A pocket camera glimpse back at the gathering before I get going for real; roadside scenes while on coffee break in Wasilla: Baby Jobe in green

That's Harold Frost of Old Crow, Yukon Territory, playing fiddle on the left and Chester Fields of Fort Yukon on base. Yesterday, I stated that today I would begin posting my Gwich'in Gathering images in earnest, but I am not yet ready to do that.

I was very lazy yesterday and it was the only day this week that I would have Margie home with me. I did not even begin to transfer the 360 gigabytes or so of high resolution, RAW images from my big pro cameras from the portable hard drive I took to Fort Yukon into what for the moment is my big working harddrive attached to my desktop computer, until about 8:00 PM.

Those images were still transferring when I went to bed about 12:30 AM. Now I must put them in my photo editing program and start the task of editing and processing and I feel completely overwhelmed. It feels like a task that would take a month to do right.

The very thought makes me feel like I just want to go back to bed and sleep for a year or two.

That's another thing that I really like about my tiny pocket camera - the Canon s90. Not only is it tiny and light, but there is no way to shoot pictures fast with it, so you don't get that many. The ones that you do get have nowhere near the resolution of those taken with my pro cameras, so they do not bog the editing program down and they are quick and easy to work with.

I didn't use the pocket camera much in Fort Yukon, but I did keep it in my pocket at all times and every now and then I did pull it out and shoot a frame or two - such as in this case.

There was a table in front of the fiddle player. I wanted to get a shot from under the table but there were speakers and other gear beneath it, so it was a whole lot easier just to reach under there with my pocket camera, frame it in the LCD and take a snap than it would have been to have crawled under with all that stuff with my big gear and then let rip with bunch of frames.

So for today, I am just going to use  the few scenes associated with the gathering that I did with the pocket camera. Once I get some editing done, you will see Harold and Chester again, along with a whole lot of other folks.

Harold did not come to the home of Ben and Carrie Stevens, my hosts, with his fiddle, but when we all gathered there we could still hear the fiddle music in our heads.

Little two-and-a-half-year old Alex, "Sunshine," must have heard the music very clearly and he remembered well how people had jigged to that music. So the sound and the memory went down to his feet, took hold of them and suddenly he began to jig in the kitchen. Soon, Sunshine had three women dancing with him.

I wish I could dance like that.

This is Jessica Black, who served as Miss World Eskimo-Indian Olympics in 2000. Jessica also spent part of the gathering camped out in the Stevens home in the room across the hall from mine. We became friends, just like that.

She received the scarf tied as a band around her head at a give-away held in honor of a deceased baby boy. After she put it on, she did a short dance, Gwich'in style.

My host, Ben Stevens, preparing moose-rib soup to feed to those gathered at the gathering. Mighty tasty. Excellent ribs. I wish I could have some now. I can't, so maybe I will go to Taco Bell instead.

Ben had to leave early to return to his fish camp far down river, near Stevens Village, his original home.

Just to remind you that I am now back home:

Yes, I am in Wasilla and yesterday after stopping in at Metro to say "hi" to Scott, Carmen and Sashanna, I drove away with an Americano and then took a short drive to drink it. Along the way, I saw this car, parked with its lights on at a corner.

And I saw that someone had rebuilt the memorial for the young woman and her unborn child who had been killed in a collision at Church Road and Schrock. Two crosses used to rise from this memorial, but vandals broke them and messed up the scene.

Now it had been put back together, but without the crosses.

On my last day home before I left for Fort Yukon, I took Margie to Metro and as we waited in the drive-through, a succession of police cars and emergency vehicles screamed by, red lights flashing. A bit later, on our drive, we had just turned off Schrock Road onto Lucille Street when we saw that the road was blocked ahead and red lights were flashing.

We detoured elsewhere through the neighborhood to avoid the scene and then I forgot about it. I did not know what had happened. I never thought about it again until yesterday, when I drove past it for the first time since my return. This is what I saw.

Given the location, my immediate thought was that it had probably been a four-wheeler accident and that the person who had died had been young.

I looked it up online after I got home. Indeed, 17 year-old Cheyanne Jorge had died after rolling her four-wheeler. Her passenger, also 17, was treated at the hospital and released.

