By Jerry Mack Grubbs
From the title of this article you might surmise that I am referring to the color of the lawn, the color of money, or even the color of my old ’65 Volkswagen. Could it be about the lawn that isn’t green enough to suit my wife? Could it be about a friend who didn’t know the definition of what’s enough green when it came to the subject of money? Or maybe it will be about one of my adventures in the green Volkswagen bug that I purchased while I was in college. But today the subject of the color green isn’t about lawns, money or automobiles. It’s about the beauties of nature. If you haven’t taken a drive into the mountains to enjoy the changing of the season as evidenced by the colorful fall leaves you have missed a treat. And for those of you who live in Utah it may already be too late to see the flaming burnt orange colors which are the first to wither and fall to the ground.
I took a journey all along our mountain range this week to enjoy these pleasing-to-the-eye sights. In the past I have shared such experiences with some of you and on occasion I have gone all alone. This fall part of the trip wasn’t alone. My hiking partner was dubious in the beginning. We met at the parking lot where the asphalt narrowed to two lanes. She assumed we would be taking a leisurely ride. “Would you like to take a hike?” I asked. “Sure,” she said, with a little hesitancy in her voice. I pulled my hiking boots from my overnight bag, slipped them on and began to lace them up. “You’re serious aren’t you,” she said. “Yep,” I replied. Looking down and seeing that she was only wearing sandals, I said, “Did you bring hiking boots?” “No but I’ll be just fine,” she replied.
I slid a water bottle into my back pocket and we locked our cars and headed up the trail. Actually there was no trail. We were cutting our way towards a bluff overlooking the valley that we knew would give us a fantastic view of the world below. This wasn’t virgin land we were hiking in or in other words, others had been here before us. Once in a while we would come across a beer can carelessly tossed on the ground. Leaving this land a better place than we found it was one of our goals so I stomped the cans flat and we carried them along with us. We even found a plastic sign advertising a Cadillac dealership. “Do you know how this got here?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “By helium filled balloons,” I said as I pointed out the frayed remains of four balloons tied to blue ribbons and attached to the plastic sign. I wondered if anyone had stumbled onto one of my messages attached to helium balloons and thought of it as just litter. Hopefully the unsuspecting hiker who one day stumbled on my writings would find them more interesting than a sign advertising a Cadillac car.
As we climbed higher and higher the vistas became breathtaking. As I had done many times before I began to appreciate the color green. Can you imagine how tired you would get if all the green trees and grass were suddenly changed to pink or orange or yellow. True, each of these colors can take your breath away but a steady summer diet of them would soon grow tiresome. The contrast between the colors is what makes it such a beautiful sight; green as the base with the rainbow of fall colors sprinkled across the mountainside.
“Did you bring a camera?” she asked. “Yes,” I said, “the camera with the lens called my eye.” My internal camera has stored not only the beauty of nature in the fall but also the people that I have had the pleasure to share these experiences with. Some bends in the winding curves of these narrow two-lane roads that weave up through the high-mountain valleys actually bring back memories of people I have shared these sight-seeing trips with in the past. I even remember some of the conversations we shared as we inhaled the bursting colors of fall on our vision through the front windshield. I suppose that half the pleasure of the journey is the company that we invite along for the ride.
But today we were on foot. The going was steep and deeply forested. I had been here before but she hadn’t. She exhibited an unspoken level of trust in me that wasn’t deserved. Just because I had hiked this mountain before didn’t mean that I was capable of overcoming any obstacle or unforeseen emergency. Suddenly there was a crashing sound in the trees near us. “What was that?” she asked, with a worried voice. “It was an elk or moose but don’t worry, it was moving downhill away from us,” I said. “How do you know it wasn’t a mountain lion?” she asked. “If it was a mountain lion, you would have never heard it,” I replied. Suddenly it was important for her to know if I had my gun with me.
As we hiked we talked of family, friends, and the events that crowd our lives and yet, from time to time the conversation would stop abruptly and our breath would once more be taken away as we examined the results of nature’s paint brush. As we reached the summit, we stood upon what seemed to be the top of the world. As far as we could see in all directions laid the handiwork of something larger than all of us combined. These vistas were here long before the Indians inhabited these lands. The view from this summit was here before early fur trappers, pioneers, and later settlers came to claim the land as their own. Whether privately owned, state controlled or federally claimed, today, this moment in time, this land belonged to us. At least the view that my camera lens absorbed and recorded in my memory would always be mine. Just like the memories of previous trips that rest comfortably tucked away but not hidden too deep. Not too deep because I can roll them out and examine those memories as I would a parchment or scroll and retrace the details of my past.
