Archangel of Sedona (7 page)

I’m not articulate enough to describe the beauty that hikers encounter on the West Fork Trail. It’s friggin’ unbelievable. The trail is so magnificent that it’s worth the substantial price of parking, the tariff levied by the Forest Service for each hiker, and the hassle one encounters with large numbers of other day-trippers.

Since it’s four miles in and four miles out, it takes six to eight hours to hike the trail. Although West Fork in no way resembles the triple canopy jungle in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, I still had a flashback to less enjoyable times.

I remembered the awful heat, the stifling humidity, the difficult terrain, and the mal-designed, load-carrying equipment that the Herd issued to grunts in 1968. My time in the Infantry preceded the implementation of the Army’s so-called ALICE—All Purpose Individual Carrying Equipment—Packs.

On an operation in the field, we carried tons of shit stuffed into the diabolically designed and super uncomfortable LCE. The gear that I humped included an M-16, water in at least six plastic canteens, C-rations, socks, underwear, hundreds of 5.56 mm rounds for the basic weapon, two hand grenades, a belt of 100 7.62 mm rounds for the M60 machine gunner, a mortar round for the 11 charlies or claymore mines, a large hunting knife, entrenching tool, first-aid packet, insect repellant, a flashlight, compass, map, personal items, poncho liner, and towels to pad the straps and to soak up the torrents of sweat that humping the boonies generated. I’m sure that I’ve forgotten some of the other stuff that we humped.

In contrast to Vietnam, the hike through West Fork Trail was a joy. The trail sits at 5,400 feet above sea level. Even in August, it remained shady and temperate all along the beautiful trek.

My modern camelback pack allowed for a three-liter water bladder in an insulated pocket. I kept the water cool with a small frozen bottle of water stuffed into the pocket alongside the bladder. I had room to carry all the navigation, safety, medical, and comfort equipment that I could heft. Of course, my bride thought I’d over-planned the whole episode. Once we hit the trail, she began to complain.

“Anything that can be done, can be overdone, huh sweetie?” she asked.

“If we get lost, hurt, injured, or snake-bit, you’ll be glad that I prepared.”

“Sure, babe,” she said. “But how will you get lost? You have an expensive compass, good maps, and three different GPS apps on your phone. The trail is well-marked and it follows the freaking west fork of Oak Creek.”

“Expect the worst. Hope for the best. That’s my philosophy,” I said.

“You’re certifiable!”

“That’s why you love me.”

“No, it’s not. I love you because I’m certifiable.”

Despite Gretchen’s unfair and unfounded criticism, the hike was a glorious adventure through one of the most scenic trails anywhere on the planet. The modern equipment made carrying the load a breeze. I hardly noticed it.

That exertion through the canyons and over 13 separate fords across the serpentine creek satisfied my hyperactive wife for the day.

When we got back to our car, she told me that she wanted to go to Tlaquepaque to shop for presents for her girlfriends. She assured me that these gifts would not include jewelry, clothes, or shoes.

I wondered what she would buy for her posse. Resisting the impulse to engage Gretchen with questions, I agreed to drop her off so that I could go to the Chapel of the Holy Cross and begin my quest.

As she got out of the car, Gretchen gave me a knowing smile, but refrained from sarcasm or criticism about my obsession. My acquiescence to her shopping trip proved to be an unearned benefit that she chose not to squander.

Less than 10 minutes later, I arrived at the chapel. I couldn’t believe the crowd. Cars filled the parking lot and buses lined the road. Over a hundred tourists milled about on the ramp, in the courtyard, in the chapel, and in the gift shop. I’d never seen so many people at the chapel.

The exterior of the Chapel of the Holy Cross hadn’t changed over the last 40 years. The structure had weathered the elements and the altitude. The spiritual nature of the site, on the other hand, had changed dramatically.

Inside the chapel, I was shocked by the absence of the Christus. It felt empty and cold. I knew the figure wouldn’t be there. I thought I’d prepared myself.

Seeing the bare, sterile cross, framed against the stunning backdrop of the red sandstone buttes, made me angry. As beautiful as the architecture of the chapel is and as breathtaking as the view from the site, I no longer felt the transcendent experience that I’d felt every other time I’d been inside the sanctuary. The Church had lost, mislaid, or forgotten a treasure of incalculable value.

