Dennehotso

Lonely hogan in Dennehotso. 

“I was born at Dennehotso, near a red, round rock. The winter was over, and it was the beginning of summer. My father was of the [Within His Cover People] clan, but I never knew him and do not know his name because he passed away when I was very small. As time went on, my maternal grandmother, [Woman with the Four Horns]; my mother, [Mourning Dove Woman]; and the rest of the family roamed the Dennehotso area. My mother used to live near Comb Ridge, and there was a small box canyon that had a spring and a lot of mourning doves . . . We did not have many sheep, but we did have a lot of goats, and many of the rams had four big horns. This is how my grandmother got the name Woman with the Four Horns.”

These are the words of Navajo Oshley, spoken through an interpreter, describing the place of his birth. No one knows for sure the date he was born, but it was likely in the 1880's. From my youth, I vaguely remember Navajo as he walked on Main Street in Blanding. He has been described as having a “slim, tall frame bent with age; large black hat, and steady gait.” Little did I know at the time that many of the Navajos in Blanding had originally migrated from Dennehotso.

I have always been curious about Dennehotso. The word comes from Navajo, meaning “Yellow meadow extending up.” Usually I only drive past it when we drive through the Navajo Reservation between Mexican Water and Kayenta. Once I stopped at the Boarding School when I was a coach for the Middle School wrestling team. There were other dirt roads that took off from the main highway. I knew there was more to see.

But there's also a taboo associated with the reservation. I never know what is allowed and what isn't. The Hopi Reservation, for example, doesn't allow any photography. Although when I talked to a local Navajo, she told me that as long as I didn't do any hikes or pass through any areas with no trespassing signs, I should be alright.

With that in mind, I decided it was time to peel beneath the surface and see what Dennehotso looked like beyond the highway. As luck would have it, we would be passing by on our way to Blanding.

Baby Rocks, near Dennehotso, Arizona.

Traveling north on Highway 160, just a few miles south of Dennehotso, we came to one of the many iconic land formations in the area: Baby Rocks. These are fairy-like structures that have eroded over millions of years to look like baby hoodoos atop a sandstone ridge. There are also other “figurines” that can take on a mythical aura, especially back in a time with no electricity and only moonlight.

John Holliday, a Navajo Medicine Man and relative to Oshley, recounts a story of their common grandmother: “During the time of local conflicts, [Woman with the Four Horns'] husband wanted to join in and fight. One day he got ready and left on his horse, but his young wife decided to go with him. They were newlyweds, and she was a little girl. She got dressed up in all her turquoise jewelry and ran after her husband. After she caught up to him, they both got on the horse and traveled as far as Baby Rocks when the enemy captured them. They took her and her husband to Texas. During this time, her family back home held special ceremonies and sings for her return. With that she escaped and walked to Fort Sumner, where other Navajos were being held captive. Somehow my great grandmother managed to survive and return home to Baby Rocks near Dennehotso. She owned nothing but four horned sheep when she was released from Fort Sumner.”

As we pulled to the side of the highway to look at the Baby Rock formations, we beheld a snow-white horse emerge from behind a small sand dune. Then we saw a second white horse. They both moved along slowly, not at all worried that we were watching them. They were busy foraging for food, of which there wasn't much; just a tuft of wild grass here and there.

Then a gray horse came into view. Perhaps this looked like the horse that Oshley's grandparents rode before they were captured at Baby Rocks.

Snow-white horses emerging at Baby Rocks.

Back on the highway we drove north toward Dennehotso, then turned off on a washboard road toward the cemetery. We passed what appeared to be an old abandoned rodeo arena. I've visited a couple cemeteries on the reservation and always attempt to be cautious and respectful. Visiting a local cemetery is something I try to do anywhere in the world I travel.

The Dennehotso Community Cemetery is located one mile off the main highway and is surrounded by low rolling dirt hills. In the distance you can vaguely make out the rocky spine of Comb Ridge.

The cemetery consisted of mounds of dirt heaped upon each grave. Some of the graves had a conventional headstone, while others only a wooden cross. Some were finely decorated with flowers and personal items, while others appeared obliterated and maintained by no one.

Dennehotso Community Cemetery.

We then drove into the main part of town and took the “Dennehotso Loop Road,” which circumvented the core of the town.—It wasn't at all what I expected. I thought for sure that the main portion near the chapter house and school would be paved, but they weren't. We drove the sandy and sometimes sideways rocky road, attempting to get a feel of “village” life on the reservation.

After the first section of road that paralleled the highway, the road made a turn toward the west and onto a bridge that crossed Laguna Creek, nothing more than a drizzling rivulet. Before the days when Dennehotso was an established community, families lived near Laguna Creek where water was sufficient to use for irrigation to water their crops. After harvest they moved a few miles to the northwest along Comb Ridge where they dwelt the rest of the year, raising livestock. This was the same pattern depicted by Oshley in his autobiography.

Beginning the Dennehotso Loop Road.

