I left my motel in the town of Gallup, New Mexico, early that morning and rode north for a few miles on 'R.666'. Then I turned west onto 'R.264' and after about eighteen miles I crossed again into Arizona. A few miles later I rode into the town of Window Rock. This contains the administrative headquarters for the entire Navajo reservation which has its own council and police force. The 74 member tribal council meets here in a hogan-shaped Council House every three months. The town takes its name from the wall like rock through which a natural hole has been eroded. However, today happened to be a Monday, the only day of the week when the museum was closed. I rode north on a narrow road which had only been tarmac in the last few years. It was a bright sunny day. The sky was blue and there was no hint of the storm I had experienced the day before. The road wound passed pine trees and through small valleys. Eventually, I reached a raised plateau which marked the beginning of the canyon area. I turned west and followed the canyon rim towards Chinle, the town which acts as a gateway to the canyon area. I reached it at mid-day and stopped for food. It seemed ironic that in Indian country, the only restaurant I could find belonged to Kentucky Fried Chicken but I was so hungry it had to make do. Afterwards, I made my way to the visitor centre to look round and pick up a guide map. The canyon is divided into two forks which branch south- east and north-east from Chinle. I chose to explore the south-east branch first and was soon ridding along the narrow road which bordered the southern rim. I stopped at various vantage points and looked down at the canyon floor far below me. A small muddy river flowed there, lined with cottonwood trees and grassy fields. The canyon sides arose from each side as sheer walls of rock. Every now and then I could see small round log built hogans and signs of cultivation or a small herd of cattle. A small number of Navajo live here, eking out a living as their fathers had done before them. However, I had read that the fertile soil was slowly thinning, washed away by the river that fed it and by centuries of intensive farming. At various points, on narrow ledges on the rock or even high up in cervices on the cliff face, I could see the pueblo remains of the Anasazi civilisation, abandoned by Indians centuries before the arrival of the Navajo. The Canyon de Chelly was the last stronghold of the Navajo. Being part raiders as well as farmers, they escaped reprisals by hiding in the rocks on the steep canyon walls. In 1864, the US Army under the command of Kit Carson were ordered to put an end to the Navajo problem. To defeat them they employed a scorched earth policy and rode the length of the canyon, burning crops and slaughtering livestock until the Indians were starved into submission. Eventually, after being forced marched into concentration camps, they were allowed home. The population of the Navajo is actually expanding. Some are trying to live by their traditional farming ways such as those in the Canyon de Chelly and it is forbidden for an outsider to enter the canyon floor without a special pass. Others live in the manner of modern day Americans. Oil, gas and uranium have been discovered on parts of the reservation in recent years which have brought wealth and with it a complete alteration of lifestyle. When I rode away again from the canyon it was quite dark and once again it got very cold. I returned to my motel in Gallup. About this time I began to have trouble starting the bike. It would not respond to the starter button and, as in the case of a lot of modern motorcycles now a days, there was no kick-start so I was having to push-start it. This is no joke at high altitude when laden down with baggage. The next morning, despite all my efforts, it failed to start at all and I pushed it next door to a garage where the battery was place on charge. Eventually, it received enough current for me to start the bike and I set off puzzled, knowing that I had been covering up to about five hundred miles a day which should have been ample to keep it charged. I rode west on 'I.40', a double lane freeway back into Arizona. Then I turned south onto 'R61', a single road highway. Very soon I was in mountain country and it was cold. The same dry cutting cold that I had experienced in the painted desert. My route took me through pine forests. Soon I left Navajo country far behind me and I entered the Apache reservation. I made a detour to visit Fort Apache, one of the most famous forts of the Apache wars. Here one of the most famous commanders, General Crook had his headquarters. It had also been visited by many Apache chiefs such as Cochise. Now it had been taken over by the Indian Service and was a school. I rode through the gates. Two small Indian girls were playing on swings outside a large forbidding red bricked barrack-like building. I rode up to a long low building marked 'Museum'. Two Apache men in their thirties stood by a desk in the hallway, their long black hair falling down to their shoulders. "Is it all right to look round?" I asked. "Sure," they replied, "and if you have any questions be sure to ask. It basically consisted of old articles of Apache way of life and old photographs. When I came out one of the Indians said, "Hey, man you must be really cold on that motorcycle you should have brought a spare. "Spare?" I asked. "A woman!" "Oh." I left wondering whether this was Apache or American slang. I rode on, stopping at an old abandoned Anasazi pueblo which I reached by following a dirt track off the road. It was surrounded by barb wire and corrugated iron. A notice said, "Keep off Under Restoration." I continued on my way following 'R.77' due south. It was bitterly cold and as I rode the sun began to set. Suddenly the road plunged downwards into a steep gorge through a series of hairpin bends. A river ran at the bottom. This was the Salt River. I crossed over and then just as suddenly the road wound upwards the other side. Steep white cliffs towered over me and as I rode upwards the sky reddened with the dying sun and this in turn coloured the darkening rocks around me. This was once of the most beautiful scenes I experienced on the whole trip, made all the more beautiful because, unlike the natural beauties of the painted desert and the Grand Canyon, I had not been prepared for it. I rode up out of Salt Canyon and continued south. It was soon pitch dark. Eventually, I reached a town telling me that I was entering the old rip-roaring cowboy town of Globe. I rode into the main street and booked into yet another motel.