January 24
Where my horses are is within a few hundred feet of the Continental Divide. South of Silver City, the Rockies taper down to an end. I had wondered if this was the official end of the Rockies, but apparently the accepted belief is that the end is somewhere further north in NM, with a gap between there and here. This, then, is the second end.

Friday night, in mid bizzard, we went to the Red Paint Pow Wow and again yesterday. This event is undoubtedly important in my understanding of the 19th Century Chiracahuas, but I am overwhelmed with impressions. It is easier seeing patterns in history than present. It is like using Google Maps, where you start with large scale and zoom in. Zoomed in, I am in a large room bordered with vendors of jewelry of bead and stone, with lots of people milling around. Half have darker skin. Gradually organization emerges, and singing and dancing begins. Dancers wear elaborate colorful beautiful costumes. Men have headwear with swaying porcupine quill manes, or feathers. Some have large splaying feathers like the stereotypical headdress, one from the back of the head and a second suspended behind, at hip level. There is a general pattern to the outfits, but great personal variation in colorful decoration. We are present at a huge celebration of life and tribal life, and of tradition.
I am trying to see the historical Chiricahuas in this, which is confusing. Most of the participants are Apaches, a category which includes even the Navajoes, who are represented. A smaller number are Chiricahuas, but of course it is usually not clear to us who is who.
Many things go through my mind. How are modern day Chiricahuas related to the Apaches who so successfully fought the Army, other than by kinship? Who are they in their current lives? How do they see themselves, and others?
A Chiricahua father, son and nephew sing for us. The father takes time to review and honor the lives of the Cochise era Apaches, and tells us he is a great grandson, or great-great, of the great leader. He is in the present a holder of the traditional songs. His voice when he first speaks, startles us with its strength and directness, and when he sings it is powerful. There is urgency to his presentation: essential to tell the story and sing the songs with clarity and passion, to get it right.
One of the two younger men, of the three, has a hat that says in large letters on the side: "NEW YORK". The brim is sideways and both he and the other wear baggy gansta pants and shapeless sweatshirts. Their clothes speak rebellion from tradition, but they know the songs and are there singing.
Among the tribes here, the Chiricahua have the most impressive resume, at least the one that made headlines 150 years ago, the ones that movies were made of. It is a history of glorious accomplishment in warfare. But within that heritage things are complicated. Even among the Chiricahua, there was division in the time of Geronimo, with many of the tribe feeling that his actions would bring total destruction of the tribe. He was seen by some as a cause of their 27 year imprisonment. Some of the tribe was employed by the Army, working for the defeat of Geronimo. How was all of this resolved over the years? In the present, I get the impression that the Chiricahua carefully guard membership in the tribe. I had a fascinating conversation with a woman whose grandparents were Chiricahua who escaped the gathering of Apaches for the train trip to prison. Her people lived north of here in Winston, in freedom. The ancestors of this group are now trying to gain federal recognition, not for benefits or land, but just for their own identity. She said the Chiricahua have been very secretive about ancestral records, not helpful at all. Records of Catholic baptisms have supported her case.

In the present, however, there is dancing, singing and camaraderie. Here in a plain large hall in a building outgrown by WalMart, now a county convention center, Indian traditions are stirring. My mind sees the man in front of me, in high moccasins and leggings, running across land I recently drove with my horses, heading for cover in the Dragoon hills. The boldness of his dance costume can inspire both admiration and fear. If I dressed in such things I would probably look silly. There was absolutely nothing silly about him.

The event is an environment of of honoring and tolerance. Armed Forces veterans were honored, making clear that warring in the service of the USA was highly regarded. Older members of the audience were honored with gifts - along with a number of others, our host here, Harriet, a clear non-Indian, was given a basket of food and candy. The confidence of these people allow and welcome our presence, rather than being threated by it.

Several very small children are dancing in the center. They are miniaturized versions of their elders, with equally elaborate outfits. They are followed by adolescents, boys and girls separately, doing fancy dance. The dance of the teens is especially impressive, with their youthful athleticism.

The dance and singing will go on all day and into the night. I come to a point where I can't watch anymore and it is time to leave.

I don't know what to make of it all, but I am deeply honored to be allowed to watch - more than that,even. Welcomed.
Part of my confusion, I think, is that I have been put in my place. This people and this history is beyond my understanding and explanation. My own role is shrunken. I am a participant, a very small part, not privy to the larger picture. I am content. I am happy. My role is experience.