A REMARKABLE STORY
About ten years ago, some friends and I took a pack trip into Dark Canyon with Ken Sleight. It was autumn, the air was crisp and clean and the real world seemed very far away. One night, around a crackling fire, we huddled close together as the night air cooled and we talked softly through the darkness. Sitting across from me was Tom and Carolyn Cartwright--they lived outside of Moab in San Juan County and had long been two of my favorite people. They don't come any better than the Cartwrights.
Also in the group were Robert Fulghum and his wife Dr. Lynn Edwards. Earlier in the week, Dr. Lynn had saved me from certain abandonment and death when a new pair of untested hiking boots left my feet ravaged with blisters. She bandaged my dogsa tightly with mole skin and tape and so far, her doctoring had worked.
The fire began to die and the conversation waned, when Lynn, whose mother is Japanese, happened to ask Tom if he had ever been to Japan. Tom Cartwright gazed softly into the fading flames and nodded.
"When was that?" Lynn asked.
Still staring intently at the fire, Tom Cartwright replied, "July 1945...at Hiroshima."
Someone, I don't recall who, threw several large logs on the fire. This was a story we wanted to hear. It is one of the most extraordinary stories you will ever hear.
It's about war and the terrible cost of war, and courage and bravery, and ultimately about compassion and forgiveness and resolution.
But it is Tom Cartwright's story to tell, and I am honored that he has told a part of it here. In the years after that night around the campfire, he put his memories of that awful time to the printed page and last year his book, A Date With The Lonesome Lady: A Hiroshima POW Returns, was published by Eakin Press. Tom Cartwright's story begins on page 14.
SEARCHING FOR SILENCE ON THE SUMMIT
I made my 17th trip to the top of a nearby mountain last month. But who's counting? I hadn't missed a year since 1985, and then my own procrastinations and an early snow storm stymied my efforts to make the summit in 2000. I was mortified.
This year I almost failed again. I wasted much of the summer, whining about the drought and the heat, convinced that it would never rain or snow again. Plenty of time, I figured, to make the hike. But the rains came in October and as a particularly gnarly storm moved into Utah, I figured it was time to go. Now or never.
Despite rain and sleet and 80 mph winds that almost swept me off the ridge, I made it to the summit and the perfect vantage point for all those spectacular unobstructed views of the canyon country. The ascent was nothing technical or dramatic; it was simply a long hike above timberline where the air is thin and clear (if also a tad turbulent), to a place I've come to regard as my own in a way. It's difficult not to become territorial about something you love.
In another way, however, it is a meeting place for everyone who has climbed the peak. The summit provides a solitary opportunity to share thoughts and feelings during the moments spent in the brilliant isolation of 12,000 feet.
Wedged between a pile of ancient rocks is an old mailbox. Inside the box, hikers have been "signing in" on the summit register for years. In fact, until 1991, the old logs carried entries that went back almost three decades. In June of that year, however, my heart sank as I reached the summit and saw the front lid of the mailbox wide open and fluttering in the wind. I peered warily inside and saw my worst fears realized. Varmints had taken 30 years of history and chewed it into a fine mulch.
A year later, I made the same hike, and discovered that no one had replaced the register. But I came prepared with a blank spiral sketch book of my own. And so I made the first entry, noting my disappointment that the BLM had not been up there to replace it themselves. And as is my habit, my mantra, I waxed melancholy about the "sunny slopes of long ago."
Since then, hikers have filled that register book and more. I'm not sure how many have made the climb, but I never cease to be amazed by the extraordinary variety of people who find their way up this isolated Utah mountain. The entries are poignant and idiotic, serious and whimsical, compassionate and bitter. Yet we're all drawn to this high windy spot. For instance...
A young guy, I guess, had this exuberant observation to make on August 18, 1992:
"This is what it's all about. To experience the adventure. Not to experience it vicariously through the pages of a magazine. Or through the screen of a cathode ray hypnotizer. I can't stop & I won't stop looking...I don't know what I'll find. But I know it's waiting for me...Keep on searching.
"RAVE ON!"
I hope that enthusiasm never leaves him and I hope that someday he won't end his entries with "RAVE ON!" But his heart is sure in the right place. I wasn't so sure about this next kid, part of a high school outdoor course from Aspen. On August 27, Marty left this bit of brilliance in the log.
"FUNNY QUOTES..."
* I'll show you hormones.
* Hey, just look at the sunny side of the egg.
* Scratch the Lonesome Beaver
* Where is the east coast?
Marty...don't come back up here. Stay home and watch TV. Don't leave the house...we'll bring you food and beer. On the other hand, I wish other well-meaning conservationists wouldn't get so intense...
"American Wilderness...Love it or leave it! No compromise in defense of Mother Earth! Support Biodiversity! Love your Mother! Don't become one! Return the predators (This does not mean the white man!).
"Have a nice day. Peace."
Too many damn exclamation marks if you ask me! And why is the Earth always assumed to be a Mother? What kind of sexist crap is that anyway?
