There can be no question but that Arizona is one of the most marvellous regions of the world. Its interest to the tourist is not exceeded by that of the Yellowstone, whose mountains and geysers and strange color effects enchant poet and painter. For the cañon system of the Arizona mountain ranges, the stupendous majesty of scenic grandeur which reaches its supreme aspect in the Grand Cañon of the Colorado, the wonders of extinct volcanic action, the colossal channels cut by the action of water, the unearthly splendor of the coloring in sky and atmospheric effects, all combine to make this state the very embodiment and visible expression of magic and mystery.
In the broken mountain ranges the detached peaks extend, with narrow, fertile valleys lying between; while deep cañons and wild gorges, with rushing mountain torrents, still further diversify the grandeur of the panorama. Five great rivers add another impressive feature,—the Colorado, the San Juan, the Salinas, the Verde, and the San Francisco,—this system of rivers completing the most extraordinary combination of mountain, valley, mesa, and cañon to be found in the entire world. Numberless extinct volcanoes and vast lava beds add their fantastic imagery; and the metamorphic rock strata, recording the most violent volcanic upheavals, tell the prehistoric story of the fiery molten flood which swept over all this region when the earth was new.
As has perhaps been suggested in the preceding pages, life in Arizona is by no means without its features of entertainment. These include various aspects, not to mention one that is by no means to be enjoyed in any of the great Eastern centres,—that of the exclusive annual festivity of the "Snake Dance." Chicago and Paris, New York and London, may find social entertainment in balls and opera, dancing and dining, but in Arizona one goes to this entertainment on the Painted Desert; and if in some happy summer of life one's horoscope has deflected his course into Arizona and Colorado, one comes to regard those fascinating localities with the devotion of a native of their sunny climes.
After all, it is not length of time in any experience of life that is significant, but intensity of feeling, and one finds himself really living more intensely in a few weeks in the Far West, in all its wonder world, than in years or decades of his accustomed rounds in Eastern cities.
This entertainment of the Snake Dance is furnished by the Moki Indians at their camp some seventy miles over the desert from Flagstaff. There is no means of conveyance save by wagons. The journey is over sagebrush and sand, enlivened by stones and cacti. The horses can make only slow progress. But the air is simply delightful and full of exhilaration, and the particular desert over which those who fare forth for this æsthetic spectacle must pass is the "Painted Desert," whose walls of rocks and mountains, brilliant in a dream of color, recede as they are approached, and thus the entire two days consumed in the journey are a perpetual delight to the eye. The wayfarers camp out overnight, and during the five days' journey—two days to go, two to return, and one to stay—their wants are, perforce, reduced to the most primitive. As the festivity lasts only twenty-eight minutes, it is certainly spending a good deal of time and energy in order to behold so brief a spectacle. But one is told it is worth all the fatigue and the time. It is a religious rite of the Moki Indians, and is a prayer for rain. The description of it is a literal one, for the dancers hold from one to three snakes—and rattlesnakes at that—in the mouth as they perform their strange gyrations. The dancers are the "braves," while the squaws chant a crooning accompaniment.
One student of this Indian rite has said:
"With the first glow in the east the priests hasten to the shrine of the Sun God with their offerings, the luminary himself being greeted with a prayer or with songs as he slowly emerges from behind the mesa in the Far East. Later the priests repair to their homes, and return to the kiva, bearing the ceremonial paraphernalia with which, early in the afternoon, they robe themselves in gorgeous array preparatory to the dance, which is given usually before the sun sets behind the San Francisco Peaks.
"As the priests emerge from the kiva, where they wait in line until all have appeared, there is the hush of expectancy throughout the village; the inhabitants now line the terraces, house-tops and every available spot around the dance plaza, all being attired in their gayest and brightest costumes. In single file and with measured tread comes the line of priests. Entering the plaza, they wheel about and begin a slow, short dance, the time of the step being accompanied by the shaking of rattles and by the singing of sacred songs. The dance is over all too soon, when the spectators return to their camps and the priests to the kiva, where great quantities of food have been brought for them. Finally, in a great feast, they break the fast, which, on the part of the chief priests, has been maintained for many days."
It is quite by way of being love's labor lost to visit Arizona during that period of time devoted to the Moqui Festival. Apparently the entire population betake themselves to this entertainment, journeying over the desert in their wagons, carrying with them their beds, their food, and every necessity, for except what they take with them they must do without. But as all the world, alas, cannot or does not dwell in Arizona,—a region in which any one sunset alone is worth the journey there,—and is thus deprived of the unique privilege of assisting at the Snake Dance, the next best thing, as a substitute, is to read the new work of George Wharton James (the author of "In and Around the Grand Canyon") called "Indians of the Painted Desert Region." It is the very gateway to a wide and deeply interesting knowledge of Indian life in Arizona and its relation to advancing civilization. It is the presentation of a series of wonderful landscapes in a vivid manner of word-picturing.
"Wild, weird, and mystic pictures are formed in the mind by the very name—Painted Desert," writes Mr. James. "The sound suggests a fabled rather than a real land. Surely it must be akin to Atlantis or the island of Circe or the place where the Cyclops lived. Is it not a land of enchantment and dreams, not a place for living men and women, Indians though they be?"
It seems that the Spaniards gave the name "El Pintado Deserto"—the Painted Desert.