A kind Navaho elder told me, elder to elder, that the most beautiful drive on the entire vast reservation is BIA road 13 through the 9482 foot Buffalo Pass in the Chusksas Mountain range. “It is very steep and twisty,” he said, “but if you go slow, you will see beauty to make it worthwhile. It is the Holy Path.”
I didn’t have much choice about going slow. 
And certainly a Holy Path deserves mindful attention.
The 14% gain, then drop, as you wend around the mountain, brought Durga down to 25 mpg. I opened all my windows and listened to bird song most of the way.
This drive begins behind Shiprock, a massive stone monument which the Navaho call “the center of the world.” It is easy to see why.
At a time when travel might be limited to walking or riding horses, Shiprock stood in the center of an area bounded by mountains, canyons with sheer drops, and amazing geologic spines across the terrain.
Shiprock is a true holy site.
Permission must be granted by a tribal member to come onto the land surrounding it. Climbing it is forbidden, though many culturally ignorant Anglo climbers have been attracted to its sheer walls, with some violating the space and hospitality of the People.
I settled for stopping roadside, just outside of Red Rock Valley, when I was close enough to zoom in.
The drive meanders through gorgeous vermillion landforms, the dirt heavy with the cinnabar which gives it such a striking color. Here and there, small circular clusters of tribal members live in modest, tidy housing among the rocks.
A few miles further along the road, I passed the village of Lukachukai, one of the few communities in Navaho Nation which is actually gaining, not losing, member. Tribal Community Services Coordinator, Gayla James, says it’s mostly young people moving back.
“They’re coming back from college and wanting to live here,” she says.
Though there are only two businesses in Lukachukai, one of which is the historic Totsoh trading post, where one can still buy a cradleboard for their baby. They also have a beautiful new building which houses the senior center and the Head Start program. 
But what the area really has is a wealth of beauty.
The mountains climb above the flat plains below, rich with trees of good size. Juniper, Pinon, Cottonwood, Spruce, Fir, and Aspen stand tall due to the tribes sensible land management, unlike the clear-cut madness our NW forests have endured.
As a result, the mountains still are home to black bear, elk, mule deer, wild cats, wild horses, and coyotes, none of which I saw, though I did spot tracks at the base of the holy spring high in the pass.
Waterfall Spring comes singing down from the highest part of the mountain. As I came upon it, a huge surprise in this mostly dry area, I had to stop. It called to me. The water is so cold, so clear. A long path upward to its source was inaccessible to me, but a shorter path along the banks exposed one of those areas Edward Abbey used to write about: steep walls of red where ferns live perched on the side, thriving under the constant sprinkle of the water which falls from fissures and cracks high above.
When I stopped at Antelope House overlook miles later, a Grandmother there and I got into a chat. I told her I’d come over the pass, stopped at Buffalo Overlook and at that waterfall.
“You should have filled up a bottle of that water,” she told me, “it’s holy water. That water falls all year round, a gift of our Gods.”
“I bathed my face and hands in it,” I answered her, “I could feel it was magic. It called me to stop. I mean, it’s like a miracle, falling from so high through the rocks. I gave thanks.”
“That’s good,” she said.
“I also said a prayer for the healing of our planet, our country. This is a very sick time we are in. Let us pray it continues to fall and heal as many as possible.”
She then showed me a collection of juniper seed and bead necklaces she makes. I was drawn to one with glass beads the color of turquoise.
“That one is called Ghost Beads,” she said, with reverence,”It is meant to protect from nightmares and evil spirits which might want to come to you.”
I told her about my Tibetan friend, Tenphel. How he’d described hungry ghosts and their desire to feed off of the living because they are never satisfied.
“Yes, like that. You say a prayer to keep them away,” she advised, as I handed her twenty dollars for the Ghost Beads.
“I’m traveling alone since March 1,” I told her. “I figure protection against evil is never a bad idea.”
“You be careful,” she warned, “We have a problem with too many women disappearing out here.”
“Yes, I’ve read about that.” I said. “It’sterrible. And it just seems to keep happening.”
“Well, you say your prayers and hang your beads. And you be careful where you go to set up camp. Some places will have the bad energy. You, I think, will feel it. Get out of those places.”
I promised her I would.
“We women must look out for one another.” I smiled sadly.
But back to Buffalo Gap, which actually comes before Waterfall Spring as you travel west, is a lovely little place where the tribe has placed a few picnic tables to entice people to stop and take in the view. 
The view is pretty spectacular, with the Center of the Universe down below, jutting up. 
(look hard to the right above the tree line.
Still visible.
zoomed in
Buffalo Gap is named after the actual buffalo which used to travel this route from one side of the Chuskas to the other. Sadly, they are long gone.
Coming down the west side of the pass, still managing those 14% grades, I stopped to gaze upon this canyon.
In a land with so many canyons, some of them call to me more loudly than others. This was one of those.
Quiet, smelling of sage and wild mint, the calls of crows and jays, mixed with the sweet sound of seasonal warblers penetrating the stillness, I stood humbled before the scene.
I longed for a horse with a knowledgeable guide to ride me through the land, share some of its history.
Instead, I plowed on westward, 
leaving beautiful BIA 13 for a different experience.
BIA 12 is the back road into Canyon de Chelly. The one the locals use to get from here to there.
A side road with a small, unobtrusive sign said, “Antelope House.” Somewhere in the gray matter of my brain a memory kindled. I turned south and followed the one lane to its dead end, a parking lot with only one other car.
I wandered through the junipers and large sage bushes until I found a path.
I clambered over rocks, through narrow spaces, across hard packed sandstone plains 
and stairs cut into the living rock,
until the Canyon came into view.
Canyon de Chelly, which I will write about more tomorrow, unspooled before me. The canyon is actually quite long and is really many canyons interconnected: the two largest, Canyon de Muertos and Canyon de Chelly, hosting numerous side canyons.
All of them following the cut outs made by Chinle Creek, a tributary of the San Juan River, as it makes its way down from the Chuska mountains and through Apache County, where it will eventually join the Colorada.
I hiked to both accessible lookouts into the main canyon in preparation for a day long tour tomorrow I have booked. 
When Joe and I came through here on our honeymoon so many years ago, we didn’t do that. Content to drive the rim, we were stupefied by the beauty but as I have learned over the years, its going inside canyons, any canyons, where the real magic happens 
gorgeous photos and I want to be there with you!
thank you