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My Favourite Tourists...#i
Jeff W O O D S... the Welsh Wanderer
Jim Stiles
The
first time I met Jeff Woods of Swansea, Wales, I was a ranger at Arches
National Park. Most of the time I worked out of the Devils Garden, 18
miles inside the park. But today, I'd been called down to the visitor
center to cover for another ranger on sick leave. The questions were
easy to answer, but consistently the same. After awhile I could answer
before they asked: "Two hours, if you don't want to get out of your
car" (How long does it take to see this place?)
Mr. Mouse turned shakily to me. "Ranger! I demand that you do something! This man's behavior is OUTRAGEOUS!"
"Well,
sir," I replied. "I'll have to check the Code of Federal Regulations.
That would be CFR 36. I'm not real clear on just what the law is
regarding flatulence, but I'll be glad to find out."
His wife shrieked again and ran out the front door and he was right behind her.
and Outside and to the left (Where s the bathroom?).
Most
of the tourists looked the same... a lot of polyester and doubleknit
shirts out there. But when this one particular visitor shuffled through
the double plate glass doors, I sensed instantly that my day was about
to be changed. The man stood barely five and a half feet tall (at 5'8"
I towered over the little fella), and he sported a scraggly, fiery red
beard that actually made him look more elf-like than ferocious. But
mostly, I noticed his pack. His pack, a giant red nylon monstrosity
with about thirty zippered compartments clinging to every square inch
of it, towered over all of us. It barely cleared the doorway as he
passed through. Red beard headed directly for the information county
and me.
Meanwhile,
a gentleman and his wife had approached me for information and advice.
They had hoped to see 13 national parks in six days and there wasn't a
moment to lose. They figured they had about 90 minutes to devote to the
Arches and they wanted me to budget their precious time for them. The
man with the red beard and enormous pack muscled his way beside them,
eager to ask a question of his own.
But
the couple was not about to leave. Stylishly attired in his and her
matching Mickey and Minnie Mouse royal blue, zippered, jumpsuits, the
man asked about the condition of the road.
"Not that it matters," he explained. "Our motorhome may be 36 feet long, but it can go darn near anywhere."
Suddenly a muffled explosion split the
The
air cleared, so to speak, and activity in the visitor center resumed a
semblance of normalcy. My gaseous friend remained standing by the
counter.
"Well,
I must say," he began, "you Yanks are a bit sensitive at times. And
what was that bloody costume they had on? Do you people always dress in
pairs?"
"We Americans are truly a diverse people," I explained, "as well as sensitive.....
and who might you be?"
"Geoffrey Woods. Call me Jeff... I'm hitching around the world, and I thought I'd drop in for a few directions."
Jeff
was looking for Canyonlands National Park. He planned on taking an
extensive backpacking trip, he said, and also wanted to spend some time
on the river. I showed him the maps, which he studied at length, and
gave him the names of some rangers at Canyonlands that could help him,
if he needed any. We shook hands and he said goodbye.
And
that was that. I told a few of my friends about the incident with Jeff
and Mickey and Minnie, but it soon faded from my memory. A couple weeks
later, I left Moab for a trip to the Maze District of Canyonlands. I'd
managed to put five days of annual leave together and I wanted to see
this stone labyrinth first hand, after only reading about it for so
many years.
Although
the Maze itself is only forty miles southwest of Moab, as the crow
flies, the rest of us have to take a more circuitous route. Just to
reach the Hans Flat Ranger Station, you have to travel north on US 191
to Crescent Jet (30 miles), then west on I-
conversation
in half. Minnie, with a look of absolute horror, buried her face in her
hands and turned away. Her husband, angry and offended, turned to the
hairy elf next to him and confronted him — man to man.
"Excuse me!" he said with self-righteous indignation, "But you farted in front of my wife!"
"I'm terribly sorry," the accused replied with British aplomb, "but I didn't know it was her turn."
70
past Green River to the junction with State Route 24 (36 miles), then
south on SR 24 to the junction with a dirt road (26 miles), then 60
miles east on a sandy, washboard dirt track that leads to Hans Flat and
beyond. The plan was to meet my friend Mike Salamacha, a seasonal at
the Maze, and stay the night at the Hans Flat residence. The next day,
we planned to head downcountry.
After
a long dusty ride from the pavement, I reached Hans Flat at sunset,
just ahead of a wicked thunderstorm that was moving in from the
southwest. I found
"Renny Russell's Rock Me on the Water is
at its heart courageous. To return to the same power of nature that
took his brother thirty years previous—to be with it, to confront it,
to take solace in it, and to be inspired and healed by it—is remarkable
in itself. His book is, as well, a testament to the evocative rhythms
of the wilds. In this complicated dance, this profoundly personal
journey, Renny Russell also gives us an amazingly spirited tour of one
of the truly great landscapes of the American West and a keen
understanding of its power to shape a life."
From Renny Russell, the author of...
Robert Redford
order signed copies at:
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