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One version is a party of Spanish horsemen
entered the canyon in the winter of
1804, possibly on a slave raid, which
would not have been inconsistent with
past practices. The Navajos had been
warned of their approach, and after hiding
their women, children and aged in a
cave high on the walls of del Muerto,
scattered for parts unknown. The cave
was well fortified and had been used
many times in fending off Ute raids. As
the column of cavalry wound its way up
the canyon, an old woman, who had been
mistreated as a Spanish captive in the
past, was unable to control her hatred.
Her insulting screams disclosed the Indians'
position. The soldiers fired into
the cave and destroyed the entire group.
It is still possible to see the bullet marks
on the roof of the cave and the bones of
the victims scattered on the floor.
Today only Navajos live in the canyon.
Thunderbird Lodge arranges tours
and travel is limited to four-wheel-drive
vehicles, but only when accompanied by
an authorized guide. Regulations are for
your own safety. The canyon floor is a
dry river bed and hazardous, filled with
fine, water-borne sand which reaches
depths of 40 feet and turns "quick" when
saturated. Occasional flash floods have
taken more than one vehicle, and in the
spring the Rio de Chelly brims up to the
walls, hemming the canyon in on both
24
sides and leaving no foothold available.
The visitor is unprepared for his first
glimpse of the canyon. Its entrance is
both casual yet dramatic. A weapons carrier,
the official tour vehicle, passes
through a nondescript neck of land,
rounds a corner, and a beautiful valley
opens up, bordered by cliffs with walls
as unbroken as if sliced by a mighty
sword. This is Canyon del Muerto. The
driver shifts into low gear and the carrier
tackles the heavy sand.
Many small, isolated ruins are visible.
As far as archeologists can determine,
the canyon reflects a cultural backwater
of sorts which has never supported a
population greater than today's. From all
evidence it appears to have served primarily
as a sanctuary for the weaker
tribes.
Its architecture reflects this. Cliff
houses cluster near the top of walls that
dip from the plateau in dizzy plunges. It
is neckbreaking merely to stare up and
search them out and impossible not to
experience a feeling of awe or admiration
from the courage of the craftsmen
who hung far out in space and daubed
mud and bricks into a home that remains
intact 700 years later.
Some of the ruins do not look abandoned
at all. When the sun picks out
the windows in the walls, amid the shadows,
you brush your eyes to make sure
you do not see a half-naked man climbing
up a ladder or a sleek-haired woman
glide gracefully through a doorway, balancing
a basket on her head.
The drive continues up the beautiful
canyon, past Antelope House, with the
color of its prehistoric paintings still
bright, past Standing Cow Ruins, where
high, fragrant bee balm begins to crowd
the road. Now and again the driver stops
to hand candy to Navajo children, who,
invisible a moment before, wait gravely
beside the road.
Clumps of cottonwood extend mile
after mile. Rocks, like cathedrals, stand
guard at every turn, so close together at
times that the sky is held prisoner in a
wedge of blue. A few acres of corn with
beans and melons between the hills,
planted in the Navajo manner, lie at the
base of the cliffs. These are the same
little farms that supported the Hopis in