Horrible.

Early this morning, I drove Margie into Anchorage so that she can spend the rest of the week babysitting Jobe. Here he is, dressed to match the bathroom colors.

View images as slide show

Royce, the cat who was always looking for love: December 31, 1994 - June 15, 2010

There is a certain pain that sometimes strikes me in the prostate when I am sleeping and it is horrible. It usually lasts somewhere between half-an-hour and an hour and then it goes away and I can go back to sleep. I had barely fallen into a strange, colorful and bizarre dream that was taking place simultaneously in three separate frames when that pain woke me at 12:20 AM Tuesday morning.

I did not want to believe it was coming on, because I never want to believe it. I always want to imagine that if I just think it gone it will be gone and I can sleep on. It never works that way. Only the cats and I were home. Margie had gone to spend the week in town babysitting Jobe and Caleb was at work.

I waited for the pain to go away as usual, but it did not. One AM passed, then 2:00, then 3:00. About 3:20, just because I wanted to change my surroundings, I left my bedroom and headed to my office, where I stayed for somewhere between two and three minutes, then turned to go back into the house.

When I opened the garage door into the living room, I smelled something horrid. Then I saw Royce, lying very still on the checkered rug somewhere between two and three feet from the door, eyes open, the left side of his face against the rug, his front paws framing his face. He looked dead. I could see no breath. I could hear no sounds.

His eyes did not blink.

He had not been lying there when I had entered my office, but now he was. I knelt down beside him and placed one hand on his chest. Suddenly, without moving his body, he took a gasp of a breath, then lay still again. Perhaps 30 seconds later, he took another breath.

I could see that nothing could be done for him. He was dying, but why? It looked to me as though he had been struck down. The only thing that I could think of was maybe he had a stroke. I wondered if he was suffering? I ran my hand up to his windpipe and for a moment thought that maybe I would just squeeze and end any pain that he might be experiencing.

But I couldn't. He was going. He was leaving this world and if he had any consciousness at all I did not want his final memory to be of me choking him. Plus, he did not look to be in pain. So I just sat with him, stroking him, saying a few things to him now and then, waiting for him to die. Every now and then, I would grab a paper towel and pick up the poop that kept coming out of him.

I put another tissue under his face to catch the drool.

Fifteen minutes passed and he was still alive. I hated the fact that he was lying on the floor, dying on the dirty rug, so I went back into my office and got the little bed that I had made nine years ago for Jim from a Mac laptop computer box, placed Royce in it then sat on the couch with him on my lap.

Chicago and Jim quickly joined us. Chicago positioned herself at the head end of the box, Jimmy on the arm rest. Pistol-Yero came, but sat on the far arm of the couch.

Remember, Chicago and Royce have always been friends. I wondered what she knew?

Just before Royce died, she climbed up to the back of the couch, crossed behind me, then put her paws on my shoulder, her face next to my face. At the moment Royce died, about 4:05 AM, Chicago was looking into the box, right at him. I took the above picture very shortly afterward.

I remained where I was with Royce on my lap and one hand stroking him for another hour. I called Melanie but got no answer. I sent text messages out to everybody. Rex called back within minutes. Then Melanie called.

Finally, I put Royce on a high shelf in the garage and then went back to bed. It was nearing 5:30 AM now. As usual when I go to bed, Jim and Pistol-Yero joined me. A few minutes later, I heard a mournful, mournful, sorrowful cry out in the hallway. It was Chicago, who never sleeps with us.

I got back up, opened the door and saw the wailing Chicago down the hall. She stopped her cry, came running to me. She followed me to the bed, jumped up and crawled under the covers with me.  It had never happened this way before. There she stayed until 8:00 AM, when the phone rang and I had to get up.

I hung up the phone and went back to bed, but it rang again about two minutes later. It was all business stuff. I decided just to stay up and go get breakfast at Family Restaurant. I got a good seat in the corner with my back to the wall and a window to look out of.

Soon, I heard a distant whistle, then a low rumble. The train came along.

My order came not long afterward. As I was eating it, I was surprised to hear another whistle, and then to feel another rumble in the earth.

It was a two-train breakfast.

That doesn't often happen.

