Paris to Berlin (part 1)

FOR THE SUMMER of 2023, Terry and I decided on a European cycling tour. I did my homework, and after a thorough appraisal of prospects, we chose a bike-and-barge tour along the picturesque Mosel River Valley, renowned for its legendary Riesling vineyards. With this core component of our trip secured, we then pieced together the rest of the itinerary, culminating in a comprehensive, 20-day European vacation. Done and dusted. 

Our plan was to fly into Paris for a short stay before embarking on the bike tour. After that, we would visit Terry's brother and sister-in-law in Berlin. In total, our travels would span three countries: France, Luxembourg, and Germany. The details were falling into place. All we had to do now was start packing, right? No.

Leading up to our departure, I found myself in a race against time to ensure that my new passport was processed and delivered to me. During the Pandemic, two million Americans had let their passports expire (for the record, I was not one of them). Now everyone was wanting to travel overseas again, and the State Department was hit with an avalanche of renewal requests. What once took weeks to process, now took months. Despite the down-to-the-wire nature of this debacle, I am pleased to report that everything ultimately fell into place (after much hand-wringing). So, without further ado, on the Paris…

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CITY of LIGHT

Paris has a long history, dating back to its origins as a fortified Celtic settlement on the River Seine. Mentioned by Julius Caesar around 50 BC as “Luteciam Parisiorum”, it evolved dramatically over the next twenty centuries. Dubbed the "City of Light" during the Age of Enlightenment, it became a hub for progressive thinkers like Voltaire, who championed freedom of speech and religion. In 1878, Paris became the first city to install electric streetlights (again, City of Light), demonstrating its innovative spirit. Now it is home to two million people, making it the fourth-largest city in Europe. Capturing all that Paris has to offer in just two days is impossible, so we prioritized our itinerary to experience as much as we could and cherished every moment. To experience it all, we’ll need to come back!

Jet-lagged on the banks of the Seine, soon after we arrived.

River houseboats

3,000-year-old Luxor Obelisk, gifted to France by Egypt in 1836.

   On foot in the 6th Arrondissement

The city is divided into 20 administrative districts known as “arrondissements,” with each having an elected mayor. These arrondissements are arranged in a clockwise spiral pattern, often likened to a snail shell, starting from the center of the city. The 1st Arrondissement is situated on the Right Bank of the River Seine at the Louvre Palace. Our good friend, Rob, had recently stayed in the 6th Arrondissement with his family and highly recommended it. He described it as a relatively quiet, mostly residential district that embraced the luxuriant Luxembourg Garden. Most of the key attractions we wished to visit would be within a 25-minute walk from here. It sounded good to me—we booked a room at a small, quaint hotel adjacent to Luxembourg Garden. 

Arrondissements of Paris

6th Arrondissement

The 6th arrondissement has played a significant role throughout Parisian history. It is well known for its vibrant café culture and as a hub for revolutionary authors and poets in the early 20th century, including American Lost Generation writers like Hemingway and Fitzgerald (Café de Flore on Saint Germain Blvd was one of their favorite hangouts). It is also the home to the French intelligentsia and continues to be a major locale for art galleries and fashion stores. It is also one of the most expensive areas in Paris to live.

6th Arrondissement

A small-scale version of the Statue of Liberty in Luxembourg Gardens - 6th Arrondissement

    Toy sailboats on the fountain pond of 300-year-old Luxembourg Palace - 6th Arrondissement

The LOUVRE

Located on the Right Bank of the Seine River, the Louvre is home to some of the most iconic and celebrated artworks of Western civilization, including the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Winged Victory. With 35,000 works of art, it's the largest—and most-visited—museum in the world. But the sheer scale of the Louvre is also its biggest drawback. Trying to see everything in a single visit would be an exercise in futility—and we only had two days. Hence, we passed on it for this trip. Maybe next time.

Tuileries Garden with Louvre Palace in background.

