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The mythologist Joseph Campbell calls Canyon De Chelly ("De Shay") the most sacred place on earth. It is the ancestral home of the Navajo people, and the Anasazi people before them. Hidden in the northeast corner of Arizona, this is a place that inspires awe and introspection. It's not anywhere near as big as the Grand Canyon, but has a special beauty, based in part on its extraordinary physical presence and in part on its tragic and ultimately triumphant history.

We drove west from Albuquerque on I-40 until we crossed back into Arizona and immediately turned north into the high desert. After a night at the Thunderbird Lodge, we were ready to explore the Canyon, but decided not to take the usual jeep or van tour--

Instead, for the first time in about 40 years, I found myself on a horse, following these three and our Navajo guide into the canyon. This was Mary's idea and it was a good one. There was something about the pace and rhythm of the horses that was just right for this time and place. In effect, we were driving, and could stop and look whenever something caught our interest.

You're not allowed to enter the Canyon without a Navajo guide; this is Kee Chee Anagal, who was born and raised in the Canyon and introduced us to some of its secrets. Here, he is pointing out a series of pictographs on the canyon wall with a small hand mirror; you got the feeling that he not only knew the canyon's history, he was a part of it himself.

Mary has an absolutely extraordinary way of making friends with people and it has enriched this trip over and over. She is genuinely warm and people can sense it--and so we end up with local contacts and knowledge which would otherwise be impossible. Here, she's learning about Kee's family and education, the art of Navajo weaving, and the best place in Chinle for dinner. She's a wonder.

Everywhere you go in the Southwest, you see images of Kokopelli, the flute player, who is the Anasazi god of fertility. He's in gift shops, bars, and motel lobbies; he's on rugs, pottery, and billboards; he even figured prominently in a Tony Hillerman mystery I was reading to the kids. And here he is, for real. Ben spotted him first and announced that this cave was his actual home, since this is where he sleeps (see, he's lying down). This is Education, for sure.

Not surprisingly, these horses had minds of their own. When they wanted a drink, they stopped and took one. On the way into the Canyon, they were slow and a little balky, but as soon as we turned around to head out (and back to their stables and their lunch), they picked up the pace considerably.

Or in the case of my horse, Checkers, a little too considerably. So then here's what happened; ignore whatever you hear from those disloyal kids.

Checkers decided he wanted to get back sooner than the rest of us had planned, so he suddenly took off at a brisk pace. Not a gallop, exactly, but more than a trot. Not wanting to leave Mary and the kids behind (sure, Angus), I applied the brakes in the form of a loud "whoa" and a rather vigorous tug on the reins. Too vigorous, as it turned out.

Checkers did as he was told and stopped--on a dime. The problem was, I didn't. Applying the principles of Newton's first law of motion ("A body, once placed in motion, will remain in motion until acted upon by an outside force"), which Ben and I had been studying, I flew gracefully (?) over Checkers' head, did a neat tuck and roll, and landed unceremoniously on the bank of the river, still clutching the reins which I had managed to pull off the horse as I flew by. This meant, of course, that Checkers was now free to return home at his own pace, which he proceeded to do, leaving me with the prospect of about a three mile walk.

Fortunately, our friend Kee was prescient in such matters and had come equipped with a rope lasso (the first one I had ever seen in person) and he took off, returning a few minutes later with Checkers back in tow. And what did I do? I followed Newton's other famous principle applicable in such cases--I Got Back On The Horse, and we made it home without further incident.

Needless to say, the kids loved the whole incident and there was much good-natured (dare I say it?) horseplay about it for the next couple of days. There's nothing any kid enjoys more than seeing Dad humbled; they sure got it in this case.

Think Molly had a good time?

That night, Mary and I brought the kids dinner from the Lodge cafeteria and left them in the tender embrace of the Disney Channel ("Zenon, the Zequel") while we had a rare night out to plan the next couple of days.

Since we had been into the Canyon floor, the next day we drove the rim and stopped at a series of breathtaking overlooks.

Mary at one of the overlooks; finally, some warm days.

This gives you another idea of the scale of the place; at the bottom is a huge cliff house--those buildings in the cleft are two and three stories tall.

When we were in Taos, we visited the museum/home of the famous scout and frontiersman, Kit Carson. There were lots of artifacts and stories about his life on display. One element of all of the narratives was something to the effect that Kit Carson was really a friend to the Indians, despite bad press to the contrary. I noticed when I read several of these disclaimers that there was a little of the "Methinks she doth protest too much" quality to them.

I found out when I got to Canyon De Chelly that I was right.

In 1864, on the orders of the territorial governor, Kit Carson led a force of soldiers through the Canyon, burned the farms and homes, and literally drove the Navajos out. The 8,000 who survived were then forced to march some 300 miles to a detention camp in southern New Mexico; several thousand more died along the way. The Navajo people still refer the this as "The Long Walk." They were held in New Mexico for four years before being allowed to return to their ancestral home in the Canyon.

But return they did, and after many years managed to rebuild their society, to the point that the Navajos are now our largest single Native American tribe. Their weaving is in such demand that a 3x6 foot hand woven rug now sells for more than $2,000. Their lot is still not easy, but at least they now control the Canyon that is so much a part of their history and lives.

Here are some more shots in and around the Canyon--

OK, so we were just horsing around, again. Do your kids ever drive you (almost) over the edge?

Here we are outside of a traditional Navajo hogan outside the Visitors Center. These can still be seen scattered across Indian Country, although more traditional houses (with windows) seem to preferred.

   I will always remember the drive back to Camp Verde, both because of it's variable beauty (we passed through incredible desert like this as well as high elevation forest near Flagstaff) but also because on the way, we listened to the moving autobiography of one of Mary's heroes, Hank Aaron.

    Hearing Aaron's stories about minor league baseball in the south in the early fifties was a shocking reminder to me (I grew up in Virginia at around the same time) and a revelation to the kids. What Jackie Robinson, Aaron, Larry Doby, and dozens of other black ball players of this period put up with seems unbelievable to us today. The story ends with Aaron's dogged pursuit of Babe Ruth's homerun record; the bad news was the contents of the hate mail he received (I'm sure the kids had never heard much of the language); the good news was the over 900,000 pieces of congratulatory mail that came in during the same period.

    You came away from the book with a lot of respect for a superlative ball player, but even more for the character of an extraordinary man.

Town we passed through on the way back; there's got to be a story here, but we didn't have time to stop and learn it.