D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
June
2009
HIKING APACHERIA: FORTS AND CAMPS
Seeking Fort Thorn
How the grandmothers led us to a long-forgotten fort and Indian agency.
Story and photos by Jerry Eagan
Last August, on a return trip from Albuquerque, my wife and I stopped at the marvelous El Camino Real Museum near Socorro. A friend, archaeologist Kara Naber, worked there, and recommended a visit. "It's a great museum, and has so much information on the Camino Real," she'd said, knowing my interest in Apacheria. I'd considered myself a novice on the Spanish exploration part of New Mexico's history, but know that some postulate the Spanish and Apache histories have been interwoven from as early as the late 1600s.
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An old print
showing Fort Thorn, near Lake Valley, NM. |
Upon our arrival, Kara greeted us warmly, then lamented I'd not been there earlier. Several Apaches had just asked her questions about Ojo Caliente, the location of the Warm Springs Apache Reservation, south of Socorro and near Fort Craig, north of Truth or Consequences. As it turned out, the Apaches hadn't left the building, and I was introduced to Eddy Montoya; his friend and medicine man, Victor; Eddy and Victor's wives, JoAn and Linda; and Eddy's son, Buddy.
After introductions, Eddy asked if I'd ever heard of a Jaralosa or Lake Valley Apache reservation, near the latter location east of Silver City. He also asked where "Fort Harmony," might have been located. I told him I thought the name was a designation someone at the New Mexico Tourism Bureau or US Forest Service had given to Fort Ojo Caliente. Eddy muttered something about the relationship between the Chihenne and Americans hardly being "harmonious."
Local historian Dale Geise's book, Forts of New Mexico, provides a succinct reference about Fort Ojo Caliente, when military troops were stationed there between 1862 and 1879. S.C. Agnew's Garrisons of the Regular US Army — New Mexico 1849-1899 states that several companies of the 4th and 9th Cavalry were stationed there in May 1879 and March 1882, along with detachments of the 23d Infantry Regiment, up until March 1882, during the final "Victorio Campaign."
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More attuned to animals
now, the author spots a young mountain lion. |
I told Eddy that as far as I knew, the designation "Fort Harmony" was never used in contemporary times. Eddy seemed more riled, though, when I told him I'd never heard of a reservation at Lake Valley, or along Jaralosa Creek. Eddy talked about his great-great-great grandmother, Narcissa Tellez Arellin, whose husband was a man named Julian Arellin. Eddy said a number of Chihenne N'de (Eastern Chiricahua) Apaches from the Canada Alamosa area simply had blended in with Hispanic families as a means of maintaining a low profile so they could remain near their homelands. Narcissa and Julian were from Lake Valley.
I'd always wondered what had happened to the Coppermine, Mimbreno and Chihenne Apaches who had aligned with Mangas Coloradas, Mahko (father of Geronimo), or other groups. They had occupied the Mimbres, Pinos Altos, Cooke's Range and lower Mogollons after Mangas' death, the Civil War, and the end of that war, but prior to their concentration at Arizona reservations, such as the Chiricahua Agency, and later, San Carlos.
Eddy didn't disguise his annoyance with me during the first 10 minutes of our conversation. As our voices rose louder in what I considered "passion," I felt we were nearing some kind of "argument." Eddy's relatives and friends were backing away from us, as if they expected an impending explosion. But privately, as always when I meet an Apache, I thought: I wonder if he'd want to hike with me?
Acting on that thought, I gently put my hand on Eddy's shoulder and said: "I think we're arguing, but I don't want to argue with you! You asked me if I had ever heard of these places. I told you 'no,' but that doesn't mean they didn't exist. Maybe they did, but had different names — names the Apache gave them. I've just never heard of a Lake Valley Indian Reservation. Maybe it was a 'sub-agency' of the Ojo Caliente?"
That broke the tension. Eddy seemed to get that I wasn't disrespecting his relatives' oral history. I counted myself privileged to talk with an Apache elder, and I asked if he'd like to hike with me. I'd asked other Apaches to hike with me, but none ever had. In fact, very few people have ever hiked consistently with me, because normally I don't hike existing trails. Fear of heights, rattlesnakes, some moments of uncertainty on route finding, and carrying heavy loads of water in the heat, or extra gear to protect against hypothermia in cold weather, have deterred most folks. These aspects of "hiking Apacheria" don't turn them on.
