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I became involved as a volunteer in the drug and alcohol recovery community in 1983. In the spring of 1989 I hosted a man and woman from Soviet Leningrad [now St. Petersburg] that had been freed from addiction. Coincidentally, while they were my guests, we watched the revolt in Tienanmen Square on my TV. In the 3 weeks they were here I showed them around in my plush and puff $700 1972 Cadillac. We saw treatment and detox centers, gun stores, pawn shops, porn shops, wrecking yards, Zions and Bryce National Parks, a rodeo, automatic car washes, ATM machines, Gordon B. Hinckley, delivered Chinese food, Wendover casinos, farmers markets, butcher shops, shopping malls, yard sales and other highlights that proved our wretched excess in contrast to their oppressive scarcity. We bonded. The "Perfect Moment" came in kind of a sappy "We are the World" kind of a event. We were in a municipal park with a live band. The air, light and mood was heavenly. The soloist in the band suggested holding hands and circling up. With a new friend on each hand We joined in with the singer and sang John Lennon’s "Imagine" . That’s what did it for me! I saw that fearing the evil Rooskies and Soviet domination, like all fear is temporal. A waterfall of gratitude for freedom, bounty, and love washed over us. Imagine there are no countries, It’s easy if you try. I am changed. I don’t dwell on Soviet domination, crossbows, contaminated spinach, bird flu, West Nile mosquitoes, Muslim jihadists, terror alerts, global climate change, cell phone cancer, SARS, and most other real and/or imagined threats. I prefer to concentrate on love, gratitude, beauty, kindness, hope, service and continue to have great expectations. Imagine that.
DEVIN VAUGHAN...MOAB, UTAH I was on my way back from...?.. somewhere going north on 191 a few miles past the turn off to The Needles... almost home.... and it was raining...... well not just raining.. but one of those canyonlands gully washers when you can’t hardly see to drive cause the wipers can’t keep up.... and the roaring excitement of it all is punctuated with.... with the strobe like flash and crash of constant lightning. Well I used to climb the tallest pine tree at my parents house during thunder storms when I was a kid, just to watch the show.... and you know??... they never did tell me to get down???... anyway I love thunder storms so I was in heaven and I couldn’t see to drive anyway... so I pulled off on a side road to watch the show.... there weren’t any pine trees around so I just sat in the car........ time passes , the rain slows... but the lightning keeps up a steady call and response.... and that’s when I hear this sound unlike anything I’ve heard before or since... A bit like bacon frying.... lots and lots of bacon.... or maybe like the sky was made of canvas... and God was tearing the sky apart.... and a micro second later...before I could even think, " what the....???" the tearing hicupped into a simultaneous blinding flash and kick in the chest expulsion of sound.... Followed immediately by the explosion of laughter from me.... I think I might have peed my pants a bit... But it was soooo worth it..... I was a grinnin’ idiot all the way home...... I don’t know how close it was..... but it was close.... VERY!!! Maybe even closer than that time that my hair stood on end and the tree across the street exploded and caught of fire.... but that’s another story... but this story ... this moment... for me...... was perfect!! CRISTA WORTHY...SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA When I was 9, my mother’’s friend Rosmarie, who was like my second mother, gave me some Easter Lily cactus plants. They first bloomed 20 years later, on my 29th birthday, June 3rd. The flowers last one day, and they all bloom on the same day. Every year since, they bloomed once a year, on my birthday, until 1997 when I got married and they bloomed on our wedding day, May 1st, and then AGAIN on my birthday. For the last 10 years, they bloom twice a year, on our anniversary and my birthday-unbelievable, but true. I was finally able to visit Rosmarie, who moved back to her native Switzerland, in 2005. At 75, she’’s very fit so we hiked in the Alps daily. Alone, we wandered down to an alpine lake, reflecting snow-covered peaks. Then, two elderly men ambled over, each carrying a 10-ft long alpenhorn, and began to play. They played for themselves, for the joy of it, the notes sounding sweet and long over the lake. It was your quintessential Swiss moment. Rosmarie turned to me and said, ""See, it’’s nice to know that in one place, everything is still all right with the world."" TAMMY FARMER...BEATTIEVILLE, KENTUCKY Back home there is a beautiful spot up on the hill where you can see for miles. It’s as close to heaven as you can get in Kentucky. The field is covered with tall grasses that just sort of dance with the mountain breeze and there’s just a sprinkle of daisies mixed in to give a bit of color. Early on in my life I started going to this spot any time I got mad or sad. It was my little spot away from the rest of the world, my hiding place. On a normal day in the Farmer household there was always a bit of an argument going between someone in the house. Everyone assumes we are always fighting, but through the years we figured out we must have some Italian in