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Canyon de Chelly, located in the northeast corner of Arizona, has been an important part of Navajo culture since the Navajo — the Diné, the People — arrived in the region some 500 years ago.

Canyon de Chelly (pronounced de shay), is 26 miles of sandstone canyon, in some places a thousand feet deep, where for generations, Navajo families have lived, farmed, traded, and retreated for protection from their enemies.

Various civilizations have lived in Canyon de Chelly for 5,000 years. Over 700 ruins, cliff dwellings, and petroglyph sites have been identified.

In 1931, the canyon was set aside as a National Monument in order to protect the fragile sites within it. Legally, it is owned by the Navajo, and about 40 Navajo families live in the canyon. Access to the canyon is restricted, and visitors are allowed to travel in the canyon only when accompanied by a park ranger or an authorized Navajo guide.

Technically, the Monument consists of two canyons. The southern arm is Canyon de Chelly — de Chelly being a corruption of the Navajo word tsegi, which means “rock canyon.” The northern branch is Canyon del Muerto, Spanish for “Canyon of the Dead.”

Physically, the canyon is wide and open, with a sandy floor that changes with every rainfall. Even though the canyon is subject to flooding, and the flood waters can be catastrophic, large sections of the valley floor are safe for fields and structures.

I went to Canyon de Chelly for the first time about 10 years ago. Back then, the Navajo-owned Thunderbird Lodge ran tours of the canyon. They seated the tourists is the backs of large trucks — open in the summer, enclosed in Plexiglas in the winter.

So, when I scheduled a return visit to the canyon in January 2013, I expected to sign up for a truck tour. I was ready for an interesting half day of laborious lumbering and bouncing through the water and the sand, with plenty of stops for photography.

When I arrived, however, I learned that the truck tours are history. There was an incident — a fatal incident in which a vehicle overturned and killed a couple of prominent geologists — and the trucks were retired.

But the demise of the truck tours simply opened up the market for other local outfitters. The young Navajo park ranger at the front desk handed me a sheet listing about half a dozen companies that conduct canyon tours in four-wheel drive, high-clearance vehicles.

“I can’t recommend one over another,” she said. “They’re all local residents, certified and authorized. Just call one and make a deal. They’ll meet you at the visitor center, and off you go.”

After a quick lunch, I called one of the numbers at random. Half an hour later, I stood in the parking lot shaking hands with Dave Wilson, a veteran Navajo guide driving an equally veteran Mercury Montero.

Dave said his family is one of the 40 still living and working in the canyon. He told me he was born in Canyon del Muerto and has farmland and horses there.

All true. When I got back to Georgia, I couldn’t resist Googling Dave Wilson, and there he was. He is one of Canyon de Chelly’s original certified guides and founder of the Tsegi Guide Association. He also conducts tours for the Museum of Northern Arizona in Flagstaff.

His online bio says he was born in Canyon del Muerto, where his ancestors settled after returning from the Long Walk of 1864.

(I will address that sorry episode, in which the Navajos were deported from their tribal land at gunpoint and forced to march to Eastern New Mexico, sometime soon.)

“Up there, that’s First Ruin,” Dave told me as we started into the canyon, pointing to a small ruin in a natural alcove. “It’s called First Ruin because it’s the first ruin you see when you enter the canyon. It’s an Anasazi ruin — Ancestral Puebloan people.”

Dave was the stoic sort, as most Navajo are, but he delivered jokes and one-liners with relish. I resolved to be a good straight man. It was the polite thing to do.

When we passed a hogan, a traditional eight-sided Navajo structure, Dave said, “Did you ever wonder why Navajo men build the hogans round?”

“Why is that?” I asked dutifully.

“So their wives can’t pin them in a corner.”

For the next couple of hours, we swerved and bounced through Canyon de Chelly and Canyon del Muerto, stopping often at petroglyph sites and cliff dwellings. Dave pointed out the key features and the relative ages of everything.

“Up there is a mix of old and new petroglyphs,” he explained at one point. “The geometric patterns are Anasazi, going back to about 300 AD. The rest are more recent.

“Whenever you see a horse petroglyph, it was done after the 1700s. Weren’t any horses here until the Spanish came.”

I said I had noticed a horse drawing that was in full color and had a more modern look.

“Yeah, one of my neighbors probably did that one last night.”

We passed beneath a large rock cliff that jutted above the roadway precipitously.

“We call this Martini Rock,” Dave said.

I asked why.

“Because of the tremendous hangover.”

“See that stick?” he added, “Over there under the rock?” I did.

“We’re all afraid to remove it.”

During the drive, Dave stopped to identify Cat Rock.

And Alfred Hitchcock Rock.

And the dead duck.

We stopped to see ruins large and small. Several times, he dropped me off to wander around and take pictures while he waited in the car with the seat reclined, resting his eyes.

At one point, several miles into Canyon del Muerto, he pointed ahead. “Up there — that’s my son and my daughter-in-law,” he said. He stopped the Montero next to a young couple stacking firewood into the bed of an old pickup and got out.

The three of them chatted for a minute, then Dave got back behind the wheel. “They’re gathering firewood for my sister,” he told me. “She’s 80. Lives alone up on the rim.”

Around the next bend, Dave brought the Montero to a halt again. He pointed toward a cliff dwelling halfway up the canyon wall.

“That ruin up there is called Dead Cow Ruin,” he said.

I studied the wall around the ruin, looking for a petroglyph, perhaps of a cow, lying down. Nothing.

“Dead Cow Ruin?” I repeated. Dave nodded.

Then I spotted the telltale hump of an actual dead cow, sprawled in the undergrowth below the ruin.

“My God!” I exclaimed. “How long has that poor cow been there?”

“Couple of days. They’ll probably dig a hole and bury it today or tomorrow. Good thing it’s winter.”

“Too bad about the cow,” he said. “But, we all gotta go sometime.”

The time had come to turn around and head home. As we bounced down-canyon, I looked out at cliff dwellings that Dave had identified a short time earlier, but whose names (with the exception of Dead Cow Ruin) were quickly escaping me.

Several minutes later, he gestured up through the windshield again.

“Up there, that’s Last Ruin,” he said. “We call it Last Ruin because it’s the last one you see when you leave the canyon.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you said that was First –”

Doh!  

Dave should have paid me that day.

When we reached the mouth of the canyon and emerged onto the pavement again, I noticed the office of one of Dave’s competitors, Changing Woman Tours.

I pointed to the place and said, “I almost called her this morning. I’ve heard the name Changing Woman before. She’s someone important in Diné culture, isn’t she?”

“Changing Woman gave birth to the Diné,” he explained. “She brought us into the world. She symbolizes the power of women, and the earth, to create and sustain life. She is called Changing Woman because her youth is renewed as the seasons progress.”

“But,” he continued, “That isn’t why the lady who runs the tours uses the name Changing Woman.”

I took the bait. Why does she use that name?

“She just got divorced.”