White Buffalo

Three or four times a week I can be found peddling my bicycle from Blanding to Bluff during the early morning hours. Jana and the kids leave for school around 5:00 a.m., and I usually tag along. After dropping Kira off at dance practice and a little speed training with Grange at the high school track, I climb aboard the bicycle and head south along Highway 191.


Great Pyrenees

About five miles into the ride I approach a small farm located just west of the road. Although I have driven past it countless times, until I began riding this particular route on a regular basis, I had not paid much attention to the property. On the first morning I road my bike past the parcel, I noticed two enormous white dogs inhabiting the property. Dog breeds are not my specialty, but these looked an awful lot like they might be of the Great Pyrenees variety.

Working hard to cover the distance from the intersection of Center and Main in Blanding to the porch of Twin Rocks Trading Post in under an hour, I did not notice the canines until they came thundering across the field. Mentally gauging my speed against theirs and the distance they had to cover versus my own, I assumed I would soon be doggie treats for these flashes of white lightening. My calculations did not, however, take into account the gate, which is about 30 feet from the pavement. So, as they crawled under the barricade I safely sped past, leaving them empty-handed.

After this same scenario played out with similar results over the next two weeks, I became comfortable in the knowledge that I could outrun the hounds. Once my fear subsided, I was compelled to name the largest and fastest of the duo, giving him the title “White Buffalo.” This was in honor of his size, color and the white turquoise of the same name that is found near Tonopah, Nevada.

Having successfully evaded the mutts for several days, I decided it was time to even the odds, so I began howling at them to signal my approach. I once again tried to gauge our individual speeds so their notification arrived just in time to allow for a safe margin of error.

Although my edge continuously declined, this contest continued successfully for about a week, with me avoiding their assault each time. Then one morning, I did not see the dogs milling about the outbuildings where they usually awaited my approach. As I came abreast of the gate, I noticed the tall weeds in the bar ditch along the roadway begin to sway. To my surprise, White Buffalo sprang from the tall grass, barking excitedly, but holding his position on the edge of the blacktop. I squealed out a horse note and cranked the pedals wildly. He just stood there as if to say, “I could get you, but I choose not to.” It was then that I realized he was enjoying our game of pursuit as much as I.

The next few mornings, I would bark out my signal and White Buffalo, far ahead of his companion, would come catapulting across their land in plenty of time to stride along side me a few paces before I pulled away. Never trying to nip my heals or upset my progress, he seemed to understand that we had forged a bond, dog and cyclist.

Determined to strengthen the tie we had developed, I decided I would stop and give him a pat on the head or scratch behind the ear during my next journey. As I approached the farm, however, there was no movement. When I arrived at the gate, I noticed a large white patch lying quiet and still about 15 feet from the roadway. “It was surely White Buffalo,” I thought, “His latest ploy.” I slowed my speed in anticipation of stopping to say hello. It was not, however, a trick. He had apparently been struck a fatal blow the night before, and our game was eternally over.

These days, as I ride past his deteriorating body I wish I had stopped before the great tragedy. While White Buffalo’s carcass rapidly returns to Mother Earth, I realize you can never predict where you will meet your next best friend, or how soon he or she will be lost. Best to let them know as soon as possible how much they mean to you.

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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I Remember It Well

The sun was resting on the western horizon as I exited Twin Rocks Cafe and made my way down the front steps. Soft raindrops gently touched my face as I dodged a bus and several other vehicles while crossing the graveled parking lot to my car. My ride was parked under the protective branches of a large cottonwood tree across the narrow strip of roadway at the edge of the Gaines property. It had been a long day, I was tired and focused on getting home to my wife and family. I opened the car door, dropped into the bucket seat, turned her over, pulled out and pointed her east. A French tourist, whom I had met earlier at dinner, jumped off the bus with a camera in his hand and sprinted to the middle of the road, right in front of my moving motor vehicle. Consequently, I very nearly picked up a Nikon hood ornament for my Nissan.


