Our tent was pitched at the foot of Second Mesa in Arizona's Hopi reservation. We had biked over 60 miles that day. It was time to enjoy the splendour of the desert evening as the mesa above us became more intense with the deepening shadows. The distant buttes glowed pink and then violet against the mauves of the countryside and the sky.
It had been a long hot day, our first in the desert. We had left Winslow at sunrise anxious about water. Could we carry enough to get us to second mesa? We had seven large water bottles on the tandem. A friendly woman at the tourist office had suggested that perhaps we would find water at the Little Painted Desert Recreational area seven miles out of town but she had no other suggestions to offer.
Those first seven miles were delightful. It was cool and to my joy the arid desert was in bloom. Sitting at the back of the tandem, pedaling to a pleasant cadence on the flat road, I had time to admire the wonders of the desert flora. The morning air was gently perfumed by the evening primroses whose large white blooms were still open for pollination by moths. Yellow and white daisies of different sizes bloomed on bushes right on to the road verge. Yellow and orange Mexican Caps on slender stalks swayed in the faint breeze. Prickly pear cactuses with brilliant shocking pink flowers glowed at the base of tall yucca lilies with spikes of creamy bells. When we arrived at the recreational area I got off the bike and was so busy looking closely at the flowers that I almost fell down into the Painted Desert that suddenly appeared at my feet where the land dropped steeply away into a shallow valley. Erosion had carved the valley into weird shapes painted the loveliest pale rose, mauve, beige and yellow shades.
There was no water at the recreational area. Just sets of picnic tables under shady roofs and a couple of "long drop" toilets. We would have to do with the six and a half bottles of water we had left. Lunch was in the shade of a bus stop shelter watching passing trucks driven by Native Americans about their business in the lonely desert landscape. At Second Mesa where we arrived just as we drank the last of our water, we were to discover just how kind they were. We had to get permission to camp behind the trading store and the manager kindly offered the use of the bathroom facilities.
Next to the trading store was a gallery of Hopi Indian Arts and Craft. The afternoon passed rapidly as we chatted to the two craftspeople at work there. The silversmith was polishing a silver bracelet he had just made. All his jewellery was decorated with traditional Hopi designs, tiny figures and symbols which he delighted to interpret for us. The other craftsman was making Katchika dolls. He explained to us that these wooden dolls were traditionally carved as teaching aids for the children of the tribe. Each doll embodied a different aspect of Hopi culture. They were carefully carved and then decorated by burning with a fine iron instrument.
The young women who served in the shop told us that they lived on top of the mesa. These stone homes had been the homes of the Hopi for hundreds of years: perhaps the oldest continually inhabited homes in the U.S.A.
The next day, Sunday, we biked 21 miles to Keams Canyon. It was a short biking day because we knew we would have many more miles to go to find another place with water. Keams Canyon is another tiny Hopi community. We biked in just before 10 a.m. and at the garage I asked if there was a church in town. We were directed to the Baptist church and joined a few people for their Sunday worship. To our delight they sang some Hopi hymns. The sermon however was very definitely English. The pastor was a retired university lecturer from Britain! Over cold drinks and biscuits after the service we chatted to the kindly people of the congregation. To our surprise and delight we were offered the use of the church guesthouse for the night. What a pleasure it was to spend the rest of the hot day relaxing in a cool house enjoying all the facilities of civilization instead of camping in the sparse shade of the town's tiny campsite.
We were refreshed and ready for the next long day. We climbed out of Keams Canyon and found ourselves biking on a high plateau four or five thousand feet above sea level. The vegetation changed completely. At this height junipers and Pinyon pines flourished making the countryside greener and lusher. We had a breakfast stop at the trading store at Steamboat but it was only when we left the settlement did we see where the strange name had come from. We were surrounded by weirdly shaped flat top buttes, the first of which faced us like the prow of a gigantic ship.
It was cooler at this altitude and a strong wind blew from the south as we biked west. Then we reached a junction and found ourselves biking due north. The wind literally blew us down to the settlement at Canyon de Chelly where, in a huge free campsite among touring American with recreational vehicles and giant caravans, we camped for the night.
Canyon de Chelly was a surprise. We had decided to miss the Grand Canyon. It was the height of the tourist season and we were unlikely to find a place to stay, as we had made no bookings. Instead we found this wonderfully intimate canyon where you could peer down and see tractors at work in small green fields and the ruins of ancient Native American settlements on ledges clinging to the steep yellow walls of the canyon. This canyon is still home to a community of Navajo Indians, a place both sacred and much loved by all the people of the tribe.
We biked the next day along the north edge of the canyon stopping at various viewpoints to peer down into the canyon to see ancient ruins, small settlements and strangely shaped eroded outcrops. Our road eventually left the canyon and climbed into higher country. At eight thousand feet we were among Ponderosa pines. Our campsite that night was by a fishing reservoir. We were alone among the pines where woodpeckers were at work on the treetrunks around us.
All around humming birds were at work sucking pollen from the many trumpet shaped red flowers. To our delight our red toilet bag attracted one greedy little bird. It hovered over the bag, wings awhirr until it realized that it had been deceived.
The next day we travelled due south again to Window Rock, the capital of the Navajo Nation. We dropped to three thousand feet, from green mountain scenery, through brilliantly painted mesas and buttes to endless flat plains; from Ponderosa forests, through Pinyon pines and junipers to the desert scrub where the hot sun blazed on dry grasses, prickly cactuses and spiky yuccas. Wherever we were the vegetation was in bloom. The road verge was a constantly changing kaleidoscope of flowers. Flax bushes stood like bunches of blue posies in the sandy soil. Giant white evening primroses produced flowers five or six inches in diameter. Whoever said the desert was a God-forsaken place?
One of our problems on the next part of our journey was accommodation. We like a shower at night after a hot day on the road. If possible we do not choose to camp wild. We started the tour at Cottonwood and spent the first night in a National Park campsite with no water! Winslow had motels aplenty and in Window Rock we stayed in the charming Navajo Nation Inn. After that we had about 200 miles to Santa Fe with, as far as we knew, no official campsites or other accommodation. At Window Rock we met two local young men on mountain bikes. We got chatting and asked them about places to stay. Eighty miles to the west at Crownpoint they suggested we go to the Catholic Mission and ask for Sister Barb. Once again the good Christians of the area allowed us the use of a guesthouse. The next day, 60 miles further on, we put up our tent outside a store: the only building at Torreon. We were allowed to use the bathroom in the store. A young Dutch cyclist going the other way also camped with us there. Finally beyond the tiny hamlet of Regina we camped again without water at a National Park picnic spot among Ponderosa pines.
It was at this point that we crossed the Continental divide between the hamlets of Crownpoint and Cuba. What a let down that was! It was marked on our map but not on Route 9, the two-lane highway we pedaled along. We were on a high wide plain, which stretched away in all directions. We had no sense of being at the point where the rain which fell, drained either into the Colorado River and the Pacific or into the Rio Grande and the Gulf of Mexico.
Our journey ended at Abiquiu, New Mexico where Georgina O'Keefe had once lived. Graffiti welcomed us on adobe walls in the village.
"Tourists go home" we read. But we had experienced nothing but kindness and a wonderful welcome from all the good people we had met along our way.
©2001 Irene Shepard
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