MONUMENT VALLEY NAVAJO TRIBAL PARK 36°56’18.6”N 110°05’29.8”W
“All hope is not lost either, for resiliency means we must adapt with change.”
We tell our horses to continue, and as we pass more buttes, she tells more stories about her climbing days. She would point to vastly large rocks and tell us which ones had craters on top that, after rainfall, would fill with water. She and Kee sang songs out loud in the Canyon, and we were surrounded by the vibration of welcomed melodies about coming home, celebrating the land and harmony with its people. With each story and song, her eyes sparkle with the love of this land. It was then I realized that the main character of her stories is not Effie; it is the water. It is the land. It is the deep connection of being between people and Earth. To live here in this sacred Valley—or anywhere in the Southwest—water is life. Effie has played her part since she was a child as a water bearer, collecting water for her family and livestock, ensuring that her grazing grounds are healthy and balanced to sustain seasonal drought. But throughout the decades, Effie has seen great changes to the land. They used to grow the three sisters crops by Dry Lake: corn, squash, and beans. They had irrigation canals from Dry Lake, but now, farming is more difficult in these parts. “I’ve been noticing that my people keep moving closer and closer to water,” she replies when I ask her about the changes she has seen. The Colorado and San Juan rivers have experienced megadrought, prolonged absences of water driving the extremes of this land. Even today, Effie has never known a home with running water, the magic of twisting a faucet to see water to her heart’s content or having a shower in her own home. Her family continues to haul water from collection sites using trucks with tanks strapped down in the back. This task is done almost daily, driving hours to a site to fill up and return home, then redistributing to blue storage barrels for drinking, cooking, cleaning, and livestock. Each drop is calculated in its use. But leaving this land is not possible, for it would break heart, mind, and spirit. As Effie’s great aunt Helen put it best, “I sleep between the mittens. I am held by Mother Earth. I feel safest here.” All hope is not lost either, for resiliency means we must adapt with change. For Diné communities like Effie’s, it is the radical take back of their own teachings, keeping traditions alive, and bolstering them to face the many challenges ahead. Back in camp, horses are put away, dinner is made, and we build a bonfire. Overhead, no clouds exist in the sky, and we are enshrouded by a blanket of stars. Kee brings out his drum and begins to sing songs in Navajo. Melodies of the land and his favorite red wine dance around the fire, revibrating against the rocky wings of the Thunderbird. I sit there and think about the stories Effie and her brother have shared, the elegy of water, and how it lives in memory. Effie’s life, inextricably bound to the fate of water since birth, carries the complex cultural, environmental, and geopolitical history of water rights. The land here leaves me with more questions than answers, prying at what futures are in store for this land and people. What memories will water continue to hold?
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MOTHER VOLUME FOUR
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