ANTELOPE GIRL – chapter 2

On a hot night at the end of June, Josh David, a stringer for the Arizona Republic, was in Window Rock, Arizona, covering a crowded Navajo Tribal Council meeting on the pending legislation before the Council to approve the proposed Grand Canyon Esplanade resort overlooking the Little Colorado River.

A not-quite-handsome young man in his early thirties, Josh stood about five feet five. His thick, black wavy hair was pushed up in the front as if he was perpetually traveling through a windstorm. That’s how he went through life. He tracked down stories with relish for the chase and willingness to give it long hours. As a poorly paid reporter for a large, but dying, metropolitan newspaper, he was happy. His beat was Southwest Indian land, a part of the state that no other reporter wanted. Josh loved it. An outdoorsman, he spent most of his free time hiking and mountain biking in the redrock canyons near his home in Page, Arizona. 

His stories were rarely earth-shaking, but he was respected by his bosses in Phoenix and given latitude to go where his nose for news might lead.

Thus, he was sitting in the Navajo Tribal Council Chamber on a summer night, listening to the paid mouthpieces for the developer of the Esplanade spin their webs of enchantment to the disinterested members of the Council. The forty-three district delegates—mostly old, sun-weathered men in faded jeans and blue denim shirts with turquoise and silver animal necklaces hanging across their chests—had been elected to represent 110 municipal chapters covering the states of Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah.

 The slick lawyers for the Esplanade started off with a series of fancy storyboards outlining the scope and benefits of the project. Their flashy photoshopped pictures came with wonderful promises, as they always did when white men bartered with what they assumed were hapless Indians. 

The lead attorney, a coiffed gentleman in a five-thousand-dollar Armani suit, spoke to the Council as he would to naive children.

“Grand Canyon Esplanade will be great for the Navajo, who are currently dependent upon one limited source of revenue, coal, which is simply not sustainable. As I am sure you have already heard, there’s a deeply troubling rumor making the rounds that Peabody Coal is soon going to declare bankruptcy and shut down its Four Corners operations. The new Grand Canyon Esplanade resort will more than make up for that loss of revenue if Peabody Coal were to close—God forbid. The Esplanade will bring long-term jobs to an area of high unemployment where drugs and alcohol abuse run rampant. So, my friends, the Grand Canyon Esplanade is like a dream come true for the Navajo people.”

Josh could read the Council’s body language. They weren’t buying what the smooth-talking city lawyer was peddling. The Navajo referred to the white man derogatorily as belegana and they couldn’t be trusted. Those who weren’t staring off into space were eying the developer with hostility. Except for the Tribal Chairman, Jimmy Greyeyes, whose face was plastered with a rictus smile and who seemed to be hanging onto every well-oiled word.

There was some support for Esplanade among the Navajos—mostly from the business community and Chamber of Commerce—but the ordinary Navajo were horrified by the prospect of a large resort atop the Little Colorado. After so many shiny promises and broken treaties, the Diné were wary of any white man’s proposal. They need only look at the contract they had unwittingly signed with Peabody Coal many years before, locking them into a paltry seven percent of the profit—still a lot of money to an Indian tribe with no money-making prospects. It turned out to be a bait-and-switch deal that saw Peabody coal make out like bandits and left the Navajo with few jobs and moonscape mines.

The Navajo were not competitive by nature. Few aspired to wealth because it was seen as a sign of showing off at the expense of others. As long as they had a roof over their head, a healthy family, water for their livestock and crops, and a nice pickup truck, most Navajos were satisfied.

When the lawyer had puffed out the last of his false promises, the developer behind the Esplanade, a Russian named Vladimir Petrov, rose to thank the Council for their support. Petrov, a plump, bespeckled sixty-year-old with a military buzz atop his round head, misread his audience. The Navajos saw dishonesty in the way the edges of his mouth turned up at crooked angles when he smiled. His red tie was askew, and he was sweating like a drunk, staining his white shirt even though the air-conditioning had cooled the room to seventy degrees. This was not a man to be trusted. 

Next would come public testimony, and with a long list signed up to speak, Josh expected hours of listening. When a brief break was called, he got up to stretch. Along the back wall of the chamber, he paused to read the interesting interpretive sign describing the history of the Navajo seat of government.

