To reach the village, one follows the winding river bed for several miles between cliffs of beautifully colored sandstone, flame, pink or purple as the light plays on it. Some of these walls stand nearly a thousand feet high. The river, nearly dry now, and occasionally disappearing underground, had been a torrent in the spring, as we saw from the black water marks high over our heads. During the winter, the Indians are obliged to live in caves halfway up these walls, while the river inundates their villages, carrying away their flimsy willow houses on its tide. Some Havasupai take to Hilltop for the winter. Then when the river returns to its banks in spring and the Havasupai climb down from their chilly caves, the valley becomes a little Paradise, luxuriant and secret. The little pale blue stream is bordered all along its course with beds of watercress a dozen feet deep, sharpened deliciously by the lime water in which it grows. The bleak and thorny mesquite is transformed by masses of feathery leaves, and its heavily pollened yellow catkins fill the narrow valley with a scent like lilies and willow sap. The willows native to this region wear slenderer leaves than our home trees, and are festooned with fragrant lavender flowers, shaped like doll orchids. Never have I seen such lavishness of cactus in bloom. The prickly pear creeps with its giant claws across the sand, its red blossoms giving place to rows of unsightly purple bulbs, which later in the year make good eating.
HORSEMAN IN HAVASUPAI CANYON, ARIZONA.
The small dark spot on the edge of the floor of the canyon is the Horseman, giving
an idea of the scale.
We gathered armfuls of the watercress, our first bit of green food in weeks, for the West lives mainly by virtue of the can-opener, and has yet to discover the value of vitamines. Our horses splashed to their knees in the cooling stream. From time to time a sharp turn in the canyon displayed long vistas from lateral canyons, ending in far-off mountains which may have been part of the Father of all Canyons. Frequently the river dropped underground, as rivers do here, taking all the spring verdure with it, and reappeared again to make a veritable Happy Valley, the like of which few ever see on this earth.
Narrow at the entrance, it widens to an oval surrounded by thousand-foot walls glowing with color, its floor of new alfalfa shining like green enamel. Giant, shady cottonwoods line the river and the lazy road meandering beside it along the valley. A deep blue sky, nearly hidden by sun-flecked leaves, arches over rose-red cliffs. Before the agency, women, with stolid dark faces and head-dresses made of four brilliant handkerchiefs sewn together into a long scarf, gathered, chattering with excitement at sight of the white women, making simple friendly overtures, offering us yellow plums, and giggling good-naturedly at our riding breeches. They themselves wore calico skirts billowing to the ground, in a style popular in the eighties.
The agent hospitably put his house at our disposal, though he was preparing to leave soon for another post. He was a homesick man. Life in Paradise is bad for the civilized. He and his wife were the only white people in the canyon, and he admitted that at times the Indians were too much with him;—while we were there, in fact, they camped all day on his lawn. And since all that he uses must be packed down the trail, he was obliged to dispense with most unessentials and many essentials. It must be admitted, too, that this reservation has been usually neglected by the Indian Commissioners, which makes life hard both for the agent and the tribe.
Though this natural garden has long harbored various tribes, the length of the Havasupais’ tenancy and origin is uncertain. They are possible akin to the Wallapis and Yumas. Their history tells of a slow drifting northward from the Tonto basin, then the San Francisco peaks, and later, the Grand Canyon. Their skin is intensely brown, almost mulatto, their short, black hair in ill-kempt thatches. Having long known bitter poverty, they lack the beautiful silver trappings of their northern neighbors. The tribe has dwindled to a few hundred people. For years they had to travel more than a hundred miles to a government physician; consequently tubercular ulcers, trachoma and other revolting diseases ravaged the tribe, leaving the fortunate survivors so unbeautiful to behold, and unpleasant to live among that reservation agents, often inferior themselves, treated them with scant sympathy or open contempt. The men are fair farmers, and the women rival the Pomos in basketry, but their remoteness prevents their making a living thereby. Their lovely valley is too narrow for the sheep grazing of the Navajos, and no oil wells have made them millionaires, like the Cherokees. With the winter floods, their life becomes meager and rheumatic. The government seems to assume that the unimportant handful, so inconveniently remote, is likely to die out soon,—so why trouble about them?
PANORAMA OF HAVASUPAI CANYON, ARIZONA.