The Beauty Way in Canyon de Chelly: May 3, 2025

This beautiful woman is Ila.She is my guide.

Ila grew up in Canyon de Chelly, which she loves. She said, “it is my umbilical cord, the place I am forever attached to.”

Ila’s father’s clan comes from the Mummy Canyon, a north side canyon so named because two mummies were discovered in the ruins of the largest pueblo anywhere within the canyon system, located 300 feet above the canyon floor within a huge cave.

She told me these mummies were Anasazi (Ancestral Pueblan) and must have been special to have been mummified and left there alone.  Her father’s family owns the largest land in that back canyon

Ila grew up climbing among the ruins, the cliff houses, crawling along the canyon trails and exploring the verdant canyon floor.

Ila’s mother’s people come from Black Canyon, a smaller side system on the south side. We stopped at the intersection of these two canyons, which she explained is a very important meeting location.

She also explained that her Dine’ people are matrilineal; all land passes through to female clan members and their female heirs, and on and on.

There are about 40 families with roots in the Canyon.  Most of them have traditional hogans (this one is Standing Cow)

and/or cabins on their hereditary parcels.

Ila said that many are just now returning to prepare the land for spring planting following the harsh winter. Most share land tending duties among family members, also sharing weeks or weekends, though some do stay throughout the full spring, summer, and early fall harvest season.

She told me that her family had driven their 30 head of cattle down into the canyon to their land where they would free range until fall.  She said it was one of the most fun days she’s had in a long time.

“I wish we would have brought our gear and spent the night. The stars are so amazing. It’s hard to even pick out the known constellations because there are so many stars scattered about.’

“Turtle was given the job of creating the constellations. He was careful but slow. Coyote got impatient so stole the rest of the stars, then threw them up into the heavens with no thought.”

A few minutes earlier we had been making our way across a wash when shestopped abruptly.

“What is that?  Do you see it?”  She asked.

“It’s a coyote.”

“Yes, it is. I need your help.”

She had us gather up handfuls of the sand we were walking on, then she tracked coyotes tracks in the sand in front of us.

“We’re lucky,” she said after studying the footprints in the sand. “He didn’t cross directly in front of us, but veered away off north.  Coyote crossing in front of us would be a more serious message. He is a messenger. Still, we need to cover his tracks.”

I followed behind her, scattering the sand I’d gathered into Coyote’s footprints as we moved forward.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she spoke earnestly to the direction Coyote had ambled, “We appreciate you and your message. Go in peace.”

I thanked Coyote, too.  Then, we continued on our trip deeper and deeper into the canyons.

Ila stopping frequently to point out wall art

those zigzags tell of big flood

This cave is thought to be a birthing cave. The small handprints would be of women or children.  If you look, you can see Kokopelli on his back, playing his flute.

Ila said it is the only known image of him on his back, which is the position often used to depict women in childbirth.

She made sure I would  see the cliff dwellings almost hidden in the clefts of the canyon wall.

At each stop, I pointed out the faces in the rocks of Guardians I saw.

“You like to find the faces in the rock,” she said, more of a statement than a question.

“I do,” I answered. “I always see faces. The rock is alive and I believe that the Guardians show themselves if we’re willing to see.”

She liked that. So showed me some that she knew.

A man came galloping by on a slender Palomino, two half wild looking dogs trailing behind.

She spoke to him awhile, asking where he was headed. Shared that we were going way back, all the way to Big Cow.

At that he looked at me and smiled. Then, wheeled his mare around and headed across a deep seasonal stream into the canyon.

When we came to Antelope Canyon,

she shared with me a fact that I’d never been taught in school.  And this is that shortly after the forced marches of her people (and so many others), Navaho prisoners on the “Long Walk”

there was a big gathering in this fertile canyon valley of the chiefs, or their head representatives if they were unable to attend, of many, many tribes. They met to discuss strategy: should they continue fighting, dying, fighting some more or what?  Finally, they agreed to send a delegation to Washington, DC. to plead their case before the president that they would stop being forced from their lands.

When we came upon this panel, Ila pointed out the horsemen on the left side.

