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It was a good snowy day here in Wasilla. As I have stated, due to the fact that I have a great deal to do and have worn myself down a bit, it has been my intention to blog light probably all week. So today, I took a few pictures of the snow from the car as I went to pick up Royce's new batch of medicine and it was my plan to post two or three, say something insignificant and then get today's blog out of the way.

But then a request came to me on Facebook from Maridee Craig, the wife of my good friend Vincent Craig, through their son, the filmmaker Dustinn Craig.

With the support of his family and friends, Vincent is fighting a tough cancer. Vincent is well-known in Arizona and elsewhere in US Indian Country for his talent as a cartoonist and a song-writer performer and so Maridee - who is also my cherished friend - asked that I write a little story about him for The Fort Apache Scout, the newspaper of the White Mountain Apache Tribe.

So I did. Although I sat down to do it at about 10:00 PM, I did not actual start to write until a bit after midnight, because I put some of his music on my office stereo and I could not write while it was playing. All I could do was sit there and think, remembering the days when those songs were young and so were we.

I finished writing it just after 3:30 AM. It is now 4:32 AM.

So, although it will make this a fairly long entry word wise, I am going to put what I wrote in here. Few, if any, readers of the Fort Apache Scout will see it here.

I have many old photographs of Vincent in negative form, but it would take some real doing to find and scan them. I did a search in my computer and the only images that I came up with were four of him with his cat, the late Gato, that I took on a visit that I made to Whiteriver in February, 2002, and another of him with his guitar and harmonica at Jacob and Lavina's wedding in Flagstaff on March 18, 2006.

I have better pictures of him, but these will have to do for now:

As so many years have passed, I write mostly in the past tense, but I must stress that the man I am about to write about is very much alive.

I first met him in February of 1976, shortly after I began my three-and-half year stint as the editor, photographer, reporter and designer of the Fort Apache Scout. He was an ex-marine and a police officer working for the White Mountain Apache Tribe. He was a poet and a musician who, in one song, could sing his own words, play the guitar, the harmonica and the Navajo flute that he made himself.

His shoulders were broad and his chest firm and stout. He had a wife and son, soon to be three sons, and he was active in his church. He was quick to laugh, even at his own jokes – because he knew they were funny, yet there were tears in his heart as well, and they would come out right alongside his humor, in his many songs.

One day, he walked into my office with a big cowboy hat on his head, boots on his feet and laid a stack of his drawings and paintings down upon my desk.

As he led me through them, my first thought was, “Wow! Here is the Navajo Norman Rockwell!” I came to realize that I was wrong. This was Vincent Craig, inimitable, a multi-faceted artist of unique talent, creating in the style of no one but himself, with a talent to dive deep into humor, sorrow, and politics all at once.

He showed me two cartoon characters that he had created – Frybread and Beans. So I hired him to do illustrations, cartoons, and stories too. Soon, his Frybread and Beans became famous all across the reservation.

I have no doubt that even if I had not hired him, Vincent Craig would still have gone on to fame as a cartoonist; he would still have created Mutton Man and made him a regular in the Navajo Times, but I am still proud that I was able to give him his start as a professional cartoonist – even though he sometimes got me in trouble with tribal politicians.

Yet, what I am most proud of is the fact that he became my friend – not just any friend – but a best friend, one whom none other would ever replace, even though we have since become separated by thousands of miles and decades of years.

We both had Apache wives and children of the same age, so we would get together as families, too. Sometimes, my wife and I would babysit Vincent and Maridee’s boys, Dustinn (who is now making his mark in film and TV production), Nephi and Shilo and sometimes they would babysit ours.

We did many things together and it seemed to me that we shared the same kind of bond as did Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid – two popular movie characters of that time period – and I got to see the kind of man that he was.

Vincent has always honored the Elders and in his songs often recalled what they had taught him. He is the son of the late Bob Craig, who, as a Navajo Code Talker, had waded through human flesh and blood on Iwo Jima and had played a vital role in the defeat of Japan.

Vincent wrote a song about his father and this is the poetry that he used to describe him:

“He’s the son of the Four Directions and the child of the Blessing Ways, raised in the loving arms of his mother’s humanity. Wisdom comes to him through the legends of long ago, told by the man who loved the wandering eyes of a little child. My daddy was a code-talking man. With Uncle Sam’s Marines, he spoke on the whistling wind, during the time of man’s inhumanity…”

His desire to be of service to children and youth was strong. He organized the first skate-boarding event ever held in the White Mountain Apache nation.

I once accompanied him and his Apache boy scouts on a camping and hiking trip inside the Navajo Nation. We hiked across miles upon miles of red rock and desert and it grew blazing hot. Some of the scouts thrived in the environment, but others grew tired and wanted to quit. Vincent kept his sense of humor and gentle but determined disposition. He did not scold, he did not chide, but he kept those boys going and when evening came and the air cooled to more pleasant levels, they were proud of what they had accomplished.

