We Flew!

We flew the other day, flew above the giant, gnarled cottonwoods and the buff red cliffs. From the air, the cadaverous-like trees looked as if they had been thrust up through the sand. Their heavily veined, wrist-like trunks and claw-like branches reaching, stretching skyward, threatening to snatch us from our low glide. Passing over the tiny, contrary hamlet the Mormon pioneers baptized Bluff, we approached the cliff tops which appeared as porridge stifled in mid-boil, a conglomerate of monstrous, solidified bubbles, heavily dimpled and scoured by blasted grit. The humps and bumps were burnt white from tens of thousands of stifling hot summer days. We swooped up Cottonwood Wash, racing our shadow along the towering vertical cliffs stained with desert varnish and cracked by wind, rain, freezing and thawing. Botanical gardens bisected numerous upright cliff faces and the rough and tumble slope of talus rock. The zones of green growth appeared and disappeared as we barnstormed past their secluded alcoves. Appealing impressions and upright, stand-alone islands in the sky rushed beneath our rigid wings.


Navajo Eagle Man Carving

Circling back to the west, we rushed over a lonely sage and rabbitbrush-encrusted desert mesa. In short order we approached the rumpled, rocky spine known as Comb Ridge. My stomach flip-flopped when the bottom dropped out as we dove over the western edge, banked a hard left and skimmed the muddy wash below. We drifted south by southwest, then quickly veered left, slicing through the man-made cut, dissecting the skeletal backbone of the once Great Snake. A hard banking right turn brought us directly over the lower portion of Butler Wash. We hung there a brief moment, then dropped right into the gullet of the beast. My fingers, toes and derriere gripped all available surfaces, nostrils flared, eyes went wide and blood rushed to my head as the low and slow flying Super Cub twisted and turned its way through the tumultuous rift in the earth.

I unclenched for a brief moment and sighed in relief as our canary yellow bird shot out of the raggedy, blossom-like opening blooming into the river valley of the less-than-mighty San Juan. The Mule's Ear diatreme reared up and flashed before my eyes, just over the right shoulder of my pilot, Captain John Gregory. He was jammed into the seat directly in front of me, expertly maneuvering the plane, but still causing me to overthink my mortality, and his. Even though there were controls within reach, I greatly doubted my ability to land this balloon-wheeled beast on my own. I prayed John's heart was strong, reached up to my left and slid the little window open a good three inches, leaned forward and breathed in new life. Reinvigorated, I looked around and discovered we were zipping across the heavily scored and whitewashed plateau of Lime Ridge. Just then, John darted to the left and whisked us to the edge of the river gorge located between Mexican Hat and Sand Island campground.

I shook my head, thinking, "No don't do this," and keyed the mike, which, of course, had a short in the wiring. As John glided left and dropped over the edge of the chasm a sense of calm overcame me. I breathed in the stream of cool, fresh air blowing across my face and relaxed into the dive. We leveled out somewhere around 500 feet above the brownish-red river, lined by green tasseled tamarisk. I looked up to the canyon rim and marveled at the highly textured rock formations drifting by. I was overwhelmed by the stream of stimulating visual impressions. We drifted over the roiling river and dipped our wing tips to the rankled rafters floating lazily below. As I watched the upturned faces and waving arms, I realized they were saluting us in an unfriendly manner. John informed me later that river guides do not much appreciate rip-roaring airplanes disturbing their peaceful float trips. No sense of humor I guess.

It was not long before we popped out of the eastern end of that uplifting canyon and spied the sawtooth surface of San Juan Hill to our left. Thinking back on high school history lessons and a hot, dusty handcart trek my family and I once experienced, I recalled the monumental struggle early, undaunted pioneers endured while pulling themselves up that malicious incline. The jagged trail looked even more impressive from the air than it did from ground zero. In a brief moment Captain Gregory was banking left and turning into the wind to bring the bird down at the Bluff airport. He opted not to land on the asphalt strip but chose the rutted and cross-cut dirt road parallel to the runway. I figured the more difficult landing was meant as an exclamation point to the flight. It worked!

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!

Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!

Social Entrepreneurs

Until recently Barry and I viewed Twin Rocks Trading Post as one of those culverts you see under roads and streets. Since we have never taught ourselves the art of saving or the magic of cash flow, like those conduits, everything that comes in goes out. We have long since come to understand that we are essentially a pass through organization. Cash in, cash out is our philosophy, although we also subscribe to the theory that you don’t have to have it to spend it. Isn’t that why God invented checks, loans and credit cards?


Jana, Steve, and Barry Simpson

Several years ago I read about an ingenious man who began mining the larger culverts located in northern California. Apparently, as the run-off flowed through these enormous pipes, the ridges incorporated into their design caused gold suspended in the water to settle out and collect in the channels. The guy made a fortune before everyone else caught on. I have always assumed that, like this exceptionally bright, or extremely lucky, individual, Barry and I would one day discover the gold in our diversion. Although I realize it had been over 20 years and we still have not come up with any nuggets, I remain optimistic. As someone once said, “Gold is not the only thing that glitters.” Barry is confident I just made that up, but I am sure I read it somewhere.