Heading back down the mountain I felt light on my feet. I had been fed by nature’s honey. Suddenly my hiking partner exclaimed, “The seat of my pants has a tare in it. Did you know that all along?” she asked. “No, I hadn’t noticed,” I said. “I’ve been looking up most of the time.” We laughed, we talked, we shared experiences that we thought one another would enjoy hearing about. But something down deep inside of us brought a calm stillness that can only be explained by someone who had seen what we had seen on top of that summit. I wish you had been there with us so that my memory would have included you. Selfish of me, isn’t it. But I only wanted you to see what I saw, experience what I felt, taste nature’s honey with me. Color it green; color it the rainbow of autumn leaves as they turn as bright as a new blushing bride. Whether it is blue sky, white clouds and green trees or the pinks, yellows and reds of fall, it is all brighter when shared with the ones we love. Isn’t that what love is?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
All But One
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
My occupation involves discouraging migratory waterfowl from landing on toxic water. These migratory birds fly at twelve to fifteen thousand feet. They travel from as far as the North West Territories of Canada to Mexico where they spend the winter months. Then as the ice comes off the northern waters, they take flight and head back to those fresh, clear, fish filled lakes where they were born. As the birds grow weary from flight during the migration they begin to descend in altitude to look for a place to rest, drink and feed in order to restore their energy. Today I counted forty-seven Canada geese as they approached a pond that I was doing service work on. Or rather, the radar counted forty-seven targets. The radar picked them up long before I could see them. As the flock grew closer I went outside the radar trailer and watched as they circled into the wind to land.
The strobe lights flashed, the loud speakers squawked, and the manikin falcons flapped their wings just like the hazing system is designed to do. Although the geese had set their wings in preparation for landing, when the system activated, those energy-depleted birds aborted their landing and with much exertion changed their plans and flew on. Laboring to gain altitude, the geese gradually established formation and continued north-bound. They don’t fly in a “V” formation just because it looks good or the lead bird is the only one who knows the way home. The lead position is rotated and each member of the flock gets a chance or responsibility to fly at the point of the “V”. They rotate because the lead bird does a third more work than the others. Each bird trailing just behind and off to the side of the bird ahead receives what is called “free lift” from the downward thrust of the wings of the bird directly in front of it.
Watching the geese was like watching a graceful dance in the sky. If I believed in reincarnation, I would want one of my return trips to earth to be as a bird. The peaceful witnessing their flight was shattered by one lone goose that was struggling to form up with the rest of the flock. One bird was too exhausted to continue on. It aborted its initial landing and labored to join the others but it never gained more than a few feet of altitude off the water. As the goose approached the far end of the pond it gave up and landed in the toxic water. If it was too weak to continue on with the flock, it would never leave that poison water without help.
I abandoned my work, slipped on my life jacket and took Uncle Buck down to the water’s edge. Uncle Buck is the name I call my work boat. For the next two hours I chased that goose around the pond. I didn’t have a net with me to scoop it up so I had to get close enough to grab it with my hands. I knew that chasing the bird would only add to its exhaustion and lessen its chance of survival. I also knew that without help it had no chance of staying alive.
Eventually I was successful in getting the goose into the boat. It didn’t want to be there so I had to hold it down on the floor with one hand while I tried to steer the boat with the other. Once I got to shore I took the goose up to the maintenance shop and washed its feathers in warm soapy water. Soap strips the oil from the feathers and leaves a bird vulnerable but soap must be used to remove the harsh chemicals from the bird’s body.
The environmental officer at the coal fired electrical power plant where I was working said, “I hope you don’t plan to charge us for the half a day you wasted getting that bird out of the pond? We’re allowed a certain number of bird mortalities with your BirdAvert system in place you know.” “I’ve decided to charge the bird,” I said. Ignoring my response, he said, “The system saved all but one and that’s good enough for us,” I suppose you are right unless you are the one left behind,” I said. “It’s just a duck,” he snapped.
There has been someone there to help me when I was tired and hungry and couldn’t seem to find the energy to go on. I’m glad that that someone didn’t shrug their shoulders and say, “He’s just a duck,” or say, “I would stop and help but there is no way he could ever repay me.” The goose didn’t leave a forwarding address so it will be difficult to find where to send the bill for getting him out of the pond. It doesn’t matter. I was paid in full when, after a couple of hours of drying, I took the goose out of the makeshift cage and watched it fly up, circle to obtain its bearings and head north, hopefully to catch up with the other forty-six birds.
Catching up will be difficult because this straggler goose will have no bird ahead of it providing additional lift like we talked about. It will be as though it is flying lead position in the “V” for the entire journey until it catches up with the flock. Catching up isn’t likely. It has a better chance of forming up with another flock. Before you get too teary eyed thinking about the fact that geese mate for life, remember two things: first, if that goose had a mate in the flock it would have circled back, landed and remained with it’s partner until it was ready to move on or died, and second, the key word is mate “for life,” or “until death do you part.” Sound familiar?
