Fezziwig Press & Photography by Stu Jenks

"At One With" [@1w/]: Opening this Thursday at TJCC

"@1w/" [At One With]: Opening this Thurday at TJCC

This Thursday, October 1st, from 6:30 pm to 8:30 pm at the Tucson Jewish Community Center at River and Dodge, I'll be having a little art party; an opening, a gathering of good folk, with sweets and all, to celebrate my new show "@1w/: At One With". I would love to see you there. A little art talk will be happening around 7. Below is the Artist Statement from the show. Come if you can. I'll have a big hug waiting for you (and some rugalah too.) See you soon.

Love, light, and luck,

Stu

“@1w/”
[At One With]
by Stu Jenks,
High Holy Days, 2009.


    With the High Holy Days and the Day of Atonement upon us, I thought about what the word “Atonement’ meant to me. To make amends with G-D. [Maybe.] To make right and correct the harms I’ve done to the people in my life. [Absolutely.] To forgive others. [Yes.] To forgive myself. [Harder to do.]
    The original Middle English words, for Yom Kipper were ‘At Onement”, meaning to be in harmony with G-D and his community. I thought about my own work, and saw, that on one level, that is just what I’m trying to do. I go to these places: the mountains, the deserts, the sea. I bring along Zippo lighters, Hula Hoops with Christmas lights, and small inflatable Bozos, to create a bit of magic, mystery and humor in these landscapes. But I always try to be ‘At-One-With” these places, to not impose myself so greatly as to harm or mock the land, to come with some reverence, even when I’m throwing a miniature Bozo punching bag in the air near some ancient petroglyphs.
    And then, like the mystic who travels deep into the forest to find a vision, not for himself primarily but for his people, I bring the images of the Hoop Dances, the Flames Spirals, the Bozos back to town, and display them for the community, showing the people the wonders I’ve found.
    And perhaps, by going on these lone spiritual sojourns into the wild, I am a better man: A man who will continue to make amends for his wrongs, and maybe, just maybe, becomes a less harmful, more loving and kinder human being.
   

"Spiral in the Ironwood Forest"

"Spiral in the Ironwood Forest, Arizona" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

"Cradle Rock Spiral": Dragoon Mountains, Arizona

[From top to bottom: "Cradle Rock Spiral", "Megalith at Cradle Rock", "Lizard Man Pictographs at Council Rocks", and "The Dragoons Reflected in a Puddle" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

The Transpersonal Papers: Chapter Eight: "The Pine Forest Spiral"

The Transpersonal Papers:
Chapter Eight: "The Pine Forest Spiral, Mothershead Neck, Virginia"
© 2001, 2007, 2008 Stu Jenks

            August, 2001

            I got the call on late Saturday night.
            "Stu, It's time. You need to come now," said Mom.
            On Monday, I told work I needed to go.
            On Tuesday I was on a plane
            On Tuesday night, I drove up Route 3 in a white rental pickup truck, took a right on State Road 608, drove through Mothershead Neck, and up the drive to The River House. My sister's car was already there. The lights were on in the entire house. It was just after ten o’clock.
            I walked into the house and went straight to my Dad's room.
            “Well, Stuart, look who's here?" Mom says.
            My dad’s lying flat in bed, his eyes closed.
            I grab my father's hand.
            "Hey Dad, how are you doing?"
            Dad opens his eyes/
            "Well hey there son. Glad…well…glad you're here."
            "Me too, Dad. You hangin' in?"
            "Yep. How was your flight?"
            "It was OK."
            He is noticeably smaller in the legs and arms then he was three months ago. His left arm is quite swollen though, and above his left pectoral muscle is a large bandage that covers a cancerous growth as big as your fist.
            "Well, I'm going to get my bags out of the car," I say.
            "Oh…Ok". He squeezes my hand again and I squeeze back. I look up from Dad to look at my sister and mother. They look wiped out. I turn and go outside to get my bags.
            It's the first week in August, 2001.
            I'm home to help my Dad die.

