Apache Nation Read online

  Apache Nation

  Apache Nation

  Dan Glover

  Published by Lost Doll Publishing at Amazon

  Copyright 2012 Dan Glover

  All Rights Reserved

  Books by Dan Glover

  Liza McNairy Series

  Peppermint Soul

  Baja Blues

  Deadhead

  Horror

  Water and Stone

  Philosophy

  Lila’s Child: An Inquiry Into Quality

  The Art of Caring: Zen Stories

  The Mystery: Zen Stories

  Apache Nation

  The Lazy Way to 100,000 Twitter Followers

  The Gathering of Lovers Series

  Billy Austin

  Lisa

  Allison Johns

  Tom Three Deer

  Justine

  Yelena

  The Mermaid Series

  Winter's Mermaid

  Mermaid Spring

  Summer's Mermaid

  Mermaid Autumn

  Short Stories

  There Come a Bad Cloud: Tangled up Matter and Ghosts

  Mi Vida Dinámica

  Streets

  Thoughts on the 5:58

  All the characters in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to the living or the dead is coincidental.

  "And if you take a sheep and put it up at the timberline at night when the wind is roaring, that sheep will be panicked half to death and will call and call until the shepherd comes, or comes the wolf."

  Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

  Preface

  The first thing people usually ask me after reading this book is if I really do walk into the Pinos Altos mountains in Southwest New Mexico alone and unarmed. I tend not to answer that question directly because I do not wish to be responsible for someone coming to harm by foolishly attempting the same feat.

  Those mountains are dangerous. People have been known to disappear and never be found again unless perchance a hunter might happen upon their bones years and sometimes decades later. There are critters out there that small arms will not stop, only enrage. Once in a while a bumbling idiot might walk into those mountains and actually come out alive. If they do it repeatedly, they eventually come to know what it means to survive out there.

  The second thing they ask is: how did I learn so much about the Apache? I have had the good fortune to meet certain folk in that territory who would rather speak of their heritage than to be forever silenced. I don't know their real names—only their nicknames—and if I did I wouldn't put them into this book out of the respect I feel. They do not know my name either. We call each other friend or amigo and leave it at that.

  The oral traditions handed down differ in some respects to the historical written accounts of those days but not remarkably so. In most instances I've referred to both. In describing the life of Geronimo I have been fortunate to find his own biography outlining many of the details you'll read here.

  I've been lucky to meet a few old timers who are still living on reservations in New Mexico and Arizona who have vivid recollections of tales they heard during their youth, sometimes from the people who populate this book. These folk are disappearing quickly and it is with that mortality in mind that I've spent so much time on this book.

  Their inquisitive natures have stoked my own fires to know more. Uncovering Geronimo's personal biography was an epiphany. The first time I read it, his story seemed filled with hatred and ill feelings toward the whites who invaded his land and made him a prisoner of war for the last twenty years of his life.

  Upon subsequent readings I realized much of what he had to say lay hidden beneath the surface. The little anecdotes that he was so fond of are a treasure trove of information into the daily lives of the Apache.

  I write these words in the comfort of my home with but memories to draw upon. I have no time to jot down notes while deep in the mountains of New Mexico nor do I wish to curtail the discussions by taking memos when I settle down to talk with my friends on the reservations. If there are any discrepancies found, they are no one's fault other than my own.

  Without further adieu I give you...

  Apache Nation

  Chapter 1

  The path goes ever on.

  At the end of a mountain-shadowed dirt road there's a dusty cul-de-sac where I park my Jeep. Concealing my vehicle behind an outgrowth of boulders the size of small houses I shut off the engine as an unfamiliar quiet both awe-inspiring and disconcerting erupts in my ears reminding me of winter days at home when silent snow muffles all sounds.

  It's a two day drive to reach this point from northern Illinois. The landscape is alien, as if I've arrived on a desolate and forgotten planet after a long interstellar journey. I walk about cracking my bones and stretching my muscles grown stiff from hours of sitting behind the wheel.

  In the middle of the round-a-bout sits a faded blue steel drum with the top crudely blow-torched out to make it functional as a trash receptacle. One side is stove in giving the trash can a crooked appearance, no doubt from being bumped against the bed of a truck while being emptied. Deep angry-looking scratches mar the other side of the drum, rusty with age, announcing in a crooked script: Apache Nation.

  When the first white travelers came to this area the Apache welcomed them. For the most part the settlers and miners stayed on the California trail that ran through Doubtful Canyon southwest of the Mimbreno Apache's main settlements on their way to the gold fields in the west. Soon, however, pressure began to mount for the Indians to abandon their prime terrain in favor of white settlers who coveted the rich farmland as well as the abundance of natural resources like copper, gold, and silver here in New Mexico.