My occupation involves discouraging migratory waterfowl from landing on toxic water. These migratory birds fly at twelve to fifteen thousand feet. They travel from as far as the North West Territories of Canada to Mexico where they spend the winter months. Then as the ice comes off the northern waters, they take flight and head back to those fresh, clear, fish filled lakes where they were born. As the birds grow weary from flight during the migration they begin to descend in altitude to look for a place to rest, drink and feed in order to restore their energy. Today I counted forty-seven Canada geese as they approached a pond that I was doing service work on. Or rather, the radar counted forty-seven targets. The radar picked them up long before I could see them. As the flock grew closer I went outside the radar trailer and watched as they circled into the wind to land.
The strobe lights flashed, the loud speakers squawked, and the manikin falcons flapped their wings just like the hazing system is designed to do. Although the geese had set their wings in preparation for landing, when the system activated, those energy-depleted birds aborted their landing and with much exertion changed their plans and flew on. Laboring to gain altitude, the geese gradually established formation and continued north-bound. They don’t fly in a “V” formation just because it looks good or the lead bird is the only one who knows the way home. The lead position is rotated and each member of the flock gets a chance or responsibility to fly at the point of the “V”. They rotate because the lead bird does a third more work than the others. Each bird trailing just behind and off to the side of the bird ahead receives what is called “free lift” from the downward thrust of the wings of the bird directly in front of it.
Watching the geese was like watching a graceful dance in the sky. If I believed in reincarnation, I would want one of my return trips to earth to be as a bird. The peaceful witnessing their flight was shattered by one lone goose that was struggling to form up with the rest of the flock. One bird was too exhausted to continue on. It aborted its initial landing and labored to join the others but it never gained more than a few feet of altitude off the water. As the goose approached the far end of the pond it gave up and landed in the toxic water. If it was too weak to continue on with the flock, it would never leave that poison water without help.
I abandoned my work, slipped on my life jacket and took Uncle Buck down to the water’s edge. Uncle Buck is the name I call my work boat. For the next two hours I chased that goose around the pond. I didn’t have a net with me to scoop it up so I had to get close enough to grab it with my hands. I knew that chasing the bird would only add to its exhaustion and lessen its chance of survival. I also knew that without help it had no chance of staying alive.
Eventually I was successful in getting the goose into the boat. It didn’t want to be there so I had to hold it down on the floor with one hand while I tried to steer the boat with the other. Once I got to shore I took the goose up to the maintenance shop and washed its feathers in warm soapy water. Soap strips the oil from the feathers and leaves a bird vulnerable but soap must be used to remove the harsh chemicals from the bird’s body.
The environmental officer at the coal fired electrical power plant where I was working said, “I hope you don’t plan to charge us for the half a day you wasted getting that bird out of the pond? We’re allowed a certain number of bird mortalities with your BirdAvert system in place you know.” “I’ve decided to charge the bird,” I said. Ignoring my response, he said, “The system saved all but one and that’s good enough for us,” I suppose you are right unless you are the one left behind,” I said. “It’s just a duck,” he snapped.
There has been someone there to help me when I was tired and hungry and couldn’t seem to find the energy to go on. I’m glad that that someone didn’t shrug their shoulders and say, “He’s just a duck,” or say, “I would stop and help but there is no way he could ever repay me.” The goose didn’t leave a forwarding address so it will be difficult to find where to send the bill for getting him out of the pond. It doesn’t matter. I was paid in full when, after a couple of hours of drying, I took the goose out of the makeshift cage and watched it fly up, circle to obtain its bearings and head north, hopefully to catch up with the other forty-six birds.
Catching up will be difficult because this straggler goose will have no bird ahead of it providing additional lift like we talked about. It will be as though it is flying lead position in the “V” for the entire journey until it catches up with the flock. Catching up isn’t likely. It has a better chance of forming up with another flock. Before you get too teary eyed thinking about the fact that geese mate for life, remember two things: first, if that goose had a mate in the flock it would have circled back, landed and remained with it’s partner until it was ready to move on or died, and second, the key word is mate “for life,” or “until death do you part.” Sound familiar?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Lacquer & Chrome
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Harold was excited to tell me about the twenty-two coats of lacquer over the jet black paint on his vintage Harley motorcycle. The deep shine of the paint reflected my image as clearly as the polished chrome that trimmed out this beautiful road machine. When I looked at Harold a little closer, I wondered why he took so much pride in his motorcycle yet took so little pride in his personal appearance.
On the knuckles of his right hand were the letters H.A.T.E. etched from a home-made tattoo. On his left knuckles were the letters L.O.V.E. printed in the same fashion. On his right arm was a tattoo of the American flag and on his left arm was a swastika of the German Reich. When I asked the significance of his tattoos he said, “I love America and I hate Nazis.” “Who are the Nazis in your life?” I asked. “Anyone who doesn’t accept me just the way I am,” answered Harold.