I felt uncomfortable in a place that had once provided a peace that carried me through a year’s worth of fear and fatigue in a deadly combat zone. I couldn’t disguise my torment.

“You look upset, fella,” a tourist from Massachusetts said, as I stood and stared at the barren cross. I could tell he was from New England by his accent.

“I am.”

“Why? This place is serene and beautiful. I’ve never seen anything quite like it and I’ve been all over the world.”

“I grew up around here. There used to be a figure of Christ on that cross. It’s different in here now.”

“How’s it different?” The man asked, as he took a picture of the inside with his iPhone.

“It used to be a real church. My parents and I went to mass here. Now, it’s a barren tourist attraction. They took the Sistine Chapel and made it into a bingo hall.”

“Forgive me, fella. I’m not Catholic. Tell the truth, I’m an agnostic. I think there’s intelligence out there, but I have a hard time believing in an anthropomorphic divinity that lives in the clouds and interacts with humanity. I’m glad the Catholics decided to be reasonable about this place. It’s too valuable to be a church.”

“What?” I said, not believing what I’d heard.

“You been downstairs to the gift shop?” The man asked, as he put his phone away.

“Not yet.”

“Well, my Catholic friend, take your credit card. It’s pricey down there. I’m sure the Pope makes a ton from the proceeds for those trinkets.”

“The new Pope is a Jesuit, my agnostic friend. He’s the first in the five-hundred-year history of the Order. He took a vow of poverty. He won’t see a penny.”

“Sure, he won’t,” the man said, as his wife pulled him away to catch the tour bus at the bottom of the ramp.

“Harry, we’ll be late. We’re going to the Asylum for dinna,” she said in her own Bostonian manner.

The Asylum is a restaurant in Jerome, an old mining town southwest of Sedona on State Road 89A. The restaurant used to be a loony bin. Or if that’s too insensitive: a sanctuary for the mentally ill. Seemed like a good place for the New Englanders.

I did go down to the gift shop. The man was right. The Church had attached a healthy bump to the cost of their products. After ten minutes in the shop, I noticed a youthful, quite striking, Hispanic woman behind the counter.

She had long, black, silky hair, deep-brown eyes, a prominent nose—reminiscent of the Aztecs—and a lovely olive-brown complexion. As I watched her, she waited on the customers with an enthusiasm bordering on flirtation.

I smiled, walked over to the counter, waited for her to free up, and then asked her if the gift shop carried any items related to the Christus.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

I told her of the story of the Christus that used to reside in the chapel upstairs.

“Really?” She asked. “There was a figure on the Cross upstairs?”

“Yep. It was very dramatic.”

“How so?”

“Let me show you,” I said, as I pulled out my iPhone, tapped on the Safari icon, and entered
Christus of Sedona
. The software pulled up the McMannes’ article. It has a graphic picture of the Christus at the top. I displayed it to the pretty clerk.

“I’ve never seen this,” she said, though her manner changed and she seemed off-kilter. “I’ve been working here for two years. This wasn’t here when I started.”

“That’s right. According to this article, the Christus hung from the Cross in the chapel from 1956 until sometime in the late seventies,” I said.

“That’s long before my time.”

“Is this the first that you’ve ever heard of the Christus?”

“I’m pretty sure. Maybe Jim knows something about it,” she said.

“Who’s Jim?”

“The sales manager. I’ll call him over,” the girl said, as she signaled to a thirty-something, tall, thin, balding man who was attending to a customer. While we waited for the manager, I introduced myself.

“I’m Tony Giordano.”

“I’m Linda Alvarez,” the girl said, offering me her well-manicured hand.

“
Con mucho gusto, Senorita
,” I said, trying to be gallant.

“
Senora, Caballero
,” the woman corrected me, beaming while showing me a respectable diamond ring set on her left hand.

“
Lo siento, Senora
,” I apologized. “¿
Puedo practicar mi espanol contigo?”
asking if I could practice my Spanish.

“
Como no
.” Linda said, agreeing.

Linda and I spent a pleasant ten minutes conversing in Spanish. Linda’s Spanish was flawless and—oddly—more Castilian in style than Mexican or Sonoran. She had to correct my grammar a couple of times. For such a vivacious personality, she seemed worldly-wise, experienced, and mature.

“Hello, Sir. I’m Jim Wilson,” the manager said, extending his hand in greeting as he walked up.

“Tony Giordano.” I shook his limp hand and got a very bad vibe.

“Jim, Tony showed me a picture of a figure that hung on the Cross in the chapel upstairs. He calls it the
Christus
. He wants to know if we sell anything like it.”

I held the phone up and let Jim examine the photo. He looked at it for quite a while.

“I never saw the Christus in the chapel. We used to sell a postcard that depicts it. May still have a few in the back,” Jim admitted. “Mr. Giordano…”

“Call me Tony,” I interrupted.

“Tony, where did you find this article?” he asked in a strange tone.

“On the internet.”

“Yeah, it looks like the postcard,” Jim said, gesturing at the photo.

Our conversation had drawn a small crowd. Other tourists wanted to see the picture. Rather than pass my phone around, I announced the internet link.

“I don’t know what happened to that figure,” Jim said.

“The article says it went missing sometime in the late seventies. No one knows for sure how it disappeared,” I said, generating an audible snort from a lady about my age.

“It got spun up in one of the vortexes,” a guy with plaid Bermuda shorts offered.

At this juncture, I must point out that folks in Sedona insist that the plural of vortex is vortexes, not vortices. I can’t explain why. Nor can I clarify what a vortex is.

They didn’t exist—or no one had discovered them—until the 1980s. I’m not sure that the phenomena of vortexes coincide with New Age beliefs, but they seem to coexist.

I’m not making light of either concept. I’ve maintained that Sedona is a hauntingly spiritual place. There’s a positive, but indefinable, quality to the area. Sedona is the classic example of the totality of something exceeding the sum of its parts.

It’s not the beauty or the grandeur of the Upper Verde Valley. The first time that you see the Grand Canyon, it’ll rock your world. As spectacular as the Grand Canyon is, it does not have the same mystical quality as Sedona. As the New York Times said in the late ’70s, “God created the Grand Canyon, but He lives in Sedona.”

I hung around the gift shop for a half hour chatting with the other customers. Since I wasn’t advancing the investigatory ball, I decided to leave. Before I did, I said goodbye to Linda while she rang up the postcards of the Christus that Jim found.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

“Didn’t help much. Good luck on your quest.
Tenga cuidado y vaya con Dios
.”

“
Gracias, Senora
,” I responded, hoping that I would indeed go on this quest with God. As for careful, that’s my middle name.

Linda’s use of the word
quest
pulled me up short. I remembered those Grade-B science-fiction movies where there is something menacing afoot. The people in the story seem normal, right up until the time they make a slip and reveal a perverse, evil side. I half expected that as I walked out, I could spin around. Linda, Jim, and all of the customers would be glaring at me with blood red eyes.

OK, I did spin around. They were too fast for me. When I looked, Linda and Jim had gone back to work selling their merchandise. Maybe Gretchen’s right about the dementia.

When I got to the rental car, I still had an hour to kill before I had to be back at Tlaquepaque. I decided to visit the local parish rectory.

The Church of St. John Vianney in Sedona is on the west side of town. It’s an attractive church that’s set apart from other buildings. It’s constructed in a southwestern pueblo style, surrounded by a circle of gardens and statues.

I went there to find the Catholic pastor. He was in California attending a month-long retreat. A priest from Ireland was filling in. I asked the receptionist if I could speak with him.

After waiting for 20 minutes, a freckled man with short red hair, about 32 years old, came out into the reception area. He was very fit, about my height, but weighed 20 pounds less. His pleasant face had a hint of mischief in his smile and a glint in his eye. He looked like a tall, thin leprechaun. He introduced himself: “Good afternoon, Sir. I’m Father Patrick O’Malley. Peggy tells me that you’d like to speak to a priest,” he said with a charming brogue.

“I’m Tony Giordano, Father. I’d like to speak to someone who knows the history of the Chapel of the Holy Cross.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not me. This is my first trip west. I’ve been in Arizona two weeks. That includes about a week here. I’ve spent some time in the chapel, though. Very impressive, isn’t it?”

“It is impressive, Father. I grew up in Phoenix. I used to go to Mass here. I understand that no one says Mass at the chapel anymore. Do you know why?”