The campfire, built that night under the sweeping black arch, seemed like home amid the looming cliffs and monoliths. The air was full of that strangest, most arresting odor in the desert,—the smell of fresh, running water.
I lay awake for hours, watching the stars wheel over the curve of the arch. It was not surprising that the Navajos held this spot in superstitious reverence, as the haunt of gods. We were all, I think, in a state of suspended attention, waiting for something to happen which never did happen. Soon the moon, startlingly brilliant in the high air, circled over to the wall topping the southwest side of the bridge, and upon this lofty screen the arch was reproduced in silhouette. Why this should have seemed the last touch to the strange beauty of the place I do not know, but when I waked Toby to watch it, we lay there, almost holding our breath, until the shadow had made its arc down the side of the cliff and disappeared.
After a week’s travel to reach the Bridge, to turn homeward instantly seemed ridiculous. The first day took us a weary twenty-five miles back to De-jiss-je Camp, prodding our exhausted animals every step of the way, till we too were exhausted. We intended to circle back through Utah, crossing Piute and Nakis Canyons at the upper end and touching the lower edge of the Monument country. Always a wearing trip, ours to the Bridge and back was more than usually so, because our unexpected arrival at Kayenta had given no chance to get the horses in condition. Tired animals mean forced camps, irregular and scanty meals, and consequently less sleep and more fatigue,—a vicious circle.
We ate the last of the mutton that night. Tough and sandy and gristly it proved, but the stew from it was fairly delicious. When the meal ended, Wah-Wah borrowed a needle and thread, and smilingly announced to our circle that he intended to mend his outer garments. Without further ceremony, he pulled his shirt and trousers off, leaving only his checkerboard underdrawers. Pleased at the concentration of interest, which he attributed to his skill at sewing, he beamed upon us all. “Disgusting old heathen,” said Martha.
But Hostein Chee was not without friends. Next morning with a show of great enthusiasm an old Navajo rode up, greeted him, and thereafter, either lured by Red Man’s companionship or hope of a free lunch thrice daily made himself just useful enough to be permitted to follow our camp. Fat and venerable, with flowing shirt and gray hair tied in a chignon, and hung with jewelry he looked so like an old woman that we dubbed him Aunt Mary. His manners were no better than poor Hostein Chee’s, but his manner was superb. Under his outer trousers, which flapped loose, he wore bed ticking, which served him for napkin, handkerchief, and towel, with princely dignity employed. Between the two Navajos our stock of sugar ran very low. He did us a good turn, however, by riding off to a nearby Ute camp and obtaining fresh horses. All those we had started with had succumbed. Not only Martha, but all of us were glad to exchange mounts for the tough little mules which had carried the packs in and were now willing to carry us out of Nonnezoche Boco. Toby bestrode Annie, who from being despised and rejected of all was now the prize. She never wandered, kept at an even pace, and never missed the trail. Annie is one of the few people in the world who could find her way to the bridge and back without a guide.
Another day brought us to the borders of Utah and Arizona. The Rainbow Bridge belongs to Utah, a day over the line. Piute Canyon crosses both states. We had passed it in Arizona and were now to cross it in Utah. But both states claim the glory of owning the most magnificent territory in the Union. If the Grand Canyon were more tremendous than any one thing we saw in these three days’ march, still it has not the cumulative effect of grandeur piled upon grandeur. Since the discovery of the Bridge in 1909 its discoverers and an increasing number of people who have seen this country have advocated making it a National Park. It is certain no park we now have could rival its stupendous uniqueness.
Canyon after canyon opened before us, painted in the distance with every hue imaginable. Piute Canyon was buff and pink; Copper canyon, following soon after, a gorgeous blaze of rich red and deep blue tones. Then came a succession of three smaller canyons each turned a different hue by the sun, the distance and the substance of the rock. We ascended and descended in the blazing heat, until it seemed as if all life had been a going up and a coming down. Toward sunset on the ninth day, a trail overlooking a long narrow valley ended abruptly in a pass cut through solid boulders which we could barely ride through. Beyond, unexpectedly, a broad vista of the Monument country spread like a vision of the promised land. Isolated cliffs pointed the valley, in every grotesque form. Rocks as high as Cleopatra’s Needle and the arch of Napoleon, and similarly shaped; new world sphinxes, organ rocks, trumpeting angels, shapes of beasts and men had been carved here in past ages by the freaks of wind and water. One of the busiest corners of the earth ages ago and now the loneliest and most desolate, its beauty was like a woman’s who had survived every passion, and lives in retrospect.
El Capitan, rising alone from the yellow sands, sailed before us like a full-rigged ship from sunset to the next morning, when we rode our last eighteen miles to Kayenta. The sight of it, and the orange dunes beyond spurred us all. Spontaneously we broke into a twelve mile canter. The little white mule Annie who had finally fallen to me, kept her freshness and speed and general pluckiness. She out-distanced them all by a length. We made a ludicrous picture as we came flying over the rocks and dunes and desert, shouting and galloping. Even the pack beasts, worn to bone since they departed from the corral, smelled Kayenta, and there was no stopping them. Navajos rode out to join us, leaving their herd of a thousand sheep to cross our path at their peril. We arrived not half an hour after the Indian messenger, sent ahead to tell of our coming.
How civilized the remote little trading post seemed! How ultra-æsthetic to eat at a table with napkins and table linen, food passed by a neat Navajo maid! What throngs of people inhabited Kayenta,—more than we had met altogether in ten days! We bathed who had not seen water, we feasted and relaxed, and bought Navajo necklaces in the store. To our surprise the same old women we had left behind us were still alive and scarcely grayer or more toothless; we had not been away for years, as had seemed from our isolation in the still canyons where all sense of time disappeared and we lived in eternity along with the rocks and sky.
That evening, as we sat on wool bags heaped high near the post, a group of young Navajos came and announced they wished to welcome our return with a serenade. They grouped in a circle, very bashful at our applause, and while one held a lantern, began to sing their ancient tribal songs. I shall never forget the weird setting of rolling hills of orange sand, and moonlighted red cliffs behind the circle of their dark figures. Lightly swaying to the music, they began a savage chanting, with rhythmically placed falsetto yelps and guttural shouts. Their voices had real beauty, and the music suited their surroundings. They started with a mild song of hunting or love, but soon they were singing war songs. Our blood stirred to an echo of something we knew many lives ago. The lantern light made a wilder, wider arc; the shouts became more fierce; the group swayed faster and swung into a wide ellipse. Worked upon by the hypnotism of their war-music, they locked arms about each other in tight grip; for the moment they were ages away from Carlisle. The blackness, the orange hills, the swinging light, the shouts, the listening stillness of the desert,—that will always be Kayenta for me.