Life was rugged in Red Rock. We got up at five in the morning with the first light. Virginia Tome told me that if the sun caught a person in bed, that was a sign of laziness. She was strict and critical, but a good teacher of the Navajo Way.

When no one was around, I talked into my little portable tape recorder, describing my day-to-day life as a sheepherder.

“Today is July 4^th, Independence Day. Right now I’m by myself in the log cabin. Lee Tome and Morris have gone to Shiprock to get their pickup fixed. Virginia Tome went on her horse to check on the cows off toward the mountains. I’m going to take advantage of this opportunity to talk in English and tell you about my life in Red Rock. If I sound like I have an odd accent when I talk, it’s because I’m so used to talking in Navajo that I catch myself using the same intonation when I talk in English.

I’ve been living out here herding sheep for one month now. I’m learning a lot of Navajo, but I still have a limited vocabulary. Somehow I manage to find a way to express myself even when I can’t find the right words. Yesterday I wanted to ask Lee Tome about his rifle. Not knowing the Navajo word for rifle, I referred to it as “the long stick that makes a big noise.” Lee and Virginia Tome thought that was funny.

I don’t talk very much since becoming a sheepherder. Most of the day I only have the sheep and goats and my horse to talk to—and the sheepherding dogs. I talk to all of them in Navajo because it’s a good way to practice. The animals don’t care if I sound like a four-year-old.

Virginia Tome said that I talk a lot in my sleep. Some of the words I say are in Navajo. Last night I woke her up when I yelled, “hádi dibé?” (Where are the sheep?)

I often dream that I’ve lost some of the sheep while they’re out grazing and I can’t find them. Virginia and Lee Tome would be very upset to lose even one of their sheep.

Virginia Tome asked me to call her “Shimasani,” meaning “Grandmother.”

Grandmother is very strict and tells everyone what to do. Traditional Navajos live in a matriarchal culture. It might look like the men are in charge, but it’s really the women who run the show. Marshall told me that in the old days—before the influence of white culture—when a married woman wanted a divorce, she simply put her husband’s saddle outside the door of the hogan. That meant the husband could not come back.

Grandmother is amazingly strong. She rides horseback and does heavy labor even though some people her age would be in an old folks home.

Lee Tome rides a lot too. He rides like a cowboy and uses a lasso, even at 87 years of age. He has a good reputation in these parts. The man at the trading post said that he got a lot accomplished as a councilman at the Red Rock Chapter House and helped his people have a better life.

Lee Tome used to own most of the Red Rock area, but gradually people moved in and asked him to give them some of his land. So he gave it away, and then, piece-by-piece, his land shrunk to what it is now. But by white standards, what he still has is huge and stretches for miles.

At this moment, I’m sitting on a cot inside the cabin, with the tape recorder in my hand and my bare feet on the dirt floor. Three other cots line the walls, looking like they could have been hospital beds in a makeshift clinic for soldiers in Vietnam. With the war finally coming to an end, Vietnam has been on my mind. I haven’t watched TV in over two years, but I have seen the Navajo warriors coming home to their families at last—some of them wounded physically and some emotionally and some of them in coffins. My heart breaks thinking about it.

A large gas stove stands in the middle of one of the walls. On one side of it is a folding table with all the cooking supplies on it. On the other side is a sink with no water faucet, just a drain that empties outside into a container that catches the dirty water. In the corner is a recently purchased gas-run refrigerator. We eat our meals at a wooden table in the middle of the room. Off to the side, the old cast iron wood stove warms up the cabin in the chilly early morning before the sun comes up.

Outside, a shade house attached to the front of the cabin serves as a porch. Branches cover the top of the pine pole structure. Sitting under the shade house offers relief when the sun is beating down hard during the day.

When the nights are very hot, I sleep outside in the shade house. It feels good to sleep on the ground on top of a couple of sheepskins and breathe the cool fresh air. Everyone else is too scared to sleep outside. They’re afraid a werewolf might come in the night and do something bad. They marvel that I am not afraid to sleep out there by myself.

I am usually up with the rest of the family by five. If Grandmother hasn’t already made a fire in the stove, then I make it and put the water on the stove to boil. After that I run for two or three miles along the dirt road. Running wakes me up and makes me feel good and keeps me strong. And I get to watch the sun come up on the horizon and light up the land.

When I come back, I help make breakfast. We usually eat the same thing every day—potatoes fried in a lot of lard with oatmeal and Navajo coffee boiled in a pot. For a special treat we sometimes have juice. If there is a guest here, we might have some fried chicken with fry bread, or toast that is usually burned. We eat Navajo fry bread one to three times a day.

While I wash the dishes and do my other chores, I listen to the Navajo radio station broadcast from Farmington. Lee Tome turns the volume way up. He has trouble with his hearing.

I have learned a lot of Navajo language by listening to that radio station. They announce the news on the reservation, where the next squaw dance is going to be held, where the best bargains in town are, and what is going on in the capital at Window Rock. They play Navajo music and sometimes include music from other tribes.

