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SPELUNKING the CAVE that was BURIED ALIVE: 1964…and now— Jim Stiles (ZX# 46)

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We emerged from the cornfield into a huge pasture dead ahead and a magnificent forest to our right. Just a few hundred yards in front of us, I could see several small clusters of trees, like little forested islands. In fact, I can still remember there were four of them, in a row, each one perhaps a hundred yards from the next. “You see that fourth cluster? That’s it.” Hotard said.

From a distance, it looked like nothing. I was crestfallen. I was hoping for more. “That’s it?” I asked skeptically. “Just wait,” Hotard grinned. We came to the edge of the copse of trees and sure enough, Steve was spot on. We’d come across a sink hole; it was about 100 feet wide and maybe 40 feet deep. At the very bottom of this steep but easily descended slope (we were 12), we saw a horizontal limestone ledge. It was perhaps 15 or 20 feet wide and at the opening, no more than four feet high. At the time I was barely four feet high, so I didn’t even have to bend over. Dutton was the gangly member of our spelunking team, but all he needed to do was duck a bit.

It was very much a living cave. Water was flowing through it, coming from a source north (or to the left of us). But the opening in that direction was too narrow for any of us, even me, to enter. None of us had expected the water, but we didn’t care. We turned on our flashlights, sloshed through the water in our tennis shoes, and ventured into the darkness

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TO GLUE, BLAST, PAVE & MOB DELICATE ARCH: A HISTORY —Jim Stiles (ZX#45)

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Delicate Arch…the name sounds familiar. In its online literature the National Park Service at Arches National Park calls Delicate Arch “the best known arch in the world.” In years past, the State of Utah considered the arch “so iconic” that it stamped the arch’s image on all state license plates. Visitation to Delicate Arch has recently become such an event that it is virtually impossible to experience the arch alone, or even with a small group of fellow tourists…

…As far back as the late 19th Century, ranchers and cowboys and maybe a few sheepherders had come across the arch. None of them were impressed; tourism was still an industry that had only occurred to a few. Even the uniqueness of this sandstone span failed to attract many visitors.

John Wesley Wolfe moved West from Ohio for health reasons. His doctor thought the desert air might extend his life. He and his son Fred found their way to Southeast Utah, to the Salt Wash area below the arch and established a ranch there in 1898. He built a primitive cabin and eked out a living. When his daughter Flora Stanley and her husband Ed visited him in 1907, she was appalled at the living conditions and made him build a new cabin. At some point he mentioned the arch to his daughter who made the two mile trek and is credited with the first known photo of what was then called “The School Marm’s Bloomers.” According to early Park Service reports, the arch sported a variety of nicknames, from “Pants Crotch,” to “Mary’s Bloomers, to the less colorful “Salt Wash Arch.” It most likely depended on which name the various ranchers preferred.

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JACKSON HOLE’S LAST HONEST COWBOY SUMMER: 1970 … Jim Stiles (ZX#44 )

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This was 1970, when there was a huge culture divide in America, not seen since…until now. But it was “Hippie Summer” in Jackson that year and the clash between the newcomers and the locals got pretty intense. Even Walt’s five boys called me “Hippie Jim,” though without any hint of malice. The boys stopped by regularly to see their dad and I often got to kid around with them too. But we all liked each other, regardless of hair length. That wasn’t always the case. There were numerous skirmishes between the “hard hats & the hippies,” and sometimes it got a tad ugly.

I worked the noon to 10 PM shift at Harold’s and Most of the locals waited until evening to gas up. During the day, the tourists were regular customers who also complained bitterly about the price of gas— 44.9 cents a gallon and believe it or not, that was one of the highest gas prices in the country. Still I always preferred the evening business when the ranchers and other working men stopped by.
One local was a particular favorite. His name was Tom Fortune. He was about 6 feet tall and might have weighed 130 pounds after a hard rain. His waist could not have been more than 28 inches. Tom had an agreement with Harold that he could use the bays after hours and he was a frequent visitor. Like so many ranchers, he got by on a wing and a prayer and baling wire. He had more patches than rubber on much of his farm equipment and still owned a lot of tires with split rims, which are a real pain to change. But Tom was not one to give up on a wheel or a piece of machinery if he could jury-rig it and keep it alive for a bit longer.