            Hospice consists of my mother Mary, my sister Pamela, and I. That's it.  A nurse comes to the house every other day to change Stuart's chest bandage, but she leaves soon after. Mom says Dad doesn't want hospice, but I think she doesn't want strangers in the house either. So it's just the three of us. Three people who don’t really get along that well, but who love Dad enough to be here to help.
            Pamela and I trade shifts on who will get up in the middle of the night and lift Dad when he needs lifting, or to change his leaky diapers when they need changing or to simply help Mom in some other way. On nights when it is my turn, I wake quickly after Mary yells for me to come downstairs. Every time she yells 'Stu!' from the bottom of the stairs, I listen to the tone in her voice to see if it is an emergency or not. Mostly it’s just to lift Dad’s frail body or to help clean him up.
            During the day, there’s a lot of lifting Dad up. A lot of scooting him up in the bed. A lot of pillow-fluffing. A lot of feeding him fresh cantaloupe by hand. A lot of helping him drink Gatorade with a straw. A lot of us just sitting with him while he sleeps. None of us sleep well except Dad.
            A week passes. All of us are exhausted, including Father. Having no trained hospice help is a real fucked up idea if you ask me. Whose idea was this anyway? No matter, really. It is what it is, and I'm here to do what needs to be done.
            There have only been a few times in my life when I knew I was in the right place, doing the right thing, with the right people, at the right time. Being here, now, with my Dad is one of those times.
            A baby monitor, its On/Off light, red and glowing sits on a bedside table near my Dad. The other monitor is in the living room. When I go outside to the pier for a break, I take a walkie-talkie with me if I'm suddenly needed. Usually I get buzzed at the pier to come help lift Dad, but there’s another call I hope I never get.
            See, Dad's pectoral muscle cancer has spread to his lungs and now has also surrounded his heart and his coronary arteries. There is a possibility, we’ve been told, that Dad may die by having one of his coronary arteries rupture.
            That he might bleed out.
            If that happens, blood will fly out of his mouth and nose under high pressure, spraying the room, the walls, the bed, and he will be dead within seconds. We have placed bath towels all around the bedroom to place over his mouth and face if he starts to bleed out. This is our worst fear. We pray he dies soon, in his sleep.
            Every time the walkie-talkie gets keyed and I hear my mother's voice, I'm wonder if she’s calling to tell me that there is blood everywhere.

            This morning, I've gone to the little forest of pine trees next to the house. My father planted this forest, 15 years ago. They were little seedlings less than a foot high back then. Now they are twenty-foot-tall pines, all equal distance apart, all in neat rows. Just like my Dad to be so precise about the planting. A thick bed of needles covers the forest floor. I slowly walk through his forest, smelling of Deet. (I've been bathing in bug repellent since I arrived. Part of being back home is that I’m fresh meat for the mosquitoes.) It is a beautiful place, this forest. A wonderful gift my father has given to the Earth. He didn't have those kind of noble thoughts when he planted the trees, but it's true just the same.
            And as I walk through the forest, I see a space in between some of the trees. I reach down and touch the pine needles. I have an idea.
            Bending over, I begin to form a ridge in the pine needles with my hands and I slowly walk backwards as I fluff the needles, making a spiral on the forest floor. It takes a little while to get it right. To get it precise. I am my father's son.
            After I'm done, I walk into the spiral and then walk out again. Spiral in, spiral out. The journey upward, the journey down. A little gift for my Dad. I'll photograph it in a few days, but not right now.
    As I stand there, I pray to God to give my Dad a easy death. A death without exploding arteries and gushing blood. A death with some peace and little pain. A death that won't hurt him or traumatize us too much.
            "Please, God, if you could do this, I would be so very grateful."
    I then walk into the old shed not far away, in search of an offering for the spiral. I find it right away. I walk back outside to Father’s Forest and place my prayer offering in the very center of the spiral.
            A 40-year-old solid wood croquet ball with a red stripe painted around its center.


            August, 2008:

            Dad died on September 4th, 2001, a few weeks after I made the Pine Forest Spiral. He didn’t bleed out. He died in his sleep with his wife by his side. He was in very little pain. He was 79.
            Mom sold The River House and Father’s Forest so she could invest the money and live. It was a good idea, but sad nonetheless. She lives in Tucson now, not far from me, but will soon be moving back to her beloved Virginia to live out her final years. She misses the river and its people so.
            My sister still lives in Raleigh, and is struggling with cancer herself. She’s getting major surgery in a couple of weeks. Our prayers are with her.
            And I’m in Tucson: Reasonably happy, in debt up to my eyeballs, but I don’t care. I have good friends and that’s what I really care about. Art and music too. And let’s not forget about Love, God, and The Land and Sky.
            Last night, the power went out in my apartment for six hours after a massive thunderstorm, so I sat outside on my little balcony on the third floor, and played my mandolin to the Dark and to the Rain. I fell asleep later, feeling a cool breeze brushing my face while I lay in bed. The only thing that would have made it more perfect would have been if I wasn’t alone.
            And my Father’s Forest? It was hit by two hurricanes but the storms took only a few trees near the bank of the river. The bulk of the forest grows strong and straight as ever. And the new owners of The River House like the house and its lands just the way they are. Thank you, Al, for loving our family’s ancestry land just as it is. May Dad’s trees grow for a very long time and then die from old age.

