The Supai are a charming, cheerful, completely relaxed, and easygoing bunch, all one hundred or so of them. As Spoonhead told me afterward, grinning around broken teeth, it's not every day you get a chance to wallop a Hualapai. I stood on top of the pile and stretched outward, straining my arms to their utmost limit and groped with fingers and fingernails for a hold on something firm. The Friendship Dance, which continued day and night to the rhythm of drums made of old inner tube stretched over 10 tomato cans while ancient medicine men chanted in the background, was perhaps marred but definitely not interrupted when a drunken free-for-all exploded between Spoonhead and friends and a group of visiting Hualapai Indians down from the rim. Not only shrewd but wise: Through sweet twilight and the sudden dazzling flare of lightning, I hiked back along the Tonto Bench, bellowing the "Ode to joy. The watersoaked, heavy boots dangling from my neck, swinging back and forth with my every movement, threw me off balance, and I fell into the pool. It may be, however, that Los Angeles will come to me.
I climbed through the caves that led down to the foot of Mooney Falls, feet high. It was a traditional part of the ceremony, sanctified by custom. The trail led across a stream wide, blue, and deep, like the pure upper reaches of the River Jordan. The Indians never came down to my part of the Canyon except when guiding occasional tourists to the falls or hunting a stray horse. I went for walks, and on one of these, the last, I took in Havasu, regained everything that seemed to be ebbing away. My canteen was empty and I was very thirsty, but I felt that I could wait. I even tried it, but the sound of that anxious shout, cut short in the dead air within the canyon walls, was so inhuman, so detached as it seemed for myself, that it terrified me, and I didn't attempt it again. We got to know each other rather too well, I think. I swam the stinking pond dog-paddle style, pushing the heavy scum away from my face, and crawled out on the far side to see what my fate was going to be. I began to cry. I took shelter under a ledge in a shallow cave about 3 feet high hardly room to sit up in. Eroded by weathering, however, and not by corrosion and rushing floodwater, they had a rough surface, chipped, broken, cracked. Again I felt for a fingerhold. Nearby was another little side canyon which appeared to lead down into Havasu Canyon. In addition, the stick had enabled me to reach a higher section of the S-curved chute, where the angle was more favorable. Perhaps I never will. On each side rose the canyon walls, roughly perpendicular. At one time for a period of three days, my bowels seemed in danger of falling out, but I recovered. It did not lead directly into the water but ended in a series of steplike ledges above the pool. Even if invited, I might not have accepted. Not only clever, but shrewd. I had no netting, of course, and the air was much too humid and hot for sleeping inside a bag. First of all, I was not going to die immediately, unless another flash flood came down the gorge; there was the pond of stagnant water on hand to save me from thirst, and a man can live, they say for thirty days or more without food. That was all the Indians had in stock. What I heard made me think that I should see Havasu immediately, before something went wrong somewhere.
Video about the girls of havasu:
Spring Break Lake HAVASU Girls 2015
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