Before we eat breakfast we wash ourselves. We use water very sparingly. Grandmother allows each of us only one little bowl of water for all our hygiene needs—including brushing our teeth, washing and rinsing our face. Fortunately the outhouse is well stocked with sheets of newspaper and a little toilet paper.

We haul the water in big metal barrels from the tank next to the windmill down the road. The windmill pumps the water out of the ground when the wind blows. Every day I bring the sheep to the windmill where I can get really clean with the water from the holding tank. If Grandmother saw me “wasting water,” I bet she’d give me a good scolding.

After we eat, I go out and saddle up Jimmy, the sheepherding horse, and then I come back and do the dishes. At first it was hard for me to get used to washing the dishes in a small bowl. No one rinses the soapy dishes because it requires too much water. They simply dry them with a paper towel.

By the time I finish washing the dishes, the water in the bowl is black. At first I felt like I couldn’t eat off those dishes. Now I am used to it. I guess you can get used to just about anything. Besides, no one seems to get sick around here, so I’m guessing that germs are not something I need to worry about.

After the dishes are done and the cabin is cleaned up, I let the sheep and goats out of the corral. The other day I counted the herd to make sure we still had all of the 597 sheep and goats. I would feel really bad if any of them got lost or eaten by a coyote. And I’d get into a lot of trouble with Grandmother if that happened.

A couple of weeks ago we castrated the young male goats and lambs. We put on special rubber bands around the base of the balls to cut off the blood supply. After several days, the balls fall off. The same procedure is done on the tails. I don’t know the reason for removing the tails except that the trader says this is what must be done if they want to sell the meat at the trading post. The hungry dogs follow behind the sheep, waiting for the balls and tails to fall off so that they can eat them.

I usually herd the sheep for several miles, wherever there are enough plants and grass to eat. Then I take them to the windmill where the water is pumped into a trough. The herd drinks about one to four times during the day, depending how hot it is. When they get near the water, they begin running. They are so thirsty it’s hard to get them to leave the trough.

Around midday I start bringing the sheep home. They huddle under the shade house built for the animals, trying to find relief from the blazing sun. Then I unbridle my horse, feed him, and go make lunch. After I’ve finished eating and done the dishes, I do whatever needs to be done around the cabin. Sometime I drive Grandmother to the trading post if we need a bag of flour or other supplies.

Around mid-afternoon, I take the sheep back out again. It is hard to get them away from the shade house. They hate the heat. But once they reach the green plants, then they start walking more willingly.

It is a busy life here. There’s no time for play. Even though Window Rock is celebrating the Fourth of July with a big rodeo, a powwow, and a parade—according to the Navajo radio station—Virginia and Lee Tome wouldn’t think of going. I volunteered to stay here and watch things for them, but they just can’t permit themselves a vacation. They worry too much about all the things they have to do and they worry if their sheep are all right.

Lee Tome is having a dispute with one of his relatives. He gave a piece of land to his wife’s sister and her family. He told them they could graze their sheep there as long as they did not build on the land. The relatives set up their home there anyway, right close by where Lee Tome’s sheep used to graze. Now the two families are enemies.

One of the relatives, called Raymond, has been engaging in witchcraft. An English-speaking Navajo told me this information at the Red Rock Trading Post when I went there to buy staples for cooking. The trader said that Raymond has been putting something in the sheep’s water that makes them get sick.

Lee and Virginia Tome are terrified of Raymond. They call him “Weemie.” It’s their Navajo way of pronouncing his name. Whenever anything goes wrong, they say that Weemie did it and then they curse him. “Weemie, t’oo baa ii. Doo yaa’ a shoo da.” Werewolves and witchcraft are part of life out here.

A few miles down the road west of here there is a large reservoir stocked with trout. I like to go fishing during spare time—although there isn’t much spare time to be had. Thanks to Marshall’s help with negotiations during one of his visits, Virginia and Lee Tome agreed to give me one day off a week. Morris fills in for me on those days.

I went fishing with a young Navajo man who took a shine to me, Robert Henderson. His older brother was a good friend of mine in Chinle. Robert and I brought back two trout but no one touched them. I got to eat both of them myself for breakfast. Grandmother acted scared when I showed her the fish. She had never seen or tasted fish before and did not want to try. She seemed upset that I brought Robert to their cabin. She clearly didn’t like him. I don’t think she liked the idea that I had been with a boy.

This land around here is magnificent. I sit on Jimmy’s back for hours while I’m herding the sheep and just marvel at the beauty of the mountains, the red rock formations, and the very big blue sky. On the days I ride bareback, I often lie on Jimmy’s back and look up at the shapes of the clouds and watch them move across the sky.

While I’m herding the sheep around, I see quite a bit of animal activity, more than one would imagine just from looking out onto this seemingly barren land. There are lots of lizards, horned toads, prairie dogs, jackrabbits, coyotes, and rattlesnakes. I almost stepped on a rattlesnake on two different occasions while I walked around in rocky areas. Fortunately I heard their warning sounds with their rattling tail and got out of the way. It is a startling sight to unexpectedly come upon a coiled rattlesnake ready to strike.

