by W. L. Rusho
Winter has set in. For days the sky wept. Drizzles and drenching downpours were accompanied by lightning and rainbows.
Love from Everett
In late December Everett hitchhiked to his home in Los Angeles for the winter months. He remained there until March 1932, when he returned to the Salt River Valley to resume his travels.
The Burro Shoe
It protected his feet while he slid down rocky slopes of wild, cactus-covered hills; it caked with snow as he descended mountain trails between white mantled pines; it scraped waterworn boulders as he gingerly felt his way through muddy mountain torrents. Following its imprint in the red soil I tracked him many weary miles till at last old Longears stood before me, discovered; sometimes in nimble haste I dodged it. I heard it crunch pebbles in a river bed and later over concrete bridges. Heedless of Percival’s dignity, a whiskered Mexican threw him down and nailed it to his hoof. An Apache jerked it off.
So hang it over the door of your room, and look long at it, for it is the spirit of the wilderness trail.
—Everett Ruess
To his friend, Bill Jacobs, Everett wrote this first version of the “Burro Shoe” with his own letterhead.
* * *
[4] Lan Rameau was Everett’s newly assumed name, adopted as he had promised his brother Waldo in an earlier letter, when he told of his plan to name his burro Everett.
[5] At the time, John Wetherill, age sixty-five, had been an Indian trader for twenty-six years. Headquartered at Kayenta, Arizona, just south of Monument Valley, he thoroughly explored the canyons and plateaus to the north, and was noted as the best guide and most knowledgeable regional expert on both the terrain and its Indian inhabitants. In 1909, as part of the Byron Cummings Expedition, he may have been the first white man to walk under Rainbow Bridge. Although John did not discover Mesa Verde, his older brother, Richard, did discover some of the major ruins, such as Cliff Palace, in 1888, while the Wetherill family was living at nearby Mancos, Colorado. John, together with his brothers, Richard, Al, and Clayton, explored and collected relics from many of the ruins. John’s wife, Louisa Wade Wetherill, became noted for her sympathetic understanding of Navajo culture. John Wetherill died in November of 1944.
[6] Just before graduation from high school, Everett entered a poster contest for National Trade Week, sponsored by the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce. He was notified by his parents that he had won the $25 prize.
[7] Interviews with Tad Nichols, Tucson, Arizona, 29 November 1982, and Randolph Jenks, Alamos, Sonora, Mexico, 1 December 1982.
[8] Through scenic Blue Canyon flows Moenkopi Wash, heading west. It is located about thirty-five miles east of Moenkopi village.
[9] Three Salado Indian villages, built in natural caves high above the Salt River, are preserved at Tonto National Monument. The little which is known about the Salado people is known mainly because of the Tonto ruins.
[10] Four Peaks, north of the Superstition Mountains and about fifty miles northeast of Phoenix, is rich in the history of Apache Indian–U.S. Army warfare in the 1860s and 1870s.
Chapter 4: The Letters 1932
March 30
Roosevelt, Arizona
Dear Father, Mother, and Waldo,
If you are going to send any money in April, right now is the time to send it. Put money first on the list. Next in order come books. There are two that I want you to be sure to send: The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann, and The Brothers Karamazov, by Dostoievsky. Get them in the Modern Library series; otherwise they will be too bulky. These two will not cost more than two or three dollars. They are the ones I want most. However, you might keep in mind the following: The Satyricon of Petronius, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Candide, Mrs. Dalloway, and Nana.
We have traveled in all four directions from Roosevelt. One night, on the road to Tonto Dwellings, a rattlesnake came out near us.
Did you develop the roll of film that I took?
The hills are covered with flowers: lupines, poppies, paintbrush, daisies. A crow is clacking his beak in the cottonwood overhead. Quail are calling. A cardinal has been here.
Luck
Everett
Living life at its edge.
