She thought for a moment when she stepped into the pool that was labelled 106 degrees but felt like 110, that she would die right there in that beautiful place, boiled to death in a hot springs. But it was not so. She thought for a moment when she gathered up her courage and took the cold plunge (alone) thereafter that she might be swept downstream in the spring runoff that was a foot higher in the early morning than it had been the evening before. She knew she had the opportunity to foolishly die in a beautiful place when her right flip-flop was swept away in the current but she wisely let it go and lived another day albeit in only half her spa footwear – and her toenail polish is wearing thin. Three hikes in beautiful places; Brown’s Canyon, the edges of Mts Harvard and Columbia. A foot dip in the fast-flowing, white water, Arkansas. She is still batting 1000 on her bucket list. Making and taking a vacation in the mountains; working for daily bread in music. This way, if the end should suddenly come upon her, she knows she will die in a beautiful place. In her final breath, she will know success. For the ultimate item on said bucket list is to die in a beautiful place.
It is an allegory. It is steampunk. It is a little bit novel. It is now available from Amazon and other major book distributors – also from your favoite bookstore – ask for it. Here is a sample of my favorite characters and my favorite chapter.
Stalking the Sleuth
Traveler was being followed. He sensed it from the moment he exited the train. It was a new sensation. For the traveler, open and transparent as he was, was still used to being nearly invisible, sleuthing from the sidelines. It did not feel like a malicious sort of stalking, it was more like shadowing, anticipating. For instance, how did this person whom he had not yet seen – merely felt the eyes and their constant following of his every move – how did this person know he would be on the train? Traveler had not known himself whether he would drive or ride until a few hours before departure. Traveler stood for a moment on the station platform and wished he had his Convie. What am I thinking, he asked himself. I have two sturdy legs and walking is so beneficial to clarity of conclusion.
Followed or not, he was hungry. He turned into his favorite establishment on the wharf and ordered a basket of fish and chips and half a pint of the local ale. Fishing nets and colorful floats adorned the walls. Over the years, hardwood floorboards had been worn to a patina by the constant comings and goings of locals and tourists. Places this popular rarely have extraneous personal space. Every inch was shared with a constantly undulating crowd. Traveler was no sooner seated at a table then he was joined in quick succession by three other persons, two male, one female, constantly in motion changing places like musical chairs as an order number was announced or someone spied a friend, waved, and changed position.
Receiving his order, Traveler closed his eyes and savored the fried sea aroma curling up from the steam. Another basket slid onto the table and a sinewy male eased expertly into the neighboring seat.
“What is your interest in my sister?”
Traveler looked up into cool and intelligent blue eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds.
“Sean Journey, analyst,” said the man, extending a hand.
The traveler shook hands silently, reached for the malt vinegar, fingered a chip and waited.
“You show up in the city and ask background questions of the flakey receptionist. Next, on a road trip, you stop at a little café that just happens to be owned by my parents. No doubt, they gave you volumes of information couched in opinion. Assuming you were capable of distilling the information from the opinion; your next stop was obviously here, where my sister spent some of the most enjoyable and enlightening years of her life.”
“You have tracked me this far, including following me from the train station. You are an analyst.” Traveler met Sean’s eyes again and continued, “You have to ask what my interest is in your sister?” he paused. “I wear a trench coat, I have a fedora, how is it you did not assume I am a private investigator hired by the man himself to track Precious?”
“Puh!” The analyst nearly spat. “That man never had a modicum of initiative. He could find her easily enough on his own if he cared to take the trouble.”
“He wants her back.”
“He wants her to come back, you mean –without him lifting a finger.”
“You have a close connection with your sister.” It was a statement, not a question.
“My sister is kind and caring. Growing up twenty months apart, it felt like we were twins. She protected me. She is a very loyal person.”
Traveler began, “You say Precious is kind, caring and loyal. It seems so out of character for her – from what I have learned of her character – that she would leave the man.” Again, it was an observation, not a question, and the traveler took time to bite off a portion of batter-dipped cod and chew thoughtfully.
The analyst fetched a checkered napkin, wiped his mouth and again made eye contact.
“Precious has an Achilles heel.”
Traveler raised an eyebrow.
