John Ford Slept Here

       

image borrowed from bing

John Ford Slept Here

“The more I see of Indians, the more convinced I am they all

have to be killed, or maintained as a species of paupers.”

---General William T. Sherman.

There is something about the Southwest

that draws me to it repeatedly--maybe

because of the hundreds of Westerns

shot in the Mohab area of Utah by 

Howard Hawks & others, out in the Arches,

or that John Ford country just off AZ 163,

running north off 160--reminding me of the summer

we stayed in an overpriced cigarette- smoke stinking

room in a rundown motel in Kayenta, where

I ate my first fry bread taco;

remembering how upset I was when I found out

the famous parts of Monument Valley could not

be seen from the highway--they were all on

the Navajo reservation, & you have to pay a fee

to drive onto it, & then pay another fee to huddle

in a dusty flatbed sight-seer truck that could

negotiate the blow-sand dunes & potholes

purposefully left in/on the roads that snaked

out among the monuments.

I mean no one can easily describe the heart-stopping

thrill as one stands for the first time along

the southern lip of the Grand Canyon, peering

into the pleistocene reddish-blue vastness

of a gash carved by the Colorado river, & later

seeking out the northern edge of the canyon

with its lesser view;

I do so enjoy all those stops at ancient ruins

from Flagstaff to Page, but something unique

& fun is to roll northeast on AZ160 toward

the 4 Corners Monument, where the Ute Mountain

reservation bumps feathers with the vast AZ/NM

Navajo nation, where the geographic physical

corners of AZ, NM, UT, & CO all meet cordially,

no actual approach from UT highways, but yes,

160 NE out of AZ,

NM64 coming NW out of Shiprock,

or CO40 dropping down SW out of Cortez,

near to the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde

or the several ruins at the Canyons of the Ancients;

a funky ostentatious tourist monument erected

right at the cross bars of the four state lines,

where I stood spread-legged in the quadrangle

posing for the obligatory photo, with the merciless

sun beating down at 118 degrees, where

four ragged rows of Native American booths 

were sitting under unpainted planks or canvas

selling fabulous Indian silver & turquoise jewelry

(some made in Mexico we found out later),

trinkets, moccasins, blankets, t-shirts made in China,

pottery, sculpture, baskets, & art, a warm mix

of Ute & Navajo cultures, with fry bread stands

every fifty feet. 

The place seemed like a fulcrum, a vertex,

a nesting of heart & drum beats, a marriage

of mingling & tingling, a reservoir of rejuvenation,

where one readied them selves to seek out

even more red rock canyons, pinioned-choked

arroyos, pueblos, vast vistas, sage-scented

rest stops--

making your own road movie,

both in your mind & digitally,

indefatigable, never tiring of the next

viewing, reconnecting with a rawness,

a vigor that fuels your imagination,

salves your incessant wanderlust,

until the next trip,

ever returning,

ever yearning,

ever curious. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics

Would you like the author to read this Road Trip poem to you?