peaceful in the moonlight. Then I pushed off again and spent the daylight hours enjoying the river.
I
arrived at my destination, Hall’s Crossing, left bank, way after dark
on the 7th. I sank into my sleeping bag and dozed off to wait for
light. Early the next morning, Oct 8, I found a note from Harry stuck
in a stick suggesting that I go meet Bill Wells as he few in. He gave
me directions to the airstrip and marked the direction to the strip. He
had even counted the exact paces, several hundred of them. He had many
such idiosyncrasies.
So
I did as I was directed, except for counting the paces. (The note is
lost in my archives somewhere.) I knew where the airstrip was and Harry
knew that I knew it, but he gave me precise directions anyway. My route
was the same route followed in 1882 by a Mormon wagon train. I hiked
the mile to the top of the mesa and, on arriving there, found another
note from Harry, addressed to Bill, welcoming him to Glen Canyon with
directions to the river where he would meet me.
At
about 8:00 a.m., I heard the hum of Bill’s newly repaired Cessna. He
made a good landing, and with him was Hanksville resident Nina Robison,
who came to join in the festivities and to write an article for the
Deseret News.
This
revelation took me by great surprise. I was utterly pissed. I had been
imagining the sacred bottle would be passed around in a toasting
gentile fashion, in a civilized way, on the wedding day—not consumed in
a guzzling frenzy. I felt somewhat left out.
Harry
and Dottie retired to their tents to change to their wedding togs. On
her return, Dottie wore a tangerine-colored blouse, a long strand of
coral beads, tangerine capri’s and white sweater and shoes. Harry wore
tan slacks and a blue pullover shirt with white trim at the collar with
V-points at the bottom.
My
feelings of rejection lessened somewhat as I joined our party of nine,
hiking together a quarter-mile up Little Eden Canyon to “The Chapel.”
There, at the end of this narrow box canyon, was a beautiful pool in a
fern-covered grotto. It resembled a small Cathedral in the Desert. A
thin ray of light entered the grotto, and peace and tranquility
prevailed. It was indeed a beautiful cathedral in which to wed.
Bill
began the ceremony, expressing the right scriptural and prayer words,
the right words of council, the best wishes and all of that. Then the
words of the ceremony itself. Harry took the ring, made of
Navajo-silver and turquoise, and slipped it on Dottie’s fn-ger.
The
marriage was on time—10:00 a.m. Bering and Barbara Monroe served as
their witnesses. We others stood to the side looking on. We again gave
our congratulations and best wishes. Harry correctly reported that it
was a real “moving experience.” The bride and groom seemed very
happy—like a couple of newlywed kids.
We
then hiked back to their camp. From my pack came Woody’s wine, (a far
cry from Bert’s whisky, I noted to myself,) and we toasted each other.
I sauntered about looking for the empty Seagram 7 bottle, hoping to
steal it. At least I’d gain a possible lingering whiff. But I couldn’t
fnd the damn thing. Dock, I’m sure, had already stashed the treasured
artifact in his duffel.
On
schedule, I then took Bill and Nina back up river and walked with them
to the Cessna. I bid them adieu and saw them off. Hiking back to my
boat, I was soon on the river. I picked up red-eyed Dock at the wedding
camp, said goodbye to the honeymoon party and headed downstream to Cane
Creek. On our trip down, Dock asked me what I was going to do the
following year. I told him I’d be taking very few trips from Hite
anymore. We talked long about the history of the canyons. Dock had
branded himself an expert in these sorts of things.
Dock
and I landed at Cane Creek on the 10th, after camping and exploring en
route. Dock was able to get to the airport at Page as scheduled to meet
his airline connections.
POSTSCRIPT
As
a postscript to that eventful trip: I continued taking boating trips in
Glen Canyon and winter hiking trips in Escalante Canyon. I moved my
family to the small town of Es-calante to be nearer the canyons. I set
up a base camp in the lower Escalante.
Harry
boated on the reservoir with his newly acquired jet boat, taking my
guests to Rainbow Bridge and returning them to the base camp. He and
Dottie had moved to Teas-dale, Utah. Harry was in and out of hospitals.
Dottie was there with him all the way—and it was as Harry had said
following their wedding: “Dorothy is the most wonderful wife any man
can have.”
The Flying Bishop continued fying for us.
The
sly fox, Dock Marston, continued collecting historic accounts of the
canyons and we corresponded for years. But I never saw the Seagram
artifact again.
And
the wonderful, adventurous, and sometimes caustic Edna Fridley began
tripping with me, taking over 40 varied trips on the rivers and into
the canyons. (Her husband, Charles, who made one trip in Escalante,
fnanced her travels and, in turn, helped me to continue my manner of
living.)
In
the spring of 1972, I met with Harry at the Prescott hospital when he
was very ill, extremely thin, and barely able to talk. We chatted again
briefy of our many shared experiences. Harry died in Prescott, Arizona
on March 27, 1972—his fnal Farewell Trip.
The marriage was on time—10:00 a.m. ..
We again gave our congratulations and best wishes.
Harry correctly reported that it was
a real “moving experience.”
Bill
was attired in his proper dark blue suit and polished shoes, hair
combed, and all of that—typical of Mormon bishops who perform wedding
ceremonies on a river. The three of us walked down to my mud-covered
raft. I wiped a part of the tubes off for a clean seat for them. Then
we boated down river a couple of miles to Harry and Dottie’s camp on
the right bank of the river below Hall’s Creek. The happy six-person
party was there to meet us. Five tents had been set up. The table and
mess were correctly placed among them.
I
happily said hello to each guest, and chatted with red-eyed Dock
Marston. He told me of the great party they had enjoyed the night
before at the very time I was sleeping across the river. He revealed to
me that they had guzzled down Bert Loper’s whisky! Dock boasted of
drinking his share of the historic beverage. Knowing Dock, I think he
likely drank more than his share.
--Ken
Sleight foated Glen Canyon more times than he can remember. He still
despises BuRec for Glen Canyon Dam and is still mad at the late Dock
Marston for drinking Bert Loper’s whisky.
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