In the afternoon, after I had gone out to deal with a bizarre happening that I will one day write about but not yet, I was in the car and came to a stoplight, right alongside and just beneath this car.

In the evening, beginning with Lisa, the family began to trickle in from Anchorage for the funeral. She had left work early this day to go home and be with her two cats. I still had Royce in the box in the garage. She went to see him and wept.

Melanie arrived later. She spent some time playing with Kalib, who was a bit sick, then came out to see the kitten that she had loved from the day it left the womb, the kitten that I had told her we could not keep, but when I saw the love I had tied a blue ribbon around his neck and then presented him to her on her birthday.

Now, she petted him and then began to work the knots out of his fur.

Then she got a cat brush and smoothed him out real good. I was amazed at how good he looked when she was done.

The boys set about to dig the grave as Lisa gathered rocks to place atop it.

According to the Navajo belief she lives by, at this stage in her motherhood Lavina could not look upon Royce, nor could Kalib or Jobe. She could fix dinner. She did. Corn chowder.

We brought Royce outside for the final viewing. Everybody shared a memory or two or three or more of him. 

When Jacob remembered how Royce had once saved him from getting a speeding ticket, everybody laughed. Tomorrow, I will put up series of pictures of Royce in life and will include that story as well as others.

Margie chose this blanket to be his burial shroud, as she had often observed Kalib and Royce together on or near this blanket. Kalib would point to the different squares as Royce watched attentively. Now she wraps him in it.

Muzzy and Royce were friends.

Royce was Melanie's cat. She carries him to his grave.

Before Royce goes into the earth, Lisa holds him and weeps. Then I take him and lower him into the hole, which is deeper than my arm is long.

Melanie scoops up dirt to gently place directly atop him before the rest is shoveled in.

Once Royce was in the earth and could not be seen, Kalib was allowed to come to the grave. He picked a wild rose and brought it to his good friend. Long time readers know of this amazing relationship shared between the baby and the cat, but, for those who don't, I will address it in tomorrow's post.

Kalib placed several flowers and several rocks upon the grave. Lisa put the golf ball there.

There is so much more that I wanted to write in this post, as I placed the above pictures, but it is now 2:07 AM the next day, I have not even taken a nap and I need to drive into Anchorage early in the morning. I need to get some rest, sometime, so I will go to bed now, sleep a bit, take a quick look at this before I leave for Anchorage and then hit, "published."

So this is it. Never again will I pet this cat or hear him purr.

If I had known that, I would have picked him up repeatedly on Monday. He would have purred and purred and purred.

I just didn't know. I thought he was getting better.

My trips to Arizona and Anaktuvuk Pass - the connection; on the home front, Jobe, a horse, and some kids

As regular followers of this blog know, I was recently in Arizona, where I journeyed to see my friend Vincent Craig just before he died, and then stayed for his funeral and to visit family. I traveled straight from Arizona to the Brooks Range Alaska village of Anaktuvuk Pass to attend the wedding of Nasuġraq Rainey Higbee to Ben Hopson III (B-III).

I have mentioned that there is tie between the people I gathered with in Arizona and those whom I joined in Anaktuvuk Pass.

You can see that connection right here, in the above photo. This is Velma Kee Craig, Vincent's daughter-in-law through his and Mariddie's oldest son, Dustinn. I took this photo inside the Fort Apache LDS church house during the lunch that was served to family and friends of Vincent right shortly after his burial.

Please note the necklace and earrings that Velma chose to wear to her father-in-law's funeral. Both were made by Nasuġraq Rainey Higbee, whose wedding I would photograph in Anaktuvuk.

The moment that she saw the necklace in an online ad posted by Rainey, Velma loved it and wanted it. "Sorry," Rainey informed her. "That necklace has already been bought."

She did not tell her that it was Dustinn who had bought it. Dustinn had sworn her to secrecy.

In the summer of 1981, two months after Margie, little Jacob, Caleb, Rex, baby Melanie and I rolled into Alaska, I found a job at the Tundra Times, a now defunct weekly newspaper that served the Alaska Native Eskimo, Indian and Aleut communities. I started as a reporter/photographer and then became editor/reporter/photographer for a short time.

