The Navajo mounted on his paint pony looked wistfully at the hand and footholds cut a thousand years ago. They snaked precipitously up the steep rock face perhaps some 2,500 feet to the canyon rim and 500 feet vertically. I followed his gaze and added less than solemnly, “Wow, scares me just to look at that! Have you ever climbed that in your life?”
He indicated that he had—many times. Now having been born at night, but not last night, I had both heard and read that the Navajo will sometimes spin tall tales about their special places, provided the recipient is sufficiently gullible.