  In the 1850s Dr. Michael Steck, who had been appointed by President Pierce as agent to the Apache of the Southwest from the Mescaleros to the Chiricahua, induced all the leaders of the tribes to sign concessions giving up some thirteen thousand square miles of land in exchange for roughly three thousand square miles in the Gila area. In that way he hoped to throw open the finest part of New Mexico for white settlement while sequestering the Apache in the most rugged mountain areas.

  The United States Senate failed to ratify the treaty, however, thus leaving the Apache without title to the land promised them while simultaneously deeding the prime areas to the white settlers. Crowding the Apache together by uprooting the tribes had terrible consequences in coming years for both Indians and whites alike.

  The surrounding forest is pristine, not even a crushed beer can spoils the environment. It's as if some giant vacuum cleaner has sucked every piece of trash off the earth. The ground sparkles like tiny diamonds in the afternoon sunshine. Composed of a kind of talcum-powder sand mixed with flakes of granite and chert—signs of the gradual wearing and weathering taking place here—these mountains are crumbling back into the dust they're made of. The high stone is permeated with cracks and fissures and in a few million years I expect they will disappear all together.

  The air is redolent of pine and the sweet scent of winter breezes caressing these high valleys after rolling down from snow-covered peaks rising up to touch the sky painted a different sort of blue than I'm used to back in the lowlands. Tall Ponderosa pine trees sway back and forth as they murmur sweet nothings to one another.

  Surrounded by creek, tree, and stone I am alone. Out here there is no need to impress anyone. Even back home I know there is nothing to be gained by making a show of myself yet I pretend there is. I recognize the balance in my nature—in all human nature—is one of love and selfishness, mysticism and materialism, pacifism and anger, in which the positive virtues always hold a slight edge over the negative.

  If this was not so and the two were of equal strengt
h and power, then life would be a stalemate. Everything would come to a standstill. When the two poles, good and bad, forget their interdependence and try to obliterate each other then human beings become monsters: the implacable crusader and the sadistic thug.

  It is best to look at life as a game. Though I understand that viscerally, it is often hidden in my day to day life behind the façade of work and struggle against what often seems like insurmountable obstacles. In these mountains, however, all that is stripped away, and what is left is a spirit of play rather than the drudgery of labor.

  Back home in the world I am taught to include others in my plans. That way should I falter in my goals they will call me to account on my failings and thereby set me once again upon the righteous course of action that I am myself too blind to see. I call these people my friends but ultimately they are more like allies.

  Deep in the mountains I see the world differently... not necessarily as an ally but as an opponent to which I am connected intimately, one which teaches and shows me the way. If my attention falters for even an instant, I will die. There is no one to confide in, no one to rescue me from the indulgences of self. Out here the world is the ultimate accountability partner.

  This recognition brings about a sort of chivalry where limits are set on all manner of warfare. In my every day life, I pretend it is me against the world. I have grown an ego which insists that my self is separate and apart from all that I see. I am surrounded by both allies and foes yet I am disconnected from them like a witness who watches from afar. If I had the power I might demolish all that stands against me in order to gain my rightful place.

  Oddly, alone and deep in these isolated mountains I come to realize the futility of being an island against the world. This illusion that everything is against me stands apart from the basic interdependence of all things and events. I know that I cannot survive without my natural enemies.

  The Apache believed they and the land were created at the same time and for the benefit of each other. This stands in stark contrast to how I was raised and what values I was taught. My culture—the Western culture—views the land as something that can be owned and improved upon. It is nothing more than a commodity to be traded, bought, and sold.

  To the Apache, the land was sacred, a part of their own being. The belief that it could be owned was as foreign to them as possessing the stars in the sky. They took what they needed from the land without seeking to subdue it or to tame the creatures which roamed the wild forests and hills. When they were asked to sign treaties giving away their land they didn’t recognize the full intent that went into those disregarded papers.

  In earlier times all the Indians who lived in what is now southwestern New Mexico and southeastern Arizona were known as the Gila with no differentiation between tribes and bands. It seems fitting somehow that the place I find myself is called the Gila Forest.

  Though this place is designated as a National Park they have had the good sense to leave it alone. I suspect most tourists don't know it exists and if they did the privation wouldn’t be a big draw for them.

  The trails have a seldom-used look to them that is the polar opposite of other National Parks I've visited. Millions of people drive through them in search of the great outdoors all the while locked behind the windows of their cars. A few of the more adventurous souls take guided walking tours of the grounds scheduling their visits months in advance and mapping out their itinerary to the minute.

  I have no plans. I walk until I'm tired. When I find a good place to stop, I eat and sleep. Should a storm come up while I'm out here, I endure it. If I run out of supplies before I make my way out, I scrounge for edibles in the forest knowing there is always enough to survive.

  I always come here alone. I never announce when I'm leaving my home and no one seems to notice that I'm gone. I like it that way.

  Chapter 2

  This book began as a short essay.

  It seems to mirror my journey into these desolate mountains. Taking a step at a time I've gradually built up a wealth of knowledge about this forest yet I understand what I know is but a thimble full of water compared to the ocean of what I do not know.