The Indian Wars: Chapter Six: "The Painted Desert"

The Indian Wars:
Chapter Six: "The Painted Desert"
© 1998, 2008 Stu Jenks


            "Are there any petroglyphs in the area, with spirals forms on them, that I can hike to? I say.
            "Sure," the park ranger says, "Over there, there is a rock with a bunch of petroglyphs on it."
            He points out to the west into the vast valley of The Painted Desert. 'Over there' doesn't really seem quite specific enough.
            "How far over there?" I say.
            "Oh, not too far, really. You just got down the trail that starts over there."
            There's that "Over There" again. But he seems to be pointing a lot closer this time.
            "…and hike down to the valley floor and head toward those hills over there and it's a large boulder at the base of one of those hills," the ranger says.
            "Is there a trail that goes there?" I ask.
            "No, but it's easy. Just head toward those hills once you get to the desert floor."
            'Those Hills' look to be about three to five miles away. It's around 8:00 a.m. in October. Cold but it'll warm up. Clean blue sky.
            "So I can just bushwhack over there? No problem with that?"
            The ranger smiles. He's in his early 30’s; trim, with a beard, wearing the standard Government Issue cotton polyester uniform of the U.S. Park Service. No hat.
            "No, It's no problem. Have a good time." His smile seems genuine.
    "Thanks. I appreciate it. Spirals, right?"
            "Yep. Them and a lot of other symbols on that rock"
            Cool.
            "Well, I think I'll hike out there with my camera and see. Thanks again."
            "You bet." He's still smiling. A heck of a nice guy.
            I go to the truck and load up. Not too much stuff. Just a tripod, my Rollei, and some water. I head off to the trailhead and begin to hike down. Well worn and well maintained is this trail. You got to give it to the Park Service, to keep things ship shape. The walk is easy. Still just above freezing but warming up. The sun’s bright and feels good. I look off toward the boulder the ranger talked about. I think I see the hills he was pointing to. Has to be them. No other hills in the direction of 'Over There.' The air’s crisp and easy on the lungs. No wind. No tourists. Just the trail and I.
            I get to the level valley floor and begin navigating around the base of a few small hills that rim this flat expanse of The Painted Desert. The red, white, yellow and blue strata of the hills are becoming more noticeable and brilliant as the sun rises. Easy to see how this area got its name. To the west, I see the hills the ranger mentioned. Maybe just a couple of miles more. It's warming up. I take off my winter jacket and sling it through my camera case strap.
            After an hour of walking, I can see a large boulder toward the north end of the Over-There hill. As I approach, I begin to see shapes. Petroglyphs of many types and sizes: Spirals, circles, zig zags, lizard shapes, hand prints, human stick figures, all carved into this one single boulder.
            There is much speculation of what these prehistoric carvings signify. Some speculate that they are messages back and forth between people, like a bulletin board. Others think they are designations of boundary lines. Still others wonder if they are ancient gang taggings.  Perhaps though, they were made because the Ancient Americans simply wanted to make them. M. Scott Peck, in his book on his travels to Scotland and his exploration of the stone megaliths on the Isles, came up with a revolutionary proposition on why Pre-Celtic people made Stonehenge, and Avebury and The Standing Stones of Callanish. It wasn't to perform primitive astronomy or to make places of worship. Maybe, he speculates, they dragged the stones and created the Cairns and the Megaliths, in the pursuit of making Art.
    Perhaps these Ancients here carved the petroglyphs for similar creative reasons. They found a good rock, easy to find, easy to carve, and had at it. An Ancient saw a big rattler and he thinks ‘I'll put it on that rock.’ I love the sun, another Ancient ponders. She carves the Sun on that rock. ‘I realize that I am here, that I exist, that I matter. Maybe a hand on that rock will let others know that they matter too,’ he thinks. I see God all around me, she says. A circle seems to say my love of God the best.
            Red filter. Long exposure. F22. Maximum depth of field. I pop a few exposures, and then I leave the camera on the tripod and climb atop another nearby boulder. I drink some water. I look over at the rock, covered with its symbols and marvel at its diversity.
            Whether they were messages or tags or memoirs or Fine Art, they are, nonetheless, bits of Wonder to me today.
            And Wonder is what I primarily search for in Art. In God, in Love and in Life, as well.

The Indian Wars: Chapter Three: “Drink The Same Water, Eat The Same Bread"

The Indian Wars: Chapter Three:
“Drink The Same Water, Eat The Same Bread, Council Rocks, Dragoon Mountains, Arizona”
© 2005, 2008 Stu Jenks

        Sweet Jesus, I've never been so happy to engage the 4-wheel-drive in all my life. That dirt road out of Tombstone is one of the worst washboard roads I've ever driven on. Huge standing waves of dirt and rock, and trying to drive on the shoulder, like I do up on the Navajo Rez, just doesn't work here. There is no shoulder, no ditch. Just one long carpet of washboard from edge to edge, but now after ten miles of teeth-rattling, I've turned onto the smooth gently rolling Jeep trail that leads deep into the Western side of the Dragoon Mountains.
            Never been on this side of the Dragoons before, but I've felt pulled to it lately after I started researching Cochise and his Chokonen band of Chiricahua Apaches. On the outside of the Dragoons, on the eastern slope, is Cochise's Stronghold, a place I've been to a number of times over the years, but this Jeep trail on the western slope is brand new to me and that's saying something, given all the dirt roads in Southern Arizona I've driven on over the past 20 years. My U.S. Forest Service map of the area lays draped over a pillow that sits in the passenger's seat of my Pathfinder, a pillow that muffles the rattle in my right door but also serves as a place to rest my head when I take catnaps on long trips. No sleeping today though.
            I stop the truck after about a half mile, and study the map. I look in the rear view mirror. No one behind. No one in front. I take a little time.
            On the map there seems to be a place called White House Ruins. Doesn’t look far. And near that to the south, are something called Council Rocks. I wonder what those are? I wonder if any thing significant happened there, back in Apache times? Feels like something happened here. Just a feeling. Well, let's go see what we shall see.
                