Back then, each October during the Alaska Federation of Natives Convention, he Tundra Times would host a banquet. Entertainment would usually include at least one Native American act from Outside. In 1984, I suggested to those planning the banquet that they consider bringing Vincent Craig up to perform and that is just what they did.

Mariddie came with him and they stayed with us in our Wasilla house throughout the convention.

Vincent and Mariddie wanted to take a memento of Native Alaska back to Arizona and so they purchased a pair of mukluks - caribou, if I recall correctly - at one of the arts and crafts booths that are always set up at the convention. They were very pleased with those mukluks.

One night, as I drove them back to Wasilla from convention happenings in Anchorage, the Northern Lights climbed in a glowing green arc over the Talkeetna Mountains, and then divided into various curtains to shimmer, dance, and flash in different colors. Vincent and Mariddie were fascinated

"Dustinn would love this," Vincent said. "He would feel awe."

That's Dustinn above, with Velma and their four children, Chance, Ashlee, Tristan and Kraig. I took this picture in their home, approximately five hours before his father died.

As Dustinn grew, he would often look at those mukluks. He would touch them, smell them, feel the texture of the fur. He would wonder about the place they came from, the people who made them. He would feel a sense of awe and fascination. His dad would tell him they came from Alaska; he would tell him about his friend, me, who lived in Alaska, who had his own airplane that he flew all about his mysterious, northern, land.

After Dustinn became a filmmaker, the primary center of his work became centered on Arizona, primarily on his Apache people, but he also branched out elsewhere - into Northern Alaska. 

In the image above, he is showing me his "Freshwater Ice" film. It tells the story of how, when a loved one dies, Iñupiat people will sometimes venture out onto the salty sea ice to find a certain kind of clear, blue, coveted piece freshwater glacial ice that yields the purest, sweetest, drinking water to be found.

They will chop it up, bring it back to the village, melt it and this will be the drinking water that will quench the thirst of those who gather to bring comfort to the deceased's family.

It is beautiful. It was also a bit amazing to me, to sit in his living room in Mesa, Arizona, and to watch this film that he made, people with faces and voices from Arctic Alaska, all well-known to me.

Dustinn was also hired to teach a film-making workshop at Barrow's Ilisagvik College. One of his students was Nasuġraq Rainey Higbee and another was Iñupiat filmmaker Rachel Edwardson. The three were all about the same age and after class got to spend a good amount of time visiting. 

Dustinn later got to work with Rachel on a film in Point Hope. Here is a trailer showing some of Dustinn's Point Hope work.

They discovered that, as young Native artists working to make a life in Native society that for them was different even than it was for their parents, they faced similar challenges and had much in common. They all became good friends.

And here is Nasuġraq Rainey Hopson, who made the necklace and earrings that Velma Craig wore to her father-in-law's funeral in Arizona, on the evening of the day that she got married in Anaktuvuk Pass.

With her is her sister, Angela and her new brother-in-law, Byron Hopson.

I have a number of pictures and stories yet to post here from my trips to Arizona and Anaktuvuk. Now you will know how the two tie together.

In time, I intend to bring Rachel into this blog as well.

I don't know how to state this without sounding like I am bragging, but it is part of this story, part of this connection, so I have to say it. When I got to Rainey's home, she showed me her stack of the battered Uiñiq magazines that I made and she saved. She told me that she grew with my pictures, that my inspired her and that is why she kept the magazines, why she wanted me to come and photograph her wedding. That is why, after I made my final stop in Arizona at the home of Dustinn Craig to visit he and his mother, I got on an airplane and began the first of the four-leg that would take me to Anaktuvuk Pass.

Now, a little bit from the home front:

Yesterday, I had to go into town to take care of some business. I stopped at Jacob and Lavina's to visit Margie, who is babysitting Jobe. Jobe was asleep in his cradleboard.

Another view of Jobe.

Late in the evening, I took a ride on my bike. I had not gone far before I came upon this group of young people. The girl on the horse told me her name, but I was so certain that I would remember I did not bother to record it. I have forgotten. I do not know the name of the horse, either.

I should have lingered, spent a bit more time with them, learned a bit about that horse and how the girl feels about it and what the kids on the bikes think.

But I didn't. I just quickly stopped, told them what I was doing, got the name that I would forget and then pedaled quickly on.