I was about to make a comment about Harold’s statement when his biker partner emerged from the convenience store. She had a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack of Budweiser beer. It was actually Bud Light. I don’t know the difference between Bud and Bud Light but if it has anything to do with calories, she should have made a different choice of beer. She needed all the calories she could get. This hardened biker looked like dried up leather. So that’s what years of riding in the wind and sun does to the skin. Ignoring me, she said in a harsh voice, “Scoot back Harold.” Without a word, Harold slid to the back of the bike seat while Brenda climbed aboard. I assumed her name was Brenda or she was wearing Brenda’s sleeveless leather vest because that was the name stitched across the back in red letters. So much for those images of halter tops pressed against tight firm skin as Harley motorcycles race down the highways of America. You know what I mean.
I was reminded of the time back in June when I helped my son Trevor move his family to Kentucky. I was driving the largest Penski haul-your-own-furniture rental truck that is available. It was about 10:00 in the morning and there was still chill in the air. My mind was on cruise control. I was eating my cashew nuts one at a time making sure that the can would last the entire journey. A familiar sound began to gradually bring me back to the present. It was that deep throaty rumble of a Harley pulling along side of me in the truck. As I looked down it wasn’t just one Harley but two passing by me. I took a double look because those two bikes were being ridden by young women. They both looked up at me at the same time and smiled just like the scene had been choreographed.
The bikes were black and polished to perfection. There were leather tassels attached to the ends of the raised handlebars whipping in the wind. The women’s hair was cut short and flowing back behind their heads like soft moss in a swift moving stream. The lady on the motorcycle closest to me was wearing a thin white halter top and the wind pressed the material tight enough against her body to reveal no other clothing beneath. She was traveling very light and I’m not just referring to her clothing. All she had for luggage strapped to her motorcycle was a rolled up sleeping bag.
The lady on the other bike wore a pair of cutoff blue jeans and a white tee shirt rolled up to reveal her midriff. There had to be goose bumps the size of grapes on her exposed skin from the chilly air but I couldn’t see them. She had a small backpack bungeed to the backrest of her motorcycle seat. As they moved past me I was puzzled by how skimpy they were traveling. Between the two of them they had one sleeping bag and one small backpack. They wore no helmets and no protective leather chaps in the event of a mishap. Traveling at seventy miles an hour I shuttered to think what would be their fate in an accidental slide on the asphalt.
As the two female motorcyclists moved out past me, I was thankful that they weren’t two of my loved ones out on the highways of America traveling all alone, smiling up at truck drivers as they passed. What would posses two women to wear so little, travel so fast and unprepared in the chill of the morning air? I have this old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense it’s because you don’t have all the facts.”
Before I could slide too deeply in thought along came two men on black Harleys. They were overloaded with gear; backpacks, sleeping bags, and spare helmets. Suddenly I realized that these two men who were completely covered in protective gear against the morning chill were the backup team of the ladies who just passed a few minutes earlier. The two ladies riding out front didn’t resemble Brenda but they weren’t old enough to have been biking for thirty years. Brenda probably once wore halter tops as she cruised the highways of America. Back then she was most likely riding her own bike out ahead of old Harold or some other casual partner while he hauled all the personal gear.
If those guys tagging along behind their women, carrying all the gear could see old Harold today and hear Brenda say, “Slide back Harold,” they may just take a slight detour and end up some where far far away from Millie and Mollie Motorcycle. Now those aren’t their real names. I don’t know their names, but Harold and Brenda have helped me see those young women’s wind blown, sun dried future if they continue to spend their days cruising the highways of America.
I paused to reflect on what highways I am traveling and where I will end up if I stay on the same course in life. Will I end up one day with my own version of twenty-two coats of lacquer and polished chrome as my most prized possession?
Epilogue:
Remember the old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense, you don’t have all the facts.” There is probably more to the Harold and Brenda story. Traveling along I-84 in the wide open spaces of Wyoming last year a Harley passed me with two riders. The man casually looked over and nodded as he passed. His companion also looked over, smiled and slid down the strap of her halter top and shared with me her endowment. I doubt her partner had a clue what had just taken place. Maybe that’s why Harold was riding on the back; to keep an eye on Brenda.
Harold was excited to tell me about the twenty-two coats of lacquer over the jet black paint on his vintage Harley motorcycle. The deep shine of the paint reflected my image as clearly as the polished chrome that trimmed out this beautiful road machine. When I looked at Harold a little closer, I wondered why he took so much pride in his motorcycle yet took so little pride in his personal appearance.
On the knuckles of his right hand were the letters H.A.T.E. etched from a home-made tattoo. On his left knuckles were the letters L.O.V.E. printed in the same fashion. On his right arm was a tattoo of the American flag and on his left arm was a swastika of the German Reich. When I asked the significance of his tattoos he said, “I love America and I hate Nazis.” “Who are the Nazis in your life?” I asked. “Anyone who doesn’t accept me just the way I am,” answered Harold.