    Louvre Palace

Perhaps we didn't get to see the inside, but we wandered around the outside and took photos. The Louvre Palace has a rich, centuries-old history. Built in the late 12th century under Philip II, it served as the primary royal residence until 1546, when Francis I converted it into a display for the royal art collection. In 1682, Louis XIV moved to Versailles (in the country, 12 miles outside of Paris), leaving the Louvre as a museum for royal artworks. It was opened as a public art museum in 1793 after the French Revolution, marking a significant transition from royal palace to a national institution. 

Louvre Plaza

     The Louvre, old and new.

The ORSAY MUSEUM

The Orsay Museum is on the Left Bank of the Seine, across the river from the Louvre. It houses an impressive collection of French art dating from 1848 to 1914 and boasts the world's largest collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionist masterpieces. Here you will find the works of Monet, Degas, Renoir, Seurat, Gauguin, and the famously eccentric van Gogh, who cut his ear off to make an impression (no pun intended). Terry was certainly looking forward to the Orsay, as she is a big fan of the Impressionist heavyweights. Our museum guide, Nicolas, was an engaging art aficionado. He transformed our tour into an enlightening art appreciation class, deepening our understanding and enjoyment of the artwork. Without him, I would have been merely looking at paintings on the wall.

The Orsay has a fascinating history intertwined with the transportation and architectural evolution of Paris. Originally built as the Orsay Railway Station in 1898, it served as a bustling terminus for the Paris-Orléans rail line. Over time, the station's short platforms became unsuitable for the new, longer mainline trains, and was downgraded to inner-city rail traffic just prior to World War II. Part of the building became a mailing center. Other parts were used to store junk. But overall, the building was falling into disrepair. Recognizing its historical significance, conservation groups lobbied to have the old station classified as a Historic Monument in 1978, protecting it from demolition. This paved the way for its conversion into an art museum, which opened in 1986. Today, the Orsay exemplifies adaptive reuse of historic architecture, blending its grand past as a transportation hub with its current role as a world-renowned museum. I like happy endings.

In 1867, French sculptor, Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux, was commissioned by the city of Paris to create a centerpiece for a fountain in the Luxembourg Garden. The bronze statue, which he called "Four Parts of the World Holding a Celestial Sphere," depicted a celestial sphere being held aloft by four female figures representing Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. As a staunch abolitionist, Carpeaux subtly incorporated a message into his work—the figure representing America (at right in photo above) is standing on the broken chain of slavery that is shackled to Africa's ankle. Overall, Parisians were not particularly fond of Carpeaux’s masterpiece, and he passed away soon after its completion. This is the way art often works—its value and significance are only appreciated after the artist has departed. Now it has a home in the Orsay.

Nicolas explains Edgar Degas’ Blue Dancers.

Impressionist style originated with a group of Paris-based artists whose independent exhibitions brought them to prominence during the 1870s and 1880s. The name derives from the title of a Claude Monet work, Impression, Sunrise. Here are my personal favorites from a morning at the Orsay…

Impression Sunrise, by Claude Monet - 1872
The painting that started an art movement.

Sunlight Opening in Fog, by Claude Monet - 1904

Windmill Galette Ball, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir - 1876 

Starry Night Over the Rhône, by Vincent van Gogh - 1888

The Circus, by Georges Seurat - 1891

Tahitian Girls, by Paul Gauguin - 1892

Profile of a Woman, by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec - 1896

The ORANGERIE MUSEUM

The Orangerie Museum in the Tuileries Garden offers a contemplative space to immerse oneself in Impressionist and post-Impressionist art. Its centerpiece is Claude Monet's expansive Water Lily murals, which exemplify the artist's mastery of light and color. While the museum showcases works by other renowned artists as well, Monet's presence defines the space. Which is the reason we visited it. 

This photo was taken from the Orangerie, looking across to the Orsay on other side of the river.

The Orangerie was built in 1852 for storing the citrus trees in Tuileries Garden during the cold winters, and it later hosted diverse events like concerts, art exhibits, and dog shows (yes, dog shows). In 1922, it transitioned into providing a space for artists to display their works, breathing new life into the building. Monet—now in his eighties—was involved in the redesign process, integrating art and environment, with his Water Lily murals finding a permanent home. The museum opened in 1927, just a few months after Monet's passing.