Update, 11:35 AM Friday: AKponygirl left a comment and identified the horse-riding girl as Marcella. Thank you, Akponygirl!

Anaktuvuk Pass: remembering loved ones who have passed on

This is the post that I had planned to put up Tuesday morning, but I could not get online. 

I arrived in Anaktuvuk Pass on Memorial Day afternoon with several friends and relatives of Ben (B-III) Hopson the Third and Nasuġraq Rainey Higbee, who would wed the next day.

There was much good food in the house - caribou stew, caribou meat, fresh rolls and such and I had already fed myself a good sampling of it when I learned that the community was going to gather at the cemetery at 5:00 PM, to remember loved ones buried there and to feast in their honor.

When the time came, I joined several members of the wedding party and we walked over together.

When we arrived, I saw a group of people gathered just off the southern edge of the cemetery, the mountains of the Brooks Range rising behind, in front of and all around them. They were praying.

The man leading the prayer was Dr. James Nageak, an Iñupiaq hunter, scholar, retired university professor and Presbyterian preacher. That's James to the left, wearing the green coat.

He thanked the Lord for the lives lived by all those buried here, and for the beautiful land and the animals that had sustained them and that continue to sustain the people of Anaktuvuk Pass today.

After he finished, the Reverend Keith Johnston, right, who now serves as pastor for Anaktuvuk's Presbyterian "Chapel in the Mountains," read scripture.

Then the feasting began. Although I had already eaten, I ate again. I had more caribou soup, I had fish, wild berries, Eskimo donuts; I made certain to get some of the bowhead maktak that had been boiled into uunaalik, seen here just to the right of the spaghetti.

The spaghetti, by the way, is caribou spaghetti. It was superb.

Rachel Riley asked me how my shoulder was healing up. Rachel was in the Barrow High cafeteria on June 12, 2008, when I took my fall, shattered my shoulder, got loaded into a Lear Jet ambulance and was flown on a $37,000 + ambulance ride to Providence Hospital in Anchorage, where I went through two surgeries and had my natural bone replaced by an artificial, titantium, shoulder.

I told her that it had healed well and I was doing good, but that it would never be what it was before. For all it's technical medical wonder, this titanium just cannot match my natural bone. Yet, I am greatly thankful to have it.

Rachel then explained to Ada Lincoln exactly what she had saw that day when I fell off the rolling chair while taking a picture (and Rachel, by the way, is in the last frame that I shot just before the chair rolled out from under me).

A boy walks through the cemetery, looking at the graves of relatives and friends.

Raymond Paneak took me to the grave of his brother, George, who died on September 19, 2009, at the age of 60. George had been Mayor of the village and was an active leader in the Healthy Communities movement, a grass-roots effort to stem the harm and damage that the abuse of alcohol and drugs has caused in the Far North.

Freida Rulland, left, showed me the grave of her father and my friend, Paul Hugo. A good twenty-years ago plus, Paul took me to many places in these mountains, by snowmachine, eight-wheeled Argo, depending on the season, and on foot in search of caribou. 

We found a few, too.

He had also kept me as a house-guest in his home. We had eaten pancakes in the morning, caribou in the evening.

Although I of course knew that he had died, it none-the-less shocked me to see his name stenciled into the cross that marks his grave.

He passed away on October 9, 2009, at the age of 49.

I told Frieda and her sister that I would stop by and say "hi" to their mother, but my trip was short and I was busy every waking minute of it and I never got a chance.

I expect to be back in Anaktuvuk before too long, though, and I will then.

Freida's sister, Amanilla Hugo, stands to the far right.

Two little ones, growing up in Anaktuvuk Pass.

The funeral of Vincent Craig, Part 4: A helicopter passes overhead, procession moves down the hill, military honors, Mormon honors, Apache honors

After the funeral service, the flag-draped coffin that held the body of my friend, Vincent Craig, was wheeled outside the doors of the big Mormon chapel and church house in Lakeside. Those gathered around paused, stood very silent and listened. Soon, the distant beating of whirling helicopter rotors could be heard, growing steadily louder as the chopper that they propelled through the air steadily approached.