I have encountered quite a few dead things, like sheep carcasses, a dead calf, a cow, and a raven. Grandmother is afraid of the ravens. Whenever she sees one, she says “t’oo baa adzid,” meaning, “it’s really scary.” If a raven hangs around your house, it means someone will die soon, according to Navajo belief.

The dogs caught and killed a jackrabbit. I brought it home and cut it up with the axe and parceled it out to the animals around the house-—the dogs, cats, and ducks. The animals are always hungry and will eat almost anything.

Rabbit meat is the main diet for the dogs. The scraps at home merely supplement their diet. They usually catch about one rabbit a day. It is a gruesome sight to see all the dogs gathered around the rabbit, ripping it apart while it’s still alive. It makes a pathetic cry that sounds like a whimpering baby. The sound makes my stomach tighten up. I never knew until now that rabbits could make any audible noises.

The dogs are always hungry. One of the dogs just had puppies. Morris built them a little house next to the sheep corral so the other dogs won’t eat them. When the cat had kittens, the dogs ate them.

Grandmother doesn’t want me to show affection to the dogs because then they just hang around the house. Navajos out here don’t treat dogs the way white people do. Navajo dogs are not pets. They are not allowed in the house. They are expected to work, herding the sheep and keeping the coyotes away from the sheep corral at night. If they don’t fulfill their roles, no one wants them. When they come around sniffing, they get kicked. I saw Morris step on the tail of one of the dogs when he wanted the dog to get out of the shade house.

There is a real hierarchy among the dogs. Neez, meaning “Tall One,” is the biggest dog so he is the boss. Any time one of the dogs does something he doesn’t like, he growls and then the others get so terrified they roll over and show their submission. He gets first choice on anything, specifically food.

Neez has a lot of matted fur. Occasionally I brush his hair with the currycomb that Lee Tome uses on the horses. A lot of hair comes off with each brushing. He looks like he’s part collie with his long coat. One time Grandmother saw me trying to brush through the matted fur. She got her big scissors that she uses to shear sheep and started cutting Neez’s furry coat. She got so carried away that she ended up cutting off all the fur on his tail, leaving just the skin and a few pieces of hair. Now he looks embarrassed and isn’t as bossy with the other dogs.

Besides Neez, there are two other big sheepherding dogs—Blackie and Jaayaa Loli, meaning “Pointed Ears.” When Grandmother is not looking, I pat them. I try not to do it too often so they won’t get too attached to me.

Jaayaa Loli was brought up among the sheep. He spends most of his time with them. Virginia and Lee Tome like him the best. He doesn’t come around the house; he doesn’t beg; he doesn’t jump up on people. He’s a real sheep dog. He just comes when he is called to get some scraps of food. Sometimes he gets over excited at this job of herding sheep and goes overboard, rounding them up constantly. The sheep lose weight from running so much. Just recently Morris tied a big chain around Jaayaa Loli’s neck that he drags between his feet, keeping him from running. When he does try to run, the chain flies around and sometimes hits him in the head.

Grandmother scolds me when I pat the dogs. She says that I will ruin her dogs and turn them into Bilagaana dogs that don’t know how to work. (“Bilagaana” are white people.) One day I made the mistake of telling Lee and Virginia Tome about a sheep that was lost after one of the dogs chased it. Lee Tome asked me which dog chased the sheep. After I told him, to my horror, he tied the dog to a tree and shot it in the head for not doing its job right. I felt awful. I can’t get that image out of my mind. I shouldn’t have said anything. Life out here can be pretty harsh.

I stay out with the sheep until about eight in the evening. After I bring them back to the corral, I unsaddle and unbridle the horse, help make dinner, eat, wash up, chop wood, light the Coleman lantern and then we all go and sit out in the shade house. We sit in silence, relaxing and watching the night settle into the desert.

This is the time when Lee Tome pulls out his leather pouch and puts a pinch of tobacco on his rolling paper and makes a cigarette—his one cigarette of the day. He smokes it sitting in the doorway, looking out into the darkness. It is his cherished moment when he can sit back and relax. He holds the cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger and smokes the tobacco as though it had some kind of sacred significance. He takes a puff with his eyes closed and then lets the smoke out slowly while looking lovingly at the cigarette between his fingers. Watching him savoring his smoke puts me into a trance-like state and gives me a longing for a hand-rolled cigarette to smoke the way he does.

Yikes! I can hear the pickup truck coming toward the cabin. I’m going to stop recording now. I don’t want Grandmother to think that I’ve been idle while she and Lee Tome and Morris were out doing chores. And I have to get on my cowboy boots real quick so Grandmother doesn’t think that I’m a barefoot hippie. I’ll tell you more about the sheepherding life later—like how I butchered my first sheep. Stay tuned.