Desert Water

Desert Water(Eric Youmans) Desert Water

It was during the summer of 1974 when I motored down an arid stretch of road in northern Arizona. I was driving an old Buick LeSabre Convertible with leather interior, resisting the temptation to roll the top down. The feeling of wind in my hair, though refreshing, would not be worth being exposed to the blistering hot sun. The breeze coming through the open windows had to suffice.

As I gazed at the oncoming horizon, shimmering in the heat, my mind drifted to the phone call I got the day before. I was informed that my father died in a freak tractor accident at his home in Flagstaff. I hadn't seen the old man in a couple years but I kept in regular contact with him through phone calls. After I got the news, I packed a duffel bag and prepared to drive there from my Albuquerque residence to pay my final respects.

Even while I was daydreaming about the times I spent with my dad, I was aware that my gas tank was under a quarter full. Back then, you could drive a hundred miles in that region without seeing a town. Road signs were few and far between. I watched for them attentively as I drove, squinting because the heat of the day made them blurry when viewed from any distance greater than 10 feet. I wanted to find an exit sign, but like a desert oasis that turns out to be only a mirage, each sign I passed was a disappointment. Flagstaff: 138 Miles, read one. Beyond that, a sign informed me that I was Now Entering Navajo County.

I finally reached an exit, but as I pulled onto the far lane and coasted down to a stop sign, I noticed that I had another problem. My car was overheating. I needed to get some water in my radiator soon. The only nearby evidence of civilization was the road itself, paved with concrete by some long departed construction crew. I turned north at the end of the ramp. On both sides of me were vast stretches of desert. Only a few rocky formations and cactus plants broke up the monotony of flat, dry earth. I turned my attention to my dashboard, where the needle on my temperature gauge pegged into the red bar, warning of impending disaster. I drove ahead, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut.

After a couple miles, I spotted some leafy trees up ahead. As I neared closer, the specks of greenery swelled into a dense tree line, at least a mile wide on the west side of the road. I pulled over to the shoulder and switched off the engine to let it cool by what I thought was the outer perimeter of a state forest. I figured that there would be a source of water in the vicinity, so I gathered some empty containers from my trunk and headed down a gentle slope toward the fertile area.

A few yards from the road, I found a tiny stream with a shallow rocky bed. No doubt this trickle of water would grow to a mighty river during the next deluge in these parts, where rain was infrequent but likely to cause flash floods when it did come. For the purpose of filling my water containers, this was going to do just fine.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, that small creek was the ribbon of life to local Indians upon whose reservation I was now trespassing.

I maneuvered around a thorny thicket and over slippery rocks, and knelt by the moving water. It glistened in the sunlight as I dipped my empty jug. The serenity of the scene was abruptly shattered by the creaky slam of a car door. I spun around and saw three figures exiting a pickup truck and moving down toward me. They made no attempt to be subtle.

Clad in dusty denim jeans and flannel shirts, the three men were unmistakably Native Americans. I sensed their hostility at the same moment that I glimpsed the weapon being carried by the shortest of them. It was a well worn but capable looking rifle, a 30/30 carbine probably used to hunt mule deer in the nearby hills. The leader was considerably taller than the rifle man, and though he appeared to be unarmed, his presence was more imposing. His pock marked face revealed nothing except a slight air of contempt. As he approached, he called out, "Hey!" and his two comrades moved to flank him on both sides.

This was before the days of wealthy tribal casinos and land grants. The tribes were still suffering under the white man's blanket of greed and prejudice. My people had wronged the Indians, and even though I was generations removed from the worst of those grievances, I felt that I might be tainted with some stain of ancestral guilt in the eyes of these men. I stood and raised my hand in a gesture of greeting; hoping not to become a target of their vengeance.

In a deep voice, the leader demanded, "What are you doing here?"

"I was just trying to get some water for my journey. I replied. My car started to overheat, and-"

"This is our water!" He interrupted. I swallowed hard and tried on a smile, but it felt sick. "You are trespassing on my reservation, mister. You do not belong here!"

Hopelessly outmatched in any physical contest, I decided to explain my situation and hope for the best. "I am deeply sorry for offending you, friend. I was driving to Flagstaff to attend my father's funeral.. I had some car trouble, and I'm running low on fuel, so I had to pull off the interstate. I thought that I might find a gas station off this exit, but there is none around here. If I had known that this was your stream, I would not have tried to take from it. I promise that I am no thief."

At some point during my rambling, the steeliness seemed to go out of the tall man. The short stocky one let the muzzle of his rifle drop toward the ground, and the erect postures of the men relaxed a tiny bit. A few moments later, he asked, "Your father died?"

"Yes he did. He was crushed by a tractor just two days ago."

"I am sorry to hear of your loss."

A long, awkward silence followed, while the leader appeared to be making a decision. Finally, he said "We have to watch out for people coming here. They come and hunt our game, catch our fish and litter our land with garbage. You understand?"

"Oh, yes." I said.

"If you want our water, you must pay. What do you have?"

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled $5 bill. “Here”, I said, offering it to him. He took the money and tucked it into his pocket. "Okay," he said. "Fill your jugs and then leave here. Good luck."

With that, he and his two companions walked back up to their truck, leaving me standing by the stream. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and bent down to the water to finish filling up my jugs, reflecting on the encounter.

Five minutes later, I was heading back to my Buick. The Indian's truck departed with a roar of its engine, its tires spinning up a plume of dust in its wake. To my surprise, there was a small gas can setting by the rear tire of my car. I picked it up and judged by the heft of it; there was at least two gallons of gasoline in there. I knew it must have been left by the Indians. I was touched that even after the historical injustices heaped upon them, they had enough kindness to help a white man in need. As I pondered the cultural values we shared, such as the desire to honor and remember our departed fathers, a single tear welled up in my eye.