It has been many years since I broke through the beauty that is the rainbow that surrounds our Dineh’ homeland. I exited innocence of all that I knew and loved, which sustained me, but the hunger of new places, people and experiences is too powerful a drive to let pass. Each time I have embraced newness, it was not without some cultural shock. Much of what is “out there” is dangerously close to taboo and must be negotiated with great care. You see, I had never lived in a city or engaged with its content up to that time I left my sheep camp.
The largest city I lived in before 1976 was Santa Fe, N.M., and even that town was much smaller than it is now. I remember the southern end of town was just past the Yucca Drive-In Theater and Rodeo Road was far south among the sage flats. I was in a college dorm at the time the wayfaring bug bit. I remember getting my first vehicle with that in mind; traded it for one of my very first attempts at painting in oils. It was a large portrait of Dineh’ elders. I must’ve given it a very effective voice—I closed a deal on a 1969 Comet, turquoise in color and lifted in the rear and finned, oxblood interior and a killer 8-track tape player with six speakers. I pointed my hood ornament west into the setting sun with no clear destination in mind. I wanted a piece of that urban dream, or nightmare. It was a mindful choice I never regretted. It was the right time.
The time between attending the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe and my landing on the West Coast was occupied with chasing dreams on the plains of Wyoming and Montana, dreams that I caught and let go of. It was a time of reflection, whatever that is. For me, it was the preparation of an exit. My brother had just returned from a stint in the Marine Corps and he was trying to make his way back into the Rez life. Sadly, he had to let go of that later. We fell into partying with a vengeance and things seemed pretty precarious. I needed to let go of that as well for my sanity. I left them to seek something, maybe redemption. With plenty of siblings to help run the sheep camp operation, it was time to close that chapter for just a bit. The wayfaring bug bit deeper.
On that very cold morning in the winter of ’76, I bid my parents Ha’goneii’ (Fare thee well for now). The brothers and cousins protested slightly. Goodbye to the faithful sheepdogs and the livestock. I will be back sometime. To the land, to the scents and the way the light filters into the pinyon/juniper forest and all that is physical and not carried inside, I wrapped and placed deep inside my senses. This I can never leave.
I left home with a pollen blessing from my father and sad eyes of my mother. With my saddle and a worn felt Stetson I was gifted from my brother-in-law, I watched them wave goodbye in my rearview mirror.
Driving into Flagstaff that late afternoon in wintry weather, I recalled other times I had been here but only for a day for supplies before heading back to the Rez. This was not one of those trips. I was going way out. I sat on a barstool somewhere downtown long enough for a couple of pints and to witness a couple of drunks rough each other up. I stayed the night at the Monte Vista and parked on the street. Ticketed the next morning, I see.
I left on an icy I-40 west. From the frosty ponderosa highlands and into the cold fringes of the Mojave Desert found me singing along to great road tracks. I learned to be the master as a DJ of my own 8-tracks. There I was, boldly into the unknown, into the storm.
My first trip through Vegas was a near nightmare; negotiating signs and symbols of excessiveness everywhere. I just needed to escape this city while there was still light. I did succeed after several dead ends—just like life was after that, I suppose. Beatty was my first night’s stop in Nevada. In Tonopah, my transmission threatened to give out. I had little money but a couple of early decent paintings. I used one to trade a very nice mechanic for an overhaul. I spent that cold day in the mining town exploring and would have spent the night there, but I drove away happy and relieved that my car would continue.
I felt all alone on those stretches of highways. Up ahead, I saw a figure. It was an old man with a very worn suitcase tied with a cord—a casino refugee no doubt. I picked him up and he related tales of hardship. He warned me about being a fish out of water and how the city may chew me up. I shared a bucket of chicken with him and gave him what was left as we parted company in Hawthorne. “Remain strong and true and don’t give in to the vices of the city, son.” He left me with those words as I watched him amble away into a swirling snowstorm with a red-striped bucket and an old suitcase, resembling an impoverished Santa Clause.
In Reno, my tires were slipping on the icy roads and the Sierras were awaiting me. My old worn Rand-McNally roadmap told me that. I decided a night in the biggest little city was in order. I went to a watering establishment only to find out it was a strip club and my Dineh’ sensibility led me away. I don’t recall ever being in one again. In the meantime, the Sierras awaited and my tires were smooth. I had one painting left. With two new rear snow tires and a couple of retreads, I left Reno with another hitchhiker, a young man with a sense of what was ahead. I was driving on an expired New Mexico license and no registration nor insurance. The young man suggested we take a detour around a longer way to avoid the checkpoint up ahead. We did circumvent that hazard after some six hours of mountainous roads.
My car, with its new tires and transmission, roared into the Sacramento Valley late that afternoon. This was new country, new tests and new adventures. It seemed so far away from the peaceful sheep camp, the red earth peeking through snow and the dusty rodeo grounds. The hard tests and potential joys were ahead—I just knew. A nagging little voice started asking me why I was where I was at the moment and maybe I should just abort this adventure and go home to all that is familiar. I fought against that as I cruised through Sacramento and out toward the Pacific Ocean I had never seen.
To be continued …