I was about to make a comment about Harold’s statement when his biker partner emerged from the convenience store. She had a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack of Budweiser beer. It was actually Bud Light. I don’t know the difference between Bud and Bud Light but if it has anything to do with calories, she should have made a different choice of beer. She needed all the calories she could get. This hardened biker looked like dried up leather. So that’s what years of riding in the wind and sun does to the skin. Ignoring me, she said in a harsh voice, “Scoot back Harold.” Without a word, Harold slid to the back of the bike seat while Brenda climbed aboard. I assumed her name was Brenda or she was wearing Brenda’s sleeveless leather vest because that was the name stitched across the back in red letters. So much for those images of halter tops pressed against tight firm skin as Harley motorcycles race down the highways of America. You know what I mean.
I was reminded of the time back in June when I helped my son Trevor move his family to Kentucky. I was driving the largest Penski haul-your-own-furniture rental truck that is available. It was about 10:00 in the morning and there was still chill in the air. My mind was on cruise control. I was eating my cashew nuts one at a time making sure that the can would last the entire journey. A familiar sound began to gradually bring me back to the present. It was that deep throaty rumble of a Harley pulling along side of me in the truck. As I looked down it wasn’t just one Harley but two passing by me. I took a double look because those two bikes were being ridden by young women. They both looked up at me at the same time and smiled just like the scene had been choreographed.
The bikes were black and polished to perfection. There were leather tassels attached to the ends of the raised handlebars whipping in the wind. The women’s hair was cut short and flowing back behind their heads like soft moss in a swift moving stream. The lady on the motorcycle closest to me was wearing a thin white halter top and the wind pressed the material tight enough against her body to reveal no other clothing beneath. She was traveling very light and I’m not just referring to her clothing. All she had for luggage strapped to her motorcycle was a rolled up sleeping bag.
The lady on the other bike wore a pair of cutoff blue jeans and a white tee shirt rolled up to reveal her midriff. There had to be goose bumps the size of grapes on her exposed skin from the chilly air but I couldn’t see them. She had a small backpack bungeed to the backrest of her motorcycle seat. As they moved past me I was puzzled by how skimpy they were traveling. Between the two of them they had one sleeping bag and one small backpack. They wore no helmets and no protective leather chaps in the event of a mishap. Traveling at seventy miles an hour I shuttered to think what would be their fate in an accidental slide on the asphalt.
As the two female motorcyclists moved out past me, I was thankful that they weren’t two of my loved ones out on the highways of America traveling all alone, smiling up at truck drivers as they passed. What would posses two women to wear so little, travel so fast and unprepared in the chill of the morning air? I have this old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense it’s because you don’t have all the facts.”
Before I could slide too deeply in thought along came two men on black Harleys. They were overloaded with gear; backpacks, sleeping bags, and spare helmets. Suddenly I realized that these two men who were completely covered in protective gear against the morning chill were the backup team of the ladies who just passed a few minutes earlier. The two ladies riding out front didn’t resemble Brenda but they weren’t old enough to have been biking for thirty years. Brenda probably once wore halter tops as she cruised the highways of America. Back then she was most likely riding her own bike out ahead of old Harold or some other casual partner while he hauled all the personal gear.
If those guys tagging along behind their women, carrying all the gear could see old Harold today and hear Brenda say, “Slide back Harold,” they may just take a slight detour and end up some where far far away from Millie and Mollie Motorcycle. Now those aren’t their real names. I don’t know their names, but Harold and Brenda have helped me see those young women’s wind blown, sun dried future if they continue to spend their days cruising the highways of America.
I paused to reflect on what highways I am traveling and where I will end up if I stay on the same course in life. Will I end up one day with my own version of twenty-two coats of lacquer and polished chrome as my most prized possession?
Epilogue:
Remember the old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense, you don’t have all the facts.” There is probably more to the Harold and Brenda story. Traveling along I-84 in the wide open spaces of Wyoming last year a Harley passed me with two riders. The man casually looked over and nodded as he passed. His companion also looked over, smiled and slid down the strap of her halter top and shared with me her endowment. I doubt her partner had a clue what had just taken place. Maybe that’s why Harold was riding on the back; to keep an eye on Brenda.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Knowing What to Look For
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
We had been told that there were Indians in the region so upon entering this scarcely populated area of the Southwest, we pulled our mounts to the side of the trail, checked our ammunition, laced our holsters to our belts and continued our journey into the unknown. I call this region unknown only because I had never been here before. Have you ever gone somewhere and had the feeling that you had been there before? Well, this wasn't one of those times. I was moving into uncharted territory other than the fact that a friend had told me what to expect.