“Ah, the Spanish, who brought the horse to our country,” I offered.

“Yes. They traded with my people: horses for food, blankets; they hoped for gold.”
“But look,” she continued, “this panel tells of a sad story. It shows the Conquistadores racing down the canyon to kill our people. Which they did.

The people fled deeper into the canyon. The women and children hid in a cave high up on the walls. The warriors met the invaders to protect them. But the Spanish had archers up above the canyon shooting down on the men, they had the mounted horsemen on the ground shooting up at them. They killed them all. The women and the children jumped from the caves to their death rather than being taken hostage. It is now called Massacre Cave.”

“Raped. Enslaved. Tortured. Or die free.” I added quietly.

“Yes.” Ila said.

We both stood and read the story in the wall. I thought of how many generations of people, just trying to live their lives in this challenging environment, had been prevented from doing so. Over and over again.

“You know,” I shared with Ila, “I saw the sign for Massacre Cave Overlook yesterday when I was driving in.  I couldn’t bring myself to check it out. I didn’t know who was massacred, or why, but I knew that it would be a tragic place filled with anguish. I am very receptive. A channel. I couldn’t allow that energy to enter me.”

“I understand,” she said. “It takes a lot of medicine, energy work, to cleanse ourselves from such evil.”

We got back into the Jeep and continued our journey.

“Look,” she would say, “do you see that?”

Or, “Can you spot the two owls?”

And I would look and I would find what she was showing me. Sometimes take a picture. Sometimes just join her in a chuckle of appreciation.

“What kind of wildlife live in the canyon?” I asked at one point after we’d stopped to take our picture together.

“Oh, we have black bear, deer, bobcats, coyote, wild turkeys, the smaller ones like skunk and squirrel.  Wild horses.”

“Is there a well or year-round spring?”

She thought for a moment.

“Most of the water comes from high in the mountains. Snow melt. Rainfall. Floods which travel through the washes and irrigate the land. We had a well but it has been dry for a long, long time. There are two lakes up on the canyon rims which send water our way in seasonal river or creek flow.”

Ila’s grandmother, older than me by five years, hikes these canyons, runs marathons every year.

Ila shared that running is an important ritual to her people.

“I try to run every day. In the mornings. From the trail at White House to the mouth of the canyon is five miles. To the Holiday Inn, six and one half.”

Ila then shares with me that she was in a bad accident five years ago. She shows me the scar which runs from her thigh down to her ankle.

“Head on collision.” She says, “I almost died. My leg is now held together by screws and pins. I had many surgeries. My gut was almost sliced in half by the seat belt-instead, I ended up with a severe hernia. I had to go through months and months of rehab.  I had to learn how to walk again. I didn’t think I would ever run again.  I was an athlete in school. I couldn’t imagine never running again. I trained and trained. I run now. I’m not 100% and its hard accepting that I’ll never be the way I was, but I walk and I run. It’s my number one clan. The mover on the land. My number two clan is water.”

I marveled at Ila, climbing these steep canyon walls, running the uneven sandy and rocky roads, at her grandmother, at 75, doing the same. Strong women.  Beautiful, strong, matriarchs.

I chose the Navaho owned company, the Beauty Way, for my day tour through the canyons because I loved the name. Their website also posted the Beauty Way Poem, which I share here:

Ila and I laughed over the fact that my name is Nyla and hers, Ila.

“I knew somehow that today would be a good day. I knew I would have a good tour,” she told me, smiling with her bright, white, sparkling smile.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” I said, “I am so grateful to have gotten you as my guide. Thank you for sharing your time, your knowledge, your land with me. It has been a wonderful day.”

She got out of the jeep and gave me a warm, full body, generous hug. One which carried affection. I hugged her back.

“You stay safe out in your canyon,” I told her.

“And you, on your solo pilgrimage. You stay safe, too.”

We smiled at each other for several seconds. I felt like I was saying goodbye to a family member.

We each went on our way, the Beauty Way.

  And lest we forget: Spider Rock,

the abode of Spider Woman,

she who originally wove the web of the universe