"BUMMER 'BOUT THEM BLISTERS"
Just a few weeks ago, I heard the shriek and echo of sirens and knew that Allen Memorial Hospital's emergency room was about to accept its first injured mountain biker of 2002. (He took a spill on the Slickrock Bike Trail.) As I understand tradition, this incident officially kicks off the Big 2002 Post-Olympic Tourist Season in Moab and I just couldn't be more excited.
I know that in years past, I have been less than thrilled to see the return of Spring and the tourist hordes. In fact, I have been downright unpleasant about it, causing some people to wonder if perhaps I would be happier living somewhere else. Some people have even suggested it. And it is still true that I have toyed with the idea of abandoning this hectic life for the serenity and simplicity of a place called Funafuti, where the tourist trade is non-existent and the water is unsafe to drink, where, instead, the native population depends on fresh coconut milk for their liquid nourishment. A paradise where its people have celebrations called fiafias in thatched pavilions called falafones.
But as many of you know, and as Moab's resident genius Lance Christie has confirmed, Funafuti is sinking into the Pacific Ocean. One of the planet's first victims of Global Warming. Yeesh.
But actually, I've been trying, as of late, to be a better citizen, and a more benevolent host to our tourist friends. Grace under pressure...that's it! I'm making this my own personal goal for 2002. I'm just sitting here waiting for the medication to kick in...
(Do any of you believe this drivel?)
But do I really have what it takes to be--what did we call it-- a Super Host? Do I have that kind of patience? After all those years in the Park Service, answering dumb questions and directing tourists to the nearest toilet ("outside and to the left"), could I ever go back to that life? Consider the following incident which I absolutely promise and affirm did happen to me a couple of weeks ago.
I was driving down First North on my way to the post office one day to see if I'd received any love letters when I noticed a man walking across the street in front of me. He was moving slowly, almost shuffling, as the young gentleman crossed my lane from the left.
He was not inside a crosswalk of any kind and it would have been within my legal rights to run over him, but, what the heck, I figured...what's the rush? I'm in a magnanimous mood. So I braked to let the guy pass by.
The man was perhaps in his early 20s, tall and skinny--despite his elastic lycra digs, he still had the Droopy Butt Look. And he was trying to grow a beard with dubious if not embarrassing effect.
He looked sort of wound up. As I braked, he raised his right hand to me like a traffic cop might gesture to an oncoming auto, and stepped slowly past my front bumper. But instead of proceeding to the other side of the street, my new friend came around to the side of my car, reached for the handle and opened the passenger door.
"Hey Dude, " he said, "like my feet are killing me...Could you give me a ride?"
I'd never laid eyes on this man in my life.
"Uh...well, I'm only going as far as the post office," I explained a little uneasily. The young gentleman was already moving things off the passenger seat so he could climb in. "So like I have these blisters on my feet, dude, and I need a ride to the bike shop," he explained.
"Oh I see," I replied, and would have offered to drive him there anyway, but by now he was already in the car. He slammed the door and just pointed as if to say, "Let's go."
I drove down First North, past my original destination and turned left on Main.
"So where are you from?" I asked, just to make conversation.
"Indiana, dude. I hate these blisters. Like...do you have any moleskin?"
"Well...no," I said. "I don't usually travel with moleskin."
"Bummer," he said.
"So Indiana?" I repeated, trying to lessen the blow of not having any moleskin. "I'm originally from Kentucky," I explained, trying to find common ground with this visitor to our area...trying to be a good Super Host. "In fact, I'm a Kentucky Colonel. I bribed a judge in Lexington and he called the governor. Now I smoke like a chimney, drink a lot of mint juleps and wear seer sucker suits to the track."
"Far out," he sighed wearily. I think he was still bummed about moleskin...We drove on.
I pulled up to the front door of the bike shop and stopped near the door. "My bike's in the back, dude...I can probably walk the rest of the way."
I smiled pleasantly.
He turned to open the door and...how can I put this to the sensitive ears of my readership? He broke wind. I'm not making this up. The dude farted, slammed the door and walked away; I stomped on the gas, rolled down all the windows and went back to the office. I even forgot to go to the post office, which was my destination in the first place. The memory of our encounter lingered for hours.
Later, I thought maybe it was his way of saying thanks. After all, the Romans burped to show their appreciation of a good meal. Perhaps Indiana Hoosiers express gratitude in a similar way.
In any event, when I could breathe again, I knew that my attitude had improved considerably since this time last year. But why? Why have I rehabilitated myself like this? Is it because there's such a unified feeling in America right now? Is it because no one has proposed to build a third tram? Is it because I feel safe at night, knowing that there are dedicated Moabites out there somewhere trying to "kickstart our economy?"
Nope. It's because, after living in this town for all these years, I've just gone completely mad.
THE SECRET PLACES
What makes anything special? It's not just its beauty.
