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Skiing Hallowed Ground
A sacred mountain with soft spots for the downward bound
"The inexorable grip of the mountain that has held local natives spellbound for centuries is also felt by skiers."
GETTING STARTED
PERMIT Required. Obtain a Navajo Nation hiking permit from Navajo Nation Parks and Recreation (928) 871-6647
($5 a day per person).
APPROACH The best approach to the northwest face of Navajo Mountain starts from the Rainbow Bridge Trailhead. Take U.S. Highway 160 to Highway 98, and continue northeast for 12 miles to Navajo Mountain Road (#16). Turn north and travel 32 miles, staying straight at a three-way junction. In 5.5 more miles, turn right just past a prominent sandstone dome. Park in another .25 miles, near an old stone well.
MORE INFO Antelope Canyon
(928) 698-2808
In fact, about the only mountain around is the one we are standing on. The Navajos living at its base call it
Naatsis'aan, the head of the earth mother. On the maps of white men, it is simply called Navajo Mountain.
Sitting on the Arizona/Utah state line, Navajo Mountain appears as a great blue dome rising out of red rock desert.
Looming 6,000 vertical feet above the surrounding terrain, it is an unmistakable landmark in a region of landmarks.
From just about anywhere within a 300-mile radius, this 10,338-foot lacolith of cooled magma is a familiar hump on
the horizon. It's little wonder the natives, who call themselves Din�© (the people), hold it sacred.
This place that pulls down the summer rains and offers spring snowmelt has long been an object of worship to the
Navajos, and one of the four cornerstone mountains defining their homeland. The Navajo story of creation tells of a
thirst-quenching spring on Navajo Mountain that saved journeying ancestors in an arduous trek across the desert.
The mountain is special to backcountry skiers in this arid region, too. Besides dominating the surrounding landscape
with an air of prestige, it's also the only place around that holds snow.
Most of that snow lies beneath a forest of spruce and pine, offering no obvious skiing lines. On the mountain's
northwest face, however, the blanket of conifers relents. Here, broad snow-covered talus slopes lead from the summit
straight to a maze of canyons at the mountain's base.
These steep tempting snow gullies are best seen from the waters of Lake Powell. The blue water reservoir snakes
around the north side of Navajo Mountain, flooding innumerable sandstone slots that crawl finger-like up the lower
slopes of the mountain. Scouting the snowy chutes of the summit from the deck of a motorboat surrounded by sun-baked
desert is a strangely dissonant experience. With the loud whine of bass fishing boats close at hand, it's a stretch
to think about skiing there. When reason overcomes instinct, and you accept the possibility of skiing in such an
environment, the promise of powder becomes irresistible.
The Navajo Mountain lines are far from perfect. Access is arduous, and snow conditions are variable. Skiing in a land
of rock and cactus has unique appeal, however. When snow is isolated in an ocean of desert, we are forced to
appreciate the gift. The inexorable grip of the mountain that has held local natives spellbound for centuries is also
felt by skiers.
Unlike skiers, most natives wouldn't conceive of hiking to a mountain top in the name of recreation. It is a place of
worship, or perhaps a location for special ceremonies - a life-giving place like Navajo Mountain is too awe-inspiring
to simply go to it and have fun. "Fun" isn't exactly an accurate summary of the backcountry skiers' experience,
either. What is a snowy mountainside to a backcountry skier but a place to connect with nature, limit distractions,
push boundaries, conquer fears, and find perspect in our infinitesimal role on the mountain, continent, planet, and
universe?
This might sound like a white person's attempt at justifying his presence in a native's sacred place. Maybe it is.
But as I stand on the shoulders of the earth mother, I can't help but feel my own spirituality as firmly connected to
this place, and this moment.
On a 1,500-foot snowfield with a 30-something-degree slope, a fall on firm snow will send us sliding straight into
slickrock desert. Fortunately, the snow isn't firm - surprisingly soft, actually. I bounce out 20 turns, then pull to
the side to let my partner follow. When the surface turns to crust a few hundred feet above the sandstone, we call it
a run. Climbing skins are reapplied, and we head back toward the ridge for another go.
By late afternoon we feel the cold of evening creeping out of the shadows, so we begin a descent toward a snow-free
camp for the night. Our route leads over the backside of the ridge, down 2,000 feet into a large basin called Horse
Canyon.
The first 500 feet below the summit is skiable solid corn, then the snow vanishes to reveal a boulder field leading
the rest of the way to the basin below. We slowly step through large angular rocks just small enough to be unstable
but big enough to crush a leg. The noisy clanking of our ski poles on boulders travel across the otherwise silent
bowl.
Knees aching, legs wobbly, and nerves weary, we stagger onto soft pine needles of the basin bottom. The walking is
much faster now as we meander huge orange-barked ponderosa pines to camp.
Our final morning, we march across flats of giant sagebrush before reaching the trail amidst wind-whipped sand dunes.
Humbled by the power of the Earth Mother's stoic defiance amidst a snowless desert, we leave the grip of Naatsis'aan.
Flagstaff, Ariz., writer Tyler Williams is the author of five books including Paddling Arizona and his newest release Arizona Summits - South. (funhogpress.com).
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