Navajo Storm Pattern Rug - Pauline Lee (#013)

The now wide-eyed tourist smiled apologetically, bobbed his head and held out his camera as if to say, "So sorry! But . . . I am in a great hurry to take a marvelous picture." He stepped from in front of my car, moved to the right side of the road and made his way toward the intersection of Highway 191 and Navajo Twins Drive. As I pulled past the man and rolled up to the stop sign, I looked up to the cliff tops and saw what had captured his attention. There, at the crest of Cow Canyon was a magnificent rainbow backed by a roiling and altogether angry dark purple storm cloud highlighted by the orange-red glow of the setting sun behind me. The view, I realized, was well worth the risk of an early demise. As I sat there in awe, the Frenchman caught up with me and, smiling brightly, pointed at the spectacular spectacle, gave me the thumbs-up and quickly began snapping images. I smiled in return and forgave the manic man his trespass, pulled out onto the highway and headed north.

In anticipation of the view I might have at the top of Cow Canyon, I picked-up speed. Reaching the top in no time what-so-ever, I was far from disappointed. To my right the rainbow remained as brilliant as a minute before. It arched over the textured landscape as if to bear witness that yes . . . this really was a magnificent place. The thunderstorm behind it was rolling rapidly across Recapture Ridge, like the raging waves of a turbulent ocean. I powered down my windows, heard the rip and tear of thunder and watched as lightning split the near darkness. The air was static with electricity. To my left the scattered storm clouds remaining from an earlier shower caused the setting sun to blaze like a bonfire fending off the night. As I cruised up the highway, I wished that I had clipped that Frenchman and made off with his camera. No matter, my spirit was reinvigorated and my mind refreshed. I will remember this scene well.

With warm regards,
Barry, Steve and The Team

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Where Have all the Indians Gone?

Kira and Grange have recently returned to school, so the Simpson family is once again entangled in the helter skelter of another educational cycle. During this first term Kira has an American history class that is exceptionally challenging, so Jana and I have been closely monitoring her progress to ensure there are no catastrophes of historic proportion.


Priscilla

While reviewing her text book last week, I noticed the introductory chapters focus on Native America. Although at times I act as though I have extensive knowledge of all things Native, when pressed, I am quick to admit my reach is limited. In any case, it is interesting to see how the academic community represents this aspect of the American experiment.

As one might guess, when it comes to Native culture, my experience is strictly “on the job”, which is not likely to translate well in the classroom. Although I have a few good stories to tell, I should never be given the responsibility of instructing the nation’s youth on this particular topic, so Kira has not received the benefit of my wisdom.

Since Kira and I do not regularly attend services, we are usually assigned to work Sunday mornings at Twin Rocks Cafe; she as cashier and I as janitor, chief bus boy and manager. During our most recent shift, in order to stay current with her class work, Kira brought her history book to the restaurant. Leaving it open on one of the tables, she left to pursue her traditional activities.

Since it was a slow morning, after a time I noticed our two Navajo servers, Josh and Josiah thumbing through the text, skimming the initial chapters with great interest. Josh and Josiah are young and intelligent, and seemed amused with the book’s content. When I quizzed them on what they had learned about their Native brothers, Josh jokingly asked, “Aren’t they all gone?” Everyone had a good laugh, but Josh’s comment “started me thinkin’”.

On many occasions during my tenure as trader at Twin Rocks Trading Post, I have had travelers ask, “Where can we see Indians?” When I point to Priscilla and say, “Right there”, they protest vigorously. “No, no, no,” they say, “we want real Indians.” Apparently, they wish to see the half naked, feather wearing ones who sit astride a painted war pony whooping and hollering; movie Indians. Consequently, Priscilla does not fit their expectations. When I tell them we do not have any of those left, they are disappointed.

Although it is easy to write off these inquiries as cliché or trite, surely Native culture has changed in ways a large percentage of the population has not anticipated. As Josh’s joke points out, however, in many respects Native people are generally indistinguishable from the rest of mainstream society. One might rightly ask whether that is a good thing or a bad thing. My guess is that it is just a thing, neither good nor bad, or maybe, depending on the individual, both good and bad.

With their hats turned backward, baggy trousers and smart phones, you would not know Josh and Josiah from any other young person. As I have told our inquisitive visitors, running around half naked, whooping and hollering only gets you into trouble with the neighbors, so no one (except Barry, who is not Indian), does that around here anymore.


Funny Barry

With warm regards,
Steve, Barry and The Team

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Wishful Thinking

Not long ago, I was sitting in my office at Twin Rocks Trading Post, bumping my head on the desk in an attempt to dislodge a thought or memory worthy of putting down on paper. This week's missive was due, and my creative well had run dry. As I sat there, I heard the door sensor announce a visitor and began to raise myself to discover their purpose. About the same time, I heard Steve greet someone and knew the guests were in good hands, so I sat back down and continued my personal assault. Half-listening in on Steve's conversation with the obviously German tourists, I heard someone say there was a hummingbird loose in the store. This is a common occurrence these days, so no one gets too excited about it. I heard Steve explain to our German friends that it was best to let the high strung aerialists calm down a bit, and that when they do we corner them, carefully execute our capture techniques and release them back into their sugar-saturated habitat.