our blood, cause that’s just the way we acted around each other on a daily basis. If you didn’t get a good spat going with someone in the house, you just weren’t doing your duty. On one particular day, my father and I got a bit out of hand with a spat over what, I don’t even remember. He ran out the front door with a loud slam. I ran for my room and my shoes, so I could head to my favorite spot up on the mountain. It was a hot summer day and I was sweating like crazy and cursing with every step. I couldn’t wait to reach my sanctuary and just lay down on the grass and gaze up at those white puffy clouds floating over my head. I didn’t have any idea what awaited me today. I reached the high spot and there stood my father. I drew in a deep breathe and said, "What are you doing up here?" He looked at me and said, "This is where I come when I’ve got something on my mind. It feels like God lives here and I can forget all my problems here." I couldn’t help but laugh, and I guess for a moment he thought I was making fun of him. Then I said, "This is where I come when I need to find some peace". Well, then we both started laughing. He walks over and gives me a great big hug and at that point whatever we were arguing about was long gone from both our minds, and even today, I can’t recall what the argument was about. Of course through the years we have had plenty more arguments, but we always remembered where to find each other again. ROBYN SLAYTON-MARTIN...FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA A few years ago I was exiled to inland North Carolina. I stayed for an eternity: eleven months. I learned one thing—a lifelong high desert rat has no business living in a place that averages 50% humidity on a good day. I book-marked a webcam trained on the Mountain just north of Flagstaff, my hometown, and checked in daily. I googled images of southern Utah and loaded them into a slide show that played on my computer. One un-captioned image looked exactly like heaven to me. The photo, a small clear stream bordered by sandstone cliffs, prince’s plume and cottonwoods with the blue bowl of sky curving overhead brought me home to the Southwest. I fixated on the image. No caption made the real location difficult. I framed the image on my desktop and lived in it till I returned home. Some years later on a trip to Southern Utah my husband and I stopped at a random trailhead to hike. Having no agenda, we flipped a coin for direction: heads, up-trail; tails, down-trail. Heads won. Two miles later I stopped, shocked. It was an unbelievable, perfect moment. I found standing inside my desktop photo, the one that had saved my life through eleven months of gray skies and urban sprawl. I could have written about my perfect run through Three Fords Rapid on the Green, but that’s another story. LANCE CHRISTIE...MOAB, UTAH I’ve never experienced anything I recognize as a PARTICULAR "perfect moment." Philosophically, I experience all moments as perfect, even if they’re perfectly awful according to my subjective evaluation. In transcendental states, I and everybody else who reports on what happens during them say we experience the universe as "perfect" with everything connected to everything else in an unfolding divine "plan." At least that is the way it feels subjectively. As Siegel and West demonstrated at the UCLA Neuropsychiatric Institute, the hallucinatory experience and the transcendental experience are universal among members of homo sap because of the way our brains are wired. In the "individuated" (Jung), "self-actualized" (Maslow), or "enlightened" (Buddha) individual, the individual is said to experience reality on both the mundane and transcendental levels at the same time - having a sort of binocular consciousness in which the transcendant perfection in every moment is experienced even as one takes care of mundane business like keeping the cat box clean, the dishes washed, and the garbage taken out. -Lance Christie ANONYMOUS CURMUDGEON...SE UTAH Actually, now that I think about it, at dusk on the playground one day a long time ago, playing old-fashioned school-grounds softball with whoever showed up, our side was behind by two runs, two on, and I asked our pitcher, on the blacktop "mound", a short yellow stripe, to lob the ball in about chest high. There it came, just where I wanted it. I could feel the bat and ball connect throughout my entire body. The ball disappeared into the gathering dark. It seemed like a long time. I was running to first base, slowly, wondering where the ball went. Suddenly, there was the sound of something hitting the flat roof of the schoolhouse and bouncing around up there. We won. Too dark. Lost ball on the roof. That was a long time ago. Back then, that was a "Perfect Moment". DAN McCOOL...SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH Some years ago I took a University of Utah class to the Moab area to study public lands management. Half the students were from the U of U, and half were from the University of Salzburg in Austria. I had promised them a lot, and I did not want to disappoint them. The first activity on our itinerary was a hike to Delicate Arch, but we were delayed leaving town, and arrived quite late. I could sense the students’ disappointment——some of them had traveled half-way around the world--so I told them we’d just hike to the arch in the dark. It was a moonless