Some experiences with youth were hard. There was the boy who had gotten drunk at a new tribal complex that included a small mall, grocery store, movie theatre and swimming pool and had run off into night and disappeared.

In time, a search was launched and Vincent led it. I followed along.

Vincent spotted the body on the rocks alongside the White River at the bottom of the sheer cliffs that dropped nearly 200 feet into the deep canyon cut out by the river just across the highway from complex.

Vincent climbed and rappelled out of sight down the cliff. After he reached the bottom, I felt the vibrations travel up the rope as Vincent removed it from himself and it went slack. Soon, there were more vibrations as he tied the rope to what I assumed was the boy. Then he gave a good firm tug as the signal that it was time to pull the load up. A small number of us began to pull that rope up but the load was so light that I thought perhaps it was not the boy, but only whatever belongings he had taken off the cliff with him.

But it was the boy.

Soon, Vincent was back atop the cliff, lending his calm and knowing shoulder to weeping, shrieking, relatives. Another time, he descended into in an empty shed-sized water or fuel tank to the body of another boy who had died huffing gasoline fumes. A second boy was pulled out alive but brain-damaged, shrieking gibberish, the great potential that he had been born with destroyed. A third boy came out basically okay – but with such a burden to carry.

Once I and enough men to carry a litter followed Vincent on a long hike through darkness along the Salt River and then up the steep grade of one of the many streams that cascade down the cliffs and slopes of the canyon walls. It was a hard hike, because there were many rocks of all sizes to stumble over and we walked through rattlesnake habitat, but a woman had fallen off one of those cliffs, had broken her leg and needed to be rescued before shock overcame her.

Finally, we reached the ledge upon which she lay. She was blond, alert, in great pain but happy to see us.

What followed was a true physical ordeal, but after we got her down the cliff and then carried her in the litter for many hours through the darkness and then into the daylight, Vincent told stories, made jokes – and kept everyone, even the injured lady in good spirits. She even laughed, frequently.

He would often make us laugh: me, my wife, his wife, others gathered together with us at church or other socials as he played his guitar and made his music, but in that music the deep seriousness in his soul did also come through.

Leading in first with his flute in a minor key, followed by his harmonica as he finger-picked his acoustic guitar, this is how Vincent would describe the infamous and tragic removal under Kit Carson of the Navajo from their abundant homeland to the bleakness of the Basque Redondo.

“My grandfather used to take me to the mountains in my youth and there he would tell me the legends of long ago. Between the four sacred mountains we lived in harmony and now you tell me that we’ve got to go, because someone drew a line...

“Hey Mr. President, can’t you see what is going on, they’ve taken the heart and soul from the land, because someone drew a line…”

About the time we would all be fighting tears, he would switch to his tragic-comic ballad, Rita, which begins, “I met poor Rita down by the graveyard yesterday and she told me that she would love me all of the day. And then I told her that I wanted to marry her but she said you’ve got to steal the candy bar…”

Then, nearly 30 years ago, I took my Apache wife and children to Alaska. The visits that I have made with Vincent in the time since can be counted on my fingers – probably of one hand.

In that same time, Mutton Man became popular across the Navajo Nation and Vincent became in-demand as a performer and humorist not only in the Southwest but across Indian Country.

This point was brought home to me one morning when I sat in Pepe’s North of the Border Mexican Restaurant in the Iñupiat Eskimo community of Barrow, Alaska – the farthest north city on the continent. The radio was on, tuned to KBRW. As I ate, I suddenly heard the familiar sound of a flute, followed by harmonica and guitar, and then on to these lyrics, sung in the voice of my friend:

“…because someone drew a line…”

Recently, I learned that Vincent is fighting a cancer strain known as GIST. I have written this article for my old paper, The Fort Apache Scout, at the request of his wife, Maridee, who wants people to know something of the man that her husband is. She wants them to know that he is alive, and that he and his entire family are fighting together as one loving unit to keep him that way. It is the toughest struggle of their lives so far, but it is a struggle of hope.

He has made some performances since he became ill in December, but sometimes he is unable to do so, but not because he doesn't want to. He just needs to work first on his health.

Some misinformation has gotten out there, but there is a fund set up on Vincent’s behalf. Those who wish can donate here:

Wells Fargo Bank

Vincent Craig Donation Fund

Account # 6734185546

To help keep everyone better informed, Vincent and his family recently established a fan page on Facebook.

On February 26, they posted these words, “This morning we had less than 50 fans, and tonight we are up to 662! Thanks everyone for your support, prayers and positivity.”

When I saw the page for the first time this evening, that fan count was up to 2,457. Now it’s 2,458. Well wishes are pouring in.

God be with you, my friend, ‘til we meet again.