Tom was a man who never complained and never bragged. In fact, he just didn’t like to waste time on unnecessary conversation. One evening he came in with another flat and as he climbed out of his old truck, he was clearly injured and in pain. Tom Fortune might have only been in his late 30s but he was moving like a man twice that. I was concerned…

“Are you okay, Tom? I asked.

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UNSUNG VIDEOGRAPHERS of CANYON COUNTRY: 1949 —Ray & Virginia Garner (ZX#43)

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But my photo collections are still images. Trying to locate movie film, especially going back to the 1940s and 1950s has been almost impossible. Sometimes the best I could hope for were John Ford Westerns and one of George Stevens’ last films, “The Greatest Story Ever Told.” All the exterior scenes were shot in Glen Canyon, as the dam was being built. 

But recently, and sheerly by accident, I found the film in its entirety on the internet. It had been donated to the National Archives and though the film quality still pales by today’s standards, it is the history in these films and images that I love, more than the film quality itself. Ray and Virginia Garner started making films in the late 1930s. Ray’s first known project was a film about ascending the Grand Teton with a group of Boy Scouts in 1936. Sadly the film has been lost. But it was the beginning of an independent filmmaker career and soon, a wonderful collaboration with his new wife Virginia. Though the title of the film I’m offering here gives credit to Ray, Virginia, or “Jinny” as she was known to everyone, was not only his equal in the filming, production and presentation of what were often silent films, she was certainly more photogenic and appears often in them.  That’s’ what gives these 16mm movies such a personal feel. As I understand the story, they toured the country with their movies and at various gatherings, they would narrate the film in person as it was being shown.

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Chasing Charlie Steen & the Dream of Uranium Riche$ in 1955 — by Brett Hulen (ZX#42)

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We moved to Moab in 1955 chasing the uranium dream with a brand new 1955 Dodge Power Wagon pulling a 24′ Boles Aero travel trailer, and a 1951 Willys CJ3 with a little military jeep trailer. We initially prospected in the Circle Cliffs area where my Mother discovered a small deposit of carnotite. She was using a Geiger Counter or scintillator and watched the needle practically bend in two when it pegged out!

We moved in off the desert in the fall of 1955 when my brother Jeff and I were forced to begin school. We initially lived in the old P&W trailer park adjacent to the Apache Motel. My father Bradley also worked as a real estate broker in town and owned the old one horse Maverik gas station. As I recall he later sold it to Karl and Patsy Tangren.

My brother was working at Arches National Monument, for Bates Wilson, and was dating his daughter Cindy. As I grew up I worked at many of the surrounding ranches in Castle Valley (for the McCormicks and Shumways), Fisher Valley (D.L. Taylor had just gotten out of the Army) and lastly on the Dugout Ranch for the Redds until such a time I began to realize that the rear-end of a shapely young girl was enormously more attractive than the same afore mentioned part of a cow.

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“I Remember Christmas”–An Ancient Stiles Family Album (ZX#41)

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This is really just a personal reminiscence, and probably of little interest to most Zephyr readers. But it occurred to me recently that this is the first Christmas, where I am the only surviving member of my immediate family. My father died in 2009. My brother passed away two years ago, in December 2020, and my mother died in February at the age of 94. I’m the last Stiles standing. And of course my grandparents all left us decades ago.

While families have always managed to find something to argue about when pushed into confined places, it was certainly different for me a kid. .

When I think back on my childhood and those first ten years, it occurred to me that it was our grandparents — they were the real glue that kept the family connected. I grew up with all four of my grandparents, alive and relatively healthy, and all of them within five miles of our home. So we saw Grandma and Grandpa Montfort and Grandma and Grandpa Stiles on a regular basis. We had Sunday dinner with one or the other almost every week.

Holidays were always like family food festivals. In fact, for a decade, I would guess that Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and the 4th of July were all holidays in which attendance was mandatory. And none of us minded. We loved it.