night, and I was not sure I could actually find my way to the arch in total darkness. We literally stumbled out of the parking lot, and I could imagine the headline: ""Stupid Professor Leads Entire Class Off Cliff."" Welcome to Lemmings 101. But, with a few false turns and halting moments of confusion, we managed to make our way to the area of the arch. The last section of the trail is cut directly into the sandstone on the back side of a fin, so the arch cannot be seen until you are on top of the fin. Inching up this narrow catwalk, I convinced myself that this was one of the worst ideas I’’d ever had. Then, as a group, we reached the top of the fin and a collective gasp arose from the students as Delicate Arch came into view, lit only by starlight. The whole scene had an other-worldly, ethereal glow. I overheard one of the students say, ""This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."" I felt redeemed, and both the arch and I bathed in the glow. GREG KROLL...EL RITO, NEW MEXICO During my stint as a Peace Corps volunteer in Colombia, I lived and worked in the isolated headwaters region of the Orinoco River. There were no roads in those days. Since I have never been able to walk very well I needed to travel on horseback. I bought an old mare from the gypsies in the nearest town and flew her in a DC-3 to our rutted airstrip. Gitana and I spent our days traveling together through the still-virgin jungles and palm-shaded savannahs of that remote country. My favorite human traveling companion, the best friend I’ve ever had, was a Colombian campesino, only slightly older than my 25 years. Juán Novoa befriended me in spite of the vast differences in our backgrounds and experiences. He was grateful for my efforts to bring empowerment to his abandoned community. I was grateful for a tireless friend who received this strange American into his life. My perfect moment was the night Juán and I traveled by horseback together, hour after hour, crossing the vast savannahs under a full moon in the cool of the night. We were en route to a little thatch school I was helping to establish, and Juán accompanied me to show the way. A society of two in the moonlight, speaking softly to each other as we traveled at the pace of our horses’ gaits in a timeless landscape. For a while a tapir joined our little party, then left us to pursue other errands. The night birds called. The insects rattled. Just before dawn, we spotted the welcoming, dancing silhouette of the cooking fire through the tree-bark walls of the hut that was our destination. My perfect moment. That was long ago and far away. Juán died in an air crash soon after our journey together. They tell me there are now roads, trucks, and violence where the two of us once rode side-by-side, graced by that full moon. The tapirs have undoubtedly vanished. Yet what is undeniable is that for a few fleeting hours, life was perfect.
JUDY ROSS-MARTINEZ...MOAB, UTAH In April of 2002, my little grandson, Hunter, was four months old with an oxygen nasal cannula in his nose 24/7 because of his traumatic birth (stillborn). One day I was cuddling him while sitting on his Mom’s bed. Giving him a bottle of his Mom’s breast milk, I just talking lovingly and softly to him. Our eye contact dug deep into my solar plexis and I just told him how precious he was and how lucky we all were to have him in our lives. Then he let go of the suction of the bottle’s nipple and gave me the biggest joyful smile while just looking into my eyes. I felt, quite literally, a soul-to-soul meeting that has never lessened. He will be six on Sept. 15 this year. Each time I leave their home in NY state, he tells his Mom that "No, I’m not sad that Gram is going back to Moab because I know Gram will be coming back to see me." How is THAT for wisdom from a young child? continues on next page CHARLES MILLER...HUNTLEY, ILLINOIS May, 1955. The Perfect Moment. After visiting whatever was relatively accessible in the Arches National Monument via the haphazard roads of the era, I stayed overnight in Moab and next day used the rather recently developed road onto what I later learned was called Island in the Sky. This road, courtesy of the Atomic Energy Commission, and a branch took me ultimately to Dead Horse Point long before this spot became the touristy state park of today. The road simply ended, no parking lot, no facilities, no descriptive placards, just nature in all its glory and magnificence. I may have been the only person on the mesa, for I met no other vehicles on the roads and had the Point all to myself. The view, as we tend to say, was indescribable, in some ways more impressive than those to be seen in the Grand Canyon, probably because the geology was more immediate and free of restraining railings or other human artifacts. I couldn’t help but sit on the edge for some time, master of that view and in complete awe, seeing the results of natural forces and time which led to those splendid colors and interesting, vast, enormous rock formations. I’ve been back several times, but that Perfect Moment can never be recovered." KELLY ROBINSON...HOUSTON, TEXAS My life is full of so many amazing memories that picking out one above all the others seemed an impossible task. I decided to take a few days to mull it over, thinking about it a lot, enjoying my trip down memory lane. Should I pick the memories and