            [A couple of weeks later, I discovered that a lot did happen over on this side of the mountain, but I didn't know it at the time. Just had that strong feeling. My intuition was right.
            In 1872, peace was finally negotiated with Cochise near Council Rocks and a few years early, further north in the Western Stronghold area, it’s said that it was there that Tom Jeffords first meet Cochise.
            A little about Tom Jeffords, the man who will forever be known as Cochise's best White friend. Born in 1832, Thomas J. Jeffords was a tall, thin man with red hair and a long beard. In the 1850's, he was a sailor on the Great Lakes. He helped lay road in Kansas and Colorado after his stint as a boatman, and he prospected in New Mexico before the Civil War. In the Civil War he was a scout for the Union General E .R. S. Canby, in the area of New Mexico and Arizona. After the Civil War, things get a little foggy to say the least. It is known that he either started or managed a mail run, that traveled between Santa Fe and Tucson. He probably met the Chihennes clan of the Apaches in New Mexico before he meet Cochise and his Arizonan Chokenen band. My guess is that it was through his knowing the Chihennes that he learned to speak Apache. After not too long, he quit the mail business and went back to prospecting and trading and finally ended up in the Canada Alamosa area of New Mexico in 1869. Some evidence points that he met Cochise for the first time, in Canada Alamosa when Cochise briefly came to talk a little peace. The peace talks failed, mostly because the U.S. Government wanted him to move to New Mexico, and Cochise want to stay in his beloved Chirichaua and Dragoon Mountains. Anyway, many facts tend to point toward Jeffords meeting Cochise in New Mexico, but there are two stories that strongly contradict that notion, one of those I like to think is closer to the truth.
            The first story is from Jeffords' account told to Robert Forbes in 1913 when Jeffords was his eighties, a story that was told again in the movie "Broken Arrow" and in the book "Blood Brother" by Elliott Arnold. Basically what Jeffords told Forbes was, that in the early 1860's, when according to Tom, he was running the mail through Cochise's land, he was tired of getting his couriers killed by Cochise’s people. Seems most riders never made it to Tucson from parts East, with perhaps as many as 20 of Jeffords' employees being killed running the mail on horseback, along the old Butterfield Stage road. Tom said that he took a big risk and rode alone into Cochise's camp in the Western Stronghold area of the Dragoons. He had arms but did not show them. He just walked right up to Cochise's wickiup and introduced himself. Cochise was so impressed with Jeffords' bravery and lack of fear that he spared his life and after some discussion, Cochise agreed to let Jefford's mail pass through his land unhindered.
            A few problems with this story: First, only Jeffords tells this story this way. No Apaches, no troops, nobody ever heard of this story. Secondly, Apache raids on the mail continued throughout the 1860’s until the eventual peace with Cochise in 1872, and third, Jeffords probably wasn't carrying the mail at that time all. Many said that after the Civil War, Jeffords was mostly prospecting and a number of reliable sources say that Jeffords met Cochise while prospecting in the mountains of Southeastern Arizona.
            The account that I think is probably closest to the truth is the story told by Mrs. Eve Ball, the oral historian of the Apache Tribe. She states that Jeffords didn't go find Cochise. Cochise ran across Tom while he was prospecting and due to Jefford's fearlessness, Cochise didn't kill him. Judging from what is often written about Jeffords, he was a straight shooter, didn't bullshit anyone, and told the truth no matter what others thought. But Tom was also known for keeping his mouth shut instead of lying when he wanted to withhold the truth. He also fluently spoke the Apache language. That, I believe, is incredibly significant, that he could talk directly to the Apaches and to Cochise in particular. Also, Apaches, as a people, prized candor and truthfulness as very high virtues and also believe in just being quiet rather than telling a bold faced lie (The exception to the rule being lying to your enemies in order to get him off guard so you can kill him. Makes sense to me.)
            I picture Tom and Cochise's meeting, something like this. Remember: I'm just making this up.
            Tom is digging a hole, looking for gold or silver or copper, maybe in the Dragoons, maybe in the Chiricahuas. I'm guessing the Dragoons. He hears a horse whinny, then another. Through the trees he sees five to ten Apaches on horseback, slowing riding toward him. He probably think he's screwed but you never know. Perhaps he speaks first:
            Jeffords: (in Apache) "Hello, how are you doing?"
            Cochise: (flanked by a number of his warriors, his horse stops. He's surprised a white man speaks his language. His warriors rest their rifles on their laps. They look intently at Jefford. Only Cochise speaks) "I'm well. How are you?
            Jeffords: "I'm good too, Thanks."
            Cochise: "My name is Cochise."
            Jeffords: "Mine is Tom Jeffords."
            Cochise: "So you speak my language?"
            Jeffords: "Enough to get by."
            Cochise: "You know this is my land, don't you?"
            Jeffords: "I sure do."
            Cochise: "What are you doing here?"
            Jeffords: "Looking for gold, but not having any luck. Just digging a hole mostly."
            Cochise (smiles) : "You also know that I've killed a lot of white men."
            Jeffords: "Yep, I know that too. Seen your handiwork quite a bit."
            Cochise: "Do you think I'm wrong to kill the white man, to kill the Mexicans?"
            Jeffords: "I'd rather you not kill this white man." (He points to himself.)
            Cochise: (smiles again) "You don't seem that frightened."
            Jeffords: "Oh, I'm scared but frankly, you'll either kill me or you won't and there ain't a goddamn thing I can do to stop you. But, Cochise, truth be told, I'd prefer that you let me live."
            Cochise: (laughing) "Are you always this blunt?"
            Jeffords: (shrugs) "Pretty much, at least that what my friends say."
            Cochise: (smiling) "I like you. I don't think I'll kill you today. Would you like to come to my camp tonight and have some dinner with me and the wives?"
            Jeffords: "Thought you'd never ask."
            (Both of them laugh, even the young Apache braves chuckle a bit.)
            I bet you, dimes to a doughnut, this is closer to the truth, but hell if I or anyone else really knows for sure. And I don't blame Jeffords for sweetening the story when he was an old man. I'll probably be telling people, if I make it to my 80's, that those flame spiral photographs I made in my 40's were actually not created by me using a Zippo lighter but rather were the visual records of ghosts I saw in the desert moonlight. But one thing is certain. However they met, Cochise and Jeffords became fast friends. They trusted each other, cared about each other, and neither ever betrayed the other.]