Based on those expectations I selected a five shot revolver as my sidearm just incase we ran into quarrelsome Indians. I usually carry a forty-caliber semi automatic hidden beneath a flapping shirttail but a revolver will fire under almost any condition as long as you keep your bullets dry. This world we were descending into was dusty and not an ideal place for a gun that would easily jam under such conditions; therefore, the revolver was my choice for this trip.
We began the last phase of our journey traveling on foot. The trail was steep and unforgiving to an errant step or stumble. Our mounts would have to stay tethered at the top of the canyon rim as we explored an area almost entirely forgotten by our busy world. After adjusting our backpacks and lacing our boots tight we questioned one another just to make sure that nothing of significance was being left behind. What more did I need besides a rope for safety, a camera to record our trip, a gun for protection and a good friend to share the experience? How about a little water, a headlamp in the event we were delayed beyond dark and a bulging pocket of cashew nuts for that burst of sustained energy to make the climb back out of the canyon? These items were all accounted for along with a lot of other things I won't take time to mention.
A message stenciled on the back of my brain said, "Leave only footprints and take nothing home except pictures as you visit these fragile areas of past civilizations." We weren't even leaving footprints to retrace our path as we hiked on the sandstone slickrock of southern Utah. Some geologists have referred to these slickrock formations as "wind blown and rain swept" but I think it has mostly been wind blown because there is little evidence of rain. Route finding was easy because little stacks of rocks called cairns were placed here and there to mark an otherwise invisible trail across the sandstone landscape leading down into the canyon.
My partner led the way and I lingered behind about ten feet eating cashew nuts and drinking cold orange juice as we proceeded down the trail. I might as well drink the orange juice while it is still cold. Besides, nourishment left in my pack can't give my body strength. If I'm going to carry it I might as well carry it where it will do the most good; in my stomach. Kaye, my wife and hiking partner just gave a disapproving expression when I explained my reasoning for starting my munching so early in the trip. She said nothing else and I assumed that she was following that old rule of hiking logic . . . don't criticize until it is too late for your partner to turn back. Sort of like marriage.
I was excited to finally be going to explore the Indian canyon-dwelling called Moonhouse. My only lingering mental frown was that all those I love and hold dear weren't here with me, talking, sharing, and just being together. But soon my thoughts focused on the steepness of the terrain below. I chose a crisscross method of descending the slope, cutting across the sandstone diagonally working my way down a little at a time. My partner chose the sit and slide method. She wore an expensive pair of hiking boots that were advertised as being able to cling even to moss covered granite yet she scooted her way down the slope on her backside. I passed her and came to a feature called a pour-off. That is where the rain water reaches a vertical drop and spills over the edge like a waterfall. I tied a nylon strap to a rock and dangled the end over the edge so Kaye would have something to hold onto as she negotiated the drop-off. The rest of the hike was filled with breathtaking vistas of a harsh canyon divided by a ribbon of green trees meandering along the bottom creek bank.
As we descended deeper into the canyon we were so focused on our footing and making sure that we remained on the correct path, we didn't see the Indian ruins in plain view built into the wall across the canyon from us. A feeling of slight embarrassment would grab our attention later when we climbed out of the canyon and realized that the Indian dwellings were right there in front of us all along. I was just amazed at how the dwellings blended into the landscape unless you knew what to look for. If those Indians had high powered rifles they could have picked us off like rabbits in a cage. If nothing else, they could certainly have seen us coming from a long way off.
But we continued our hike down to the canyon floor and up the other side until we came over a rise and there it was. Instantly we felt as though we were on hallowed ground. That feeling came over us even before we entered the first dwelling. Families had lived here. Children had been born in these rooms. Crops had been planted, grown and harvested in the canyon below and stored in granaries high in these crevices. Ceremonies had been preformed and burials took place as the struggle for life continued through the years. We had planned to spend an hour at the ruins but stayed four hours instead.
Ancient Indians didn't choose this place for the view or live here seeking an easy lifestyle. They most likely chose this secluded barren place for safety and peace. According to the archeologists these dwellings were constructed around 1200 A.D. and inhabited until about 1450 A.D. No one knows why they left or what happened to them. Assuming the findings of the archeologists to be correct, these people conducted the business of life for two hundred and fifty years here in this remote and unforgiving region. Like I mentioned earlier, they didn't choose this place just for the view. Why did they come here? Why did they build here? Why did they remain for two and a half centuries? Why did they eventually leave . . . leaving behind their pottery, their tools, their sleeping mats, and their history? The answers are blowing in the wind.
As we prepared to leave I pulled out my pistol and fired a five shot salute to the people of this land, a people I admire and reverence for their ability to survive in such a harsh environment. Not counting the echoes down the canyon, I was certain I heard a sixth shot. How could a five shot revolver deliver six shots? I turned and asked Kaye how many shots she heard. "I wasn't counting but I felt them all," she said, as we gathered our packs and prepared to leave this enchanted canyon where the past and the present collided. Maybe we weren't as alone as we thought. Climbing back out of the canyon we couldn't help but turn and look back across to the other side at the mud, stone and sand structures tucked under the overhangs. We were amazed that those structures hadn't been visible to our eyes as we hiked into the canyon. We just didn't know what to look for before. Maybe that is what life is about . . . knowing what to look for.