Only recently did I begin to understand that my vision of Twin Rocks Trading Post has been seriously flawed. Although my conservative friends will be aghast at this disclosure, my revelation came while listening to a segment on National Public Radio. During the broadcast, the host mentioned the term, “Social Entrepreneurship.” That was an expression I had not heard before, so I turned up the volume on the car radio and paid closer attention.

As it turns out, social entrepreneurs are individuals who believe they have better, more innovative solutions to society’s most pressing problems and use their entrepreneurial skills to organize and manage ventures to achieve societal change. Rather than leaving those urgent needs to be attended to by others, these progressives find what is not working and create entrepreneurial solutions that have never been tried. While business entrepreneurs focus on making a profit, social entrepreneurs focus on creating social capital.

Although the concept was new to me, I later discovered that Susan B. Anthony, who fought for women’s rights in the United States, and Florence Nightingale, founder of modern nursing, are both considered social entrepreneurs. The term was apparently first noted in the 1960s and 1970s, but did not come into wide use until the 1980s or 1990s. Since Bluff is generally at least 50 years behind the times, it is probably not surprising that I have only recently stumbled onto the topic.

As champions of Southwest art and culture, Barry and I have frequently used trading post resources to promote and support local artists, often with no sense of how we were going to generate a profit. When I unveiled my latest discovery to Barry, he was amazed. “You mean we are actually social activists, and not just poor managers,” he asked. “That’s the way I read it,” I replied, nodding my head and smiling widely. “Who knew!,” he said, utterly impressed with himself. I could see his self-esteem improve as we talked.

Years ago a friend and I sat down with a local business owner to have a frank discussion about what we viewed as a pressing community issue. When my sidekick said to the man, “Well, you understand, you are a businessman,” the fellow jumped straight out of his chair, saying, “A businessman? Well, I have never considered that. I will have to tell my wife. She will certainly be surprised.”

I have often wondered how one could operate a business so many years and not recognize himself as a businessman, but now I fully appreciate his ignorance. I always thought Barry and I were just running a small family enterprise and helping the local folks in the traditional trading post fashion. Imagine my surprise when I realized we are actually social engineers, even though we barely passed algebra. Now we can continue to lose money with a clear conscience. If only our bankers would see it that way.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!

Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!

Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!

Smart!

It was a sunny day at Twin Rocks Trading Post. Earlier that morning Steve had thrown open the Kokopelli doors to let in the beauty of the spring. Although the sun was shining brightly, Priscilla and I were almost frozen. It had, however, warmed considerably, our shivering had ceased and we were truly enjoying the fresh air streaming into the building. When the door bell sounded I was facing away from the open portal, reconstructing a lost invoice. The amplifier of the "dinger" was situated right in front of me, so when it went off I was initially surprised, then agitated. Distracted by the disquiet, I moved to my right and continued the errand. When I did, I heard the most interesting baritone voice I had ever experienced.


Navajo Wedding Basket

Priscilla was standing behind the cash register welcoming the people who had set off the bell. Steve was down the counter talking with a woman about a legal issue. I was intrigued by the rich, sing-song, well spoken nature of the baritone, so I just stood quietly listening. Because the man's voice was so intriguing, and since they were having such a grand discussion, I did not want to disrupt their flow of their conversation. They were a couple, I could discern that from the tender voices. The woman seemed full of life and patience. The man, the baritone, was in a jovial mood and laughed often. Just as they walked up to the counter behind me I turned to see for myself who it was that displayed such infectious intonation.

The couple that stood before me was not at all what I expected. The woman was seventy-something years of age with a stocky build. She wore her shoulder length brown and gray hair pulled back in a pony tail. Perched on her head was an old black ball cap with a brown bill. She was dressed in a blue, well worn long sleeved t-shirt, wrinkled Wrangler jeans and once white tennis shoes. The lady's eyes were brown and radiated intelligence. The man was eighty-something years of age, tall, pear shaped and sported a full head of white hair capped with a light brown, Indiana Jones-style hat. His scraggly beard was of the same hue. His eyes were pale blue and there was a big smile spread across his pleasantly wrinkled face. He wore a plaid flannel shirt of an off-white base color with thin blue and red stripes. His nondescript jeans looked as if they had gone unwashed for awhile, and they were held-up by a bright red pair of elastic suspenders. On the man's feet were a pair of worn, black Converse-like sneakers. The couple also looked well worn, but seemed altogether happy.

Looking at the man, I said, "With a voice like that you must have worked in radio or television." "Both", he answered, launching into an interpretation of the time he spent in advertising while living in Seattle. At this point the woman wandered off and struck up a conversation with Priscilla. She likely had heard this story before. As I listened to the magnificent baritone tell his tale, I witnessed him falter for a brief moment. He then reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a button and held it up for me to see. As smoothly as you please, "The Voice" transitioned into a tale of how hard he and Deanne, the woman he was with, had laughed when he inadvertently asked her to sew a shirt onto that very same button. I must admit, I was startled a bit and figured I must have missed the common thread between the two stories. Then, I noticed that the crooner every so often would stop in mid sentence, his eyes briefly losing focus. When they refocused he would start in on a whole new thought. It was like a hiccup of happenstance!

