LOST! A Story about Mudheads, Navajos and Goat Leggings

When I was in my late teens and living in Durango my mother had a bad accident and took advantage of a vocab rehabilitation program and went back to school. She was taking an American Indian art course a Ft. Lewis Collage. She learned that in the 1960's there was very little demand for Indian art and Hopi baskets could be purchased for only 60 dollars. She told this to her live in boyfriend and constant tormentor Walter and he latched onto the "Hopi Baskets for 60 dollars" bit but seemed to ignore the whole "in the 60's" caveat. He looked at me and thought "Hey David is Indian; I bet he can help me get one-o-them 60 dollar Hopi baskets." This was his first mistake. Not all Indians are alike. I am Lakota. I am not Hopi, and I know nothing about baskets and I do not know much more about the Hopi people.

So early one cold winter morning Walter boots me out of bed, straps me into the passenger seat of his pickup truck and tells me his plan to use me to somehow get a 60 dollar Hopi basket. "Your mother likes the mudhead baskets" he stated. "OK" I replied and we set off to the south and the Hopi reservation in search of a 60 dollar mudhead basket. I tried to tell him at this point that there was no way in hell that we would find a basket, mudhead or other, which could be had for 60 dollars in 1988. I guess in his mind I was just a stupid kid and he was absolutely convinced that he would find one and that I would have some magical Indian mojo that would cause a Hopi artist to hand over a piece of work like on the left for 60 bucks.

We head south into New Mexico with the eastern sky starting to lighten. It is a several hour trip to the Hopi reservation and with the sun finally up in the sky I was getting hungry. I turned to Walter and asked if he had brought anything to eat. He looked at me like I had 3 heads and wanted to know how I could be hungry. It was at this moment I had to come to terms with the fact that Walter really did not have a well thought out plan. No food. Walter was not going to stop just because I wanted breakfast or lunch or dinner for that matter.

We get to the Hopi reservation and Walter looks at me like "Ok do your stuff!" I suggested bypassing the trading posts on the desert floor and heading up to the mesas and find the artists directly. I no longer remember which mesas we drove up but I think it was 2 of them. The 3^rd would not allow tourists. On the second mesa we found a few tables set up with people selling cheap tourist grade Katsina Dolls and sterling silver jewelry so I chat with them about how Walter wants a basket with mudheads on it. At one point someone waves to me and motions us to follow them into the restricted section of the pueblo. Walter and I entered a private dwelling. The living room was packed with people. From great grandparents to newborn children it was a full extended family, very tradish. And older woman handed Walter the beginning of a basket. Only the base was complete. Walter asked if it was a mudhead basket and she responded. "It could be" and smiled. Walter then asked "How much?" 2 thousand dollars she quickly replied. Walter looked like someone had hit him over the head with a baseball bat, as he was gasping for air everyone in the room started laughing. I grabbed hold of Walter's wrist and pulled him out as I mumbled some apologies.

Walter was still in shock as we drove down from the mesa. The closer we got to the desert floor the closer Walter came to realizing that there was no way he would be able to get a 60 dollar mudhead basket for my mother. Surprisingly his rare manic state did not collapse into his more consistent depressive state and he was determined to get something for mother and we pulled into one of the many trading posts at the base of the mesa.

Authentic Hopi and Navajo art the signs blared. We walked in. Walter found some small basket work wall hangings. One was about 4 inches across and had a turtle design. It was a nice little piece and priced at 50 dollars. Walter was victorious I guess and he bought it for mother. But the day is not done yet we are in the middle of the Hopi reservation and there is lots of daylight left so Walter gets another brainstorm and another well thought out plan.

We are currently on the Hopi Reservation, the grey star. Walter decides that he wants to go to Canyon De Chelly National Monument which is near Chinle, the green star. Walter decides that using the marked roads is too long and that there must be a yellow brick road to the land of De Chelly and he would find it. See the yellow line on the map; it is Walter's dream come real by using MS Paint.

Walter asks at the trading post if there is a shortcut to Chinle. Of course there is and the man behind the counter starts giving directions. Local directions. You have all heard them and even used them. Take this road about 3 miles to where the Johnsons barn was it burned down 4 years ago. Take a right and drive till you hit the Williams farm. Take another right at the tree that used to have the tire swing hanging from it….. I had slunk away to buy a piece of fry bread at this time.

I got back into the truck, happily munching on my fry bread and off we went on Walter's yellow brick road to…. It took a surprisingly short amount of time for Walter to realize that he was lost on the dirt roads crisscrossing the Navajo reservation. We continued to bounce along even though we had no idea where we were and where we were going there was no sense in being late. We found someone alongside the road and Walter asked again how to get to Chinle. A long train of local directions followed and Walter headed off with even more encouragement.

Somewhere along this drive we topped a ridge and there was a trading post and a couple houses and outbuildings. I do not remember the name but it was a large adobe structure with a sign painted on it that listed what they offered. In big red letters the sign stated ANGORA! I am a northern traditional dancer and part of our gear is angora hide anklets. I jokingly call them my goat leggings. For some reason I have the worst time with angora anklets, I always have and it continues to this day. I walk inside to enquire about getting a pair of angora anklets for dancing, I start explaining what I want to the woman behind the counter and she is looking at me like I am from Mars. It was my turn to forget that all Indians are not the same. Navajo's generally are not pow wow people. The do not dance or have pow wows in the middle of the reservation. I am getting more and more frustrated, as I point to my ankles and describe yet again what I want. I want two pieces of angora goat hide. The woman is still looking at me like I am insane and why would I want something like that when a young man gets my attention. "I have what you want." He says and I follow him outside.

We go behind the trading post and into a musty smelly shed where he pulls out a dried and salted sheep skin. It is at this point that the absurdity of my request begins to sink in. They are not dancers. They have no idea what I am talking about and there is no reason they should know. It then hits me that the angora sign panted on the trading post was for angora wool to make rugs not anklets for dancing. I thank the young Navajo man, tell him that is not what I am looking for and go to find Walter who had gotten yet a 3^rd set of local directions to Chinle and we head off on the dusty trails again.

Several hours go by wandering in hopeless confusion when we finally drive into a town. Kayenta, which is a very long way from our stated destination of Chinle. Blue circle on the map. Walter/Coronado never did find a 60 dollar mudhead basket, or his shortcut to Chinle and I did not get my goat leggings. Walter then made the first rational decision of the rapidly ending day and took off on the main roads back to Durango. Red arrow.

I wish I could say that the day was a bonding event between me and Walter but it was not. I have never forgotten that there is no such thing as a typical Indian. We all have different cultures, traditions, languages, and expectations. There is no overall European culture just as there is no overall Indian culture. Even those of us who are Indian can forget that.