rel="nofollow" href="#fb3_img_img_2501eb70-988a-59ef-bf05-3cbcb1631ee4.png" alt="image13.png"/>
In times past, beginning around 600, the Hualapai were a tribe who were primarily hunter-gatherers. But where water was available, the Hualapai cultivated gardens of corn, squash and beans. Today there are just fewer than 2,000 Hualapai who live at the tribal headquarters in Peach Springs, Arizona, and 50 miles east of Kingman on Historic Route 66. The total reservation encompasses 108 miles of the Colorado River and a segment of the Grand Canyon. The topography of the reservation varies from rolling grassland and shear, rugged canyons to pine forest. Elevations range from 1,500 feet at the Colorado River’s banks to over 7,300 feet at Aubrey Cliffs.
The Hualapai nation has managed to maintain their culture, language and well-deserved pride. The future looks positive for the Hualapai, especially since they currently have one of the highest numbers of students who are enrolled in college of any reservation in the state.
Robert Red Sky’s (Hualapai) Story
This following story is an eye opening one that I assure you will leave you with much food for thought. Anyone who has ever gone hunting in the wilderness might have at least one or more stories of encountering “something” strange or unexplainable. The following story given to me by Robert might just linger in your thoughts for a long time to come. I’ve visited with Robert twice since our initial meeting. He’s introduced me to other areas of his reservation where many unexplained paranormal “power spots” exists. Because of my own strong spiritual beliefs, I have never visited these areas without him. At this point I caution anyone who might go exploring unto reservation lands for the purpose of simply “experiencing” ghosts. You have been warned.
— Antonio
“One winter in the month of January, when I was seventeen, my brother and father, along with my father’s two good buddies, went on a deer-hunting trip in the Hualapai valley. This was a hunting trip that none of us will ever forget. Even now a strange feeling comes over me when I think back to what we all witnessed years ago, on what started out to be just an ordinary outing. That winter day I experienced an example of the power of spirits that comes forth from the land the Hualapais call home.
Two weeks before, my father had spoken to three Indian fellas in town. These guys mentioned to him about the big deer bucks they had seen browsing and running within a deep canyon. To offer further proof, they asked my father to walk with them out to the road where their pick-up truck was parked. The men proudly pulled off a large plastic tarp, which was covering the bucks they had killed. He told me those guys had some of the most beautiful bucks he had ever seen. He asked the three guys for detailed directions regarding the location of their successful hunting. As they gave him directions, he wrote down every road, turn and curve. In our Indian way, we don’t hold back information about such hunting areas. It’s traditionally right that we share such information among our people, and it’s something that goes back a long way with the Hualapai.
My father arrived home and told my brother and I about the deer. Soon we had planned a hunting trip. My father was convinced he too could shoot a deer or two just like those guys in town had. He got on the phone and invited two good friends of his. The date was set.
We knew the weather would be cold so we packed a good supply of food and warm clothes. My father enjoys eating hot chile so my mom made him about two dozen beef burritos with some very hot red chile, all rolled up in foil. These he planned to heat up on the campfire. We loaded the pick-up with three days supply of food and water, the burritos and our hunting gear, and then off we drove to meet up with my father’s two friends.
We started out in the early morning, and although it was a very cold winter morning, there was no snow on the ground. The weather was perfect. We soon came to the main turn-off from the highway. It was a dirt road, which was not too rough for the first five miles but then got very rough as we made another turn on to another road. The sun was already up in the east as we started our way up over a hill. We stopped at the top of the hill and took a short coffee break. As we stood standing around the two trucks in the empty landscape drinking our hot coffee, we suddenly heard a strange sound come from the west. It was like the sound of a hundred hoof beats, the sound of many horses going at a full gallop. It came from nowhere; it just sort of started up and lasted for a few seconds, then it ended. We expected to see a herd of horses come up onto the hill, but there was nothing visible, not even a dust cloud. None of us could explain what it was. We nervously joked about it being a flying jet, but the sky was, as far as we could see, clear of any aircraft. Not saying another word, we finished our coffee, got back into the trucks and continued on our way.
The time now was eight-thirty in the morning and I could tell that the trucks were not going to be able to continue any further on the very rocky road we were driving on. We decided to stop and make camp in the middle of a distant, small grove of juniper trees. The wind was still and the air was cold and crisp as we opened our tents and arranged them around a rock fire ring that my brother formed.
After making camp we decided to eat some food, and then head out with our rifles towards the hills in the direction we were told the deer would be. We followed an old coyote trail that went down the eastern side of a ridge. We were careful not to talk loudly, or make loud sounds with our footsteps. Deer are very alert and can be easily spooked. We noticed that the area was littered with deer droppings. A good sign!
The area was sparsely spotted with medium to tall junipers, and in the distant narrow valleys were a few groves of cottonwoods and oaks. My father knew that deer like to browse in these areas, so we were constantly trying to pick out any movement in the distance. Suddenly, just as earlier before, the weird sound of hoof beats started up again. We all stood still and waited. Then, just as before, the sound came toward us and soon disappeared. This time we were not so quick to dismiss the sound as being a jet plane. We softly spoke among ourselves, but said nothing about it being an omen of bad medicine. We knew it would not be a good thing to talk about it any further, because to do so would bring us a bad hunt.
We again picked up the hike and continued towards the valley below. The time was now one in the afternoon, three hours since we left our campsite. As we entered the valley and the grove of tall trees, we were startled as a porcupine came out from behind an old stump and gave us all a fright. It was difficult to keep from laughing loudly. We all felt a sense of relief at our little brother’s sudden appearance. As we exited the other side of the grove of trees, my father, who was now walking ahead of us, spotted some deer on the side of the hill. He stopped his walk and lowered his left hand, exposing the palm, which was a signal for us all to immediately stop. We stood still and viewed the deer, quietly scanning the large herd before us. There were ten does and three really beautiful bucks. What a sight! This was what we had all dreamed of.
We spoke in soft voices, communicating to each other how best to get a shot at the bucks. Then, without warning, something scared the deer. They must have seen something big or dangerous because they bolted and went running. They couldn’t possibly have seen or caught our scent among the trees. We automatically got down on our bellies and watched as the deer darted just a few yards away from us. We froze like statues, trying to camouflage into the surrounding brush and trees. Just as it appeared that the deer were going to reach us, they darted in another direction and disappeared behind a small ridge.
We were speechless, and wondered about the sudden change in the deer. We thought there must have been a hungry mountain lion or something very scary that had attempted to attack them. We rose to our feet and looked toward the area where the deer had been grazing and did not see anything unusual at all, neither a mountain lion nor even a bird. Nothing. Things were now becoming too strange for us to dismiss all these experiences. Something other than coincidence was at work here. My father spoke first and said, “I think we should perhaps offer a prayer for guidance and asked for protection from whatever is tracking
