Lost in Navjoland


The trips would always unfold the same way.

The family Subaru DL would whir out of the mountains, ease through the burg of Cortez, get spit into the desert and then cross the line onto the Navajo Reservation. There, windows peeled open in place of air conditioning, the sound of the Eagles working the stereo and only a couple hours of drive time on the odometer, my Dad would always make the same announcement – it was check-in time.

Over time, the routine repeated itself, and portions of my spring breaks were always spent in front of the backdrop of the Navajo Nation. At age 8, I explored the Kayenta Holiday Inn. A year later, Dad had a little more juice and we spent a couple nights down the road in Cameron. Over the years, Tuba City, Teec Nos Pos and Tsegi Park all hosted parts of Sands family holidays.

Like most kids, my brother and I only saw the surface. Dust slapped square cinder block homes; skinny dogs begged for handouts from pasty Grand Canyon tourists; and plastic tomahawks were shelved alongside Kachinas and trays of thick turquoise jewelry in trading posts. I know now that my pop had a deeper impression of that place.

I can only guess he kept returning, and dragging his family with him, for glimpses of indigenous culture. Behind the cinder block, there was still ritual. Beneath the jewelry vendors and trading posts was a mythic painted desert. And floating atop the haze of poverty was authentic memory and native speech. Seen through the right eyes, this was the true America.

Considering those journeys, it was practically “written” that I, now filling the role of “Dad,” would load my wife and daughter into our Subaru Outback and point south for a holiday in the Navajoland. But unlike those late 1970s sojourns, the nation was actually our ultimate destination when this Sands family packed up three weeks ago.

Prior to the trip, I announced (on the sly) that we would be visiting the greater Gallup area in search of singletrack and a remedy to Moab and Fruita’s on-season crowds. The sorry truth was that I couldn’t wait to return to the reservation. A little older and wiser, I now knew we were headed for a place rooted in a different belief structure and a people who celebrate the interrelatedness of all things and strive for balance between man and the universe.

Regrettably, my vision was a little slow in coming.

Along the road, we glimpsed one reality of the modern reservation – the casino. Vegas-sized ambition was quietly stashed behind nondescript buildings. RV parks adjoined packed parking lots. The blast of thousands of bulbs dulled any adjoining landscape.

Beyond the casino, it was much the same. A typical Midwestern strip tore through the town of Gallup. Neon crowded out any semblance of the authentic, and gawkers and locals alike basked in a franchise feeding frenzy. Everything was stylized and faux-finished. Only the color of faces was different. As icing on an already questionable cake, the whole family was treated to a bout of the Gallup flu, otherwise known as food poisoning.

Following a most desperate night, my wife Rachael made a proclamation: “That’s it. This is our final trip to New Mexico.”

Skyler and I, balled up in shared gastrointestinal agony, willingly nodded our heads. Our bikes hadn’t left the top of the car, but it was time to turn around and go home. Luckily, a little light can shine during those darkest moments.

I had just finished loading up in that security-lit, hotel parking lot, when a 20-something Navajo man spied our well-laden car. A broom in one hand and the insignia of the hotel chain plastered to his breast, the man had just clocked in and was busily pulling garbage out of the flower beds. As he approached, his eyes fell on the bright gleam of the two bikes, the abundant pile of gear in the back and the white man about to drive the whole load elsewhere. He glanced at the bikes, looked at me and then gazed back at the machines. All the while, a peaceful and serene smile filled his face. He took a few steps forward, mustered a humble “hello,” extended his hand for a shake and then asked where we were going.

I mentioned that we were headed home and he seemed a little disappointed. The smile and peace never leaving his face, he gave a nod, wished us a safe journey, said farewell, and we moved off in separate directions.

Those well wishes still sounding in my ears, the Gallup strip and the dusty plain no longer seemed so different from our world back home, and that message spirited us quickly home. When a sheepherder waved at our passing near Sanostee, the grip on our stomachs started to loosen.

As we left the sovereign Navajo Nation, I knew that my Dad must be grinning somewhere. I suppose he probably saw that same smile three decades earlier. And just like me, he probably knew that more visits to Kayenta, Tuba City and Teec Nos Pos were somewhere in our Subaru’s immediate future.

– Will Sands