“She can’t help rescuing people.”
“That is the compassionate thing to do,” shrugged the traveler.
“Once she rescues them, they make her feel responsible to care for them. When she draws a line and is no longer responsive to plaintive whining, they accuse her of being insensitive.”
Traveler thought back to the helpless wail that first drew his attention to the cave.
“How did she come to connect with the man in the first place?”
“It was here, at the Western Conservatory of Earth Studies. Precious had a work-study assignment in the botany department. She was building the terrace at Salt Park. It looks out over the bay. The botany department was eradicating noxious weeds and studying plants native to the area. The man, as you already know, was a botany student. His field study and her work shifts overlapped.
“She was cute. She had a fascinating set of tools, so he followed her around like a puppy. And she responded to his needs, encouraging him, complimenting him, building him up.”
“So Precious encourages people and builds them up?”
“Yes, she is always adapting and giving the benefit of the doubt. As a result, people depend on her.”
“It is a credit to her strength of character that your mother has not prevailed on her to move back home.”
“Yes. And one of the greatest disappointments of my mother’s life to find that they are not joined at the hip in every opinion.”
Salt Water Park
Traveler’s basket was empty. The two men rose together in a sort of natural synchrony and headed out the door. Traveler set a course for Salt Water Park and Sean Journey fell into step beside him.
“We have dined together with perceptive conversation,” stated Journey, “but you have not yet identified yourself and your interest.”
Again Traveler mused on the oft-asked question. He preferred not to answer directly. There is no succinct and simple way to reply; “I am a traveler, scribe and cycloptic seer for the core.” It leads only to complication. First, most people think you are joking. The common man, meaning the majority of homo sapiens populating the earth, would guffaw and snort, “You think you go around seeing Cyclops?” Sean Journey was a human of no ordinary intellect. He had shared honestly. The ball was now in Traveler’s court.
“I am a traveler, scribe, and cycloptic seer for the core,” he replied.
“Meaning you work for the Cranial Reservoir,” stated Sean. “Why the qualifier, cycloptic?”
“I am a visionary of only one eye,” said Traveler. “Were I to see with both eyes, I would be omniscient, omnipotent. As it is, I observe wisdom. I am able to see imperfectly into the behavior and motivation of others. Once glimpsed, the motivation and personality fascinates me. I travel to ferret out the needed wisdom for each relationship observed. I scribe. The results of seeing and scribing are uploaded to the global Cranial Reservoir – all the collected wisdom of the ages.”
“You upload directly to the Cranial Reservoir?” queried Sean.
Traveler smiled, “There is a good bit of residue and affinity for the past in me. I first make my notes on papyrus tablet. The very act of writing is stimulating to thought – therapeutic to confusion. Once I reach the conclusion, my results teletransport to the core cranium.”
“They pay you to upload facts?”
“Sometimes hard facts; more often truth couched in myth.”
“I have accessed the Cranial Reservoir many times in my profession – more often in the classifications of military behavior.”
“My work is about relationships.”
As the analytical silence grew, the men sat musing with similarity of mind. Sean absently caressed a Michaelmas aster and then hefted a black volcaniclastic rock the size of a bowling ball. Fire glass.
“All that rot about Precious loving rocks inordinately? The goblin princess accusation?” said Sean. “Precious loves rocks for what they are, a normal part of our earth surroundings. She also, as you know, loves jewels and gold and silver – for their excellence. The man, he tends to objectify. He loved rocks only because they were pretty – and because Precious was good at rocks. He is a covetous being. He craves for himself everything someone else has. Precious was naturally gifted with the ability to know just which rock fit in which space as she built that terrace with our father, Petros. Then, she went to college and graduate school to find out the latest techniques for identifying gold and minerals. The man, on the other hand, absorbed Precious’s successes for himself along with appropriating her tools. He seemed to think whatever Precious did, he could do better just because he was the masculine portion of the team. He wanted to stay home and enjoy rocks without having made any effort to learn about them.”
Again, Sean and the Traveler rose from their flagstone seats in tandem. As though with one mind, they headed toward the beach. As they walked, Sean probed for more details about Traveler’s work. “What do you consider your most valuable contribution to the Core – to the Cranium?” asked the analyst.