Next on my list is Mr. Mayer, from the Front Range of Colorado, who arrived on the summit just a few days before my return in 1993. He had a bone to pick with me...
"Mr. Stiles, Thanks for the register. However, as to your whining about the BLM not doing anything about replacing the old register, grow up and shut up. I don't believe summit registers have ever been within that agency's jurisdiction."
I get yelled at, no matter where I go. Later, I found this entry which made me feel better...
BLM PATROL...July 3, 1994
"We see no register is necessary since Mr. Stiles provided one."
Bruce Babbitt
It was nice of Bruce to take time out from being pummeled by ranchers and environmentalists to climb a mountain.
But while "Bruce" came up here to get away from people and others come looking for solitude; some come to meet people. This man left his phone number...
"My name is Bob. I am from Easton, Mass.
I am 35 years old.
Call: (215) 262-**** (I deleted the number)
And tell me your Utah experiences. I like to jaw about it."
Sounded a little like Dial-a-Date to me. I hope he found true love awaiting him at the end of a collect phone call.
By October, the reasons for being in the high country had changed for some. This fellow, a local, was looking for something to shoot at when he spotted the register box...
"I am up here deer hunting. Saw the mail box. Opened it to find this notebook. WOW! This is one crazy place for a mail box but what the hell. We are all crazy. Well got to get hunting.
"Life's Great!"
Yes it is, Shawn. But right on his heels was this genius.
"Life is great. Utah sucks. California is the best!"
Another member of an "outdoor education" group, this one from California, but from the same state of mind as our friend Marty who left his "funny quotes" for us. Yes I agree with you completely. It does suck. I advise you and your friends to return to California immediately if not sooner. Send us a card from time to time.
The only disappointment I ever find on this mountain from year to year is the way these outdoor leadership schools insist on bringing Nintendo Nerds to the top of an otherwise lonely lovely spot. Start them out with a trip to Disneyland. Send them down a water slide. Winnow out the permanently de-sensitized. A place like this should be the ultimate reward, not some kind of punishment. Half the register is filled with complaints from high school kids who wish they were at the arcade. I wish they were at the arcade too.
If it were only possible, I also wish the previous writer could have been a witness to the next observation. Does the word "abduction" come to mind?
"I am a witness to a UFO sighting. My uncle Mark and Aunt Robin woke me up about 5:20 AM and saw a bright light on the mountain east of camp. Mark ran over to tent, woke me up, and I did see the light. It was flashing red and green lights. Now I'm a firm believer in the extraterrestrials....Jason, 22 yrs. old"
I believe this guy. He had to be a fairly intelligent person because he spelled "extraterrestrials" correctly without Spellcheck.
My favorite entry was this one, recorded on May 28, 1994...
"My first time up here and since I'm only 8, I will have many more chances. It's beautiful! I brought my middle-aged parents.
Amanda, 8
Linda, 45
Alan, 58 (48)
Apparently Alan was not quite as old as Amanda thought. Despite his "middle age," let's hope he has the strength to make the climb a few more times as well.
And finally, on the last page, the familiar slogan, Abbey's prophesy, fiery words for the American West...
HAYDUKE LIVES!
Death to the Machines!
The Second Coming of the Monkey Wrench Gang
Followed by this addendum...
"Get a life. It was only a novel...sheesh. Ed Abbey put his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us. Drove cars too."
I think Abbey would have enjoyed both comments, and agreed with both sentiments as well.
After a couple of hours on top, I cinched up my pack and headed back down the mountain. It's a difficult place to leave, but a place that gives me comfort, even when I'm not there. May it always be the windswept solitary summit for those who seek and understand the true meaning of Solitude.
BETTER THAN KISSING A PIG
I've never been much of a "joiner," and have never attempted to become a member of a press association or club or submitted The Zephyr for any awards. I think I won an award once for a story I wrote for City Weekly, but I never picked up the plaque. So I was pleased and surprised when I learned that The Zephyr had received a nomination for an "Utne Independent Press Award" in the "Regional/Local" category. I've been an admirer of Utne Reader for years and it's one form of recognition that means a lot to me.
Of course, The Z is only one of 10 nominees, which range across America from The Brooklyn Rail and the L.A. Weekly, to The Texas Observer and my friends at High Country News in Paonia. Ed and Betsy Marston, who are leaving many of their duties at HCN after 20 years of dedication and hard work, can take much of the credit for that paper's success. The Marstons and I haven't always seen eye to eye on some issues facing the West, and I still think their rejection of my essay on "The Rich Weasel Factor" was a tragic mistake.
But I've never met anyone as committed and honest and sincere and energetic and passionate as Ed and Betsy. Their steady hand at High Country News will be missed.
As for the Utne deal, the last time I was nominated for anything, about ten years ago, the Moab Chamber of Commerce chose me as a candidate for its July 4th "Kiss a Pig" contest. I narrowly lost my Big Chance with a hog to County Commissioner David Knutson. What could possibly top that?
