West by Southwest: Ernie Bulow

QUASI-ANNUAL SHIPROCK PICNIC

The four years I taught for the Bureau of Indian Affairs brings up mixed emotions, but I was only 23 and full of adventure and my students were only too happy to get out of the dorm for the day—or the weekend. We travelled to a lot of wonderful places together.

Parents had to sign a form giving me in loco parentis privileges to check students out. I’m sure the majority of the forms were signed by proxy. It is possible I signed a few myself but don’t quote me on that. Many of the parents in those days couldn’t speak much English, let alone read or write it. I eventually had permission slips to check hundreds of kids out of the dorm. I got a Government driver’s license and made friends with staff in the chow hall. Saturday mornings I would commandeer a van, check out half a dozen kids (sometimes more), and take off for the far reaches of the Reservation. The school had some Dodge vans the size of a small school bus and I had one of those folding shovels they used to dig fox-holes and an old fashioned blanket-wrapped five gallon canteen. I have never seen another one like it. The cafeteria was a seven-day-a-week establishment, so we would drop by and pick up supplies. Commodity foods in those days included huge bricks of American cheese and large tins of Spam-like lunch meat. I really miss that. We would also get a dozen dozen boiled eggs, bread, and some kind of fake Mayo. We were set. Once we drove out of “The Compound,” we were in another world. Yes, they called it the Compound. One time evening found us at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Nobody kept track of where we went or what we did, as long as I delivered the kids back to the dorm by Sunday night. We had food and gas, but I didn’t have enough cash for a room. These kids were used to roughing it, but we needed a place to camp out. Keeping them all in sight was always difficult, and one of the boys was nowhere to be found. We came across Lionel wrapped in an “Indian” blanket, posing with tourists on the walkway overlooking the canyon – which was lit up by a spectacular sunset. Other folks were waiting in line for their turn. By dark, he had enough money to pay for a room. He was a beautiful boy. Once at Shalako, a famous New York dancer had hit on him. His hair was long enough to tie into a small bun, though he wasn’t

Ernie’s Selfie

West by Southwest

by Ernie Bulow

allowed to wear it that way at school. We wanted to know where he got the worn Pendleton he was wearing. Well, a Navajo guy and his wife drove up in an old pickup and Lionel saw them park and go into the dining room. They were using the old Pendleton as a seat cover and they didn’t lock the truck when they left. When he took the blanket back, he introduced himself in Navajo and they exchanged clans. Amazingly, he was the same clan as the old man. I noticed over the years that Lionel changed clans to suit the occasion. It created an instant bond. I guess he told them what he had done because they all had a big laugh. Who could figure out Bilagáanas? On one trip, we were going to explore the Washington Pass country above Crystal. There was a lot of history associated with the place. When we got up on the divide, one of the boys said we were near his grandma’s place and could we drop in for a visit? Of course, we could. When we pulled up at the Hogan, there was a padlock on the door. Nobody home. Jumbo told us to wait and walked to the window. He spoke softly. All Navajos spoke softly in those days. Pretty soon an arm came out of the window holding keys. Jumbo opened the door and went inside. We all sat in the van as custom dictated. When the boy came back there were three kids tailing him and an elderly lady stood in the door. Later I asked him what was going on. “They saw us coming and knew it was a government rig so they had one of the kids padlock the door so we’d think nobody was home. Grandma and the kids are here alone and they don’t trust visitors.” “They do the same thing when the Gomeles drive up.” Gomele is their word for Mormon. The missionaries would even make it out to the back country. When we got ready to go, one of the other boys said his family had a summer place just up the road. It turned out that a decent road ran along the crest of the Chuska Mountains almost to Shiprock. A lot of Navajo families moved up on the mountain in the summer to graze their sheep. The forest was park-like and open most of the way. Now and then, we would pass a cienega, a marshy spot where tall grass grew in abundance. Twice we passed ponds where horses were out in the shallow water having lunch. They would stick their heads down under the water like a moose and bring up a big mouthful of grass. Smart horses.

By the time we got to Shiprock, everybody was starving. Across the San Juan River, there were a bunch of cottonwoods shading a couple of picnic tables. The only people around were some Anglos in a Winnebago. Self-propelled motor homes were still something of a novelty. It was spring and the river was running high, but it didn’t make any sound as it swept by. I like gurgling brooks myself, but they are hard to find in our country. When a dead cow came floating by, I gave up on the river. The ground under the trees was bare dirt and even the ants had left the area. I hoped a dust devil wouldn’t come along and season the food. We parked under a tree nearby and spread out our food. It was a doit-yourself lunch. Some of those boys could eat four or five sandwiches, so we usually didn’t have any left-overs. Lionel once ate fourteen hot dogs at a sitting; and he was skinny. The boys noticed long before I did that the white family was curious. We were all in boots and denim (501 Levis for me, Wranglers for them), some of us had on typical broad-brimmed hats with the high crowns that used to be seen around Gallup. Two of the boys were wearing headbands. Everyone but me was brown. The family was classic white bread: Father, mother, ten-year-old boy, younger sister. (I’m just guessing his age.) They seemed a little wide-eyed to me, but the boys were ready to have a little fun. The Navajo sense of humor doesn’t need much prodding. “Chester, did you eat the last prairie dog?” They had all been speaking Navajo but now switched to English. “No, it was Edison, but I think there’s still some rattlesnake over here.” “Come on, we had plenty of prairie dog, you didn’t need to hog it all.” “I told you, we got plenty of extra rattlesnake. You like rattlesnake don’t you?” “How do I know all the poison is out of it? I’m allergic to rattlesnake poison.” “There’s no poison in the meat.” Chester took a bite of the fake Spam and smacked his lip. “Don’t your family eat snake?” They were on a roll now. It was impossible to ignore the yapping Pomeranian who kept running into things, apparently old and going blind. One of the other boys chimed in. “What we’re really missing is roast pup. I really love puppy dog roasted over hot coals. My grandma singes the hair off first.” “That’s only if you boil it. You don’t have to singe the hair if you roast it.” Just then, one of the boys dropped a bite of sandwich by his feet. The Pomeranian didn’t respond so he tossed another bit nearer the dog. It perked right up. I snuck a look in the direction of our tourists to see if they were enjoying the play. They looked upset. Not horrified yet, but a little scared. The mom had pulled the daughter close. Dad was getting sunburned. They hadn’t notice the dog moving closer to our table until Rupert was about to grab the poor thing. Mom let out a piercing shriek and grabbed the dog. Unfortunately, they threw up a lot of dust as they tore out. One of the boys noticed they left their ice chest behind. It was half full of pop, the thing we were lacking. On the way home, they talked about making the Shiprock Picnic and annual affair, but it wasn’t in the cards.

- ernie@buffalomedicine.com