The San Carlos Apache Reservation -Part 1-

So as I sat their in globe, eating those scrumptious hot pockets to my hearts content, my host took it upon himself to ask me where I was headed next. I told him I was headed down the 70 into New Mexico.

(my host)

“Oh man, your heading through the Indian reservation then? You better watch it man, they hatchet-murder white people out there. Your aloud to drive though and that’s it, your not even supposed to get out of your car”

I was a bit suspicious however, only if because I thought he might have made the term “hatchet murder” up. So I asked one of his neighbors as I left Globe what he thought about the Indian reservation on my route. He was a big ol’ farmer looking type who spoke with a long southern drawl.

"Oh it’s not as bad as he say’s I’m sure. I’ve heard tha’ there be people who come down from the mountains who skin cattle, and then throw the skins on the roofs of the white folk’s houses in the area –don’t ask me why- and if yah see them doing it the’ll kill yah sure.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this ether, mainly because I didn’t understand a damn thing he was talking about. But I did get the gist of it, and the gist was the Indian reservation wasn’t good news.

Literally the minute I crossed over the border of Arizona into the San Carlos Reservation there was a casino to my left. I needed water so I went in and “restocked” my supplies as it were. My curiosity got the best of me though and I asked a guard there what he thought of my walking through.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as people say. I will warn you though, watch out for the guys wearing all red. There’s been quite a few murders out there recently, it’s pretty bad. I live in San Carlos myself, but the town after it-Bylas-it gets pretty rough”

And so I started walking down that lonely desert road into Indian territory needless to say I was a bit nervous…having no idea what awaited me. I considered hitchhiking, simply because 3 out of the 3 people I had asked warned me of imminent and impending death. But fuck it, lets have some fun right?


The largest noticeable change upon entering the reservation was certainly not the landscape (it was the same endless/beautiful/endless desert) but the amount of gravestones on the highway increased by about 2000%. Up to that point I maybe passed by one sad monument a day, now there was literally one-sometimes two-every mile. I seriously began to wonder if this was some kind of crazy-drive-by shooting epidemic for idiots who decided to walk that stretch. But the realist in me decided it was probably due to drunk driving. Somewhere in my memory my father’s voice spoke of the ridiculous amount of alcoholism among the Indian reservations. Was my father right, and was this the product of their alcoholic labors?

I walked into San Carlos towards the end of my first day there. It was a stereotypical town as far as I could see. Proceeding to walk into the local supermarket there, I was greeted with my first culture shock. It was me….and 45 Indians (I would say Native Americans but later though local conversation it seemed most referred to themselves as Indians anyway.) Normally this wouldn’t bother my except for the fact that literally everyone-to the man-turned around and stared at me for a good 40 seconds as I walked though the store. I also noticed that everyone of them-to the man-was fat. And I mean Eddie Murphy in the Nutty Professor style fat.

I honestly wasn’t expecting this kind of sight until the very bowels of the south. I tipped-toed as carefully as I could to the bathroom, and then proceeded to make an ungraceful exit (knocking over a display). As a walked out of town I got some rocks thrown at me, but hell, I had it worse in high school.

I camped out about halfway across, in the sweetest camping spot on earth. I can’t recall now what made it so completely stirring, but whatever it was it inspired me enough to take pictures.

I woke up the next morning and set out for Bylas. A good 21 miles away, I arrived in town a limping, exhausted fool. I was to tired at that point to care if it might be dangerous. As soon as that sign appeared proclaiming “now entering Bylas” appeared however, things changed.

The first thing that would probably bother anyone upon entering Bylas is the fact you have to walk over about a half mile of broken glass. No, seriously, the route into town is paved with broken beer bottles. It took me a hour to get though it without cutting my feet, and needless to say the fact it was there didn’t exactly raise my spirits about what awaited me in Bylas. The town itself was like some kind of quasi-third world Bulgarian nightmare (for those of you who have been to the nastier parts of Bulgaria like myself) except minus all that eastern European charm, like a hooker with her front teeth missing. Stray and feral dogs were everywhere, and the average “house” as far as I could see was ether a broken and burnt out trailer or something that surmounted to a “chicken shed”. Regardless of the stares from the locals, I chugged on down the road towards what looked like the towns “center” in the distance –the gas station.

One of the nicer homes in Bylas