 Navajo Nation Council Chamber (Navajo: Béésh bąąh dah siʼání) is the center of government for the Navajo Nation. The building was declared a National Historic Landmark in 2004. With its red sandstone facade and overall rustic architectural style, the chamber was designed to harmonize with its spectacular natural surroundings. The building’s design incorporates indigenous materials and architectural traditions tied to the Navajo heritage. The Navajo National Council Chamber stands amid a campus of other Navajo Nation government facilities in Window Rock, on the south side of Tribal Hill Road, sited with a view of the stone arch formation that gives Window Rock its name. It is a two-level stone structure, built out of red sandstone designed to harmonize with the surrounding sandstone formations. It is octagonal in shape, and its design is intended to evoke a monumental hogan, the traditional building form of the Navajo people. Ponderosa pine vigas radiate outward to stone buttresses, and heavy wooden timbers serve as lintels and trim. The main entrance faces east (a traditional Navajo orientation), with flanking seven-foot wooden panels carved by the Navajo artist Charles Shirley. At the center of the structure is an octagonal clerestory level. The interior is a single large chamber, with steel columns supporting smaller vigas tied to the larger ones which support the roof. The Navajo artist Gerald Nailor Sr. was commissioned in 1942 for a mural cycle depicting The History and Progress of the Navajo Nation, which is installed in the interior.

The meeting was called back into session at nine o’clock sharp, and the opponents took the stage. 

The first bombshell of the evening was delivered by U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service scientist Mary Malone. She had been studying the fish of the Little Colorado River for almost five years and had testified before the Council before, earning their respect. Clad in her beige USFWS uniform, she walked confidently to the lectern in the middle of the large room. 

The blond wildlife biologist didn’t have a PowerPoint show or any pretty pictures, and she cut right to the chase.

“The Little Colorado River is home to the endangered humpback chub, a fish native to only the Grand Canyon,” she said in a strong, measured voice. “As you know, I have spent years tracking their numbers and working with our various partners, including the Navajo people, to protect and improve the riverine habitat. When I started my work, it was touch and go. There was a very real possibility the chub might vanish altogether.

  “Now, with the good stewardship of the Navajo, the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, and the National Park Service, their numbers have started to increase. But make no mistake, the fate of humpback chub remains shaky. Toxic pollution or a poor year for the invertebrates they eat, drought or increased water temperature, parasites or disease, any of these things could push them over the edge.

“As a scientist, I cannot say with certainty that the Grand Canyon Esplanade resort will drive the humpback chub to extinction—no one can—but I can say without fear of contradiction that it cannot possibly help. It will also put additional pressure upon an already threatened species of fish, potentially pushing them over the edge.”

When Mary finished, the Council chamber was dead silent, other than Petrov’s gang who were squirming in their seats and shaking their heads in anger and disbelief.

After a few more crunchy speakers from local and regional environmental groups who were opposed to the project, up walked Grand Canyon legend Finn Quinn, representing the Colorado river-running community. Finn looked the part of a legend. He was a mountain of a man with long red hair and a bushy red beard. Put him in a kilt and he could have been a Braveheart extra. Instead, he was dressed like pretty much everyone on the Council, in blue jeans and a few flourishes, like a green obsidian horned toad fetish on a leather thong around his tree-trunk neck.

The Navajo Council had not met Finn Quinn, but they had heard of him. They scooted forward in their chairs for a better look at the giant in their midst.

“I am honored to come before you tonight and speak about the horrors of the Grand Canyon Esplanade,” he said, gripping the lectern in his bear paw hands and smiling. “I have lived and worked with the Navajo my whole life. Much of what I believe comes from traditional Navajo values. I have always strived for hozho, to be in harmony and balance with the world around me. And I have strived to follow the Corn Pollen Path, respecting all living things.

“I have spent most of my adult life upon the Mother River, the river the white man calls Colorado. The proposal to build the Grand Canyon Esplanade amusement park within the Little Colorado River watershed, the spiritual center of our universe, will disrupt that delicate balance we all strive for by summoning death, violence, and evil. Mark my words, my brothers, it will bring about the loss of traditional Navajo culture, and the environmental pollution will poison the holy world we hold so dear.

“There are no roads, electricity, or running water at the proposed site. A city will have to be carved atop our sacred lands. The water required for the project will literally suck the wells dry and slowly kill the Navajo who ranch in the area.

“The great Creator first created Light in the East. Then he went South to create fire, and West to create Air. And finally, he went North to create Pollen from emptiness. This Pollen became Earth. We were instructed by the Creator to preserve this beautiful harmony and balance. I beg you not to forsake our Creator.”

There was a collective sigh in the Council Chamber as Finn Quinn headed back to his seat. He had rung all the bells. Nothing more needed to be said.

Yet more people needed to talk, and the fireworks were not over. A few speakers after Finn, Hunter Maxwell took the stage. The rawboned firebrand who spoke for the Grand Canyon Historical Society was confrontational by nature. He had the physique and temperament of a boxer, and he was not there to make friends.