Then the helicopter appeared, first as a tiny dot rising above the distant trees. Then it hovered directly overhead, beating the air loudly. All eyes looked up. This chopper had come from Overseas Aircraft Support, a company that rebuilds military helicopters. Vincent had showed up there a few years back, told them he had been a helicopter mechanic in the Marine Corps, had asked for a job and had got it. He had helped to rebuild this very helicopter, which, I was told by his coworker and pallbearer Richard Johnson, will soon be in service in Afghanistan.

After the helicopter disappeared, Vincent's wife, Mariddie, was surrounded by those who sought to comfort her. Before the service began, a small group of relatives and close friends had gathered in the Relief Society room, where Mariddie delivered the family prayer. She expressed her gratitude for the strength and love of her children, grandchildren, family and friends.

As I discovered when we buried my own parents, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints does not allow photography inside their chapels. I wish that I could have at least taken a picture of the congregation that had gathered in this building to say goodbye to Vincent.

This place was chosen for his funeral services because it is not just any ordinary chapel, but rather a Mormon Stake Center. While the chapel itself is large, behind it is a full-sized basketball gymnasium. A sliding partition separates the gym from the chapel. Twice each year, members of all the wards and branches within the LDS Pinetop-Lakeside Stake, a large area which includes the reservation as well as Pinetop-Lakeside and other non-Indian border areas, gather here for Stake Conference. The partition is then drawn and the chapel and the gymnasium become one huge meeting hall. Just like in Utah, white settlement in Arizona Apache country was pioneered by Mormons and their numbers remain strong. It takes a huge churchhouse to accommodate the people of all the wards when they meet. Even so, Dustinn recalled going to Stake Conference with his parents as he grew. Never once did he see this building filled to capacity the way it was for his father.

For his father, the chapel and the gym were packed to capacity.

As the many mourners had entered, Organist Ann Flake played "Oh My Father," a Mormon funeral standard that was also sung by the congregation as the opening hymn, led by music director and close family friend, Phoebe Nez. Jacob Zuniga offered the opening prayer.

Of the excellent speeches that were delivered in this building on this day, I was moved most by the memories and love expressed by Vincent's three sons, Dustinn, Nephi and Shiloh and by his older brother, Harrison. I will not try to recount any of their words here, but I might include some of what they said in the tribute that I will begin to put together after I post this entry. 

Vincent's close friend, Ronnie Peaches, told how the Apache people had adopted this famous Navajo as one of their own. The closing remarks, a summary of Mormon belief in the resurrection, was delivered by President Shumway of the Pinetop-Lakeside Stake.

One day, very near to the end of his life when his physical strength was fading but not gone, Vincent Craig asked for his guitar and then, from his hospital bed, spontaneously composed a goodbye song to his family. Dustinn recorded this final performance and that recording was played here, on this day, inside this chapel.

His voice was weak, but the beauty and love that came from it was strong. The congregation listened. Many wept.

Vincent's sister, Vivian Craig Begay, offered the benediction. Then, as the organist played, "God Be With You 'til we meet again," a representative of Owens Livingston Mortuaries wheeled the casket through a walkway too narrow to accommodate we pall bearers. We, and all the congregation of mourners, followed him into the sun.

Those of us who were pall bearers then wheeled the casket to the hearse. After we rolled it inside, members of the honor guard saluted as Vincent's brother, Harrison Craig, held the Marine colors.

I had to wait a long time before I could pull out of my parking space and enter the line of mourners for the 25 mile processional down the White Mountains to the Whiteriver cemetery. As a pall bearer, this worried me a bit because I did not want to arrive late at the graveside - although I was quite certain they would not start without me.

After I finally worked my way into a line that seemed to have no end in either direction, I saw this bumper sticker directly in front of me and I laughed.

No, not for the mistaken reason that readers unfamiliar with life in this part of the country can be forgiven for thinking. "Shi" is the Navajo word for "my." In one of his songs about the rituals of modern day Navajo romance, Vincent shouts out, "oh, shi heart!"

Hence the bumper sticker, made and marketed by the little company created by Vincent and Dustinn.

As the procession worked its way through Pinetop-Lakeside, some who could not be in it found a way to express their sentiment.