            This is interesting land. The huge rocks of the western slopes of the Dragoons seemed to have just tumbled down from heaven, easily coming to rest on this almost flat plain of tall grass and lush Mesquite. No foothills to speak of at all here in this part of the mountains.  Just an easy rising and falling through the shallow arroyos, then back to driving my Pathfinder on the flat and smooth of the high desert. Campers are here and there, hidden in the trees, but not very many. Maybe three bunches in the hour I've been on this road. I've just past camper number three and then up ahead, I see a majestic cluster of boulders, rising to at least a thousand feet or more. Even from a mile away, I can see how I might be able to bushwhack high on those rocks Maybe not to the  very top, but damn close to it. I drive a bit faster now, and with minutes, I've crossed that mile. I take a right onto a side road and quickly find a place to park the truck. As I get out, I notice that I'm parked on a flat red ant hill. I pull the Pathfinder up a few feet.
            I gaze up at the majestic rocks. I wonder if this is Council Rocks? Are the White House Ruins nearby? I suddenly don't care. I'm here. Those boulders are there. I want to get as high up on them as I can. I stow my Brownie in my water pack, shoulder them and head for the base of those rocks.

            [By 1872, Cochise was ready to stop fighting the Americans. Many of his warriors were dead. The women and children of his clan were terribly hungry. And my guess is that the resentments he carried over his brother’s and his father-in-law’s deaths at the hands of the Americans were just too much for him to bear anymore, at the expense of his people. He was ready for peace.
            But, two U.S. Generals of greatly opposing ideas on how to solve the ‘Indian Problem’ jockeyed for power. First there was General George Crook, a man who had been fighting the Apaches all across Southern Arizona for the last year. He was not for the placement of Indians on reservations. He wanted to defeat them, kill them, and kill them some more. But then another General arrived in 1872 and he outranked Crook.
            O.O. Howard was a deeply Christian man who lost an arm in the Civil War. Howard saw the Indians as people, not as vermin to be exterminated and he had a mandate from Washington, to do anything he could, to bring peace to the area and to lead the Apaches onto a reservation.
            General Howard arrived in New Mexico and soon found out that a man, a white man, was a close friend of Cochise's. He summoned Tom Jeffords to his camp and employed him to find Cochise and invite him to come to Howard's camp and talk peace. Tom was straightforward and direct as ever, telling Howard that Cochise would never come to Howard, but he would be happy to take Howard to see Cochise. Jeffords also said that they must not come with force, but to come unarmed. Howard agreed to that, and in the coming days before their journey to find Cochise, O.O. was so taken by Tom Jeffords, that he appointed him to be the agent of the 'The Cochise Reservation', if and when it was formed. Within a few days, Howard, Jeffords and three other men began their trek to find Cochise.
            With the help of some Apaches along the way and a bit of luck, The Howard-Jeffords party found Cochise in the Western Stronghold of the Dragoons. Accompanying the party were two of Cochise's relatives, Ponce and Chie. Ponce and Chie burned smoke signals the day before their arrival, to say who they were and why they were coming. Cochise's scouts had been seeing the progress of this group for days, but the knowledge of the presence of  relatives really helped the cause. Jeffords' being there as well gave Howard the extra clout he needed too.
            Jeffords, Howard, Ponce, Chie and the others camped that night near the Stronghold, and the next day, Cochise came to see them. Cochise immediately hugged Jeffords and Jeffords then introduced Howard to him.
            "This is the man," Jeffords said to Howard.
            "Buenos dios, Senor," Cochise said, shaking Howard's hand. (Many Apaches knew Spanish. It was often the common language between Apaches and Americans.)
            Cochise then pulled his friend Jeffords aside.
            "Do you think the General and his men will be honest and do as they say they will do?" asked Cochise.
            "Well, I don't know," said Jeffords, "I think they will, but I will see that they don't promise too much."
            After briefly talking with Ponce and Chie, Cochise went to Howard and asked why he was here.
            "I have come from Washington to meet your people and to make peace, and I will stay as long as it is necessary," said Howard.
            Cochise then said, "Nobody wants peace more than I do. I have done no mischief since I came from Canada Alamosa, but I am poor, my horses are poor, and I have but a few horses left. I might have gotten more horses by raiding the Tucson road but I did not do that."
            Howard then proposed his idea of a reservation at Canada Alamosa in New Mexico.
            "I'll go, but I am sure it would break my band," said Cochise, knowing his people would not agree to that.