April 20
Roosevelt, Arizona
Dear Father and Mother,
As I write I am sitting on the Roosevelt Dam, halfway up on the lower side. Wild winds are shrieking in the wires, swirling in the dust heaps, and swishing the bushes. Clouds are scudding by, and the water from the powerhouse is roaring out like a maelstrom, whipping itself to froth before it blows to Apache Lake. The turbines are humming. Now the gale grows fiercer. The lake above is flecked with whitecaps and the willow trees bend low.
Luck to everyone,
Everett
Adventure is for the Adventurous
Adventure is for the adventurous. My face is set. I go to make my destiny. May many another youth be by me inspired to leave the snug safety of his rut, and follow fortune to other lands
—From an essay by Everett Ruess
We have no correspondence from Everett for the next two months. When he finally left southern Arizona, however, he resumed his letter writing.
June 20
Zeniff, Arizona
Dear Bozo [Bill Jacobs],
I haven’t any idea where you are or what you are doing, but I hardly imagine you are at Pinto Creek. Wherever you are, you’ll probably be thinking I’ve been having a tougher time than you. I don’t think I am, but here are a few choice bits for you. Aside from the trouble Curly gave me, Pacer, my horse, broke away from me the second night and I had to chase him a couple of hours by moonlight before I could catch him. I had two light touches of poison ivy, lost the trail several times, and stepped on four rattlesnakes. In Pleasant Valley I traded my horse for a couple of burros, and one of them is about to have a colt.
I rode up to the asbestos mine and took a last look at Roosevelt Lake and Four Peaks. I thought of you two while I was up there under the pines and firs, while I read beside the stream and Pacer munched wild flowers.
I struck across the mountains to Cherry Creek, following a very steep trail. I came out at the Flying H Ranch, but the saddle blankets had slipped out, and I had to backtrack halfway up the mountain before I could find them. Old Pacer turned out to be more or less of an outlaw, full of tricks.
I found an interesting cliff dwelling in Rockslide Canyon. Only two rooms were visible from below, but the lower one went back fifty feet. The one above went back even farther, and another above that came out in a balcony on the other side of the cliff. There was no trail from there on, until near Pleasant Valley. All the lower branches are broken from the trees, by the heavy winter snows.
Near Dry Lake, a rancher befriended me and undertook to find me a better outfit. At first he couldn’t locate any pack mule, but he found a Mormon who runs a dude ranch and had a stray buckskin mule which had been on his range for five years. He said he’d catch him for me, so I rode over one day and we chased him, but he jumped out of a corral twice and went through three fences, so we gave up. The Mormon gave me an old white cow horse with four brands on him, and I bought a tough old bay for six dollars. The rancher gave me an old Frazier saddle and some shoes. We had to tie the horses to a post by their hind feet in order to shoe them.
I have been striving vainly to acquire a sense of balance, but I still flop in the saddle when the horse trots. I’ve only been thrown once, from a horse. A steer threw me twice.
This morning we branded two hundred cows. Last week we staged a rodeo, and one rider was piled three times.
There were a few days, coming north, when I had nothing but parched corn and jerky, but here at the Rocking Chair Rancho, the food is far better than I ever had at home. We have homemade cake or cookies nearly every day, and we don’t have to subsist on Mexican strawberries, as at most ranches. There is plenty of milk and butter, corn bread, honey, applesauce, and everything nice.
I saw plenty of pine trees when I was �
�way high up in the Mogollons” but I was glad when I left them behind. I like the aspens, and the pale, waxy yellow green of the oaks, but after a few days, a pine forest becomes very monotonous to me. Speaking of pines, I think you should really enjoy Fletcher’s “Green Symphony.” I’ve enjoyed my poetry books.
I abandoned my heavy kyaks at Cherry Creek. For awhile I used sacks, but I made a light pair of boxes. Then a storekeeper gave me a stout kyak which had been used to ship a little pig in. I made another out of a kerosene crate and put cowhide strips on them both.
I am not certain how soon or how I am going north. I have a tentative offer that looks very good to me, but I won’t know anything for certain until after the rodeo at Holbrook this weekend.