Comb Ridge is a geological uplift, creating a spine in the desert that stretches seventy miles from Blue Mountain in the north to Kayenta in the south. The northern third is more prominent, and is what I'm familiar with because it is close to my home town. The southern portion, however, is more obscure, mostly hidden within the depths of the Navajo Reservation. I was hoping we would catch a glimpse of it during our tour of Dennehotso, but that didn't happen. The prominent side of the ridge faced the other direction.

On our drive we passed modern, but simple houses, with no grass, usually old cars, and sometimes a basketball hoop over dirt. Some houses had a horse trailer and livestock near the home. Only once did I see a hogan.

On the backside of the loop is a sandstone hill with a “D” painted on it. There weren't too many houses here. I saw one gentleman with a shovel in-hand, working on his garden. He gave me a distrustful look.

"D" for Dennehotso.

By the time we were three-fourths around the loop, we were back at Laguna Creek, but this time with no bridge. The dirt road ran directly through the water, which included a quagmire of mud. I slipped my vehicle into 4WD, just to be sure. Without serious issue, we made it through.

Upon completing the loop we passed a stray dog, then returned to the highway. There was nothing “village-like” or quaint about the Dennehotso loop road, but instead it was dotted with homes of normal Navajo people attempting to survive in a vary harsh landscape.

Stray dog.

My final stop was at the Dennehotso Market. Inside was a small grocery store and a fast food restaurant. Nothing caught my eye as particularly unique. We each bought an ice cream sandwich.

On the west-facing wall of the building was a beautiful mural. It was a painting of a mother with her baby in a cradleboard. I couldn't help but to envision Mourning Dove Woman carrying her precious little baby, Navajo Oshley, on her back. ♠

Beautiful mural at Dennehotso Market. 

Source for supplemental information: The Journey of Navajo Oshley, An Autobiography and Life History.  Edited by Robert S. McPherson. 

Wes Oshley

[It has been almost two years since Wes passed to the other side. I miss randomly running into him on the streets of Cedar City. The following was written on February 24, 2013. Although blunt and harsh at times, it accurately represents the Wes Oshley I knew.]

The first time I ever met Wes was walking down Center Street in Cedar City when a tall, lanky Navajo came up to me and said, “You must be a Lacy.” I was stunned. How did he know? I had never met the guy in my life. So I asked him how he knew and he proceed to waddle down the sidewalk with his arms hanging down like a monkey. “By the way you walk,” he said.
 
I sure hope he was embellishing that strut, because I don't think that we Lacys look like that. But he had guessed who I was by my movements. He went on to praise my grandpa, whom he knew while living in Blanding. Ever since that day, he says the same thing: “Tell your Grandpa hi for me.” He always wants to know how old Claude is doing.
 
You never forget Wes. Not only is he tall and lanky, but his teeth are always just above my eye level and he must be wearing coffee-stained dentures, because I watch them shift around every time he speaks. His father was Navajo Oshley, a sheepherder that lived to be over a hundred years old and was an icon when I was growing up in San Juan County. Wes is an intriguing person, a person that I still have yet to scratch the surface.
 
When I walked out of Lins yesterday, Wes was there and immediately we walked across the parking lot together. He embraced me with his right arm, something he hadn't done before.
 
“I am just getting back on my feet, brother. I've been gone for eight months. I am just getting back. In the last eight months I buried my three sisters.” As he said this, you could feel the emotion well up within him. I hugged him tighter as we continued to walk. He continued to tell me the story of how he had spent that time in Blanding and he briefly mentioned how each had passed away. The third one caught my attention, as she had frozen to death in her trailer. Her name was Joan Bilsie, but the family preferred to bury her with her traditional name of Oshley. 

That brought up a question I always had. “Where was she buried? In the cemetery or somewhere else where the Navajo bury their dead?” I hadn't ever seen a lot of Native Americans buried in the white-man cemetery and I know that historically they find a crevice or some place in the ground and bury them with a saddle or some of their earthly possessions—or at least that is how I understood it. 

“No,” he responded, “she is buried in the cemetery.” Now the tone of his voice turned angry and passionate. “I don't want her buried where Dr. Redd can come back and get her. Hell no! I would have killed the guy if he didn't do it first. That man had three little babies in his house.” —Here he was referring to Anasazi mummies, I believe. “That is something that is very personal to me. You don't mess with my ancestors. You do not touch the dead!” This was a passionate subject that I had heard from him before. I completely agree with him, but it always makes me feel uneasy because I knew Dr. Redd and his family, and I like them very much.
 
Sometime after this point, I felt like I had to share with him the news that my own daughter had passed away just two months earlier. Once again, his heart was filled with emotion and tears came to his eyes. He hugged me with both arms this time and plead, “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry! No one should ever have to bury their child.” I assured him that when this happened that I had thought of him, because I knew that about a year and a half ago, he buried his own son.
 
“But they always come back,” he acknowledged, knowing the pain of death, but also knowing that there are divine crossings. He then told me a story about one cold evening when he was under a vehicle trying to fix the transmission, or some other problem, and he needed a certain tool that his grandson, who was helping him, could not find. “Go look in the the tool bag over there,” Wes suggested. When his grandson unzipped the bag, there on top, was the glove of his son Waylon, the one who had died. And in the palm of the glove was the exact tool they were looking for.
 
“They always come back,” he said again. ♠