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#2: BEFORE INSTAGRAM KILLED the POSTCARD– Classics of Salt Lake City & Vicinity (ZX#40)

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Back in August I posted Volume 1 of “How Instagram Killed the Postcard;” it featured images from the Moab area. What I did’nt expect was the response. Postcards from across the country poured in to my little PO Box on the High Plain. I love my Zephyr readers. While I can’t name everyone who sent me postcards, I need to pay special tribute to Evan Kramer of Port Orford, Oregon who sent several, including one of those multiple hand colored packets of cards titled, “Greetings from Minneapolis, Minn.” Thanks Evan! And I might have guessed—-several spectacular and especially weird hand colored cards from Greg Gnesios. One of Plymouth Rock…the other a very memorable card of older gentlemen playing shuffleboard in St. Petersburg, Florida.

This time I focus on Utah’s state capitol, Salt lake City and its many scenic wonders. And the vicinity. Some of these cards are more than 100 years old. When there were messages on the back, I’ve included the flip-side as well. I tried to enhance the print as well as possible…So here are the wonders of…SALT LAKE CITY

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“I LONGED for the WESTERN LIFE.”–HERB RINGER’S Great Adventure — Jim Stiles (ZX#39)

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NOTE: I’m posting this in the afternoon of December 11. My old friend Herb Ringer died 24 years ago today. I have shared his pictures and stories for the entire life of this publication. And I’ve written a few about my dear friend. This story combines parts of past stories and introduces some new ones as well. And more pictures, of course. He is still missed after a quarter of a century, especially by me—JS

EXCERPT:
“Herb,” I’ll ask, “Here’s a picture of you on horseback and in the next picture there’s a girl on her hands and knees under her horse. What’s that all about?”

His worn out eyes sparkle. “Yes!” he smiles, “That’s Skippy. That was in the High Sierras in about 1942. She loved her horse and the horse would do anything for her. She bet me she could sit right under it and I didn’t believe her. So she climbed down and crawled right under the horse’s front legs. So, I took a picture. And that night I bought her a steak dinner.”

I could hear Herb moving things about in his closet and a few moments later he emerged from the bed room, a manila-covered album held tenderly in his hands. He returned to his chair, a bit winded from the short trip, and then he placed the large book in my lap. It was the size and shape of a photo album but was covered with brown wrapping paper and held together with yellowed Scotch tape. I opened the binding to the first page….

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PASTOR DON FALKE BEATS THE DEVIL: My Favorite Moab Preacher —Jim Stiles (ZX#38)

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For the next five years, we Broiler People were unofficial members of Pastor Don’s “Other Congregation.” Don “held services” at the Broiler on a regular basis. “You Boys are a challenge to me…It keeps my life interesting. My initiation with Pastor Don coincided with my founding of The Zephyr and Don even contributed a few stories for the Zephyr readership, including my favorite, “Pastor Don Forgives President Clinton.”

With Don and his remarkable wife Judy, it’s the kind of friendship that can endure years without any contact, and then, when the long absence ends, it’s as if we were never apart. Anyone reading this knows exactly what I mean.

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ONLY STUPID PEOPLE WINTER CAMP: A Confession — by Jim Stiles (ZX#37)

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My buddy Tynes and I set out for Jackson, Wyoming on the 27th of December in an MGB convertible. We were 19. We battled snow and wind across the Great Plains and into Wyoming on I-80. When we exited at Rock Springs, conditions got worse. The road was snow packed for 180 miles. Near Bondurant, we struggled to put chains on the car but our hands froze after just a few moments outside the car. The MG itself provided very little respite–outside it was -37 F; INSIDE our little sports car, my thermometer read -5 F. Downright toasty if you measured things relatively. There was a small store there and though the lights were off, we knocked anyway, hoping to get a cup of coffee. A woman finally came to the door and opened it a crack. “We’re closed! Can’t you see that? Why are you out in this weather?”

“We’re trying to get to Jackson,” I replied through the blowing snow.

She looked at us like we were insane. “Do you know how cold it is? It’s 37 degrees BELOW ZERO!!!”

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