“The Grand Canyon Esplanade is no different than uranium!” shouted Hunter as he struck the lectern with his right fist.

The Council reflexively recoiled in their high-backed chairs.

“After World War II, the U.S. government and its friends in the military-industrial complex came to this very chamber room and sold the Navajo Tribal Council a bill of poisonous goods. They bought off the Council, who then happily approved the mining of uranium in the gray Chinle formation throughout the Reservation. They promised that it was perfectly safe and would bring jobs and lift the Navajo out of poverty. Their scientists swore that the tailings from those mines posed no threat to human health. How many Navajo children played in those tailings in their backyards? How many Navajo subsequently died from radiation exposure over the ensuing years?”

Several of the older councilmen hung their heads in shame. This was a bitter pill to swallow.

Hunter pointed an accusing finger at Petrov. “And here we go again. This time it’s a Russian developer promising prosperity, a prosperity that will finally do what the uranium couldn’t—steal your souls.”

When he finished his short, fiery speech, Hunter nodded to a contingent in the back, who stood up and unfurled a green, orange, and blue banner that read: “SAVE THE CONFLUENCE.” The confluence was the spot at the bottom of the Grand Canyon where the Little Colorado met the mighty Colorado, where the proposed gondola riders would play.

 Everyone in the audience spontaneously rose, chanting in unison “SAVE THE CONFLUENCE! SAVE THE CONFLUENCE!”

Chairman Greyeyes banged his large wooden gavel. “You are all out of order! You will be removed from the Council Chamber if you do not immediately cease with this unruly and disrespectful behavior!”

Authoritatively as his voice and stare were, it took several minutes for seats to be taken and order to be restored.

Furiously taking notes, Josh David couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. This was turning into a helluva news story. His editor in Phoenix might even put it on the front page.

The final speaker was the spokesperson for the Bitter Springs Navajo Chapter House, Sammy Begay, a grizzled old sheep rancher who had never delivered a speech in public and whose weathered hands shook with fear.

“A vote was taken last week of the people living near the proposed development and everyone was opposed. This is our land, our community, our children, and our future. And we don’t want no resort.”

Mr. Begay then turned, put his battered cowboy hat on his head, and headed straight for the back door. He was done with politics.

Josh David chuckled as he watched the old Navajo rancher exit the Chamber. That seemed to tie up the whole amazing evening in a nice little bow. You didn’t have to be a political insider to see that things were not looking good for the passage of the legislation to approve the Grand Canyon Esplanade. Other than the developer, not a single person, business, or group had testified on behalf of the project.

Chairman Greyeyes could read the room as well as everyone else. He thanked them all and announced that it had been a long and very informative evening. There was a lot to consider. The matter would now be referred to various committees that would report back to the Council. There would be no vote that night.

Before Chairman Greyeyes could bang his gavel to adjourn the meeting, a handful of Council members rose in condemnation against the project, promising they would be voting NO. 

Chairman Greyeyes shook his head and struck hard with his gavel.

Josh David needed a quote from the Russian developer for his story, but when he approached the stone-faced Vladimir Petrov, as the fuming man was quickly exiting the Council Chamber, Petrov’s bodyguards, each dressed in matching black sharkskin suits, spit at him in Russian and pushed him away. Josh knew better than to push back.

Out of the corner of his eye, Josh caught a glimpse of Chairman Greyeyes heading through a side door toward his office. Maybe he could get a comment for the record from him.

The Tribal Chamber was still crowded with Council members, their staff, and the public. Along the way, Josh stopped to chat with several acquaintances, all of whom had the same reaction, “Man, that was some meeting, wasn’t it?”

By the time Josh entered the quiet corridor leading to the Chairman’s office he stumbled onto a curious sight.

Chairman Jimmy Greyeyes was standing sheepishly in the empty hallway in heated conversation—no, monologue—with a white man in an expensive tan suit. Josh had not seen the man at the hearing or anywhere else around Navajo. 

The dynamic immediately struck Josh as odd. The normally hearty Chairman looked almost afraid, staring down at the floor as the man berated him. It was pretty obvious who was the boss.

Who was this Anglo stranger, talking secretly to the Navajo Tribal Chairman as if he were a servant? Where the hell did he come from? And why was the Chairman cowering in fear?

As they walked into the Chairman’s office, the stranger looked back over his shoulder and saw the young reporter for the first time. He flashed him a menacing grin and nodded deliberately.

As the door closed, Josh felt a shiver of dread run up his back.