: Frijoles: A Hidden Valley in the New World by Hendron J W Jerome William Thomas Dorothy Editor Taylor Jocelyn Illustrator - Cliff-dwellers New Mexico; Frijoles Canyon (N.M.)

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INTRODUCTION

Because of my association with the beautiful Canyon of the Rito de Los Frijoles in Bandelier National Monument, New Mexico, and because of my deep interest in this Monument, the loose ends of a story, about the primitive people who made it their home, have been shaping themselves into a history beginning in America long before either Spaniards or Englishmen came to this country.

The material is based upon the work of many students who have done actual research in Frijoles Canyon and adjacent areas. It is a combination of legendary material, observation, speculation, scientific fact and logic. The text in the following pages is not presented as absolute and unquestionable fact in its entirety, and the author does not intend that it be interpreted that way. There will be some, no doubt, who, for the sake of convenience, will mutter indiscreetly about its content--that it isn't scientific--as if the book had been intended for the exact scientist. Rather, it is meant for the lay reader who visits the Monument area and who would like to understand some of the customs and ways of life of its ancient inhabitants. This ancient world of the cliff dweller of New Mexico is recreated for the visitor through the firing of his imagination by an understanding of the archaeological facts revealed here.

Until a great amount of research is done, a more accurate account of the archaeology of this area will not be had. But because of the thousands of visitors to Bandelier National Monument each year, and their interest in its ancient inhabitants, this popular narrative is presented. Throughout the text are many uncommon words and names used frequently in New Mexico. The reader will find a helpful list of these with simplified pronunciations and meanings at the end of the book.

FRIJOLES, A HIDDEN VALLEY IN THE NEW WORLD

FACING PAGE Looking Up the Canyon From Ceremonial Cave xvi The Old North Trail 1 Bandelier National Monument and Vicinity 8 The Painted Cave 14 Stone Lions of Cochiti 15 Ruins of Long House 30 A Part of Long House Ruins 31 Artist's Restoration of Puwige 42 Aerial View of Puwige.--Restored 43 Ceremonial Cave 44 Kiva in Ceremonial Cave 45 A Section of Long House 60 Reconstructed Cliff House 60 Ruins of Puwige 61 Ruins of Large Kiva 61 The Author at an Old Hidden Trail 76 A Party of Visitors at Long House 77

PLATES

Large Kiva. Ground Plan Large Kiva. Section Drawings Ceremonial Cave. Ground Plan Ceremonial Cave. Section Drawings Ground Plan of Frijoles Canyon. Ruins Area Northern Wall of Frijoles Canyon

As I remember it, there was a short-cut road into the Frijoles, little more than a cow path which left the Albuquerque-Santa Fe highway just on top of La Bajada Hill. It must have been fifteen miles across La Bajada Mesa west to the Rio Grande. Over the rolling hills of mesa-land the gears of our car ground a good part of the way in low until the little settlement of Buckman on the banks of the Rio Grande was reached. A man by this name, Buckman, used to cut and haul timber from the high potreros; he built a sawmill, and also a narrow bridge across the river here. It was a rickety old bridge with planks for runners but we got across. The winding, bumpy road led us up a steep climb from the Rio Grande to the forested land extending toward the high mountains. Once on top the mesa we drove between two of many high potreros and on into Water Canyon where the road followed the narrow valley for a few miles. We crossed a winding creek several times and drove through green pastures until the high-walled canyon became narrow.

Presently, the road turned to the left winding up the side of the mountain. Fortunately it was not muddy or we might never have made the steep grade. Once on top of the plateau the road headed south and a little west in the direction of Frijoles Canyon a few miles distant. We wound through majestic yellow pines, pi?ons and scrubby junipers. Here the road turned again and paralleled the Canyon for a few miles, up and down hills, ever twisting and turning. We drove to the top of an old trail which might have been used by ancient Indians some four hundred years ago. I walked to the brink of the Canyon, my mother constantly reminding me not to go too near. The height was terrific. It must have been six hundred feet to the bottom of the gorge--almost straight down. It made me dizzy. I had never seen such a thing before in all my life. It was to me a Hidden Valley and I wondered why any people wanted to come away out here to live--even prehistoric Indians. Of course, it was awe-inspiring but I was too young to be inspired.

There were saddle horses at the brink of the Canyon for folk who couldn't or who were too lazy to walk down the trail. And then there were benches and tables underneath the pines for picnickers who wanted to eat either before they began the long descent into the valley, or after they returned from it. For years and years people walked or rode horseback up and down the steep old trail. Perhaps some never reached the bottom. Individuals came from all over the world. Some painted, some viewed, some fished, some wrote and some prayed to God that they might make it back to the top. Others, enthralled by the grandeur of the Canyon, desired to cast themselves off its rim into the mystery of its depth. I myself distinctly remember climbing down that old winding trail from the north rim. It seemed that we would never reach the bottom. The trail was a precipitous one, zigzagging and narrow, to the valley floor far below.

This excursion of ours took place when roads in New Mexico were almost nil. A buckboard would have been better than an automobile with high pressure tires which blew out about twice a day. We broke an axle on the way home and had to spend the night on La Bajada Mesa between the Rio Grande and the highway in what was locally known as "Old Man Pankey's Pastures." The Valley of the Frijoles impressed me, then a little boy, and, I well remember the hundreds of smoke-blackened caves hewn out of the soft cliffs by Indians sometime in the dim past. But I knew not the significance of these caves. I knew nothing of the story of how prehistoric Indians lived four hundred years ago. They were merely blackened holes to me occupied by a people about whom I knew little. I remember the ruins of the big community house. It was located across the little river from the stone ranch house. I thought it foolish for Indians to build houses out in the sun when there were so many shade trees close to the Rito. I now believe that this first visit of my childhood created within me the desire to solve for myself the questions then arising in my mind concerning the Canyon. Since that time hundreds of famous personages have passed this way: artists, archaeologists, doctors, botanists, psychologists, statesmen, preachers, governors, engineers, students and romancers, each finding satisfaction in his own particular line of interest.

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