As Eddy told me more about "his people," he switched back and forth between his Hispanic family and those who were Apache. To survive, Eddy's Apache relatives had submerged themselves in the mostly Hispanic culture. He was familiar with the Black Range and the Lake Valley area as his relatives had been.
At one point, he mentioned a rancheria near the "headwaters" of a particular stream in the Black Range. Not more than two weeks earlier, I'd read about that exact spot in an old Army report. The Army's movement then had been called a "scout"; in my Vietnam combat days, we called it a "patrol." In each case, the Army required notes and compass settings. When Eddy's Apache relatives had lived in the Black Range, a "scout leader" made a daily map of miles marched. As Eddy told his story about this place, I felt the fillings in my molars vibrate with the synchronicity of our meeting, unexpectedly, in this place and time.
The place I'd read about and that Eddy mentioned had been the site of a firefight, when Army troops surprised Apaches camped there. The "scout" reported that the surprised Apache had "scattered, like quail at the sound of gunfire," when attacked. Knowing what little I did about Apache history and culture, it seemed possible those were Eddy's Apache ancestors. It appeared that, in a completely serendipitous way, my deep research of actions 142 years earlier had been corroborated by the oral history a 70-year-old Apache man had just revealed.
By the end of our hour-long talk, with bystanders patiently listening, grateful we hadn't reached for weapons, Eddy and I agreed to hike together. Time, schedules, wind, weather, illness and trips prevented us from doing so until February.
Our first hike was a marvelous experience. It was the first time in seven years I'd hiked with an Apache. It was deeply satisfying to see that he at 70 and I, at a mere 61, had paces that matched naturally. Above all else, hiking Apacheria requires patience and a rigorous willingness to eschew "hiking for exercise," per se. It's not how many miles I cover, but rather what I experience with my efforts.
On our first two hikes, I introduced Eddy to a rancher I knew and to favorite hikes in the Mimbres and Floridas, both of which I love. Victorio and the Chihenne used the Floridas as a stop on their annual migration to Mexico when the weather got colder. We visited several pictograph sites and a place I'd thought might have been a hunting camp, and a possible series of fighting positions near that camp.
Before and after our hike, Eddy blessed me with hodentin, sacred pollen from tulle bushes. He did the same at those places, blessing the pictographs. I've said that some of those appeared to be Apache, but that was only a guess. They could have been Mogollon or one of the intermediate groups between the Mogollon and Apache, such as the Cholomes, Janos, Jocome, Mansos and Sumas.
Each time we hiked and came across art, I became aware that Eddy saw more animal figures in the art than I did. The animal world seemed far more tangible and near to him than it had ever been to me. But, within a month of our first hike, I began to spot more of the actual animal world: I saw a beautiful adolescent mountain lion and a herd of 27 ibex, in the Floridas; three separate herds of antelope; and large birds of prey, perhaps golden eagles, as winter gave way to spring.
As we got to know one another better, I mentioned the names of several ranchers who had purchased land holdings at Canada Alamosa within the last decade. I'd already met these folks, through my fellow Apache aficionado/writer friend, Sherry Robinson. In 2006, Sherry and I had ventured out with one of those ranchers to visit several spectacular Apache sites at Canada Alamosa. She and I had also visited a fighting position I'd found near the old post at Canada Alamosa in 2002. Sadly, I'd lost touch with these folks. Now I pursued them, and after five months of searching, we'd hooked up in January. We set a date to visit their spread, and I contacted Eddy to tell him he was most definitely invited. It turned out that Eddy had one clear connection, through both his Hispanic and Apache ancestors, with that ranch. I could only observing with deepening spirituality as the cosmic tumblers of the universe clicked again and again.
At dinner one evening, visiting these folks, I spoke of the "reservation" along "the Jaralosa" and near Lake Valley. In a matter-of-fact manner, one of the archeologists, with much knowledge of the Apache, said, "Well, of course, there was an Apache agency near Lake Valley. It was at Fort Thorn!"
He cited Edwin Sweeney's excellent Mangas Coloradas: Chief of the Chiricahua Apaches as his source. Within a week, I learned that the agency was located no more than a mile and a half from Fort Thorn. Dr. Michael Steck (see "Hiking Apacheria" in August, October and December 2008) had located his Southern Apache Agency near "old Fort Thorn" in the 1850s.
Lake Valley
is one of the better
Southwest "ghost towns."
From Silver City, drive east, on Hwy. 152, and turn south on Hwy. 27, at Hillsboro, and drive approximately 15 miles.
