A CHACO VISIT By Sue Carlson
O
ne Thanksgiving Day Grandfather and I decided to visit Chaco Canyon. Grandfather was a traditional Navajo elder who I’d met at a sweat lodge on the east coast many years before. He wasn’t pleased about an excursion to Chaco, “the graveyard” he called it, but I’d made a special trip to New Mexico for the holiday and he accommodated my wish. It was cold and foggy when we left Gallup, and by the time we reached Crownpoint, I could barely see five feet in front of the car. We drove east along lonesome Highway 9, then turned left onto Highway 57 and started in on the southern entrance to the Park. That road proved to be a feat of driving. On a good day, a dry, clear, summer day, the southern route into Chaco
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can seem impassable. On this damp November morning, the road became a dragon I had to slay. The muddy ruts were over a foot deep, and I had to keep the car zipping along, trying to stay out of their gooey clutches. I knew that if I slowed down we were doomed, so I sped wildly, throwing mud balls past the windshield, spattering the vehicle’s doors. “Just be yourself,” Grandfather said nonchalantly, gazing through the speckled glass. When we finally pulled into the Visitor Center, mud caked and frazzled, I felt I deserved a medal. Grandfather, never having visited Chaco, was amazed at the size of the complex. He analyzed Pueblo Bonito’s construction, and long before I’d read any descriptive text, he’d determined the significance of unique corner windows and knew exactly where the sun’s rays would first strike.
