TEESTO, ARIZONA
In the dry heart
of the Navajo
Reservation, at the end of a solitary,
sand-choked dirt road, geologist Margaret Hiza Redsteer climbs out
of her dark blue government Jeep, taps lightly on a door, and
waits. And waits.
When Mary Biggambler finally pokes her
head around the door, it’s with a hearty laugh. “Oh, it’s you!” she
says. “We thought it was a Jehovah’s Witness!”
Hiza
Redsteer reintroduces herself, and tells Mary and Mary’s husband,
Levi, that she’s back to check on a nearby weather station. She’d
also like to measure the movement of a large sand dune, which
appeared behind the Biggambler house just last fall. “Yeah, the
sands are really coming up,” says Mary. Though today is calm and
blisteringly clear, the wind has blown fiercely this spring,
flinging sand into eyebrows and under doors. Every two weeks or so,
the president of the reservation’s Teesto chapter arrives at the
Biggamblers’ with a front-end loader and scoops sand from the road,
clearing the way for the Head Start bus to pick up the couple’s
granddaughter.
The 15-foot-high, sheer-faced dune behind
the house may cause something worse than a roadblock. One cubic
yard of sand — about a pickup truck’s load — weighs more than a
ton, and the dune, if it continues on its course, will eventually
crush the nearby corral, perhaps even the Biggamblers’ home.
Hiza Redsteer chitchats with the couple for a few
minutes, learning that Levi was once a bull- and bronco rider, and
that he used to play basketball on the reservation with her
ex-husband’s father. She then climbs back into the Jeep, preparing
to head through the sage and snakeweed on the ever-fainter track to
the weather station. “That’s right!” laughs Levi. “Go play in the
sand!”
The reservation
is a fickle
landscape. In wet years, its plentiful sand dunes — which together
cover about one-third of the reservation, an area larger than New
Jersey — sprout flowers and grass, creating the best grazing
ground for Navajo sheep and cattle. In dry times, when the greenery
is far sparser, the dunes fly free, reddening the horizon and
washing up against sandstone mesas and volcanic buttes.
When sand dunes move, they shake out trapped silt — the fine,
nutrient-rich particles that turn the dunes into grasslands.
Without silt, dunes are mostly piles of quartz, able to support
little but tumbleweeds and other invasive species. With the
decade-plus-long current drought and the resulting dune movement
working against good forage on the reservation, many ranchers have
reduced their herds and must now import hay for the remaining
animals — a costly proposition for an already marginal enterprise,
especially with hay at a steep $14 per bale. While the states of
Arizona and New Mexico require the use of weed-free hay, the Navajo
Nation does not, and the resulting weeds lengthen the odds against
native dune-dwelling plant species already weakened by drought.
Older residents vividly remember the dry times of the
’50s and ’70s, when blowing sand was also an annoyance and an
economic hardship. But the stories pale alongside those of the most
recent drought: In 1996, an elderly Tuba City couple, veterans of
the last half-century’s droughts, started having problems with sand
and dust around their house. By 1999, their house was buried. “When
I heard that,” says Hiza Redsteer, “I started wondering if the ’90s
drought was different.”
Global climate change is making
its mark on the reservation. Average temperatures are rising,
spring is arriving earlier, and the once-reliable annual monsoon
seems more fitful than in the past, sometimes fizzling out early or
starting late. Even as researchers debate the long-term effects of
global warming on the region’s precipitation, a study of climate
models published in the journal Science last
year projected that the current drought could become “the new
climatology of the American Southwest” in a matter of years or
decades.
When Hiza Redsteer and Casey Thornbrugh, one of
her students, studied the local climate and its effects on dune
plants, they found that abnormally high spring temperatures, in
particular, produced less healthy vegetation — and, by
implication, less stable dunes. So if the climate models are
correct, and premature springs continue, the ground on the Navajo
Reservation may shift with new and more destructive vigor.
“How do we reverse the process — and can we reverse the
process?” Hiza Redsteer asks. “If warm spring temperatures are a
critical factor, we may be fighting an uphill battle.”
For Hiza Redsteer, these questions
are more than
academic: The Navajo Reservation was once her home. She grew up in
the tiny northern Wyoming town of Story, the daughter of a Crow
father and white mother, and while she says that “every kid is a
natural geologist,” no one suggested science might be in her
future. Instead, she moved to Colorado and became a silversmith,
trained by a company eager to exploit the ’70s craze for handmade
Native American jewelry. There, she met and married Robert
Redsteer, and moved south to his home, the Navajo Reservation, to
raise sheep and corn. “I thought I was going to live out here, have
my kids, and live happily ever after,” she says.
But
politics intervened. Because of the bitter, long-running land
dispute between the Navajo and Hopi tribes, Hiza Redsteer, her
husband, and their three small children were resettled in Flagstaff
in 1986. “I tried getting a job with a high school diploma, but
that didn’t work very well,” she says. While living on the
reservation, Hiza Redsteer had noticed serious problems with the
amount and quality of water available to her family and neighbors,
and in Flagstaff she resolved to return to school to study
environmental science, eventually settling on a major in geology at
Northern Arizona University.
By the time she graduated,
she and Redsteer had parted ways, leaving her a single mother. But
scholarships took her to graduate work in Montana and then to
Oregon, where she earned her Ph.D. in 1999. “I just kept going to
school,” she laughs. “I would think, ‘There’s no way I’m going to
make it,’ and then something or someone miraculous would happen,
like Dave Love.”