In short order I heard the tourists take their leave. Shortly after they exited Steve began running through the store in pursuit of the hyped-up hummer. Before long Steve called out to me saying, "Come out here and look at this!" I reluctantly raised myself up again, thinking we would have to tag team the feisty little critter to be done with it. I walked into the trading post just in time to see the hummingbird fly into Steve's office. Before he closed the door to settle the debate, Steve pointed up and to his right saying, "Look at that!" Scanning the wall in question, I saw a small, brown, fuzzy thing, about the size of a Hot Wheels car, attached to the wall. It hung on the wood paneling, right next to our 1970s style cottage cheese and glitter ceiling. "A Bat," I questioned.


"A Bat!"

"This could be a windfall," I thought to myself, recalling what the Navajo people believe about these nocturnal beasties. Bats are some of the earliest recognized beings, they are of the first world of Navajo myth and legend. These flying fright-mongers are thought to be mediators, favored representatives of the "great gods". They occupy the humblest seat near the door of the ceremonial hogan, but their input is respected when it comes to matters of importance. "Humph!" I thought to myself, "I could use a little mediation, an intervention between me and the man upstairs". Steve came out of his office with the hummingbird in one hand and a small plastic bag of corn pollen in the other. We are in the habit of sprinkling each hummer we catch with pollen before we release it. This is because Priscilla tells us that will bring good luck. Although she refuses to adopt us into her clan, claiming the letting and joining of blood is no longer safe, she has let us in on a few minor secrets. Steve and I powdered the tired bird with the yellow substance, had Danny (our new internet manager and adjunct photographer) take images, said a little prayer and set the hummer free.

"Now for you my little pretty," I said to the bat. Steve had to run to the post office before it closed for lunch, so the deed was left to Danny and me. Danny found an empty, clear plastic CD container which I used to cover the flier. We then slid a piece of heavy card stock between the container and wall and gently dislodged the flittermouse. Realizing it was trapped, the hairy little beast let out a tiny scream of indignation. Steve must have taken the corn pollen with him and Priscilla denied having any, so I called Toni over from the cafe. Toni, I thought, would certainly have corn pollen, and she could use a little mediation of her own. My assumption proved correct, so, using Toni's stash, we powdered the bat's behind. When it screamed again we called another moment of silence. I then took the fanged one upstairs and let it loose in a deep dark area behind the building. "Mediate well," I said as I shook the bat from its containment. It screamed back at me one last time, as if to say, "Yeah, I'll do just that." As the bat disappeared behind a board, an ancient memory came to mind.

In the 1960s there were few street lights in Bluff. Those that did exist were situated on the curves of the main highway passing through town. Because of the sparse artificial illumination, it got dark quickly when the sun went down on southeastern Utah. Without those weak but effective street lights, the narrow, snake-like strip of asphalt would have claimed many an unfamiliar traveler. As kids, we discovered early on that those languid lamps drew bugs like moths to a flame, and where there were flying insects there were bats. On cool summer nights, the interaction between supersonic winged mammal and captivated creepers was too much of an attraction for my brothers and me to resist.

In an attempt to bring down those blood thirsty varmints, it became our habit to stand under the lights, scoop up hands-full of pea gravel and fling it at the bats. Either our aim was askew or our firepower under-funded, because I do not recall ever felling one measly bat. I do, however, remember having fallen behind on one summer's eve and coming up on Craig and Steve in full assault mode. As I approached, I could see them peppering the creatures flittering above their shaved heads. I also recall an incredibly dark blue evening encased by an over dome of magnificent points of starlight. From a short distance I viewed a solitary street lamp shining down a conical beam of soft yellow light. Two brothers, one dark like his mother, the other light like his father, aggressively tossing stones into the palpitating abyss. To me the scene was altogether singular, somehow set apart from the rest of my compressed understanding of the world. Time stood still, and I envisioned a real life snow globe. That scene remains with me, a treasured memory, to this very day.

Yup, I was sure that bat was going to do me proud.

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!