Monet’s Water Lilies consists of eight panels. Each panel is 6½ feet high, spanning 296 feet in length once assembled. They are arranged in two oval rooms which form the infinity symbol. Overhead skylights allow the mural to be observed in natural light.

Famous Picasso paintings at the Orangerie...

Large Still Life, by Pablo Picasso - 1917

Woman with Tambourine, by Pablo Picasso - 1925

NOTRE-DAME CATHEDRAL

The Notre-Dame Cathedral is a 13th century marvel that has seen its fair share of tumultuous times. From being sacked during the French Revolution to the devastating fire that gutted much of it in 2019, this national treasure has endured. It has witnessed the might of medieval kings, the coronation of Emperor Napoleon, and the funerals of many presidents of the French Republic. Victor Hugo's iconic novel The Hunchback of Notre-Dame sparked a 19th century restoration effort, but today the cathedral remains closed for extensive rebuilding after the recent fire. The best Terry and I could do was stroll around the construction zone perimeter, where an official sign declared that it would be completed in time for the 2024 Summer Olympics. But I don’t know. Just looking at the scale of the project makes that timeline seem overly ambitious. (Our visit to Paris was the summer of ‘23, the year before the Olympics—and Notre-Dame repairs were not completed in time for the games. Reopening is now scheduled for December 2024.) 

Major reconstruction underway (photo taken in July 2023). Scheduled to reopen December 8th, 2024.

Medieval gargoyles and grotesques ward off evil from the cathedral.

“Why was I not made of stone like thee?”
Quasimodo in 1939 film, Hunchback of Notre Dame. 

The EIFFEL TOWER

The Eiffel Tower was certainly on our must-see list. It was the closest thing we did that resembled a Disneyland ride, but hey—it’s the EIFFEL TOWER! Constructed as the centerpiece for the 1889 World's Fair, its aesthetics initially faced snobbish criticism. However, it has since become a global French icon and one of the most recognizable structures in the world. In fact, it is also the most visited monument in the world with an entrance fee. So, yeah. Disneyland with a French twist.

The Eiffel Tower is named after its brilliant engineer, Gustave Eiffel, whose company designed and constructed it (Eiffel was also responsible for the iron framework inside the Statue of Liberty). At a staggering height of 1,083 feet, the wrought-iron lattice tower was an engineering marvel for its time, surpassing the Washington Monument to become the tallest man-made structure in the world, a title it held for 41 years until the Chrysler Building in New York City was completed in 1930.   

The task of drawing the components was complicated by the intricate angles involved in the design and the degree of precision required. The position of rivet holes was specified to within one millimeter, and the angles worked out to one second of arc (1 arcsec = 0.000278°)—extremely strict tolerances for the day. The finished components arrived at the construction site on horse-drawn carts from a factory in a nearby Parisian suburb. All the pieces were then carefully bolted together and hoisted into place. In all, over 18,000 iron pieces were joined together using 2.5 million rivets.

Completion to first level - March, 1888

Completion to second level - August, 1888

Completion to third level - March, 1889

The tower has three levels, or platforms, with restaurants on the first and second. The third level stands 906 feet above ground, accessible by climbing over a thousand steps—or taking the elevators, which most visitors prefer. Initially, Gustave Eiffel had a private apartment on the third level, which offered stunning views in all directions. He entertained distinguished guests here during the World's Fair, including the Prince of Wales, Thomas Edison, French stage sensation, Sarah Bernhardt, and Buffalo Bill Cody, whose Wild West show was an attraction at the Exposition. If anyone wants to know—we took the elevators.

     The view from the top.

One of the last things we did in Paris was a champagne river cruise. Santé! 

BULLET TRAIN to METZ

With our whirlwind Paris fling coming to an end, it was time to pack up and head to the train station. Our next destination was Metz, which is where the bike-and-barge tour would begin in a couple of days. At the station we hopped on the TGV, a high-speed rail system that would cover the stretch to Metz in just 90 minutes. The prospect of hurtling through the countryside at speeds up to 200 mph was exhilarating. We settled into a relaxing, smooth ride, watching fields of grain fly past the windows. The seats were comfortable. I dozed off. And in no time at all, we had arrived at our destination! (We don’t have trains like this in the USA because? Anybody?)