We had been told that there were Indians in the region so upon entering this scarcely populated area of the Southwest, we pulled our mounts to the side of the trail, checked our ammunition, laced our holsters to our belts and continued our journey into the unknown. I call this region unknown only because I had never been here before. Have you ever gone somewhere and had the feeling that you had been there before? Well, this wasn't one of those times. I was moving into uncharted territory other than the fact that a friend had told me what to expect.
Based on those expectations I selected a five shot revolver as my sidearm just incase we ran into quarrelsome Indians. I usually carry a forty-caliber semi automatic hidden beneath a flapping shirttail but a revolver will fire under almost any condition as long as you keep your bullets dry. This world we were descending into was dusty and not an ideal place for a gun that would easily jam under such conditions; therefore, the revolver was my choice for this trip.
We began the last phase of our journey traveling on foot. The trail was steep and unforgiving to an errant step or stumble. Our mounts would have to stay tethered at the top of the canyon rim as we explored an area almost entirely forgotten by our busy world. After adjusting our backpacks and lacing our boots tight we questioned one another just to make sure that nothing of significance was being left behind. What more did I need besides a rope for safety, a camera to record our trip, a gun for protection and a good friend to share the experience? How about a little water, a headlamp in the event we were delayed beyond dark and a bulging pocket of cashew nuts for that burst of sustained energy to make the climb back out of the canyon? These items were all accounted for along with a lot of other things I won't take time to mention.
A message stenciled on the back of my brain said, "Leave only footprints and take nothing home except pictures as you visit these fragile areas of past civilizations." We weren't even leaving footprints to retrace our path as we hiked on the sandstone slickrock of southern Utah. Some geologists have referred to these slickrock formations as "wind blown and rain swept" but I think it has mostly been wind blown because there is little evidence of rain. Route finding was easy because little stacks of rocks called cairns were placed here and there to mark an otherwise invisible trail across the sandstone landscape leading down into the canyon.
My partner led the way and I lingered behind about ten feet eating cashew nuts and drinking cold orange juice as we proceeded down the trail. I might as well drink the orange juice while it is still cold. Besides, nourishment left in my pack can't give my body strength. If I'm going to carry it I might as well carry it where it will do the most good; in my stomach. Kaye, my wife and hiking partner just gave a disapproving expression when I explained my reasoning for starting my munching so early in the trip. She said nothing else and I assumed that she was following that old rule of hiking logic . . . don't criticize until it is too late for your partner to turn back. Sort of like marriage.
I was excited to finally be going to explore the Indian canyon-dwelling called Moonhouse. My only lingering mental frown was that all those I love and hold dear weren't here with me, talking, sharing, and just being together. But soon my thoughts focused on the steepness of the terrain below. I chose a crisscross method of descending the slope, cutting across the sandstone diagonally working my way down a little at a time. My partner chose the sit and slide method. She wore an expensive pair of hiking boots that were advertised as being able to cling even to moss covered granite yet she scooted her way down the slope on her backside. I passed her and came to a feature called a pour-off. That is where the rain water reaches a vertical drop and spills over the edge like a waterfall. I tied a nylon strap to a rock and dangled the end over the edge so Kaye would have something to hold onto as she negotiated the drop-off. The rest of the hike was filled with breathtaking vistas of a harsh canyon divided by a ribbon of green trees meandering along the bottom creek bank.
As we descended deeper into the canyon we were so focused on our footing and making sure that we remained on the correct path, we didn't see the Indian ruins in plain view built into the wall across the canyon from us. A feeling of slight embarrassment would grab our attention later when we climbed out of the canyon and realized that the Indian dwellings were right there in front of us all along. I was just amazed at how the dwellings blended into the landscape unless you knew what to look for. If those Indians had high powered rifles they could have picked us off like rabbits in a cage. If nothing else, they could certainly have seen us coming from a long way off.
But we continued our hike down to the canyon floor and up the other side until we came over a rise and there it was. Instantly we felt as though we were on hallowed ground. That feeling came over us even before we entered the first dwelling. Families had lived here. Children had been born in these rooms. Crops had been planted, grown and harvested in the canyon below and stored in granaries high in these crevices. Ceremonies had been preformed and burials took place as the struggle for life continued through the years. We had planned to spend an hour at the ruins but stayed four hours instead.
