Wattahomigie reminded us the next morning that we had promised to go
with him, so we rushed around and in an hour were ready to follow his
lead.

It's a long trail, winding through forest and desert, up hill and down,
skirting sheer precipices and creeping through tunnels. And at the end
of the trail one stumbles upon the tiny, hidden village where the last
handful of a once powerful nation has sought refuge. Half-clad,
half-fed, half-wild, one might say, they hide away there in their
poverty, ignorance, and superstition. But oh, the road one must travel
to reach them! I hadn't anticipated Arizona trails when I so blithely
announced to White Mountain, "Whither thou goest, I will go." Neither
had I slept in an Indian village when I added, "And where thou lodgest,
I will lodge."

We loaded our camp equipment into the Ford, tied a canvas bag of water
where it would be air-cooled, strapped a road-building shovel on the
running-board, and were on our way.

The first few miles led through forests of piñon and pine. Gradually
rising, we reached the desert, where only cactus, sagebrush, and yucca
grew. As far as we could see the still, gray desert lay brooding under
the sun's white glare. Surely no living thing could exist in that alkali
waste. But look! An ashen-colored lizard darts across the trail, a sage
rabbit darts behind a yucca bush, and far overhead a tireless buzzard
floats in circles. Is he keeping a death watch on the grizzled old
"Desert Rat" we pass a little later? His face burned and seamed with the
desert's heat and storms, the old prospector cheerfully waved at us, as