As I sat on the patio of the Toadlena Trading Post in New Mexico, working on my Native Alaskan weaving and surrounded by some of the Southwest’s finest Navajo weavers, one of the elder weavers came by my side and quietly asked me, “Do you have anyone back home [in Alaska] like Mark Winter, who is doing what he does here?”

Caught off guard, I considered for a moment about what Mark Winter was doing here, at Toadlena Trading Post. Let’s see, he has this trading post out in the middle of nowhere, providing groceries, supplies, fuel, tools and even loans; trading with the Navajo weavers who spend their time raising sheep, shearing, carding, spinning and then weaving exquisite rugs that are sold through the Trading Post. Whoa!

I looked back into the elder’s eyes and replied, “No…we don’t have anyone or anything like this back home….” She searched my eyes for confirmation. “Oh, that is so unfortunate….”

I met Mark Winter Labor Day Weekend 1991 at Navajo Lake, near Pagosa Springs, where he had a houseboat and taught lessons in waterskiing. He was a blonde, beefy, brawny guy with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a heart of gold. Even though I didn’t know how to swim, I wanted to learn to water ski.

Just before he started up the engine, he asked me a vital question: “…..Now who is doing the pulling here, you or the boat?” What a dumb question. I said, “Duh, it’s the boat pulling me….!”

“Good!” Mark agreed. “You remember that when you are up on your skis and then somewhere along the line you begin to loose your balance and you automatically bend your elbows and act like you think you can pull the boat!”

I met Mark again in 1994 at the Santa Fe Indian Market, where I was flying high after winning my first Best of Show ribbon for an Alaskan ceremonial robe. Through the craziness of the crowd I heard someone’s familiar voice say “Hello.” I didn’t recognize Mark at first; he seemed out of context.

Wait a minute, isn’t he the hippie waterskiing teacher? “What are you doing here?” I asked.

He replied nonchalantly,“ I was one of the judges.” My mouth dropped open: Huh? I had just won a Best of Show ribbon and HE was one of the judges!? Wait: how does that correlate with my image of him as the water skiing instructor on Navajo Lake?

It was only later that I found out that Mark Winter was one of the world’s foremost authorities on antique Navajo weavings. And since then, in a number of subtle ways, Mark has been a supporter of my own development as a Native Alaskan artist and weaver.

I've been receiving announcements of the latest Navajo weaving exhibits since Mark purchased the Toadlena Trading Post in 1997. A few years ago, a notice announced an exhibit of Navajo rugs woven by two prolific weavers from the early 1900s. As a weaver of Northwest Coast Chilkat style robes and regalia, I was intrigued with the prospect of seeing weavings by two women who had woven for most of their lives and had long since passed away. It reminded me of my own weaving teacher, Jennie Thlunaut, the most prolific Chilkat weaver of all time.

I called the Trading Post for directions. By the look of the map, the Trading Post seemed to be out in the middle of nowhere, and I wanted some sense of security; I decided to bring along my friend Teri, as well as my daughter and Teri's daughter.

The drive from Pagosa Springs to Shiprock, New Mexico was familiar territory, a landscape that evolves from high country desert spread with Ponderosa pines, shrub oak and sagebrush, passing through small towns like Durango, Aztec and Farmington to a land where the sparse, dry red earth with a deep blue sheet of sky spans as far as the eye can see. Approximately 30 miles south of Shiprock, we took a right at an old abandoned gas station. (Presently, there is a Mustang gas station there). I missed the real – paved – road. Instead, we drove a rutted old dirt road, and I felt thankful we were driving in my old Landcruiser, as we drove through an arroyo because the bridge was out. During the 12 mile excursion to the Post, we saw an occasional hogan in the distance; sometimes we thought we saw human beings, dark specks frozen in the heat of the day. Although it was a beautiful drive, when we came to where the dirt road ended we were relieved to see our destination, the Toadlena Trading Post.

I was surprised seeing spiffy brand new trucks and cars cluttering the outside of the trading post with no real designated parking lot like one would expect in civilization. Yet, I had remembered this was not necessarily “civilization”. The Trading Post looked like something out of an old western movie, 2-stories of stone walls showing a bit of brick here and there edged with rusty old covered-wagon wheels, cow yokes, sewing machines, buckboards and what else.

The entire rustic, rusty scene was framed with weathered grandfather trees swaying in a gentle dry breeze. It seemed like they were the only big trees we had seen for miles around, plastered against a pallet of limestone and canyon mauve earth. Live music drew us around to the back side of the trading post to a large crowd of people in a modest 2-level stone courtyard. With reservation, we walked among elderly Navajo men and women who watched us the way our elders do back home as if they recognize the ignorance of youth and the wisdom of age all at once in the meeting of eyes with stillness a single breath can create. Navajo families, decked in denim, plaid and turquoise gathered around the focal point of an all-Native band who played country-western music of the 40s and 50s. Non-Natives also wore their best turquoise and silver jewelry laced about their arms and necks making no distinction between the races, as if all the colors of the skin made no matter and the jewelry defined them as a tribe.

We were led to a feast of mutton stew, cornbread, fry bread, salads and desserts. We were expected to eat. I had been reserved and shy until we were invited to eat; now I began to feel “at home” and I relaxed in being a newcomer. I laughed with a memory, something my father said: “If you do not share your food, you share nothing….” Mark’s assistants, Pam Hill and Kathryn Frye, both of Pagosa Springs, are experts in the repair of antique Navajo rugs. Following the meal, they led us back to the exhibit gallery, beaming with pride and enthusiam. I was in awe, standing in the presence of 30 rugs, woven in a long-ago time and place that somehow didn’t seem so far from the present, as if the veil between the worlds were lifted – where generation upon generation of weavers in their immediate cultures were merged into a moment sparked by spirit, defined by the warp and weft of yarns spun of an animal, fashioned by human hands, created and interpreted by mind.

I looked at the fine warp and weft yarns; so very fine. I thought about our own Chilkat weavers of the past. There are many ceremonial robes that were woven over 100 years ago, many of which now have no makers name attached to them. Even though their weavings still exist, in Alaska we have forgotten the names of our weavers. All except a couple of them and one in particular: Jennie Thlunaut, last of the traditional Chilkat weavers. The memory of her, and the robes she created, still exists within her clan, family members, her friends and her students.

I thought of these two Navajo weavers whose work has been carefully preserved. Who were these women? How did they live? Why did they weave; what compelled them to create this artwork? Are their offspring weaving now?

And then I thought of Mark Winter and Toadlena Trading Post. What does this place represent to the surrounding communities? Who comes here to see these rugs? Why is this place out in the middle of nowhere? What are the intentions of Mark and these present-day Navajo weavers? How many active Navajo weavers still create these rugs? Do most live in this vicinity? Are the younger generations learning?

I was jazzed, sparked by the flame of inspiration, and the seeking of intentions. I knew that I would return; I had to return. Coming into “Indian country” prepares the visitor to unexpected surprises and experiences; even for a Native person like myself, I am still a visitor to a landscape and its people, if I am not born and raised in that land. Yet, what I saw and experienced in the eyes and hands of the present-day Navajo weavers and their families, speaks of a familiar language, a weaver’s language. This language is born of the landscape; a language woven of animal and plant, of human needs for survival, intertwined with heart and soul, stories far and near, in a timeless culture and art, where the recognition between Chilkat weavers and Navajo weavers is acknowledged in the motion of a hand … with the intention of spirit, guided by our weavers of the past.

Story continued in Part Two

top of page