A Chaco Visit Sue Carlson

A CHACO VISIT

By Sue Carlson

One 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 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.

We toured Bonito, then scrambled up the ancient stairway in the cliff behind Kin Kletso. We walked along the high trail to Pueblo Alto and smelled a sweet, strong fragrance. Grandfather stopped.

“I thought that’s what it was,” he said.

He stood in front of a low bush about three feet high, covered in tiny, white aromatic blossoms. He took out his knife and started scraping the bark. Grandfather scraped until he’d collected a handful of reddish brown fibers. He passed them to me. They were soft and downy, fluffy.

“We use this for starting fires, and for the babies, you know, for diapers.”

We hiked further along the path towards Alto. It had snowed lightly on the mesa the night before and a thin white layer covered the ground. A fine hoar frost coated the plants and grasses, glittering and glistening in the sun’s intermittent rays. Grandfather took out his crystal and held it in front of him like a sensor. He stopped again.

“There were four tribes here. They intermarried. When they left, they traveled north.”

Grandfather then pointed out another plant to me, a reed-like plant.

“This is blood medicine,” he said. “You take it for healthy blood.”

We were still on the trail and approaching the ruins of New Alto when we heard the piercing call of a bird, clear and distinct. We searched the sky, but saw nothing. Grandfather held out his crystal and it went down towards the ground as if he were dousing.

“Oh, that’s what it is,” he said, pointing to a small green plant with myriad oval leaves. “This is eagle medicine. When you have a cyst you take these leaves, heat them and put them on it. When you take the leaves off the cyst is gone.”

We explored New Alto and then meandered over the mesa top to the unexcavated ruins of Pueblo Alto. Grandfather stayed at the western corner of the D shaped structure while I continued over to the eastern side. A jackrabbit darted out in front of me, skittering through clumps of rime coated grass. I could barely see Grandfather’s figure, shrouded in the misty air.

I walked about the ruin contemplating the life of its mysterious inhabitants and soon noticed something flitting about on my left. I looked over and saw a woman about 100 feet away. She was rising from a crouched position behind a little hill. I was startled. I thought we were the only intruders on this winter day. I blinked and looked again, but the woman was gone. I strained my eyes in the mist, expecting to see her enter the crumbling pueblo. Just then Grandfather called out to me and we joined each other in the middle of the buried plaza.

“I just saw a woman over there,” he said, “towards the south, at a doorway. She was kneeling.”

“I saw a woman too, in the east, on the hill. Let’s take a look.”

We crossed the plaza and stepped over the remains of the pueblo’s outer wall. We dropped down into a small depression and came upon a rope barrier. It was about two feet high with thick hemp strung between short, upright logs. The barrier encircled the little hill. Grandfather and I stepped over it and proceeded to the top.

I thought we would see the woman’s footprints in the snow, but all we saw were potsherds scattered everywhere, littering the ground. The sherds were in all styles and colors: coiled grey, black and white, orange. Many were placed on the top of large rocks in what appeared to be deliberate groupings. There were also little bones. I thought the protected hill was a midden, a trash heap. It gave me a creepy feeling.

“Let’s get out of here Grandfather. Let’s go look for the woman where you saw her kneeling.”

We left the hill and walked back to the main ruin. We stood in the remnants of the ancient doorway and looked for footprints in the snow. There were none.

“It was just a soul,” Grandfather said. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing. It was just a soul.”

I looked across the grey, glinting landscape to the south. Shafts of sunlight pierced the haze, creating swirling balls of circular light.

“This place is incredible. I love it.”

We abandoned Alto and its wandering souls and headed back down the trail. Grandfather soon noticed a reddish grass growing near the path. He bent over and started tugging on it.

“What are you doing? That’s against Park rules!”

He reluctantly stopped.

“We use this one to wash our hair. It makes our hair grow long and gives it a red color.”

We stopped once more to smoke sacred tobacco, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the tall cliff over Bonito. I said a prayer of thanks. On this day I’d glimpsed Chaco through Native eyes.