friends made during the filming of Geronimo? Maybe the fun way I lived the movie Greenhorn before I was even in it. Having my own radio show ranked up there. Then there were the thousands of memories with my daughter and my family. I also considered the road trips, where inevitably we would meet someone interesting or have some crazy adventure. On the second day of trying to figure out which memory rose to the top of the pile, I woke up at my usual time of five in the morning. I was drinking my coffee and watching the news when they showed a live shot of an eclipse of the moon. It was still dark outside and the lunar eclipse could still be clearly seen. Even though my daughter no longer lives with me, she was spending the night, so I went and got her out of bed. We walked hand-in-hand into the middle of the quiet street and to answer her questions of why I had dragged her out of bed in the middle of the night, I pointed up at the orange and red moon. I’m not sure how long we stood there, staring up at the moon. I’m not even really sure at what point my daughter rested her head on my shoulder and thanked me for sharing that moment with her, but what I am sure of is that currently, that is my most precious, warm and perfect memory. Me, standing in the middle of Brighton Lane with my sleepy daughter, witnessing a colorful moon. I’m sure someday we’ll top that memory, but for now, that’s the one....Kelly Robinson CELIA ALARIO...MOAB, UTAH Sometimes it builds with a lot of "decent" or even "above average" moments that pile up, and crescendo with a "near perfect" moment at the climax. Mine’s like that:?"Moab Folk Festival 2006, final day, Moab Ball Fields. A treat for the senses. I am loving the sound of the music. Smells of grilling meats and ethnic treats wafting in from the food stalls. A moment of personal triumph in my recovery from compulsive retail therapy: I am checking out the booths, but NOT buying anything. I find a woman with a hula-hoop, she shares. I go at it for about an hour straight. Folks in the adjacent field playing Frisbee. It hits me---there’s enough people to play Frisbee Hot Box, a game of silliness. I run. Endorphins kick in (a simpler pleasure now that I am off caffeine, having been off the other sauces since Jerry Garcia died.) The tweens huddle, deciding the best way to contain me (a major force on the field at this point) is for them to jump at me simultaneously. I suddenly have one in my arms and the other hanging off my neck. I go down, tackled, into the sweet smelling grass in a blaze of absurdity. Laughter, head full of music and community and the sun on the LaSals and the Moab Rim all around me. Call me a cheap date, but it seemed "nearly perfect" at the time. And indeed, in retrospect, it still kinda does EVEN CANTOR...BOULDER, COLORADO Requesting perfect moments is an odd and interesting request... there are so many of them, from day to day even... that first cup of coffee in the morning, even lunch hour is pretty nice for us 40-hour week guys. There are moments of achievement and ego, receiving kudos and awards or floating 3-inches off the stage in a particularly nice jam session... but yes, let’s forget relative perfection and go for absolute! And since I can corroborate it photographically (will send along shortly, this evening), let me tell you about a couple of hours spent on the ridge approaching the Nublet just this last July. In the heart of Mt. Assiniboine Provincial Park (British Columbia) is a three-lake basin surrounded by huge peaks of sublime beauty, capped off by a Matterhorn like monster that wears a huge tumbling glacier like a necklace. The shortest route to this place is a 15 mile hike through endless forest and then a hump over the continental divide. We splurged and took a helicopter. On our third day in this wonderful place we hiked up the social trail that leads to the summit of Nublet, a mole-hill of a mountain that pops up in the middle of the lake basin. It may be a mole-hill, but it does get a little steep and rocky. We didn’t like the look of the track beyond the last and highest grassy ledge on the ridge, so we sat down right there and surveyed our kingdom. Above the treeline, we were also in the wind which meant that the recent hatch of mosquitoes was thwarted, for the moment. The sun shone brightly in and out of puffy clouds and the view was positively transcendent (photograph will send along shortly, this evening). The lodge was visible down by Lake Magog and there was a view to the peaks beyond Wonder Pass and Cauley Meadows, where we had hiked the day before. Lunch was delicious, a fresh ham & cheese sandwich made fresh that morning at the lodge, dried dates, gorp and an apple, spiced with a crisp mountain breeze. The company was marvelous, my wife of 20 years, our anniversary being celebrated here at altitude. Robin held up a crazy chair to make shade so I could photograph some alpine forget-me-nots. We scanned the horizon with binoculars... we slept... we lounged... I played my harmonica... we lounged some more. Not another soul came up the trail this entire time so the illusion of only-ness was complete. After two hours, we thought maybe we ought to get moving along... another half-hour later, we did. At the base of the ridge, we waded reluctantly back into mosquito-filled air. Our perfect moment was over, but it was still a good day unfolding.