The highway that descends the White Mountains down to Whiteriver is a winding one. Sometimes, when the curves and slants were just right, I would catch a glimpse of the procession behind me in my rearview mirror. I could not see the end of it.

And off to the side, many vehicles traveling in the opposite direction pulled over to show their respect.

As we neared Whiteriver, I finally got a long view of the procession ahead. Even so, the hearse was beyond the reach of my eyesight.

I parked and followed this young family up into the Cemetery. Through Margie, I have many relatives buried here, including my father-in-law, Randy Roosevelt. His was the first funeral that I ever attended on the land of the White Mountain Apache.

A few of those gathered.

I don't know what the temperature was, but it was hot. Not searing, the way Arizona can be, but hot. Even so, a breeze ebbed and surged. It lifted the tie of Harrison Craig.

The pall bearers, minus myself. Vincent planned his funeral himself, with help from his wife. No one knew that I would be attending then and I was not on the list of pall bearers. The night before I was needed, Mariddie told me that one of those selected was not going to be able to make it and asked if I would take his place.

I must have gotten a dismayed look on my face, because she quickly added, "or would you rather take pictures?" 

"Yes," I answered. "I would prefer to take pictures." Then I thought about it a little more. How could I better honor my friend than to set my cameras aside long enough to carry him to his grave?

The day before, at the visitation, I had shot a couple of frames from the vantage point of a pall bearer. On this day, as we carried Vincent to his grave, my eyes saw many powerful images in front of them. I let them pass. I carried my friend with my full measure of solemnity and respect.

The family of Vincent Craig.

An Marine honor contingent fired their salute in three parts.

Vincent's fellow veterans saluted as Taps was played.

Two Marines fold Vincent's flag.

In a display of what struck me as pure and sincere humility, a Marine kneeled before Mariddie and presented Vincent's flag to her. Afterward, he stood up, saluted her and then marched respectfully out of the scene - as did the gunners and bugler. 

Ernie Crocker played two Mormon hymns on his harmonica, then finished with a love song dedicated from Vincent to Mariddie: "You Are My Sunshine."

Harrison asked all those not in military uniform who wore hats to remove them, then, as a family member and Mormon Priesthood holder, offered a special prayer of dedication.

Those who wore flowers pinned them to the Navajo blanket that had replaced the flag and would now go into the grave with Vincent.

All four of Vincent's grandsons: Kraig, Chance, Tristan and Ari. All three of Vincent's sons: Shiloh, Nephi and Dustinn.

At Mariddie's request, the funeral director noted that he was about to open the casket one last time and asked that no pictures be taken until it was closed up again. Then, in the Apache way, Mariddie and family placed items of food and drink in the casket, including a canteen filled with water and corn chips.

Then the coffin was closed again, sealed into the vault and lowered into the earth. In the Apache way, Mariddie and Nephi then brought an armload of Vincent's clothing to the grave and dropped them in with him. 

 

Family members and pall bearers then brought more of Vincent's clothing and personal items and, in the Apache way, left them with him. Now the grave was ready to be covered.

Please take note of the emblem on the top article of clothing. That is the logo for a skateboard competition that Vincent MC'd in Whiteriver in 2000 - just as he MC'd all the Whiteriver competitions. I have not forgotten that day in the late 1970's when Vincent organized and mc'd the first skateboard event ever held on this reservation.

I photographed it all. Somewhere, unseen now for over 30 years, the negatives lie in one of my filing cabinets - along with so many other invisible images.

Take note, too, of all the white shirts and black ties, worn at Vincent's request. A few days ago, I mentioned how, these days, I just basically will not wear white shirts and ties.

Yet on this day, in the midst of this Apache funeral for my Navajo friend, when I looked out and saw all these Mormon-evocative white shirts, black ties, and black slacks, I felt extremely proud to be dressed this way myself. 

As we all will be, my friend Vincent has now returned to the earth.

A moment of certainty and awe.

Mormon leader Ernie Crocker then prayed in Apache and dedicated the grave.

The ash that had been gathered from the cooking fires was then brought to the foot of the grave. First, the men scooped up handfuls, then circled the grave in the Apache way, sprinking ash along the edges as they did. Above is Ari, Nephi, and Emerson.

After the men, the women followed. The last one to circle was Vincent's sister, Elvira.