            Then it is said, to everyone’s surprise, Cochise said, "Why not give me Apache Pass? Give me that and I will protect all the roads. I will see that nobody's property is taken by Indians. But I need to talk this over with my captains, and most of them are out making a living." (By the way, 'Making Living' was Cochise’s way of saying they were out stealing livestock in Mexico.)
             Howard agreed to wait until Cochise had talked with his leadership. Cochise, however, asked that Howard go to Fort Bowie and tell them that a truce was in place and not to fight with his captains as they came to the Western Dragoons. Howard first wanted to send Lt. Sladen but Cochise insisted that Howard go himself. That night with the help of Chie, Howard made his way to Fort Bowie. Howard later talked about the tough crossing of the Dragoons, how he tore his coat to shreds, riding in the dark. Howard got to Fort Bowie the next morning, delivered the message of truce, and left the fort around 2 p.m. to make his way back to the Dragoons. The next day, Howard arrived after having traveled 80 miles in just a couple of days.
            Then came the long wait until all of Cochise's captains came to the Western Stronghold area. Lt. Sladen is our best witness of that week in Cochise's camp. Sadly, little was known by whites of how the Apaches lived until these peace talks. Not even a accurate physical description of Cochise, post-Civil War, was available until the Sladen accounts of this meeting. Many thought Cochise was old and beat down, when in reality, he was still strong, relatively young and the best groomed of all, white and Indian alike.
            During that week, Sladen witnessed Cochise getting drunk and having a fight with one of his wives, and saw Jeffords stepping in to calm down this domestic dispute. Another time Sladen heard Cochise singing and praying over the wounded body of one of his warriors. Sladen had medical training and Howard offered Salden services to Cochise. Cochise thanked them but refused. He told Sladen that the warrior was very ill, and if he died, and his people knew that Sladen had worked on him, they might think that Sladen had given him bad medicine, hastening his death and they would then want to kill Sladen. Sladen agreed with Cochise and didn't treat the warrior. The man died a few days later.
            One by one, the Apache captains arrived throughout that week, twelve all total, with two others absent who they were off raiding in Sonora, Mexico. The following day, the captains and Cochise held a council to decide if they wanted peace. General Howard wanted to sit in, but Jeffords dissuaded him from this, saying that they would know soon enough by the sounds that came from the council camp. Sure enough, soon Cochise returned to where Jeffords and Howard were camped and stated that they were ready to decide on the specific terms of peace.
            The terms were simple. Even though Howard initially wished for Cochise and his people to go to New Mexico, he acquested and agreed to Cochise's terms that the reservation be on land that was beloved by Cochise and his people, namely the Chiricahuas Mountains, the Dragoons, and most of Southeastern Arizona, down to the border with Mexico. The U.S Government also agreed to provide provisions of food and clothing. Cochise agree to protect the roads and to keep them safely open to travel. And finally, Tom Jeffords would be the Apaches' Indian agent on the reservation, representing their needs to the U.S. Army and to the Federal Government. I believe that without Jeffords' willingness to perform this role, the peace would have never happened.
            During the negotiations with Jeffords and Howard, Cochise is quoted as saying that "Hereafter, the White Man and the Indian are to drink from the same water, eat of the same bread, and be at peace."
            A couple of days later, everyone went home, except for Cochise who was already home. There were concerns if the peace would last, especially among the officers who had not come to the Council from Fort Bowie. The fort would now be at the center of the reservation. But the biggest concern was Mexico to the south. The Apaches would likely raid across the border, taken cattle whenever they wished. Cochise himself said that "the Mexicans are on one side of this matter and the Americans are on another. I made peace with the Americans, but the Mexicans did not come to ask peace from me."
            But that matter would come home to roost later. This peace with the Apaches was strong  and significant and Cochise and his people would stay at peace with the Americans for the remainder of his life. Cochise never again fought with the U.S. Army nor did he himself raid Mexico again (even though a number of his people did). General Crook was furious when he heard the conditions of the treaty, but he had very little power to change anything. And as the peace continued to hold, Howard began to not only get support from the newspapers in Tucson but also from the ranchers and miners of Southern Arizona.
            Peace had finally come, negotiated by an old trio of men: A one-armed Christian General, a straight-shooting loyal ex-prospector, and a tall, fastidiously dressed, Apache Indian Chief.]