DANNY ROSEN...FRUITA, COLORADO It was a good place to be, at this moment, in this universe. Life took hold on a planet that orbited a suitable star, had a crystalline moon, liquid water rivers, and gods with rocket-powered ankle boots making big music in the sky. Life really dug life, and learned how to keep the ball rolling; sometimes splitting itself in two, or sifting the wind for multiplication ingredients. Some organisms reproduced sexually, one and one coming together to make three. Life was always making. And sometimes when it rains, it pours; and the water falls over the canyon walls and the universe sings. Humans went sexual. They reveled in it, rolled in it, lollygagged in it, and growled wildly in it (retaining a vague primordial connection.) Thus sprouted Culture - with its tall buildings, elaborate display behaviors, and plastics, complete with physicists and lamas debating various essences. A segment of humans decided the purpose of Life was - to live it. Some of these happy fuckers gawked at the land and sky, walked into the wide, saw the chrysalis become butterfly. The universe fell in love with itself; walking on two legs, by the river, along the bottom of the red-walled canyons, giving thanks for having been so formed as to respond with ecstacy to the beauty and the mystery. Late at night, animated by the dance, spent on a white sand beach, with the river-roar; the universe flopped on its back, looked up into itself, through the canyon-slivered twinkling black, and fell into a perfect dream-filled sleep. Despite the fashionable worries and impending disasters, it was a great time to be alive. WAYNE HOSKISSON...MOAB, UTAH How would I know a perfect moment from an imperfect moment? Was my first backpacking trip a perfect moment? It lasted for over a week. I built my own backpack frame from hickory staves. My mother sewed the packbag from waxed canvas. We rode in the back of an old two and a half ton White truck to the south slope of the Uinta Mountains. We spent the next ten days walking through woods and meadows, across alpine tundra and over rocky passes. I remember it as perfect even though older companions told me I was whiny, slow, and too young to do the hike well. That was around 1960. I remember it well and I incorrectly remember it was perfect. It was by no means a moment. That homemade pack rests against the wall upstairs. I visit if often. But what I came to realize is that the full weight and buoyancy of my life is my perfect moment. Like everything, it is just not as perfect as I would like. Thanks, JOHN MASON...SEATTLE, WASHINGTON My first trip to Moab was in 1970. A well-traveled friend from England paid us a visit that summer and my wife and I decided that Southeastern Utah might impress him. We had not been there either, so we loaded him, our two boys and our hand-me-down camping gear in our 1959 Cadillac and set off for a long weekend tour of the red rocks. We camped the first night at arches. The campground was full. The ranger told us to find a spot in the picnic area to camp. He also said "don’t build a fire." It was the middle of July; we had no interest in a fire. We pitched our 6 x 6 canvas umbrella tent, threw our bags out on air mattresses and tried to sleep on top of the bags. It was so hot that I spent a long time sitting, leaning against a juniper tree near our tent after everyone else had gone to bed. We were camped between two slickrock fins. I could see the moonlight on the tops of the fins but nothing in the shadow of the fin about 20 yards in front of me. It got very quiet after everyone else had gone to sleep; no breeze, no bugs, I don’t even remember there being any crickets though I’m sure there must have been one. Then I heard a couple of halting steps from a hooved animal not very far away. I listened intently. A few seconds later there were a few more steps; definitely hooves on rocks coming closer; probably a small deer. But no matter how hard I stared into the blackness, I couldn’t see a thing. And the deer couldn’t see me either so it continued down the drainage that ran between the fins; not more than a dozen feet in front of me making, what seemed to me, a horrendous racket as it passed within a few feet of me in the pitch-black shadow of the rock. I didn’t move a muscle or make a sound. The deer went past me, on down the drainage and finely out of earshot. I sat there transfixed by the close encounter. Did he see me? Did he sense my presence like I felt his? I will never know; but I knew then and there that I had found special world. PEE WEE RUDD...DEVILS CANYON, UTAH
So there I sat, day after day, at the end of the road, looking down it, trying to get up the nerve, checking my coaster brakes over and over. Finally, on Day 6 maybe (?), off I went, down the steep road, foot on coaster brake, sliding on the way down, for about a city block. Then I’d turn around, walk part way, ride part way. Each time I got back on and rode back down, I did it with less sliding and less braking, until finally I had it mastered! That was one of my all-time favorite moments. LEE BRIDGERS...MOAB, UTAH I was sitting in my favorite hangout in Amsterdam, an art gallery/bar/restaurant, listening to an LP I brought into the place for the bartender to play whenever I was there. I was living nearby on a small sailboat with no electricity, so this was the only way for me to listen to recorded music at that time. I was just high enough——loose, happy, very excited over a new job with a big music publishing company in Los Angeles. I also remember that I was also truly relieved by the most recent departure of a friend who was getting on my nerves. At one point in the evening a very pretty and very sad girl sat on the bar stool beside me. When our eyes met for the first time, I asked impulsively, without a second of hesitation, ""Do you want to fall in love, get married and have kids?"" After about a half an hour we left together and have not been apart for more than two weeks since that day in early October 1972. We fell in love