“Frankly, I come to many conclusions that I choose not to upload to the Cranial Reservoir.”
“You remain covert? You withhold information?” queried the analyst, almost, but not quite accusingly.
“That is one thing I would never willingly do: withhold a discovery that would make life better for all. But there is significant danger in serving up truth before the time is right. Precipitous truth could cause a Lady MacBeth situation on your hands.
“You understand the process, of course. After much research and observation, information is uploaded / teleported to the Reservoir. Everyone has access to the Reservoir — and the Cranium, but few go to the bother to digest and think. It is much easier to let others digest the information and broadcast it in 60-second sound bites. Besides, the process to final truth and familiarity with the Universal Cranium is life-long and seems unrewarding to the average seeker.
“Once the information reaches the Cranium, it goes through an extensive process. Anything that is not precise truth is sloughed off. Unscrupulous – or maybe just ignorant- individuals harvest the debris and make their living – and their power – from it. It is this detritus in the hands of well-meaning, but misguided individuals that can inadvertently cause spiritual abuse or emotional abuse. Detritus adds a lot of pressure, stress to the lives of sensitive souls. I want to be overly careful. That is why I withhold; until I am sure – sure that everything I upload is precise – so that I do not add to the detritus.
“There are things that people believe so heartily to be truth they would stake their life on it – maybe your life too. For instance: you must have meat and eggs for breakfast before you have pie.” Traveler paused, and then asked the rhetorical question, “Is it wise to eat a healthful breakfast before pie? Yes. Might an omelet serve the purpose just as well – or better- than biscuits and gravy?” Traveler raised his eyebrows into question marks.
The analyst gave a rueful smile.
Traveler continued, “Is it imperative that children respect their parents? Yes. Must adult children follow every word of advice that falls from the lips of antiquated ancestors in order to show that respect?” Traveler paused for a moment and let the question hover. “Myths that hold the essence of truth may cause simple minds to make a shrine of the shell. They worship the vehicle of truth rather than the truth. They make sacred the cow rather than simply being nourished by the meat.”
It was not often Sean Journey found himself in the presence of someone both safe and intellectual. He proffered a rare insight from his personal life. “I respect my dad for his philosophical, good-hearted patience and perseverance. I love my mother because she gave birth to me and nourished me, meeting my basic needs when I was young. But very seldom do I find it comfortable to visit Castle Rook.”
We gathered for our 50 -year high school reunion last fall. There were 399 in our graduating class and that was a rather large class for our school, but then again, we are baby-boomers. Being born in 1953 and 1954 means we were part of a huge boom in population and smack dab in the middle of the pig in the python, so to speak. It also means we – the many baby-boomers – are now (supposedly) in retirement (ask me later how that’s working for me). Yes, the baby-boomers move inexorably toward old age and the class of ’72 is preparing to march on into their 70s. We’ve lost a few along the way; some to premature old age, many to dreaded diseases, some to accident, others to self-inflicted fatality. Fifty-nine were gone, but not forgotten, by the time we met to celebrate 50 years of adulting. Fifty years, 59 losses. Hmmm, at that rate the math indicates we lose an average of 1.18 classmates each year. It would be easy to extrapolate we’ve got a few hundred more years – unless one of those losses was a best friend – which it was. But that slow pace has changed markedly in 2023. One classmate per month. If this trend continues, we will lose twelve classmates in this year. When one loses a classmate every month it accelerates one’s concept of mortality and expediency. What are the things I want to do before I die? What remains on the bucket list? How long do I have? Well, if the trend continues at 12 per year, we have 28.33 years remaining before the last person from the class of 1972 dies at the ripe old age of 96. I’d be willing to prognosticate that one or two of our classmates may live to see a 100th birthday. And for those who live long (may they prosper), they will witness the passing of hundreds of classmates, close friends, acquaintances, and family. Loss after loss, grief upon grief. The reality is current life expectancy in the United States is 78 years. Seventy-eight for the average of us. Prepare yourself friends; mind, soul and body; we are approaching warp speed. May the good memories sustain and encourage you even as you are bereft of close friends. May you live – and live well – until the day you die.