During her
graduate research, Hiza Redsteer studied the same Yellowstone-area
volcanic deposits that renowned Wyoming geologist David Love had
pored over early in his career. The coincidence inspired Love, at
81, to take Hiza Redsteer on a horse-packing trip through the rocks
he still remembered. “After that, every once in a while he’d call
me up and say, ‘How are you doing?’ ” remembers Hiza Redsteer. “I’d
say ‘Fine,’ and then he’d say, ‘No, how are you really doing?’ I’d
say, ‘Well, I don’t know if the electricity is going to be on next
month,’ and he’d say, ‘How much is the bill?’ — and he’d send me
the money, along with extra for pizza and gum for the kids.” Her
children, now in their 20s and 30s and settled in the Pacific
Northwest, encouraged her to continue her studies. “If they hadn’t
wanted me to finish school, I never would have been able to do it,”
she says.
Hiza Redsteer had never considered returning to
the Navajo Reservation, where jobs of any sort were scarce, and
jobs for a geology Ph.D., she thought, were nonexistent. But in
2000, while she was working for the U.S. Geological Survey in
Denver, a colleague plunked a pile of black-and-white photos on her
desk. They showed the extensive sand dunes on the reservation south
of Tuba City. Hiza Redsteer, who had been hearing firsthand reports
from her colleagues on the various effects of global warming, knew
that climate change could also be making its presence felt in the
dunes.
She moved back to Flagstaff to join the local USGS
office, and by 2004, she had secured federal funding for her Navajo
Land Use Project, which includes mapping the overall geology of the
reservation, studying its history of land use, and tracking the
nature and causes of sand dune movement. The drought was already
well under way when Hiza Redsteer began, but at first she didn’t
realize just how active the dunes had become. “We tried to map
where the dunes were, using aerial photos, but by the time we
finished one photo, the dunes had moved,” she says. “We had to step
back and rethink the whole idea.”
Hiza Redsteer and her
colleagues have since set up two weather stations on the
reservation, one near the Biggambler house, along with 20 dust
traps. Invented by a USGS scientist for work in the Mojave Desert,
the dust traps — $15 affairs constructed of angel-food cake pans
filled with glass marbles — are gathering part of a sophisticated
dataset. The information Hiza Redsteer collects about weather
conditions, soil moisture, and local sand movement will be linked
to patterns of climate and land-use changes, forming a database she
hopes will help predict where and when the dunes will move next.
Behind the Biggambler House
Hiza
Redsteer, her colleague, Lee Amoroso, and Teesto chapter president
Virgil Nez mark the leading edge of the looming dune with lengths
of rebar and orange flagging tape. The blush-orange sand is soft,
almost creamy, its tiny grains of quartz and feldspar buffed
smooth, and the rebar slides in easily under Nez’s hammer. Nez,
who’s been interested in Hiza Redsteer’s project from the start, is
already too familiar with the costs of the current drought: Last
summer, when local wells ran low, he trucked water for the chapter
from Winslow, a daily round trip of more than 80 miles.
Measuring tape unrolling in her hand, Hiza Redsteer walks toward
the house, sighting her path by the family’s satellite dish. “Five
hundred and eighty-two feet,” she shouts back to Amoroso. In a few
weeks, she’ll be back to check on the dune’s progress.
While Hiza Redsteer hears some concern about climate change in her
conversations with tribal members, she says others assume the
current drought is just like its predecessors, another dry spell to
be endured. Part of the reason is that, here as everywhere, climate
is far from the only visible force of change. “You can look at the
landscape and say, ‘Wow, the climate has really done a job here,’
but it’s not just climate,” she says, “It’s how people are living,
what they do when it gets drier or wetter.” Since cars became
common on the reservation in the 1950s, the number of roads has
multiplied, concentrating livestock and further destabilizing the
ground. With money scarce for maintenance, dirt roads can quickly
turn into impassable arroyos, requiring new roads and yet more
changes to the land. But researchers rarely stay long enough to
untangle these factors, says Hiza Redsteer. “Scientists come and go
out here. They’ll say, ‘We’re going to do this for you,’ but then
they’ll walk away and publish their results in a journal, and no
one knows what happened.” Geologists, who in the past scoured the
reservation for coal and uranium, sometimes meet with extra
suspicion. So when her study began, Hiza Redsteer made a point of
visiting the reservation’s monthly chapter meetings, explaining her
plans and describing how her results could aid the tribe.
This summer, a team of Chinese scientists with experience in the
Gobi Desert plans to visit Hiza Redsteer and the reservation,
bringing with them their techniques for protecting villages from
sand dunes using bamboo structures and — ironically — sandbags.
Though stopping or diverting the sand behind the Biggambler house
may seem quixotic — Amoroso compares it to “nailing Jell-O to a
wall” — Hiza Redsteer believes it’s her duty to attempt it. “We
don’t want to only point out problems,” she says. “We want to try
and work out solutions.”
Just days after Hiza Redsteer
measured the sand dune, Nez reported that a ferocious windstorm
almost buried their three-foot high markers, leaving only four
inches of rebar sticking out of the sand. A few weeks later, in
early June, the rebar was gone. The dune now stands at least three
feet closer to the Biggambler house.
Michelle
Nijhuis is a contributing editor for High Country
News.
This article appeared in the print edition of the magazine with the headline Shifting sands in Navajoland.
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