immediately. We got married 8 months later in North Carolina and had two kids in the next twelve years while living in San Francisco. Our daughter is now a lawyer in San Francisco, where we raised her. Our son is an accountant in North Carolina where my extended family resides. Both our children are in committed relationships at this point, carving out a life for themselves amid the fascism and folly of America in the early 21st century. Now ""empty nesters"" Miki and I live in Moab without friends or family, loners after all these years in a place where alone is really ALONE. But, we still have each other, and when we no longer have each other, well, you can have what is left. At this point in my life, it ain’’t worth a damn without her. I have had many perfect moments. I have been blessed with magic and miracles that cannot really be shared, or understood by anyone but myself. But, meet my wife, or one of our kids, and you will find proof that love at first sight can not only last a lifetime and give one a reason to live with the horrors and absurdities of this life at this pivotal point in human history, it makes damn good babies, too. The picture is of my wife, Miki, and my son, Vincent, saying goodbye the last time we saw him on his way to North Carolina to be with his new love and blood relatives. continues on next page MELINDA PRICE-WILTSHIRE...BRITISH COLUMBIA I remember a day in Baja at the end of January, 1977. I was seventeen, and I’d wandered off and found myself on the terrace of a hotel that looked like an Aztec ruin. There I was in my bare feet and ragged jean skirt, feeling the purest kind of crazy joy as I watched the spray jutting up from the rocks below. I was alone in a strange country, standing above the spot where the Pacific meets the Sea of Cortez. I had about two pesos to my name, and my friend had run off with the Mexican mob, and I felt like flying. Another perfect moment happened out in the California desert. We were driving a foolish red convertible from LA to Yuma, and decided to take a detour through the Imperial Valley. The sun had gone down, and dark was coming on quickly. I got out of the car and the sand was whipping against our tires, and all I could see were the shifting peaks and crevices of a vast dune field. The awe of that moment remained pure and untarnished, even after I learned that the place was overrun on week-ends by recreating sports-bike kids from L.A. LARRY LINDENBERGER...SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH
MARY REES...CASTLE VALLEY, UTAH The moon shone at first light As the Colorado swept its bed of sand, Gathered our verbena laced dreams, And gave the dawn Morning, There is time to wait for the sun to higher And shine brightly on the trail of goodbye To the bottom of the earth and sky, She and I wait, relaxed like pack mules, With small talk and long gaze into the day. High on Tanner beach, with waiting over, We ascend summertime’’s exposed furnace, Gentle now in spring with Phacelia, purple flowers growing on red slopes, We are moving with the rhythm Of good things coming to an end, Up into the shaded ledges in the Tapeats, The steep in the Bright Angel Shale, Where I see them waiting at the pass, Taking in the long view Across the Colorado of Lava-Chuar. Shivering, but light hearted we nourish this final cliff, Safe in the nighttime embrace of the Redwall, Suns fantastic setting scattering beauty, Light becoming sacred hues on the temples and thrones: Krishna, Wotons, Vishnu, Eternity falling off every cliff face. March 1997...Grand Canyon GARY ESCHMAN...SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO There was, what I suspect, a superlative ‘perfect moment’ in my parent’s lives. It took place in West Point, Iowa in April 1936 about four months before I was born. As the Depression was coming to an end, my father Omer Eschman, acquired a job with a road construction ‘outfit’. My mother, Evelyn, was pregnant (with me) and living with her parents in Southeastern Iowa. I was scheduled to be born at the end of July. My father wanted his wife and future new child living with him close to his jobsite in Radcliffe, Iowa, about two-hundred miles away. Therefore, he and his father-in-law, Bill Wilson, built a trailer house. (They weren’t called ‘mobile homes’ until decades later.) The trailer was constructed out of readily available materials . . . ordinary lumber, wainscotings, trailer hitch, steel-spoked wheels with pneumatic tires and a white gas Coleman stove. It was complete with three windows, electric lighting, one door, one bed and a crib attached up on the wall in anticipation of my impending arrival. This trailer was the antithesis of the modern-day McMansion. Upon completion, my grandfather and Dad hooked it up to his 1934 Chevrolet, and along with my Mom, pulled it up the Radcliffe and parked it. My parents lived there until July when my Dad drove my Mom back to her parents where I was born in July in my grandparent’s bedroom in their small house. A couple of weeks later my father came back from his work to West Point. He picked up my Mom, his new son, loaded us all up in the ‘Chevie’ and the three of us took off together to begin our future adventures as the Eschman Family. LAURA PASKUS...ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
One perfect morning in particular sticks in my mind: we’d parked at Muley Point long after dark, en route to a trip into Grand Gulch. Waking up to stone all around pocked with tinajas was one thing. Catching up to Zaffos, already awake, was another. I’ll never forge the bliss and vertigo I felt looking down on an unexpected sight –– an unexpected sight I hadn’t known was there in the dark all night: The Goosenecks of the San Juan hundreds -- thousands? -- of feet below the lip of the cliff. In the daydream version of that moment, I can spread my arms and leap –– the air rushing up from the river below cushions my jump from cliff to cliff and into the water. In the real version, I think I probably just got all teary, prompting a smirk from Zaffos.