Bound for Metz...

     Metz and the Mosel River.

Room with a view.

After the hustle and bustle of Paris, it was a relief to check into our hotel and immediately start to unwind. Our room, tucked up on the top floor (no elevator) was small and vintage, but afforded a breathtaking view of a 600-year-old cathedral across the plaza. Welcome to Metz. That evening, after dinner, we stepped out to explore a town that seemed to flow at a more peaceful pace. Graceful swans glided along the Mosel River. Children played in a nearby park. We could sense the anticipation for tomorrow’s Bastille Day celebration, as merchants bustled about, preparing. It was exactly the tranquil respite we needed after the energy of Paris. We simply wandered and soaked up the vibe. Tomorrow was another day, and another chapter. 

Temple Neuf. Completed in 1904 when Metz was a part of Germany.

Navigate to...

PART 2 

   

Navajoland (part 3)

In the previous episode, we concluded with me traipsing around Monument Valley with my canine companions, watching the sunset from Forrest Gump Point with fellow Gumpies. But though my journey was sadly nearing its end, the best is yet to come. More Monument Valley... and then on to Canyon de' Chelly. 

hhhhhhhh

  Sunrise with Carl  

I MET CARL at 5:00 a.m. near the entrance to the Monument Valley Tribal Park. He and his brother run Phillips Photography and I had hired him for a sunrise photo safari. After brief introductions, I grabbed my pack and climbed into his 4x4 Blazer. He put it in gear, and we were off, navigating a winding dirt road in pitch darkness that only headlights could pierce. I soon lost all sense of direction and felt unsure of our location exactly—other than we were somewhere in Monument Valley. But Carl was calm and collected, taking this fork in the road, and that fork in the road… He grew up in these parts. 

     Our first stop was in front of a giant rock monolith, which was to be my subject. I couldn’t see it per se, but I knew it was there because its dark mass blocked out half the stars in the night sky. I set up my tripod on the side of the road.

     “You know how to shoot in Manual Mode, right?” Carl asked, nodding at my camera.

     Huh? I was a deer caught in the headlights. I’ve had my fancy Nikon now for nine years and never once shot anything except in Auto Mode. I was embarrassed. I had taken all those photography classes (50 years ago!) and I couldn’t remember a thing.  

     Carl to the rescue. He knew my camera better than I, and deftly adjusted the settings for shooting in manual. Over the next few hours, I would learn plenty from this dude on how to take photos in low-light conditions. With each stop, the sky would become a little brighter, the stars giving way to peach and amber light on the eastern horizon. We ran into Carl’s brother, Carlos, on a low ridge where we could catch the sun coming up. He had a couple of clients along with the same intention. They would be the only people we encountered all morning.  

     

    West Mitten Butte

    East Mitten Butte

THE FIRST RAYS of the sun warmed my face as I snapped photos of the Totem Pole in the distance. Nearby, I could overhear Carlos explaining to his clients how the Navajo believed everything in the world had a spirit—rocks, trees, rivers, animals, the sun, moon, humans—and that it was vital they stay in balance and harmony. I missed the rest of the conversation because they were too far away. But what was clear is that his clients were not buying it.  

     Carl had been relatively quiet during the first part of the tour before sunrise. When he did talk, it had been sparse with many pauses in the conversation—which is common in Navajo culture: they speak softly and don’t blabber. But after we waved farewell to Carlos and his clients, he soon began to tell me a story. 

     “There are two worlds,” he said as he veered up a sandy wash (thank God we had four-wheel-drive). “There is your world... And there is the Navajo world...” He steered around a boulder before continuing. “Those two worlds do not overlap much.”

I had no clue why he was bringing this up. Was it something his brother’s clients had commented on? I was uncertain, so I kept quiet. 

     “When a Navajo leaves the Rez, it changes him,” he went on. “If he is gone a long time, it changes him a lot. He is not the same person when he comes back.”

     When I asked Carl if he had ever lived off the Rez, he nodded. “Las Vegas.”