Once more I am in the desert that I know and love—red sand, twisted cedars, turquoise skies, distant mesas, and, far to the south, the blue line of Mogollon Rim.
Evert
In late June, Ruess reached Ganado, one of the centers of Navajoland, both geographically and culturally. Ganado was important also for white men in that, from 1878 until 1930, John Lorenzo Hubbell operated, at Ganado, the “...most important single trading post in the history of Navajo trading.” (Soldier and Brave, Indian and Military Affairs in the Trans-Mississippi West, Including A Guide to Historic Sites and Landmarks, Volume XII, National Park Service. New York: Harper & Row, 1963, p. 112.) In 1932, although Hubbell had died, his trading post was still in full operation. Everett does not mention stopping at the post. He normally had little interest in trading posts, which always seemed to serve as local centers of white men’s culture, but instead Everett, as he wrote, “...stayed with the head man at Ganado, hoeing corn and resting my horses.” He adds, “His daughter is the most beautiful Indian girl I have seen.”
July 9
Ganado, Arizona
Dear Father, Dear Mother, and Waldo,
Tomorrow morning I am starting for Chin Lee, which I’ll reach in two or three days. I’ll expect to find some mail there. Here are a few pages from my diary:
“June 25.
“Men and boys and girls on horses and burros displayed themselves. The townspeople swaggered like mannequins. Those with ordinary clothes tried to show by their demeanor that they were of a superior sort. I met the boys I had seen at Lake No. 1. The bucking Ford went through town. After the parade I bought some dried fruit, ate, and walked out to the rodeo grounds. I sat on a roof on the outside edge of the fence. I was soon joined by a boy from Winslow, and we became pretty good friends. He told me about his horses, we smoked and sat, watching calf roping, bull dogging, steer riding, wild cow milking, pony racing, and bronc riding. No one was thrown from a bronc, but no one stayed on a steer,...A clown performed tricks with his mules.
“When it was over I hurried to the post office, where there was a letter from Mother with the films from Cherry Creek. Then I went back to see Tom, but he was drunk. He was riding Old Nig, with an old friend behind him, each with a bottle in hand. He cursed the natives, the cowboys, the Navajos, and the Mormons. Someone had stolen his purse with seven dollars and some papers. He was quarreling with Ed Hennessy, the cattle inspector, pushing his hat off, pouring beer in his hair, and haranguing about who was his friend and who wasn’t.
“Ed tore Tom’s shirt and Tom tore Ed’s. Ed tried to pull Tom off his horse and told him to get out. Tom led Nig in drunken circles and swore he would take Ed home. It ended by vows of friendship. Tom said Ed wouldn’t lose his temper at him no matter what he did. He spoke to me a few times. He seemed to be ashamed to go home and face his wife. It was the first time in fifteen years that he had been drunk.
“A sandstorm blinded us for a while. I went off to Cosby’s, got my ropes and a nosebag, and walked along under the rim looking for my cayuses. I found them with the rodeo horses and I rode Whitey back. After watering them, I turned them out once more.
“I talked with Virgil. He is a pugilist, but he has appendicitis and his girl has made him promise not to fight anymore. He writes poetry of a sort. I showed him my stuff. His family certainly don’t approve of what I’m doing.
“June 26.