MARK STRAKA...FISHER, ILLINOIS
Around September of his 12th year, our Shepherd-Akita mix, Jake, stopped eating for two weeks, unheard of for this stubborn bully with a bear’s appetite. His vet thought his chest x-rays suggested aggressive cancer, similar to what took his brother Barney in 1999. I asked then, "So, if he’s still alive by Thanksgiving, then it probably isn’t cancer?" The vet agreed. I proceeded to prepare every disgusting food i could imagine: liver sausage, bacon, chicken hearts. I held them to Jake’s nose. Jake tentatively took a few pieces, gradually gaining enough strength to walk again. His eyes, windows into his soul, came back to life. He started coming to the kitchen again, waiting for me to open the loaf of bread. We planned a trip to Moab, still knowing that it might be his last. Eight weeks later we were scratching and clawing up the slickrock to Corona Arch. We had to shuttle Jake up and down the Moki steps at the approach to the final bench. His nail marks remained in that rock for weeks. We had Thanksgiving together under perfect autumn skies. Jake will be 16 in January. He is retired from technical climbing but still loves bread. MIKE "THE CHIEF" RITCHIE...GUNNISON, COLORADO In Dallas, where I once lived and worked, I had a friend who, when the occasional celebrity came through - on a book tour, perhaps, or a political campaign, was in the sort of position that required him to gather together a dinner party, cocktail hour, something to somehow welcome the person to Big D, to let that person (who was surely from New York or LA) know that not every Dallasite supported, say, the death penalty or felt that black folks should neither be seen nor heard. On one such occasion, my wife and daughter, who was two-years-old at the time, had accompanied me. That was - good grief! - 28 years ago now, and I’ve seen a lot of celebrities come and go, so let me say that the evening’s guest at that party was Tom Wolfe, the progenitor of New Journalism, author of "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," "The Right Stuff," "Bonfire of The Vanities," and how many others I don’t know? Wolfe, who always dresses in white - suit, shirt, hat; even his ties are either white or soft silver and his complexion is so fair, his hair so light-blonde that, with his soft voice, he appears, if at all, almost as a ghost - was either bored or nice enough to listen to a couple of the guests - one a dashing young "liberal for Dallas" attorney (who, that evening, also wore a white suit), another an aging member of Dallas’ rather vague arts community - go on and on about civil rights or the lack of taste various rich Dallas leaders had so blatantly, and lastingly, alas, exhibited by erecting towering buildings of individual blandness that, together, resulted in Dallas’ pitiful and (I remember this word) "embarrassing" skyline. After the guests had gone, Wolfe, my friend the host, and a couple other old friends sat, having a last drink, or maybe a next-to-last, and visiting - how ‘bout them Cowboys! At one point, my daughter, Marianna, who, as I said, was two at the time, toddled over and climbed into my lap. Now, it must be said that Marianna’s mother and I spent virtually all our spare time reading to Marianna, chatting with her, watching "Sesame Street," but, still, she was hardly more than a baby. In a lull, I broke into John Masefield’s famous poem, reciting thusly: "I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by." My friends, and Wolfe, looked at me, wondering what I’d had to drink that they’d missed. Then, I said, "Who wrote that, Marianna." Without a second’s pause, she said, "John Masefield." My friends have over the years fairly regularly recalled that event, that perfect moment. And I believe, or certainly I prefer to believe, that Tom Wolfe was sufficiently impressed.
NIMA ISHAM...LIVINGSTON, MONTANA
"Can you follow me up the road to drop this dump truck off and give me a ride back?" Randy stands in my doorway. It hasn’t been a great day. I’m tired and upset to find out that my mare isn’t bred. But I load up the dogs for the evening ride and dutifully follow Randy ten miles into the foothills. On the way back, he drives. It’s a stunning full spring scene. The meadows and hills have greened up emerald, the sky glows sapphire, the air shimmers. Randy pulls off the dirt road and stops - I think to enjoy the view? But no... "There’’s a horse out there thrashing some," he says. "Let’s go check her out - she might be foaling - may be in trouble." We walk down into the pasture - cautious under and through the barb wire fences. Several horses are peacefully grazing, but this pretty, sorrel mare has struggled to her feet and is now standing apart watching us. As we approach, I can see bloody tissue hanging out of her very swollen hind end. "It’’s her water bag," Randy informs me. I keep my distance and Randy moves slowly, reassuring her. Looking her over, he seems worried. He removes his watch and hands it to me, and rolls up his sleeves. She and I are both rooted to the ground as he reaches deep into her, gropes around some and pulls out two tiny hoofs. I gasp with delight, Randy is less than thrilled, "Looks like it’’s backward. Hoofs are pointing up." We wait and watch while the pretty sorrel mare lies down again and tries pushing, but to no avail. "We’’re going to have to help her," says Randy. "You got any twine in the truck?" We walk back up to my truck to gather what supplies I may have. None, naturally. Had we come in Randy’’s truck he would have had not only several varieties of twine and rope but also ‘‘calf pullers’’ for just such an occasion. What I do have, though, are the dog leashes holding Abra and Sula down in the bed of my truck. We untie them - Sula promptly leaps from the back of the truck and takes off into the fields, racing circles of exuberance - and head back for the mare. We don’t know whose mare this is or