Dandelions are beautiful, but most people despise them. If dandelions only grew along the rugged shoreline of a remote and distant island off the coast of Newfoundland, the little yellow weed would be cherished and revered by people world-wide for its delicate beauty and perfect symmetry. Picking them would be a crime. We would celebrate Dandelion Appreciation Day.
But because they are so prolific, most humans only tolerate them at best, and millions spend countless dollars and endless hours digging them up and pouring poison all over their lovely golden petals.
I think it's the uniqueness of the place and the experience that gives it a special feeling. In Nature, what often provides that uniqueness is its remote and unknown (to most) location. In a land of 285 million humans, those Secret Places are dwindling at a rate that is difficult for many to fathom. For those of us who have lived here for 20 years or more, there was an assumption that most of these desert gems could depend on their remoteness for protection far more than any wilderness designation or government legislation might. Simply leaving them alone was the greatest gift to them. And not talking about it.
When I was a seasonal at Arches, my fellow rangers and I understood and practiced this maxim. Once, during my first season at the park, my good friend Kay Forsythe came by the Devils Garden trailer after a backcountry patrol, hot, sweaty and tired, but exhilarated from her long day in the canyons.
"Any chance I could get something cold to drink from you guys?" she pleaded. "I'm parched."
"Sure," we said. "Come on in."
Kay settled into one of our rat infested, smelly "seasonal furniture" chairs and Roger handed her a tall tumbler of iced tea.
"Where'd you go?" I asked.
Kay grinned. "I think I found a new granary. In fact, I'm sure of it. Even Epperson's never heard of it."
"Jerry's been all over the park since he became chief ranger," I said. "If he doesn't know about it, you're probably right...where is it?"
She stared at me for a long moment and drew another long gulp. "How hot was it today?"
"Not too bad. 101, I think. Kay..."
She held up her hand like a traffic cop at a busy intersection as she coaxed the last drop of tea from the glass. Then she looked at me and said, "I'm not telling."
"You're not telling? Not anybody?"
"Nobody."
"Well how do you know that Epperson hasn't seen it?"
"I don't for sure...I asked him if he knew where there were granaries in the park and he said he only knew of one. I asked him where it was and all he would do is point vaguely at the park map. But he pointed over here and mine...," she hesitated for a minute as she stared at our park map. "...Mine is sort of over here. That's all I'll tell you."
I gazed at the topo and nodded. "Well, that narrows it down to about 25,000 acres. You're all heart."
But I knew she was right.
Kay said, "Someday you'll thank me for this. If you ever do stumble upon it on your own, it'll mean a lot more."
Seven years later, on another scorching summer afternoon, I was "sort of over here," and there, under an overhang, miles from where I once imagined it might be, I found the mystery granary. There was no sign of recent human visitation. As far as I know, it still remains one of the Secret Places.
But for how long? And if it becomes just another part of the commercial tour, if it's just another snapshot along the way, hasn't it been diminished in some way?
I still recall the sad saga of Antelope Canyon. Mentioning it by name now doesn't cause me to flinch a muscle. It's too late now--it's become yet another in a long line of "sacrifice areas," but 25 years ago, I first saw a photo of this wondrous place on a calendar. I was relieved to see that the photo caption only identified the location as "a slot canyon on the Colorado Plateau." This was not long after my learning experience with Kay and I made a vow to myself that I would never even try to find the canyon. That would be my contribution to its survival.
But a couple years passed and it began to show up in other calendars, now with a name attached to it, and I asked a ranger friend of mine who worked at North Rim. "Sure," he said. "Antelope Canyon...That's the slot canyon near _____." (I still can't bring myself to reveal the name of the town.)
I shook my head. "Is it seeing much use?"
"Yeah," he said. "More than it can handle, I'm afraid."
Years passed and I continued to see photographs and descriptions in various publications--you know what I mean--the Outside Magazine-esque "How to get there. What to wear. What you'll see" filler stories that magazines like that make their money on. Good old Outside and their eye-catching cover stories: "Utah's Best Kept Secrets."
Right. But not for long, eh guys?
Then, in 1995, heading home from Death Valley, I saw the sign by the side of the road:
ANTELOPE CANYON GUIDED TOURS.
STOP NOW!
NEXT TOUR LEAVES IN ONE HOUR
Finally, watching television in a Motel 6 a few months later, Antelope Canyon made its network premier in a Zantac 75 commercial for acid indigestion. What connection this other-worldly crack in the rock had to a stomach ache remedy still bewilders me. But after I watched the commercial I needed several of the little pink pills.
It doesn't take a lot of human effort to cheapen something sacred. More often than not, the degradation is unintentional. And unnoticed by the trespassers. The Secret Places are going fast and for the Next Generation maybe it doesn't even matter. But it should, because without them we are a diminished people. The rocks don't really give a damn what we do to them. Whether we honor them or whether we treat them like a product to be packaged, marketed, and sold...that's our choice.
