be so much richer when we share experiences such as this with our equine friends, and if those friends are show horses, it is even better. The deeper the connection your horse has with you, the more willing a companion he becomes. After an adventure such as this, as you look into those big, liquid, brown eyes of your horse, and he looks back into yours, you can’t help but wonder what memories are floating in that beautiful head! I would urge any and all readers to go and experience by horseback Monument Valley and the Navajo culture. You will be richer for it, and you will never forget it!
A H W > 72 < 1 0 . 1 8