“Mr. Cosby invited me to Sunday breakfast of hotcakes, eggs, and cereal without sugar. Barely was I through when he probed into my religious upbringing and beliefs. He invited me to Sunday School. He shaved me and we drove down. This particular house of the Lord is in the back of a drycleaning store. I was introduced to Mr. Brown, the pastor, and his wife and three daughters—the eldest rather pretty. This was the first time I’d been to Sunday School in many years, but my old training hadn’t been in vain. I had difficulty finding the Chapter of Paphnalius, or whatever. I read that beautiful passage in the Book of Ruth, ‘Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee, for whither thou goest, I will go,’ etc. I read the Sermon on the Mount. The songs are of a revivalist sort. Mr. Brown and Mr. Cosby believe the world is about to end any moment, signs of the times coinciding with prophecies in the Book of Revelations. They were gratified when they learned that the Bank of America had just failed. There were not many present—not as many as were in the jail last night. One of Mr. Brown’s small daughters made specific prayers for various absent sisters, that they might not go to Hell for being at the rodeo instead of church. We sang songs about Judgment Day, dining with Jesus, and the Royal Telephone: as, ‘Telephone to Glory, Oh what Joy Divine; I can feel the current coming down the line, sent by God the Father to his blessed own, I can talk to Jesus on the royal telephone.’ We all had to quote a line. I quoted ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, whence cometh my help.’ On the whole, it was quite interesting, and Mr. Cosby must have thought that I behaved quite well for an unbeliever. Sunday dinner was quite good. Mr. Cosby thought it worldly to attend a rodeo and I think it is a boring affair anyway, so I reclined in an easy chair for a few hours, then wrote a letter and posted it. The rodeo was just over.
“At Bible study we prayed for the little boy of one of the women. He had broken his arm and she was in hysterics for fear it would be stiff. Also for a lady who had heard the singing and wanted us to pray for her husband, who was so drunk she couldn’t do anything with him. One woman wept uncontrollably because her son wouldn’t come to church and was doomed to Hell. Mrs. Brown and the mother went into hysterics, then suddenly rejoiced because their prayer was answered and the boy was well. Mr. Brown explained that he was not a Holy Roller, had never rolled on the floor, but didn’t believe in formal churches. He warned us against Christian Science, Universalism, and Unitarianism. Then in his sweet, gentle voice he sang The Feast of Belshazzar. Discussed the need of prayer. Before I left, Rev. Brown gave me some tracts and the Book of John to carry along.
“July 1,
“It had rained lightly and the sky was black. The old Indian again showed me where my horses were. I put the bridle I made yesterday on Whitie.
“We trotted up the hill, I singing lustily. We passed an Indian encampment and crossed a bridge over a deep arroyo. Then it began to rain. I put on my poncho, which covered my whole saddle. Trucks passed. The rain beat down steadily. The poncho leaked. I made a sketch and photographed a butte. The beauty of the wet desert was overpowering. I was not happy for there was no one with whom I could share it, but I thought, how much better than to be in a schoolroom with rain on the windows, or at home in my dreary bedroom. My tragedy is that I don’t fit in with any class of people.
“The first day out, I felt like a hero just because I had a hat, but it is part of me now.
“I met two men in a mule cart near Indian Wells. At the trading post I bought sugar, milk, and oats. We circled a butte, magnificently colored with vermilion and black, and then came to a spring. I saw two hogans and a corral. They were empty, so I stopped at the larger hogan and turned the horses out to grass. I climbed the hill and looked at the rainbow, the red hills, cedar-capped, the distant mesas. I read, cooked, and watched the fire.”
I have only two dollars and a little food now. As soon as I ge
t more money I am going to buy a Navajo saddle blanket for three or four dollars. It will serve many purposes. I’ve been staying with the head man at Ganado, hoeing corn and resting my horses. His daughter is the most beautiful Indian girl I have seen. The Navajo diet of squaw bread, mutton, and coffee does not appeal to me. There were three meals when there was nothing but squaw bread and coffee. I shall go to the post office soon, and mail you Magic Mountain and some of the other books. I may want to tell you my plans when I decide what they are. The nights are very cold in spite of the torrid days.
Love from Everett
July 12
Chin Lee
Dear Waldo,
That day I forded the Salt River and climbed high up in the Sierra Ancha Mountains, camping in the pines by a mountain stream. The next night I had fed Curly a little and ate some of my supper when Pacer got away, galloping with his hobbles. I chased him for two hours by moonlight. When I came back, Curly had eaten my supper. I punished him and he went off. I called and searched for him next morning, but he was not to be found. A good dog is a fine companion, but Curly had disappointed me. I did not have enough to feed him and I didn’t want to go back for him, so I went on, hoping he would trail me. He didn’t and I heard no more of him.