whose land we’re on, just that we’re there to help. Randy loops a dog leash around each tiny hoof and as the mare heaves, and rolls from side to side, tries to pull the foal out. It’s not working. The mare is obviously exhausted, the foal is obviously stuck. We decide to try to walk the mare to the barns down the road, hopefully to find her owner or at least access to phones to call for help. We’d use our cells but we’re ‘‘in a pocket’’ - no reception. Randy fashions a sort of halter out of the two leashes and starts walking the mare - her foal’s legs dangling out along with part of the amniotic sac. I go back for the truck (Sula comes running) and drive down the road to meet up with Randy. At the barn complex we find a workman who gives us the owner’s phone number. Randy calls, interrupting their dinner. The conversation is calm, slow and controlled. Hi, how’re you and hate to bother you, but "Your mare’s in trouble here. You best call the vet but I think this foal’s dead already." He listens for awhile, then "I’’ll go ahead and pull it out till you get here." No drama, no panic, just another thing to deal with. On my own, I would’ve been hysterical. In the forty-five minutes it takes the owner and the vet to show up, Randy and I deliver the foal. It’s hard work as by now the mare has given up and is no longer helping us. With a final tug a perfect, flaxen maned, sorrel filly lies at our feet, still encased in the fetal sac. Her eyes are closed. Randy quickly tears away at the membranes and we both try to revive her, with me pumping at her chest and Randy trying to get her nasal passages cleared, but it’s clearly too late. She was most probably already dead before we even got there. It’s so tragic and I’m so saddened by it all, even knowing that we most likely saved the mare who we leave in the able hands the vet. We silently drive on home - it’s past nine now, the sun is setting, the beauty of our surroundings belies the sadness. Quietly Randy says, "I wish I had told my grandfather how much I loved him before he died. I should’ve thanked him for raising me." This is a part of Randy’s story I wasn’t aware of, but this was not the time to delve. "He knows," I say quietly |
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I was born in 1950 and as a youngster was trained to duck and cover
under a wooden school desk in the event of Soviet nuclear attack. The
Russians were feared as the Godless enemies that could bury us. I was
part of a federally funded Russian language class in the 4th 5th and
6th grade. We were taught to the language and to be afraid. During
the Cuban missile crisis I was convinced of Armageddon but was comforted
by my Dad. He suggested that people have been predicting the end of
the world ever since they invented the crossbow.
When
I was a wee boy of about 10, it couldn’t have been better.
We lived in the town of manitou, at the base of Pike’s Peak in
Colorado. I got my first bike then, a "Big Tires" bike. My
dad bought it used but painted it and put new grips on it and it looked
brand new. I never rode a bike so I pushed it back and forth from one
end of the dirt road to the next. Eventually, I got on and finally
began to ride it. BUT that was as far as I could go, because to go
any further, I would have to do down a very steep hill and off to the
right, half way down, it was almost straight down.
I
searched my memory and found nothing. I don’t think about
perfection, don’t strive for it and don’t expect to find
any. I don’t even like perfectionists, they seem petty and elitist
which is bad to be around. Since you gave me a few clues, I kept thinking, " golden
moments that make the BS worth it." You’re talking about
the things that inspire satisfaction and gratitude. Now that describes
how I felt when I saw that grizzly bear a few years ago. We where just
loafing in the car on a rainy day in Yellowstone when a guy came up
to the window and says "do you want to see a grizzly?" "Can
I see it from here?" "He’s coming down the valley right
now." I looked across the river and there he was lumbering through
the sagebrush like he had somewhere to go but all day to get there.
He went right by the fishermen. Passed a group of hikers with barely
a glance. If that’s what you mean, I’ve got more. Rainbows,
waterfalls, new snow, cirrus clouds, thunderstorms, large birds, hummingbirds,
flocks of birds, the colors of wildflowers, the way the color of the
sky bleeds down onto the road at the horizon. I’m already feeling
satisfied but I have one more golden moment I’d like to share,
because it’s so typical. One autumn afternoon years ago we went
up in the San Juans to paint the aspen trees. Whole mountainsides of
gold leaves dancing with the spruce, so eye catching it’s dangerous
to drive. The same wind that quakes the leaves made painting impossible,
flipping the paper, drying the paint too fast. Giving up, we settled
for a walk on the hill above town. With our hats tied down, our eyes
tearing up from the wind we were stopped speechless. The wind was stripping
the leaves from the trees and funneling them up into a spiral so high
that they disappeared into the clear blue sky. I wonder where they
came down.
A
few years back, when I was living in western Colorado, two fellow journalists
and I would frequently bust out to Utah, seeking respite
from the environmental gloom-and-doom news we were penning and feeling
eager to actually connect with the places we were covering. We’d
cut out on Friday afternoons, then drive like mad to reach Utah at
a decent hour --- okay, so Jenkins would drive like mad, and Zaffos
and I would harass him and take control of the stereo. More often than
not, we’d get to a spot long after dark, toss down our bags and
throw back enough beer to knock off the road buzz. I still miss the
murmured –– by then, often nonsensical –– conversations
we’d have, dozing off next to the fire and beneath the stars.
Its those cowboy times: