Archangel of Sedona

by Tony Peluso

  Wives don’t care how many touchdowns or tackles you made, fish you caught, deer you slayed, enemy soldiers you vanquished, or prior girlfriends you seduced. They’re too busy hiding the receipts from the mall and cooking the family books.

  I did want to go to Sedona to have fun. It’s a great venue for all kinds of recreation, hiking, climbing, biking, jogging, sightseeing, eating, appreciating art, and shopping.

  You know how beautiful I think the place is. Look at the pictures. Judge for yourself. Be aware. None of the magnificent photographs on the internet do Sedona the least bit of justice. You have to experience this place for yourself.

  I’m not a member of the Sedona Chamber of Commerce. I don’t own property there or have financial skin in the game, other than hoping that you’ll read this story.

  I’m a man who has come to the fall of his life. I’ve taken on a quest. I want to know what happened to an important spiritual icon of my youth. I have a personal connection with the Christus…and it’s missing.

  I thought that I could use my investigative skills to examine the mystery of the missing Christ figure. I hoped that I might learn something more than the Anglicans knew 16 years ago. I guess there’s no fool like an old fool.

  Though we accept that I was lying about my motives, I had to be subtle or risk pissing Gretchen off. I didn’t want to lose all hope for romance on this trip. I had to ensure that we’d have fun, too.

  After we landed at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix on August 21st, we rented a car. We drove to Sedona along the Interstate 17, passing through the Phoenix metropolitan area and then climbing with the highway into the high desert plains to the north.

  Gretchen was in a sour mood. She felt disappointed because she’d much rather have gone to the Caribbean than visit any place in my home state.

  Gretchen has never liked Arizona. She’d never been to Sedona. She had been to Phoenix once in our entire 30-year marriage. That sad trip had to do with my dad’s last illness and death. Not a time for sightseeing or recreation.

  My bride has not been shy about criticizing Phoenix, which she describes as a “hell-hole.” When we were there in August of 2005, the temperature in the afternoons did exceed 120 degrees every afternoon. Even so, anyone who’s spent time in my hometown knows it’s a wonderful place to live or to visit—especially if it’s not summer.

  All along the trip, Gretchen kept up a critical dialogue about the barren terrain in Phoenix and in the mountains north of the city. As we descended into the Verde Valley, Gretchen reminded me that this trip was my idea, that I owed her for her unbridled altruism, and that I would have to make it up to her.

  Though I’d gone on plenty of trips with her that I didn’t like, I didn’t argue with her. I knew that as soon as she saw the place, Sedona would seduce her.

  When we turned north on State Road 179, I had a flashback to my trip with Dan Ostergaard. Though a lot has changed in five decades, the impact of the red rocks when they first heave into view remains undiluted.

  As soon as Gretchen saw Court House Butte, she stopped carping. Though my wife can be very persistent in cataloguing my shortcomings and explaining her position on any topic, she ceased all complaints and criticisms.

  As we drove deeper into the red rock country, she had no reluctance to describe each new geologic delight with unbridled enthusiasm. It was the most rapid, complete, and comprehensive attitude transformation that I’d seen in our long marriage.

  While we drove north toward Uptown Sedona, Gretchen pulled out her cell phone, called her mom, and informed her that she was selling our house and we were moving to Sedona. No kidding. Talk about seduction.

  We checked into L’Auberge, a fancy hotel east of Uptown Sedona that’s situated along a breathtaking stretch of Oak Creek. L’Auberge offers separate cabins with every possible amenity, but we chose to stay in the lodge.

  The ambiance of our room exceeded our highest expectations. I can summarize our entire morning by saying that I’d never heard Gretchen use the word “wow” so often or with so much enthusiasm. In a weak moment, she admitted that she was glad that I’d insisted on this trip.

  After we unpacked, I took my bride to lunch at Tlaquepaque, a swank shopping mall built to look like a simple Sonoran village near Oak Creek, south of Uptown Sedona. Did I mention that they served a killer Margarita in the Mexican restaurant there?

  I drink because I do my best investigative work if I’m relaxed. I use alcoholic beverages for professional or medicinal purposes. Seriously. To acclimate to the altitude in Sedona from our sea level life in Tampa, Gretchen and I spent that afternoon at Tlaquepaque.

  The faux Mexican mall did not exist in my day. Sedona has changed. It’s no longer the art-influenced, laid-back, southwestern cowboy village of my youth. In the 60s, artists lived in Sedona and Oak Creek Canyon. The place is too gorgeous not to attract talented people.

  Back then we called these artists hippies. While I risked my life in Vietnam, the hippies wore flowers in their hair and cavorted naked in Oak Creek. They smoked Bob Marley-sized joints of marijuana to mellow them out for their marathon sexual activities.

  Do I sound envious? Perhaps I am, a little.

  I’ve struggled to survive in 100-degree heat with 100 percent humidity while motivated North Vietnamese sappers did their best to blow me to smithereens. I could have stayed home, dodged the draft, and experimented with drugs. Thus fortified, could I have instead chased some sexy, nubile, blonde hippie nymphomaniac around Cathedral Rock? Hmmm, it’s a tough choice.

  The New Age movement hit Sedona several years after I left Arizona State to attend law school. This trip was my first experience with the phenomenon. Even after watching videos on the internet and talking to experts at the Center for New Age and Crystal Vortex emporiums in Sedona, I’m still not sure what it is.

  I like the music. There’s a tune called “Adiemus” that a website plays as it scrolls through pictures of Bell Rock and other Sedona sites. “Adiemus” is a soothing New-Age chant of unintelligible gibberish. I play it before I sit down to take my blood pressure. It’s good for a five-point drop after a rough day. Maybe that’s the miracle of New Age philosophy.

  After additional Margaritas, I called the hotel shuttle for the short ride back to L’Auberge. In Tampa, I work with a lady who’s a major player in Mothers Against Drunk Driving. It took me far too long, but—because of her example—I recognize what an irresponsible shit I had been during a couple of decades in my life. Though I’ve never had a DUI, I no longer drink and drive.

  The next morning, August 22nd, I got up early and asked the hotel shuttle to take me to the mall to pick up my car. I returned to L’Auberge and gathered up my wife. We drove north up Oak Creek Canyon to the West Fork Trail Head to get a jump on the crowd.

  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 ro
und 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 pract
icar 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.