     He went on to tell me that he had moved to Vegas and worked as an ironworker. However, when the Great Recession struck, he lost his job and found himself back home, working for his father's photography tour company. Ironically, despite not being particularly drawn to photography as a child, he discovered a newfound appreciation for it as an adult. After his father's passing, Carl and his brother Carlos reformed the family business and established Phillips Photography. He confided that he had a dream shortly afterwards in which his father imparted a noteworthy piece of advice, urging him to "Make it the way you breathe"—a Diné idiom that lacks an English translation, other than approach the challenge with the same natural ease and necessity as breathing. 

The 400-foot high Totem Pole on the left.

    Merrick Butte

Carl (left) and his brother Carlos.

WE STOPPED near a sandstone arch and Carl shut off the engine. We got out. While I snapped photos of the arch, all aglow in the early morning sun, Carl wandered off into the desert. I joined up with him a few minutes later, standing atop a large sand dune. The view from here yielded a geological masterpiece of sculpted dunes and towering mesas; formidable terrain shaped over eons. 

     “This is where I was standing when I saw it,” he said. He faced a nearby mesa and made a subtle jut with his chin, pursing his lips as he did so. This is the Navajo way of pointing something out. They never ever point with their finger—to do so is rude at best and menacing at worst (sorcerers and witches point when they cast bad luck onto somebody).  

     “Saw what?” I asked, scrutinizing the rust-toned mesa that he had “pointed” to.

     There was a lingering pause. And then he told me.

     It had occurred several years ago while Carl was guiding a client on a sunset tour. The sun had gone down, and they were returning to the car in the fading light. That’s when he saw it. And what he witnessed was, by all accounts, incredible—a profound moment that affirmed his purpose and connection to this place. While the specifics are not mine to share, Carl's account speaks to the deep-rooted beliefs entrenched in Diné traditions. For them, the physical and spiritual realms coexist, where dreams, visions and unexplained phenomena are central to daily life. This perspective can challenge those grounded in Western, empirical understanding. But that’s a discussion for another day.

  The Anasazi  

I WAS FOURTEEN years old when my grandparents took me to see the Mesa Verde cliff dwellings. As I stared up at the 800-year-old adobe village, tucked into the recess of a massive cliff, I couldn't help but wonder about the mysterious people who had built it. Who were they? What had prompted them to construct something so ambitious in such an inaccessible location? And where did they go after abandoning it all? I deemed all these unanswered questions fascinating. 

     Anthropologists now know that the Anasazi didn’t just suddenly vanish—they were hiding in plain sight. The Pueblo tribes of today—Hopi, Zuni, and various Rio Grande Puebloans—are considered their direct descendants, and the term Anasazi ("Ancient Enemy" in Navajo) is no longer used officially, out of respect for the Pueblo people. Ancestral Puebloan is now the preferred term for the enigmatic cliff dwellers. Though, Anasazi sounds sexier.

     The Four Corners region had been inhabited by various tribes for millennia, but around 750 A.D., a more advanced "elite group" began constructing adobe villages in Chaco Canyon. These Elites were either from or heavily influenced by the Toltec culture in central Mexico. Over the next three centuries, the Anasazi spread throughout the San Juan Basin, with the larger communities in Chaco Canyon serving as the central hub for commerce and political power. Extensive trade networks were established with Mesoamerica, and the Elites gained control over corn production, which only strengthened their dominance even further. This period of thriving development is referred to as the Chaco Phenomenon, the greatest indigenous empire in North America, with a population of 30,000 or more. And then, it collapsed.

Authentic Anasazi pottery is nearly priceless.
       If you have to ask how much, you can't afford it.  

THE DECLINE of the Anasazi civilization can be traced back to a prolonged mega-drought that began around 1130 A.D. The lack of rainfall severely impacted crop production, leading to depleted granaries. This scarcity of food resources led farmers to question the supposed magical powers of the Elite's priests, sowing seeds of doubt and unrest. Civil strife and intratribal wars raged for years, further destabilizing their society. When the Chaco Canyon power hub dissolved, its population dispersed to outlying areas, constructing small, fortified villages into the sides of cliffs as a means of survival in the face of water scarcity. The Chaco Phenomena had come to an end. By the time the Navajo-Apache people arrived in the 14th century, the Anasazi had seemed to vanish, leaving behind deserted cliff dwellings and the ruins in Chaco Canyon. 