After this conversational "change up" occurred a few more times, I began to anticipate them and decided these radical course changes did not matter much to me. I was caught up in his unforced, eloquent and musical manner of speech. What I did learn was that this man had lived a very interesting life and that he was incredibly fond of Deanne, because she made him happy. In between "hiccups" I learned that Deanne spoke five languages; English, Spanish, French, Russian and Chinese, and that she held two advanced degrees, one in science and one in math. "The baritone" said Deanne was so smart she easily out-paced him in thought and deed. One "for instance" he shared was that when "The Voice" decided it was time to travel to Arizona to see his brother one last time Deanne thought it through before making any major decisions. After much contemplation she decided that, because their #1 mode of transportation was unreliable, they should take two cars to ensure a safe return to home base.

Deanne and The Voice made me realize that each of us needs somebody to love and correspondingly needs someone to love us in return. Love is as essential to life as oxygen. Deanne made "The Voice" laugh and appreciated his special qualities, just as he did hers. They were happy together and that, my friends, is all that really matters. It was not long before the cute couple left the building and headed towards the parking lot.

Priscilla and I migrated to the front of the store and watched through the plate glass windows as they walked hand-in-hand. They approached what Priscilla and I have decided was a faded, two-tone, medium brown with a lighter brown top, 1985 Ford Fairlane. The Ford was towing a light blue 1979 Datsun 210. Both cars were covered in dust and packed to the gunwales with stuff. There were a couple strands of heavy electrical wire connected to the back of the Ford, running across the hood and to the backside of the the Datsun ending in a set of those magnetic brake lights. As Deanne and "The Voice" drove away, I said to Priscilla, "That was smart." Priscilla bobbed her head in agreement, "Crazy Smart!"

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!

Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!

Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!

My Life as a River

When I arrived at Twin Rocks Trading Post and was introduced to Navajo history, legend and belief, I immediately became frustrated with the lack of continuity I noted in various explanations of the same ceremony, rite or process. My background and training had left me wanting everything straight forward, fixed and certain.

Goose Neck River

It was some time before I realized that lack of conformity in the stories did not necessarily indicate inconsistency or incompatibility. Rather, the various themes were indicative of how each individual interpreted that particular tradition, and what part of the experience was most important to him or her.

Since the Navajo people did not have a written language until 1939, their history was transmitted orally. Therefore, for example, a mother’s story flowed to her daughter and then from the daughter to the granddaughter , evolving with each telling. Thus the endless variations.

Having been raised in a family of Western thinkers and taking my formal education in business and the law, I had been led to believe life is linear. Consistent with this philosophy, you are born, go to school, find a girlfriend (maybe two or three), graduate from college, get a job and start a family. Then the kids grow up and you retire. There did not seem much deviation in the progression, so I followed it accordingly.

At the trading post I learned that many Native American people believe life is circular, cyclic. As Black Elk, an Oglala Sioux Holy Man said, “You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the Power of the World always works in circles, and everything tries to be round. The sky is round, and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball, and so are the stars. The wind, in its greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nest in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours . . . Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back again to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.”

Meaning no disrespect to my parents, my educators or Black Elk, I must disagree. To me, life seems more like a meandering river then a circle or point to point journey. As much as I have tried to keep my life on the straight and narrow, it always seems to be cutting a new channel or overflowing its banks.

For a while I was able to follow the guidance of my parents and teachers; I grew up, went to school and got a job, a wife and a child. Then life took an unexpected turn and I found myself in Bluff, without the wife and child. That surely did not fit into the preordained plan, and my linear life began raging out of control and pioneering a new, completely unexpected path.

Since that time, I have often gone to Goosenecks State Park, which is located just west of Bluff and is one of the deepest river meanders in North America. As the San Juan River made its way through Southeastern Utah it cut deeply into the bedrock, bent back on itself many times and eventually made a strikingly beautiful mark on the land. Standing on the edge of this massive ravine and looking down into the deep trench, I have from time-to-time thought, “Yes, that is a perfect illustration of my life.”

In its countless layers, which have been etched over eons, I envision a record of my own journey on this earth. I can see patterns of Navajo rugs, baskets and turquoise jewelry Barry and I have purchased and sold at the trading post; I can vaguely make out images of my wife, children and artists who have sold us their unique creations; and I glimpse friends and acquaintances who have come and gone.

No, I do not see my life as a direct line in the Western way of thinking. Nor does it appear to be a circle as the Native Americans propose. Instead, to me, it looks to be linear or circular only in an indirect, curving bending, swirling, snaking, sometimes straight, sometimes circular, river like manner.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

Great New Items! This week's selection of Native American art!

Our TnT's purchased new treasures! Check out Traders in Training!

Enjoy artwork from our many collector friends in Living with the Art!