Back in college, circa the spring of 1982, I took a road trip with a handful of dorm-mates to the northwest corner of Arizona.

While camped in Canyon De Chelly National Monument, we learned of a Navaho who owned the canyon next to the Monument, and would guide backpackers into his canyon, let them spend the night in the canyon, and guide them out the next day.

He was a calm, jovial man, who took us by his home before guiding us into the canyon, a small structure that housed four generations. I juggled rocks for all four.

I don't believe that I could describe his accent. There was a Spanish / Mexican influence, to be sure, for he spoke that in addition to English and his native Navaho.

While in the flat bottom lands of the canyon, we heard a elderly gentleman, herding goats, chanting in the ancient language of his people.

Damn, it was beautiful. It belonged there, echoing off the sheer sandstone walls of the meandering canyons. It was melodic, haunting, resonating with awe.

So that's the accent I hear, an echo of the past. The ancient languages, modified by Spanish and English, carefully practiced.