            I'm guessing I'm about 800 feet above the valley floor. Off a ways, I can see Chesapeake, my truck, parked in a turnaround. Further west is the gently rising silhouette of the Whetstone range, and to the southwest, the large blue mass of the Huachuca Mountains.
            I sit, cradled in this space that’s made by numerous large granite boulders. There’s a sheltering feeling to this place. Also, the granite hasn't be worn by cattle hoofs or by hiking boots, the stone rough like five-grade sandpaper. A middle-aged Juniper tree struggles for purchase in a crack of a boulder, the tree’s width wider than its height, knurled by the westerly winds. There is no soil to speak of, for the tree. Just fine granite dust and pebbles. Life does find a way.
            I take out my Kodak Brownie and squeeze off a couple of diptych shoots of that three foot Juniper tree. I look around for some other images to shoot but I feel a little caught in the moment and decide to put down the camera. Sometimes, taking pictures gets in the way. I grab my water and drink deep. It tastes so good. I begin to wander around my large stone cradle. I walk more lightly than I usually do. I'm so aware of how virgin this landscape is, how perhaps a hiker or two over the years may have come up here, but it isn't really that dramatic to draw most folks up to these rocks. I wouldn't be surprised if the last person up here wasn't Apache.
            I sit back down again, and look toward the tall stone tower to the south. I can see why Cochise loved these mountains so well.

The Indian Wars: Chapter Two: “A Spiral at Apache Pass"

The Indian Wars: Chapter Two

“A Spiral at Apache Pass, Arizona" (c) 2005, 2008 Stu Jenks


            Real life is rarely black and white, but a mixture of gray tones, be it my relationship with a girlfriend, my belief in God, how others view me, or how people judge the life of a famous Apache Chief.
            Cochise, the chief of the Chiricahua Apaches, was a great leader and much beloved by his people, his family and his friends. He always led his tribe into battle bravely from the front, never safely from the rear. He was loyal and kind to children and to his friends. But Cochise had his dark side too. During the Apache Wars against the Americans of the 1860's and 70's, he was known from time to time to torture those he fought against. On at least one occasion, he hung a man by his feet upside down from a tree and then slowly killed him by building a fire under his head. He would steal cattle, horses, and anything of value, and he would then trade these items to friendly Mexicans for food, for mescal, and for ammunition. He fought for years and years, even after some of his neighboring friends and chiefs worked to make peace with the Americans. Cochise didn't begin to approach peace until he had lost hundreds of his warriors in battle, his women and children were beginning to go seriously hungry, and he saw no end in sight for his tribe, other than extermination from the hands of the United States Army. Sadly, in the early years of the Apache Wars, Cochise may have thought that the departure of the American troops was due to his victories against them, and since they didn't soon return, they might not ever become a strong presence in his land again. He knew nothing of The Civil War that waged off to his east. He may have just thought it was because of him and his fierce brave relentless warriors. Stronger and larger military forces returned in the late 1860's, and by simple attrition, Cochise was losing more warriors than the U.S. Army was losing soldiers.
            Not a 'noble savage'. Not a 'bloodthirsty Indian'. But perhaps a little bit of both.
            I say 'perhaps', because much of what is known and written and spoken about Cochise, is contradictory at best. Romantic versions of him in pulp novels don’t even come close to being accurate and gleaning the truth from the scholarly journals tends to be pretty accurate but dry as June in the desert. The reality lies in the middle. Here’s what I can gather from others’ writing and from my own guesses at the truth.
            Small battles, raids and skirmishes waged all over Southern Arizona and Northern Sonora, from the 1830's to the 1870's. Both sides blamed each other, but it does seem that Cochise and the Chiricahua Apaches had some valid beefs. They had been here for a long time, and just wanted to live in peace, but unlike most of the native people that were subjugated by the Mexicans or many of the Indian tribes that the Americans were persuading to go to the Reservations or stay on the Reservations, the Apaches and especially Cochise's band basically said "Fuck you. We want to be let to live our own lives, and if you won't let us, we’ll kill you if we can and steal your cattle and horses until, maybe, you finally let us be." Or words and actions to that affect.
            Each side had it’s own truth. (I'm reminded of a line that David Milch of Deadwood and NYPD fame recently said: "The truth is a lie agreed upon.") You talk with most of the whites of the time, and they would say they are just trying to mine a little gold and raise a few head of cattle in peace and it’s those godless heathen Indians that are trying to destroy our way of life. But I'm sure if you talked with Cochise after his brother's death during the Bascom Affair in 1861 or after his father in law, the great chief Mangas Coloradas was captured and executed while parleying for peace in Pinos Altos, New Mexico in 1862, he would have said that his only choice was vengeance, stealing and killing. Even after the Camp Grant Massacre in 1871 where some citizens of Tucson massacred one hundred Apache men, women and children for no particular good reason, Cochise may have wanted more blood, but by that time he was tired of war, and wished to just live in the Chiricahua and Dragoon Mountains in peace.
            Who really knows. We know a lot about who was killed where and when, what cattle were taken and what mail didn't get through on the stage, but not surprisingly, we have very few reliable quotes from Cochise, until near the end of the war. One that does stick with me though is from an earlier parley for peace with William Arny at Canada Alamosa, when the discussion of reservation living came up. Cochise was quoted as saying that:
            "We Apaches want to run around like the Coyotes. We do not want to be put in a corral."
            The one fact about Cochise's that is not disputed by anyone is how much he loved the land around Apache Pass.
            Cochise wasn't a saint, nor was he a terrorist, but someone who lived in between those two extremes. He could be very kind and he could kill. I suspect like many of us would, given similar circumstances.