From Deming, take the "Hatch Highway" (Hwy. 26) about 24 miles and turn left (north) at Nutt.
From Las Cruces, take the Hatch exit off I-25 and follow Hwy. 26 to Nutt; turn right. |
Eddy and I immediately planned to meet in Hatch and search for Fort Thorn near there. Our first visit was purely based on what little information I'd found by reviewing reports written by Steck and others in my extensive files, plus details from an old-timer in Hatch whom Eddy knew. That source provided more "on the ground" tips on where the fort might have been located. All descriptions and written records pointed out that regardless of where the actual fort had been located, major Rio Grande floods had long since washed most of the evidence down river.
Seeking more information, I'd learned that Fort Thorn had been established in December 1853, when Army troops had vacated a rapidly deteriorating Fort Webster, near the west bank of the Mimbres River. Brevet Brigadier General John Garland had abandoned Fort Webster to the Apache, and marched to an area between Berenda Creek and Jaralosa Creek, both of which emptied into the Rio Grande. The headwaters for both streams were in the Cooke's and Black Ranges, with the Jaralosa dumping into the Rio Grande near where we thought the fort had been located.
Undeterred by the imprecision of Fort Thorn's exact location, we agreed to meet again there later in March. I'd learned that General Garland had named the place "Fort Thorn" in memory of his former aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Herman Thorn, who had "justly distinguished [himself] in the war with Mexico." In fact, Thorn had also died heroically trying to save a Mexican drover who was drowning in the Rio Colorado; two other American soldiers, the Mexican and Thorn had all drowned in the river crossing.
A common denominator in the descriptions of Fort Thorn, which was in a minority of forts actually having a surrounding wall, was that the construction had been done by the soldiers of the first units stationed there; accordingly, the fort was certainly not built to last. Located on a low mesa made of a sand and red clay mix, spotted with cat claw and mesquite, Fort Thorn was across the river from the Camino Real and below the dreaded Jornada del Muerto. (Note: This is BLM land, and therefore, metal detection and looting of possible native sites is illegal. In other words, look and soak up the history.)
I found a letter dated April 22, 1858, from the headquarters of the Army's Department of New Mexico to the commander at Fort Thorn: "I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your communications of the 17th inst. Reporting the attack, by a party of armed Mexicans from Mesilla; upon the Indian camp at the Indian Agency, near Fort Thorn, and the murder of some of them." That letter referenced an ugly incident on April 17, in which "a body of armed Mexicans, calling themselves the 'Mesilla Guard' and led by a man named Juan Ortega, charged into the Indian camp at the Indian Agency shooting indiscriminately at the fleeing Apaches."
Several Americans living near the fort or associated with the Apache agency intervened and managed to stop the shooting. Even so, several Apache women and children were killed, others wounded. In a rationale for the attack, members of the "Guard" claimed that Apaches from the agency had been responsible for horse thievery in Mesilla. That charge was debunked in Dr. Steck's investigation, which concluded the horse thievery was ultimately perpetrated by Mescalero Apache, not Mimbreno or Warm Spring. But back then the norm was shoot first, interrogate the dead later.
The Army arrested 30 men of the Mesilla Guard, and eventually transported them to Socorro, where they were brought to trial. Thus far, I can find no information on the final disposition of those cases, even though Dr. Steck himself provided testimony.
Eddy shared what he had been told of the attack, as we walked above the river, searching for any signs of the long-since dismantled and overgrown fort and Indian agency. In the Apache wars, there's no doubt that Apaches were responsible for many depredations, and clearly, stole horses from everyone. In the tension between Apaches, Anglos and former Mexican citizens of the United States, mistaken identity was common.
In January 1859, the War Department elected to abandon Fort Thorn. Part of the reason was that representatives of the Army Surgeon General's department had reported Fort Thorn to be the "sickliest post in the territory." Army Surgeon T. Charlton Henry himself claimed that he simply could not regain his health after a bout there with a malarial-type illness.
I read a detailed report by Paul M. Kramer, who blamed the location of Fort Thorn, near the river and close to bottom land. Kramer quoted Dr. P.A. Quinan, who wrote that the bottom land near the fort "presents during the hottest months, a surface of oozy mud, covered with green slime, and interspersed with pools of stagnating water, which surface is during these months gradually drying up. . . as might be expected, fevers of a malarious character have greatly afflicted the command during this quarter. . . in July (1858). . . the command then consisted of two companies, and the sick report numbered seventy cases. . . . Scarcely a man of this command can be considered fit for the performance of ordinary garrison duty, so debilitated are they by disease."