  Some years ago I extended the short essay of Apache Nation making it into a short story. I left too much unsaid. I knew that but at the same time I had a good deal of difficulty defining my experiences here in the Gilas.

  With the passing of the decades I have learned more about not only the art of writing but about the nature of the journey that I've been on. I've often times in the past restricted myself to talking only about my adventures in these haunting mountains while neglecting the rest of my life. That was a mistake.

  I wonder about the economy of being too honest in my assessment of the good times as opposed to the bad times. Unless we really don’t care what others think—and on some level we all do—we tend to put on our best clothes when going out. No one wants to appear a vagrant. On the other hand, there isn’t a person alive who hasn’t known the extremes of the ups and the downs on this journey we call life.

  I began that long ago essay as a way of bragging about my exploits... not consciously, and yet I could sense the bravado there between the lines. It was as if I was saying: look at me. I'm doing something no one else in their right mind would do. Knowing my ego was getting in the way was half the battle to completing the rest of this book.

  I'm older now. Perhaps that in itself is indicative of the wisdom so painstakingly gained over the course of twenty odd years. When I first came to these mountains I knew nothing about the history of this place or its people. In time I slowly learned how the two were inseparable.

  Economy in administration was the reason given by the United States government for consolidating all the Apache tribes in southwest New Mexico and southeast Arizona upon one reservation. After promising the chiefs of the various tribes their own land, the government reneged, probably due to the influx of white settlers and their desire for the best land available. After the closing of the Chiricahua reservation the warrior known as Geronimo broke away with a small number of braves making for his homeland.

  From that time on, nearly every atrocity committed in southwest New Mexico and southeast Arizona was blamed on Geronimo and his band. The solution to the whole Apache problem was thought to be simple: hang Geronimo. Thus he gained fame—or notoriety—far beyond what any of his deeds or misdeeds might otherwise have been accorded to him.

  The army captured Geronimo in 1872 after luring him to the Indian Agency cabin in Warm Springs under the pretence of a conference. Along with seven other tribal leaders, he was shackled and taken to San Carlos where all the captives were ordered to be hanged. The sheriff at Tucson failed to claim the prisoners, however, and they were subsequently set free. Geronimo lived at San Carlos for two years but later broke away when he judged the situation there had become untenable.

  Smallpox had broken out along with malaria from the mosquito-infested Gila flats. Other Apache were still happily raiding in Mexico and often times would visit San Carlos bragging of their exploits and displaying their plunder. Benitez, a cousin of Geronimo, told how the Apache at San Carlos became drunk one night. Geronimo accused his nephew of some undeserved slight whereupon the boy committed suicide. Geronimo, blaming himself for the death, left the reservation the next day.

  He made his way to the Sierra Madre Mountains with both his immediate family and a number of other irascible warriors where they began trafficking in stolen goods with the citizens of Janos. Though the Sierra Madres became his headquarters Geronimo traveled freely back across the border into New Mexico on raiding parties and to visit friends and relatives he left behind there.

  This forest stands in stark contrast to the southern New Mexico towns I've passed through to reach this point: squalid little burgs smelling of overflowing cesspools and the burnt French toast odor of fry bread. Spongy-middle trailers with worn out car tires dotting rusted roofs line graveled streets and spill out into the surrounding desert.
Burn piles spew noxious tendrils of smog into the tepid air to mix with the sounds of garbled Mariachi music and crying babies. Yards tangled with debris, like over-full stomachs, disgorge their bile into the alleyways and streets until littering the whole countryside with vomitous discards of a civilization rotting from inside out.

  The poverty is palatable yet there is more going on than simple destitution, if indeed misery is ever simple. The Indians believe everything comes from the earth and so it is sacred like the earth. To leave a rusty car wasting away in the back yard is not frowned upon here like it is in the north where I come from. Instead, once something has been used up it is allowed to go back where it came from. That rusted car and the trash surrounding it achieve a religious significance that we in the Western culture fail to fathom.

  In our short-sighted instant gratification fast food culture we take what we want, more than we'll ever need, and once it is past its useful life we throw it away and buy something new without ever considering where our old junk ends up. We create mountain-sized refuse piles, cover them in dirt, and call them parks. The trash that we fill them with magically vanishes from the alleyways and streets each week as we dutifully add more the following week so the garbage men are always busy.

  Most of these reservations are as poverty-stricken as any third world country, not by accident or by bad luck, but by judicious planning on the part of the United States government and its representatives. The rampant alcoholism and lack of economic infrastructure all came about by careful preparation and strategic maneuvering to remove the Apache away from their ancestral homelands and plant them on reservations far too small and way too poor to support even a tenth of the population placed there.

  We have a tendency—at least I do—to believe since these atrocities are better than a hundred years old our part in it today is negligible. Nothing could be further from the truth. We are all guilty of perpetuating the myth of the drunken Indian, good for nothing but collecting a handout from the government once a month and promptly giving it back at the local liquor store.