She rarely drags her heels in dread at birthdays. What can you do to stop them? Nothing. The years will march on. So why not party? Eat the cake, blow out the candles and not rue the passing of the earth one more rotation around the sun. But this year? She doesn’t want to turn another year older. She knows these truly are the best years of her life. Sixty-seven has been the best year ever and therefore she wants to stay 67 forever. Finally, she has tasted it all. She has enjoyed the accomplishments she longed for, basked in snippets of affirmation, engaged in friendship, made the decision to enter in to self-confidence, greeted most days with gratitude.
Does she now have it all? Is the bucket list complete? Is it time to fold herself up and return to her maker? She doesn’t think so.
She wants to stay 67 forever because she has finally tasted what life can and should be and she wants more of it. She wants to know the rest of the story. She wants to continue the momentum. She wants to keep saying to younger people, “It gets better! Hang in there! The 60s are a great decade! You have so much to look forward to!”
Still, she would like to linger in this year just a little bit longer, enjoy a second helping of this year’s goodness, perhaps order dessert, savor another cup of tea, a few more hugs and the promise of kisses, another sigh of satisfaction at a job finally, finally well done.
She had, for some years, been actively taking responsibility for herself – meeting her own needs both financially and emotionally – attending to selfcare when necessary now that she had reconciled herself to the notion that one can’t be successful just sitting around waiting for someone else to notice need and fill the void. In other words, if her soul needed a hot meal; she cooked one. If she felt like dancing; she took herself dancing. If she needed a break or a vacation; she provided for herself.
So, as I was saying, she had, for some years been actively taking responsibility for herself financially and emotionally, when a book fell into her hands. And I hasten to assure you that “fell into her hands,” is proper grammar and tense – whether you find it active or passive – because all she did was open the little glass door on the neighborhood sharing library – a little ADU house that shelters up to 20 books at a time – and take out a yellowed previous best seller (1999) titled, How to Get What You Want and Want What You Have. Rather long for a title, given the spine of a paperback doesn’t offer a quantity of space. She was pretty much done with self-help books. Also, she was – as Jane Austen might put it – vastly content – in her activities and semi-retirement. But still, she did want something more. Further, the book was written by the author of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. Knowing that to be true, and also having a certain amount of respect for a writer who could reference outer space and Greek myth in a literary sounding sentence, she shlepped the book home and began to read.
Let me be clear, she loved the semi-hermit life she now lived, but there was a bit of lack. She wanted more and she wanted to go about obtaining it with the best method.
In this book, the writer spoke of love tanks that need to be filled throughout the stages of a person’s life in order for one to be properly soul-nourished and to grow and thrive in health.
There were parent tanks and friendship tanks and higher-power tanks and even eros tanks. She was fairly familiar with the concept. It all made sense. But how does one go back and fill a deficient tank, a neglect that happened in high school or grade school or even in the womb? How does one cease blaming and actively take responsibility for becoming whole?
She found, for instance, that choosing a good counselor, taking a college course, or even reading a good book can fortify deficiencies in the parent love tank. A faith love tank is an ongoing journey. Some of the love tanks work like backup storage and spill over into others. And sometimes, sometimes one can go back and actually rebuild bridges to friendships in the past and reap the benefits of friendship in the present.
So it happened that in 2020 and 2021, in the midst of a pandemic and social isolation, in spending a minimal amount of time on social media, she was able to reconnect with old high school acquaintances. Hear me now, they had never been “close” or “besties” back in their school days – but there had been many, many hours and years spent in shared classes and activities in the years from 1960 to 1972. Twelve years of shared era and memories; a shared past. They reached out to her. She responded. Good women, all of them. Persons who from age 10 to 18 did not reject her. In fact, always she would have found a place of welcome at their lunch table – had she not been so concerned with the popular kids and the ones who did reject her – or worse – did not know she existed at all.
As the dust cleared from the first round of the pandemic and social distancing, she made her way back to the old hometown and reconnected with a few of the young women – now grown old – precisely as old as she. In addition, she journeyed over the mountains to reunite for a few hours with old colleagues – folks with whom she shared many fond educational memories. Then, she loaded her kayak and went paddling and hiking in a pristine mountain town with a newer friend, someone known to her for merely a decade. She got those friendship tanks full and in that newfound energy of friendship, she began to reach out confidently and intentionally to form new friends in her new community.
Thus, when someone asked her frankly about the pandemic years (2020 and 2021), she confessed those years had not been so bad after all. There was much to say in their favor.
It has been a really great year full of blessings and good surprises, never mind that we are now in the deepest darkest days of winter, I am experiencing the second cold in about as many weeks, and I definitely overbooked myself when I dipped my exploratory toe back into the workforce. Yes. I worked 50 hours in seven days last week– all in the name of survival, being a responsible employee, and independent retiree. But let’s start with the good stuff.
In January, February and March I kept to the house other than my daily 3 to 8 mile jaunts into the great outdoors. I practiced music, I wrote books, I published books. Life was grand. Andrea and I and my Dad took a two week road trip to the Northwest at the end of March. We had fun staying in contactless check-in Air B&Bs and visiting cousins and their families along the route. Andrea and I had fun. Dad rather missed the opportunities to socialize and joke with motel or restaurant staff – but he was totally satisfied by getting to visit with Joyce and Rod, David and Virginia Anderson and family; David and Gayle Harris and family, Cathi and Chuck. We even got to hike and enjoy a seafaring meal with Philip, and we met Shannon and Lisa on the outskirts of Salt Lake City to share an outdoor meal.
Once home again, Andrea returned to her seasonal job as a wilderness ranger with the National Forest Service and I continued writing and set about looking for music opportunities with which to supplement my income.
On May 21, I took a trip to Grand Junction to attend the high-school graduation of oldest grandson, Drew. Although I made it before the ceremony was over, the trip included traversing Coal Bank Pass, Molas Pass and Red Mountain Pass in eight to 12 inches of snow. Andrea followed a couple hours behind in her truck and was the last driver over before they closed Red Mountain. While I awaited the go ahead at the top of Red Mountain, I changed from my graduation sandals into my hiking boots and threw a down coat over my sleeveless dress.
In late spring, Dad and I spent an adventurous night in a cabin on Grand Mesa and followed that with an outdoor luncheon at Coni and Steve’s.
Dad traveled to Durango with me to spent four days which we repeated again in the summer. At Thanksgiving Kevin and family passed through. We enjoyed 24 hours of music and hiking before they went on to Phoenix to have Thanksgiving with Sarah’s sister. Dad stayed with me for another four days.
In June I began playing piano for Saturday and Sunday morning brunch at a local French bakery. I like it immensely. I play love songs from the early ¾of the 20th Century. I spent a few days in Lake City with my kayak paddling every evening and hiking every day with friend Linda and her kayak. I also hiked Highland Mary’s Trail outside Silverton with friend Johanna and was privileged to have other good friends drop in and hike with me throughout the warm months. I took my kayak out solo so many times I have lost count. In October, my roommate (aka Andrea) moved out which greatly increased my living expenses. No worries. I found seasonal work on the Polar Express and then an administrative music job at Stillwater Music opened up – just the job I had been hoping for. In 2020 I sang virtually with the Durangatones from Stillwater. Now I enjoy playing keyboard with Groove Casters (also a Stillwater Adult Band).
I continue to write stories. I am writing songs again. I even played electric bass at a church meeting last summer. See what I mean? Life is good!
Pace yourself, she said, you have three trains tonight and we are sold out. Three times to the North Pole and back. Keep the energy up. And then, during the second trip, power and voice -over audio went out a mile from departure and stayed out all the way to the North Pole and around the North Pole city and back. Hot chocolate was served in the darkness. Music and dance happened in silence – or to self-accompaniment. Sing-along flourished aided by the cellphone light shed on booklets by passengers willing to have a good time and make do with the tools at hand. Thirty-nine passengers and one attentive chef with a costume change in the script did their best to make magic happen in the darkness, at 7,000 feet, on an historic steam engine train turned Polar Express, traversing some of the most beautiful scenery in North America. Nevertheless, just like clockwork, Santa made an appearance. The ringing of silver bells was heard loud and clear to one more round of exuberantly sung Jingle Bells.
But there were some melt-your-heart moments that Saturday night. Dads who sang out loud and clear on all the Christmas songs. Teenagers who participated with a smile. And a beautiful three-year-old boy who wanted to give his silver bell to the chef. She took it. Yes, she did. She received it to her heart. Then she wrapped it back in the fingers of the child and said, “Will you take it home and keep it in a safe place for me?”
That chef rolled into bed bone weary at one hour and thirteen minutes past her usual bedtime. In the distance, she could still hear the train whistle. Others continued to work. Long hours. Railroad hours. Moving train cars. Readying for the morning. She was grateful. A chance to perform. An opportunity to ride the train. To serve and interact with others. To make people of all ages smile. Well, you can’t beat that for a seasonal side hustle!
What can I say about the onset of autumn? What words are there to describe such beauty? How can I make you understand the glorious beauty and the way it makes me feel? Will it help if I confess that for eight weeks from the middle of August to the middle of October I rose each morning with happiness and purpose? That’s a record to be proud of. Will it help your understanding when I say I did not feel that sinking feeling in my chest, that hollow sucking down that makes one wonder about the health of her heart, during that entire eight weeks. In addition, I had no qualms, no anxiety regarding all the music activities and performances in which I was involved. Let me repeat; no debilitating, paralyzing anxiety for two months! If autumn be the fount of long life and happiness; linger on oh many colored leaves and sooth my heartstrings!
What a joyous season this has been! It takes me back, oh so many years, to a heartache fraught time in my early 20s. Yes, relational stress was mine in abundance. Nevertheless, fall came on and with it an ebullience so strong a neighbor remarked, “Wow Cherry, you really bloom in the fall, don’t you?” Affirmative. And now, just a few millimeter marks beyond my mid-sixties, I can say the same. It is truly the autumn of my life. It is the now or never season. Time to complete the bucket list and finish strong. May I bloom like never before. May I revel in the season and embrace the beauty of fall in perpetuity. May the glorious colors, the golds and reds and yellows and orange refresh you as well and may the health and glory of fall linger on and on in memory and add warmth and glow to your winter. And if you are in the autumn of your life? – May it be your best season ever!
It happened so swiftly she didn’t know what hit her. Yet, always prepared, she knew just what to do.
Well-salaried position to boxes stacked in a new locale 260 miles distant in 72 hours
Final load of earthly goods settled in Durango, Colorado complete in 10 days – including changing horses in the middle of the stream
A sudden move. Yet, she was nothing if not prepared – just not as prepared as she wanted to be. At the age of 65 the concept of retirement had been thoroughly considered, characteristically planned. “Someday,” she said, “I will retire in Ouray. I will write. I will play music. I will hike. I will attend cultural events. I will soak my weary bones in the hot springs daily. Ouray is both my church and my hospital. I will retire and heal.” The best laid plans often go astray. No affordable housing was available in Ouray. Durango-only 74 miles distant-offered refuge; a private place to write, room for musical instruments, plentitude of cultural events, a hub of education, most importantly: hiking trails accessible from the front door.
“I will get a fun job,” she said. “Part time or full time – something to protect my savings account from decimation.”
And then: coronavirus. The churches closed first. Then the schools. Then bars and restaurants. Finally the train. Every last place that promised entertainment or held potential for a fun job: shuttered. Choral groups cancelled concerts. Symphonies ceased to gather for rehearsal. The unemployment rate rose to 30% and continued to climb. But she had learned something in her 65.75 years. Don’t quit on your music. Music is something you can do alone or together. Times of solitude and hibernation are times of preparation. She flexed her 10 fingers and applied them to 88 keys. She added a few new songs to her repertoire, mixing them with the tried and true standards. When she tired of the piano bench, she picked up the guitar – daily – because once you build those callouses you don’t ever want to lose them and start over. And, still having time on her hands, she unzipped – for the first time in five or more years – her bass case. My, my, the interior of that case smelled so good-almost like opening a book – and the strings felt resonant in her hands. No amp, but she is gonna be hot, hot, hot by the time this pandemic is over. Time to revisit the bucket list. What can you do, during isolation, self-quarantine and physical distancing? May she suggest: Play the piano. Play the guitar. Learn a new instrument. Because that’s what people do in times of trouble. They record the times through art. They make music. You got this! Keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Young man pictured playing guitar alone, outdoors, at proper social distance during pandemic
The truth is, she would have signed up for that kayaking trip whether it was August 4 or not. A friend – a fellow writer – who loved the beauty of the great outdoors the same way she did, had organized the trip. It was at least her eighth time on the water that year, but who’s counting? Besides, it was a kind of opened-ended goal for her to touch the Colorado River in as many places as possible.