 

            I was here just last week, with Annie. Just a few miles to the east at Fort Bowie and Apache Springs. I feel very sad today for a different reason. Annie and I have broken up…again. We’ll give ourselves some distance and hope to be able to be friends in six months. It feels right that Annie has left me but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
            The dirt road descends just up ahead. I decide to stop here. I see a wide spot where I can park. A sign points toward a trail. Very good. I park the truck, shoulder my water pack, stow my Brownie in my pack, and head across the road to the trailhead. Looks like it's just a short trail to an overlook but that's fine. I’m thinking I'll try bushwhacking up to that saddle a mile to the south, anyway. Not planning a big hike today, just a little walkabout to get the feel of this land, these small hills that Cochise revered.
            Soon the trail ends and I'm rock-hoping down a hill and then slowly walking up another. Down and to the East, I see, in the distance, the tall green trees around Apache Springs. To the South, I see the saddle I wish to climb. My heart is suddenly not into this, but I'm going to the saddle nonetheless. Maybe it's the sadness of a vacant land without Apaches. Maybe it's the sadness of a life without Annie. Maybe it's a little of both. A lot of both.
            I crest the saddle in an hour or so. I find a quite uncomfortable rock to sit on, have a smoke and drink some water. The Camel Filter is not satisfying. The water doesn't quench my thirst. I don't feel much like taking any pictures. I'm ready to climb back down to the truck.
            On the way down I begin to truly see the beautifully wide expanses of the hills of Apache Pass. Now I get it. Now I see why Cochise loved it here.
            I imagine dozens of columns of smoke, coming from cookeries near wickiups. I can hear the sounds of children playing, women laughing, men speaking in low tones. The smells of sun dried beef and sweaty bodies are strong in the air. As I imagine all of this, I stumble on a rock, lose my balance, and almost fall flat on my face.
            "Stu, focus! Focus! What time is it?" I ask myself.
            "Now." says the inner voice
            "Where are you?" I say.
            "Here."
            I take a deep breath. Those two questions have saved my bacon for many a year while hiking in rugged terrain. I get a little distracted, not focusing on the ground ahead of me, thinking about some event in the past, obsessing about some imagined truth in the future, then I almost sprain my ankle and I ask myself those two questions. Works like a charm.
            For the first time in hours, a big smile breaks on my face.
            Half way back to the truck now. I'm here. It's now. I'm doing just fine.
            Then I see a circular bit of barren ground. I see the spiral before I draw it. I look around at these unassuming hills. I see the shot before I take it.
            Twenty minutes later, a spiral has been carved in the land, to last only until the rain washes it away. The shot has been taken, a number of times just to make sure it's in the can. I squat close to the ground again and take a picture of the land and the spiral, this time, with just my own eyes. The brain is often the best negative. I drink some tepid water. The water tastes great. I breathe deep. The air feels fresh and good.
    I close my eyes and then I open them.
            The women are laughing.
            The children are playing.
            The men are speaking in low tones.

[References: "Cochise, Chiricahua Apache Chief" by Edwin R. Sweeney]