At daylight, we poked startled heads out of our bedrolls to gaze at a white silent world about us. It was late March, but so quietly had the storm come upon us during the night that not one of us, indians or white, felt its presence.
It was a quiet group of men who shook the snow away and then huddled about a small fire. Little was said, only questioning glances were made at the grayish clouds that floated silently overhead. No one looked back the way we had come; no one spoke of the road we had made the day before. It wasn't necessary. That road was covered now, and when the snow melted away but little of it would be there.
"Looks like we'll need a guide to get back," my father said in a musing voice, as we headed for the cars and trucks at last. The Hopi, Walter Lewis, laughed, and the boy with him slapped at the snow-shrouded sagebrush in front of him.
John Daw and I brushed the snow from our box seat, and I started the engine, feeling rather glum about the whole thing.
"You know which way to go?" I asked, and his booming laugh was a welcome surprise.
"We're going to Navajo Mountain, remember?" he said, and pointed to the north. So, I ground the gears in place, and we moved slowly on. Behind us the other car and the trucks roared into life.
In a short while we came to the edge of a plateau, but John shook his head and pointed to the right. Once more we toiled down into the desert sand with its snowcap and went steadily on. A few cedar trees clung precariously to the higher spots, and not too far ahead the blue-green of piñon trees broke the skyline.
The sun came out at last, and the snow began to melt. That helped the sand, and we made better time than the day before. About two o'clock we entered the trees of the piñon forest, and now the outcropping ridges from the plateau began to cause us some trouble.
As the day played out, our progress was almost nonexistent. For the past few hours, we had been stopped most of the time, building approaches to ridges and across several deep washes.
Tired and a little discouraged, we grouped under some tall piñons for the night. But the sun went down in a burst
At least the desert was now behind us. High country here, with cedars and piñons in a great mass, overflowing from the long plateau that we were skirting to the east. Once around it, there would be canyons and rocky stretches, and then we would descend once more into a long valley that led directly to the base of Navajo Mountain. We were about halfway to our goal.
I went to sleep that night feeling that by this time tomorrow night we would be within reaching distance. But my optimism did not last past the noon hour of the next day.
About ten o'clock, we crawled laboriously up on the east side of the plateau, and then, soon after, we came to a narrow ridge between two canyons. To the right, a branch of Piute Canyon fell away, and to the left, an arm of Navajo Canyon dropped abruptly. The ridge between slanted up until there was hardly enough room for a horse trail over it. For over an hour, we toiled with shovels until at last I made a precarious crossing with the stripped-down Dodge.
We worked our way back and forth across the first of these, and then all but the stripped-down car I was using to lead the way began to show strong signs of mechanical failure. We called a halt and held a hurried consultation.
"We don't dare go on," my uncle summed it up for all of us. "We've got to get the trucks back while we can, and have them worked on. It's a hundred and thirty miles from here to Flagstaff." The cars and trucks were unloaded and a camp set up. The next morning the rest started back, leaving my father, John Daw, and I to keep the camp and work on the road through the canyons. The others would get the vehicles repaired and then would return as soon as possible. We were still going to Navajo Mountain!