     Diné oral history recounts the fate of the Ancestral Pueblo in the metaphoric narrative of The Big Gambler. In the story, Sun Spirit has an insatiable desire for a precious turquoise stone that belongs to the Anasazi in Chaco Canyon, and he sends his first-born son, Big Gambler, to fetch it—and anything else he wishes to take—by any means. The datura plant, gaming, and betting the odds all play a part in Big Gambler's scheme of drugging his adversaries and filching everything they have—including the bountiful rain—and leaving them destitute and enslaved. How much of this cautionary tale of greed and exploitation is true, is anyone’s guess. But recent archeological evidence supports a violent end was likely.

  Canyon de 'Chelly  

THE LAST STOP of my journey was Chinle (pop. 3,800), gateway to the extraordinary Canyon de ’Chelly. This winding gorge, carved deep into the Colorado Plateau, has served as home for various indigenous peoples for countless centuries. Today, it is designated as a National Monument, co-managed by the National Park Service and the Navajo Nation. There was no escaping it—visiting de ’Chelly felt like the perfect finale to an epic adventure.

     I spent my first day exploring both the north and south rims of the canyon, hiking numerous trails to breathtaking views in the early morning and late-afternoon light. The solitude was profound. And Toby and Wolfgang, ever the adventurous companions, certainly relished the chance to explore the trails. They were in their element as well. What was especially thrilling were the moments when I spotted the ancient ruins of a cliff dwelling in the opposite canyon wall, partially obscured by deep shadows. Canyon de ‘Chelly has borne witness to the ebb and flow of successive civilizations. The Anasazi inhabited it for 500 years, building elaborate dwellings in the clefts of giant canyon walls to create the highest concentration of cliff dwellings in North America (possibly the world?), and yet, by the 14th century, they mysteriously abandoned it all. In their wake, the Hopi periodically used the canyon for seasonal habitation for at least another two centuries. Finally, around the early 1700s, the Navajo moved in and claimed it as their own, a legacy that continues to this day. 

     When I returned to the trailhead at sunset, there was only one other vehicle in the parking lot: a dusty pickup truck. Two Diné teenagers, a boy and a girl, sat in the cab, sharing a bag of Doritos. The girl was shy, and the boy was polite, his long, black hair pulled back in the traditional braided ponytail. Their body language revealed their mutual attraction. Wolfy ambled up to the girl's door, tail wagging excitedly like you’re his long-lost friend, and begged for a chip (his standard M.O.). The girl laughed in delight. They were seniors at Chinle High School. It was a Friday, and a big football game awaited in town: Chinle versus Shiprock. It was another autumn evening in Navajo country.

Chinle’s tranquil campground was only a quarter full at most. 

    Black Rock Canyon fork.

Looking down at Antelope House from the canyon rim. Tucked into a recess at the base of the wall, the site was carefully excavated by archeologists in the 1970s. They uncovered stratified remnants from thousands of years of occupation, spanning Archaic Basket Maker, Anasazi, Hopi, and Navajo cultures.

The giant buttress at this canyon junction is called Fortress Rock. It served as a stronghold from which the
Navajo fought off attacks from Spanish soldiers in the 1700s, and then U.S. troops in 1863. Using notched
poles as ladders, the Navajo climbed to vantage points where they could shoot down on the enemy. 

Mummy Cave ruins as viewed from the canyon rim. The site is named after the two mummified bodies discovered here in 1882. The multi-story complex, which housed around 60-80 people, is believed to be the last occupied cliff dwelling before the Anasazi abandoned the canyon around 1300. 

        Canyon de ‘Chelly from the south rim.

The 800-foot Spider Rock plays into Diné mythology as the home of Spider Woman, who taught the Navajo women to weave. She serves as the portal that allows knowledge to pass between the sacred and the ordinary. Those who have not earned the capacity to listen will miss Spider Woman's voice when she speaks.

Tourists.

Sliding House Ruins. The dwellings were constructed on a steep, sloping ledge, and even the ingenious Anasazi builders couldn't prevent many structures from inching down the slope—hence the name. Despite the precarious footing, evidence suggests that 80-100 people occupied the site in its heyday.  

  In Canyon with Reggie  

THE LOGISTICS for exploring the interior of Canyon de ‘Chelly are more involved than my reconnoiter along its rim. For one, the entire floor of the canyon is private property; visitors cannot wander in on a whim. There are also multitudes of archaeological sites that must be protected. And then there’s the quicksand. All of this obliges one to secure a four-wheel-drive and Diné guide to get you past go. I booked with Canyon de ‘Chelly Tours in Chinle, which was founded by the late Leon Skyhorse Thomas, a veteran guide; documentary filmmaker; actor (had a small role in Oliver Stone’s “Natural Born Killers”). When he tragically passed away from COVID-19 complications two years ago (2020), his daughter, Tanya Yazzie, took over the business. She set me up with one of her guides, Reginald Etsiity, a.k.a. Reggie the Flute Player. He arrived at my campsite promptly at eight o'clock in the morning and we were off, bouncing and jostling into the canyon in his ready-for-anything Hummer. 

     Reggie knew the canyon like the back of his hand, having grown up in it. (Around forty families live in Canyon de ‘Chelly, off the grid with no electricity or running water.) When he was old enough to start an institutionalized education, he was bussed into Chinle. He didn’t speak a word of English until he learned it in elementary school—where he wasn't allowed to speak Diné, not even at recess. As teenagers, Reggie and his brother explored the canyons even further, ascending precarious routes that had been used for countless centuries to gain access to the canyon rim. He pointed out one of them to me: a meandering line that exploited a weakness up a 500-foot sandstone wall, and I could just make out the rickety wood ladder that was dangling up there, about halfway up. Without a doubt, one slip in the wrong place would be fatal. 

THE ROAD was nothing more than deep sand in places. We passed a rusted-out vehicle buried in it like a shipwreck. And then another one. I was glad Reggie was driving. There are in fact three major canyons here—Chelly, Muertos, and Monument—but Chelly is the longest at twenty miles. In addition, dozens of tributary canyons flow into these to create a labyrinth of disorientation, where sense of direction can be tricky for the uninitiated. Quicksand sloughs are common, especially in winter and spring, adding yet another hazard. But Reggie had mastered the technique—steady on the gas, but not too fast; a metrical dance of the steering wheel in the sandy sections… And NEVER, under any circumstances, hit the brakes.

     We came upon the first cliff dwelling, aptly named First Ruins, two miles into the canyon. A little further was Junction Ruins, located at the confluence of Muertos and ‘Chelly Canyons. Though ruins abound throughout the canyon, blending incognito onto ledges and in clefts, only the most significant ones—thirteen to be exact—have been reinforced and protected from further degradation. Scholars believe that around 800 people lived here during the Anasazi heyday in the 12th century. A thousand years ago, rainfall was significantly more than it is today. The creeks flowed year-round. Corn and squash flourished on the canyon floor, as did stands of pinyon pine. There were probably meadows. Deer were plentiful. This was the world of the Ancestral Puebloan—and within one generation, it was gone. 

     To get a closer look, Reggie parked the Hummer and we proceeded on foot through a cottonwood grove, scrambling up sandstone slabs to a line of ancient Moki steps that had been carved into steep rock. 

     “They go to the canyon rim,” Reggie said, nodding subtly at the steps. Not that we were going to the canyon rim. After climbing up several dozen steps, we traversed over to a prominent outcropping that afforded a picturesque view up and down the canyon. Directly across from us, I could see what appeared to be ruins on a ledge, though they looked too small to be dwellings. 

     “They’re granaries,” Reggie told me, explaining that the Anasazi intentionally placed them in high, difficult-to-access locations. They were constructed from sandstone rocks, sealed together with clay mortar to make the structure exceptionally watertight. Workers stacked corn neatly against the walls inside and built a fire in an open space in the middle of the room. While the fire burned, they would seal off the doorway with rocks and mortar to make it airtight. The fire would extinguish itself once it had consumed all the oxygen. And without oxygen, the corn inside wouldn't decay and could last for years (even centuries!). It was an ingenious system to ensure long-term food preservation.

First Ruin

Junction Ruin.

Navajo homestead.

Moki steps to the canyon rim.

DRIVING DEEPER into Canyon de 'Chelly, the next stop is White House Ruins, one of the most iconic and recognizable Anasazi ruins in the Desert Southwest. It got its name from the faded but distinctive white plaster used on the dwelling walls. Most of the ruins are tucked into a giant shelf that is eighty feet off the ground, accessible today only with an exceptionally tall ladder. The remains of a multi-story structure at the base of the cliff once connected to the dwellings above, and contained several circular kivas, reminiscent of those at Chaco Canyon (100 miles east of here). Based on dendrochronology research, scholars believe that White House was inhabited from 1060 to 1275 and housed approximately one hundred people. I took a great deal of photos here, wandering around and staring up in wonder. I tried to envision what it was like eight centuries ago with dozens of cliff dwellers going about their daily tasks while small children frolicked. If only these canyon walls could talk.

     The Ancestral Puebloans had vanished long before the Navajo arrived on the scene. Reggie conveyed that his people never resided in the abandoned cliff dwellings, believing them to be haunted by chindis. Even to walk among the ruins could disturb unseen forces and bring bad luck or death to the intruder: ominous reminders of a people that had disappeared long ago, leaving behind an aura of mystery.

White House Ruin.

        White House Ruin.

An artist's rendering of White House in its heyday.

19th-century graffiti on White House Ruin.

WE NEXT doubled back and ventured into Canyon del Muerto, which was more winding and intimate than Canyon de ‘Chelly. Along the way, Reggie shared yarns of 19th century resistance against encroaching White settlers (they should’ve built a wall). The Navajo have endured many onslaughts, most notably a massacre by Spanish troops in 1805, and an invasion of the U.S. Army in 1863 under Kit Carson. In an attempt to fix the problem permanently, Carson ordered all their villages and crops to be burned, including the destruction of 8,000 beloved peach trees. Even today, the Diné have not forgotten Kit Carson.  

     The weight of this painful past hung in the air as we approached the Ledge Ruins, located in a natural amphitheater two miles into the canyon. We climbed out of the Hummer to look around. Reggie pulled out his flute and played a somber melody, the notes echoing off the canyon walls in an eerie yet peaceful way. I snapped photos of the ruins perched on the ledge above, humbled by the fact that the canyons here had been home to many cultures—first the Anasazi, then the Hopi, and finally the Navajo… Ten centuries. I was no more than a small observer in the grand tapestry of time. How could I not sense the awe?

        Canyon del Muerto

Ledge Ruins.

Reggie plays his flute.

  Epilogue...  

I PACKED UP in the morning and prepared for the long journey home, my fifteen whirlwind days in the Desert Southwest coming to an end. The last six nights in the Navajo Nation were especially rewarding. There was a sense of wonder for the incredible sights and fascinating people I had encountered—the full impact of which was still sinking in. Though sad to leave, I felt fortunate to have enduring memories.  

     As I drove out of Chinle, I saw a loose steer loping through the sagebrush along the road. A Diné boy, probably high school age, was pursuing it on horseback at a brisk canter, looking quite at ease in the saddle. He pulled out his lariat, and I slowed down to match their speed so I could watch. If the steer cut left, it would cross the highway in front of me. The kid drew closer to the steer, twirling the lariat over his head, and then he threw it—and missed. But he wasn’t deterred. Still cantering close to the steer, he coiled the lariat back with ONE HAND and closed in for a second attempt. I held my breath as he cast again, this time lassoing the steer's head. Got him! I cheered and honked my horn. Even the dogs caught the rodeo spectacle from the side windows. 

     For the most part, the Diné still live close to the ground: a time capsule of a simpler, less-materialistic life. Watching the boy lasso the steer was icing on the cake. It made my day. I drove on, south across Navajoland, and hopped on I-40 in Winslow, Arizona with “Take It Easy” playing on the stereo.