A few years before, she had hiked beyond the headwaters of the Colorado River in Grand County Colorado – hiked all the way further in to Rocky Mountain National Park where the headwaters were merely snow that was melting and flowing under the ice beneath her feet. It was cold, very cold that April and the paved road had not yet opened for the season. On another trip, she rolled up her pant legs and waded into the river water at Lake Havasu. She visited the Salton Sea and crunched among the heaps of dead sea shells and fish bones. She hiked riverfront trails wherever she could find them and dipped her toes at Glenwood Springs, Rifle and Debeque Canyon; Palisade, Grand Junction, Fruita – and all the way down Highway 128 into Moab Utah. Her love of the Colorado River and its tributaries grew as friends urged her into a kayak on the Gunnison (Escalante to Bridgeport) and a placid-but still Grand – portion of the Colorado from Palisade to Grand Junction.
When you get the chance to paddle, you do. But the fact that it was August 4, made it oh so serendipitous. The part of her that loved history, indeed, the part of her that loved core knowledge and interdisciplinary learning and the way every piece of knowledge connects with another; the interpretive part that is fascinated by reenactments and tribute bands and trips down memory lane; that part of her savored the fact that it was August 4, 2019, exactly 150 years after John Wesley Powell and his expedition crew made their way down this very stretch of river.
On the night of August 3, 1869, Powell and his men camped somewhere near the Crossing of the Fathers (Dominguez and Escalante) on the Grand River. They rose the morning of August 4 and rowed the stretch of river ending at the juncture with the Paria River in Marble Canyon.
On the night of August 3, 2019, she slept in her own bed in Greenehaven, AZ, some 10 miles from the narrow gorge that is the Colorado River in Page, AZ. She rose the morning of August 4, 2019 and drove the 45 miles from Page AZ to what is now Lee’s Ferry just north of Marble Canyon. At Lee’s Ferry, the group caught a backhaul that transferred participants and kayaks just about as far up river as you can go given the presence of Glen Canyon Dam. Once dropped off, some paddled upriver a bit until they could see the power lines and the tunnel where commercial rafts put in just below the dam. When the entire group of eight had gathered on the beach at Fairy Swale, they were underway. Weather wise, it could not have been a more perfect day. The group paddled leisurely down a lazy river, beaching for short hikes to explore petroglyphs; pitied the hoards gathered at the top of Horseshoe bend while the river runners had the river nearly to themselves; caught a current here and there and lounged in kayaks letting the river do the work. The rain clouds rolled in, made the light picture-perfect, but did not rain enough to chill or drench. A pontoon boat passed and then anchored in a cove up ahead and a local musician provided an impromptu concert on the river. Thus, this became Music Canyon, despite being several miles further downriver than the one so named by Powell. The group of eight persons and seven kayaks continued on, exchanging positions, engaging in conversations with different members of the diverse group, getting to know biographies.
With such halcyon circumstances, she forgot all about the stories of paddling against the wind – until it happened. About two miles out from Lee’s Ferry, the wind kicked up. Strong. Blowing up river. Around that same time, she was shunted off to the right by a little eddy, while other members of the group caught a stronger current to the left. Try as she might, she could not catch up. A women more than 5 years her senior outstripped her by 500 meters and disappeared around the bend. This was not her first experience paddling against the wind. Knowing she was in better condition than on any previous trip, she straightened her back, braced her legs, shoved her butt into the seat and began to power paddle – – without effect. Gradually the river carried her downstream. Eventually, she straggled in at Lee’s Ferry, the last of the group to arrive and not the first to exclaim, “Wow! What a trip! What a perfect day!”
She smiled broadly. There was a bit of a lilt, if not a swagger, to her step. She had just added another 15 miles to her Colorado River account.
The Paria Riffle
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