Descriptions such as this drove Dr. Henry to recommend closure of the fort. And, for once, the War Department heard the pleas: In July 1858, the last soldiers of the US Army left Fort Thorn, probably in great celebration, as they moved west, towards an outpost in the Burro Mountains near Silver City.
It was, it seemed, the death knell for Fort Thorn — but the onset of the Civil War soon returned troops to the fort for a battle. (An upcoming article will detail this Civil War history, as well as its relevance to the Warm Spring and Coppermine Apaches of Mangas Coloradas.)
When Eddy and I visited in April, the Rio Grande was rolling at the fastest clip I'd ever seen. It was brown, muddy, swift, and ran from bank to bank. On both days, we saw waterfowl and raptors, including golden and bald eagles. On another occasion, we also spotted a great blue heron rookery.
The remarkable "coincidence" of my research and Eddy's grandmothers' stories had, within six months, brought us to a place neither of us had ever been before. Within a few miles of where we believe Fort Thorn's remains lie, Jaralosa Creek empties into the Rio Grande. Follow that stream west, and one finds himself passing south of Lake Valley. Somewhere along those water courses, Eddy's great-great-great grandmother and other members of his Apache families may have lived.
In a journal kept by his wife JoAn, Eddy recalled the first day we'd met, so angrily, at the heritage center: "We were like two buffalos banging their heads together. We both stood back and the white eyes put his hand on my shoulder and told me something like: 'let me show you some places.' I can't explain the connection we had then. I think the spirits brought us together that day.
In a later entry, he went on, "Jerry and I have climbed the mountains and walked the trails that my ancestors walked. He has showed me places I never thought was possible. We have both been touched and spoken to by the spirits. Jerry is not just a white eyes, he is someone that I'm very proud to call friend — a hiking buddy, but most of all he is family. We will call him EAGLE EYE."
Music has often been part of my hikes in Apacheria, and the first time we'd hiked near Fort Thorn, I'd chanted for Eddy. The other members of our party were down below, out of earshot. I think I have a good voice, but I also generally feel self-conscious singing in front of people who don't know the history of these efforts, and so felt safe that they weren't able to hear.
The second time Eddy and I hiked the Fort Thorn area, I'd listened to songs produced by the "Space Music" composer, Chaitanya Harry Deuter, on the drive there. On that expedition, we discovered a large area of very old metal junk, and, nearby, many lithics and pottery.
"I've been singing almost seven years, to bring the Chiricahua home," I told Eddy. "The words and melodies, they don't have any real meaning. I'm not pretending to know any Apache words. I just sing, as a spiritual expression of the experience of hiking Apacheria."
"I like hearing the songs," Eddy said.
"I haven't felt totally grounded in whether I should sing to your great-grandmother today. I guess I really sang to her on the way down here. I felt like I was singing to all your grandmothers — Apache and Hispanic — who were here or in the Black Range, or Lake Valley. I believe that they were here when Dr. Steck was here, when the Anglos and Mexicans hounded the Apaches."
"It's not the words; it's the feelings coming from your heart," Eddy replied.
"We'll never prove it, but I've felt your great-great-great-grandmother here today. Among all these pottery sherds and lithics. The one who told you there was an agency on the Jaralosa. I've felt her near us today."
"Me, too," Eddy said.
We'll never know — not in this lifetime. I felt tears in my eyes, as I looked at my "Apache uncle." I didn't want him to see the tears, so I looked away.
This is the 17th article in Jerry Eagan's "Hiking Apacheria" series; to read the complete series, see www.desertexposure.com/apacheria Eagan can be contacted at skyminder.eagan805@gmail.com He also has a website, www.hikingapacheria.com, currently under development.
Special thanks to: Keith Odenheim, GIS specialist, and Dennis Smith, GIS Office, Dona Ana County; Barry Drucker, archivist, NMARC, Santa Fe; Charles Stanford, NMSU archivist, Rio Grande Collection; Dale Giese; JoAn Montoya; Victor and Linda Hernandez; Buddy and Stephen Montoya (for helping us dig out when we got stuck in Rio Grande sand banks); and of course, the ancestors who led us to where she has wanted for some time to reveal to her 4th-great-grandson, Eddy Montoya.