Ancient Indians didn't choose this place for the view or live here seeking an easy lifestyle. They most likely chose this secluded barren place for safety and peace. According to the archeologists these dwellings were constructed around 1200 A.D. and inhabited until about 1450 A.D. No one knows why they left or what happened to them. Assuming the findings of the archeologists to be correct, these people conducted the business of life for two hundred and fifty years here in this remote and unforgiving region. Like I mentioned earlier, they didn't choose this place just for the view. Why did they come here? Why did they build here? Why did they remain for two and a half centuries? Why did they eventually leave . . . leaving behind their pottery, their tools, their sleeping mats, and their history? The answers are blowing in the wind.
As we prepared to leave I pulled out my pistol and fired a five shot salute to the people of this land, a people I admire and reverence for their ability to survive in such a harsh environment. Not counting the echoes down the canyon, I was certain I heard a sixth shot. How could a five shot revolver deliver six shots? I turned and asked Kaye how many shots she heard. "I wasn't counting but I felt them all," she said, as we gathered our packs and prepared to leave this enchanted canyon where the past and the present collided. Maybe we weren't as alone as we thought. Climbing back out of the canyon we couldn't help but turn and look back across to the other side at the mud, stone and sand structures tucked under the overhangs. We were amazed that those structures hadn't been visible to our eyes as we hiked into the canyon. We just didn't know what to look for before. Maybe that is what life is about . . . knowing what to look for.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Don't Ruin My Reputation
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
I think it was Tom Hanks in the1994 movie Forrest Gump that made the statement Stupid is as stupid does famous. I don’t like the word stupid but sometimes there just isn’t another word in the English language that does justice to some of the things we do.
The year was 1973. My son Todd was three and my daughter, Leslie was just a few months old. Our little family was gathered around the dinner table for the evening meal. We were struggling financially to pay off the debts of one of my previous adventures. In the middle of dinner I casually said that I would like to get my pilot’s license. My wife Kaye stopped eating; looked over at me and said, “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Realizing that right now might not be the most opportune time to discuss this idea; I dropped the subject and said nothing more about flying. What Kaye didn’t realize was that each day after work I had been dropping by the airport and watching planes taking off. I had been going to the airport long before Kaye came into my life. There was a small private grass runway near our home that I visited as often as mother would let me ride my bike that far. Many of my childhood dreams contained flights of fancy.
The local airport advertised sucker lessons. A sucker lesson is an introductory flight where you only paid for the gas that the plane used for your first ride into the air. From then on, grab hold of your wallet because you were going to be opening it every time you got near one of those fancy flying machines.
Whether the plane was fancy or not, flying was an expensive hobby. My first flight was in an old Piper Cherokee 140. As we climbed into the cockpit I notice that the wing had missing rivets and oil smears along the cowling of the engine. But I was hooked. Yes I was one of those suckers but I worried about those missing rivets and oil streaks on that old plane. The answer to my worries came the next day when the flight manager showed me a little 1967 Cessna 150 that was for sale. It was just what I needed. Well, I also needed a partner to help pay for this little bird of the sky. The answer to that problem came in the form of Mike Hill. Two days later we were the proud new owners of N2701S. In aviation jargon the plane’s call sign was November 2701 Sierra or for radio transmissions the abbreviated call sign was 01 Sierra. I lovingly referred to our little plane as 01 SugarBabe. I later flew 01 SugarBabe to Utah when I moved there and I still see her occasionally at the Salt Lake Airport. But I am getting too far ahead of my story.
Mike Hill and I studied for the written exam together. Well, Mike studied and I read aviation magazines. One day he informed me that he was ready to take the written exam and wanted to know if I desired to tag along. I agreed. Once at the testing center I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to see if I could pass the test without studying. A score of 70 was required to pass the exam and I suppose I was fortunate to only make 67. Had I scored 70 I know that I would have never cracked the books and burned those concepts into my brain.
Next came the actual flight training. I had the misfortune to pick a teacher who just received his instructor’s license. I was his very first student. I think he was more nervous than I was. Or maybe I was too naive to be nervous. We flew hour after hour and each lesson I would ask when I would get to solo (fly the plane all alone). He would put me off by saying something like maybe next time. To me next time seemed like it would never come.
In frustration one day I finally said, “If you don’t let me solo today, I am going to fire you as my flight instructor. I don’t care how many hours we fly or how many landings we practice, when the sun goes down if I haven’t flown this plane solo, tomorrow I will start looking for a new teacher.” “You can’t intimidate me to send you into the air all alone before I think you are ready,” said my instructor. “I’m not trying to intimidate you, I’m telling you what you need to do if you want to keep your job as my instructor,” I said.
I did solo that day. I think my instructor was more frightened than I was. After multiple landings he told me to bring the plane to a stop. My instructor opened the door of the plane, stepped out and said, “Don’t ruin my reputation.” I was scared and excited at the same time. Singing at the top of my lungs I pushed in the throttle and away I went. From there I went on to get my private pilot license which meant it was legal for me to entice other people to squeeze into the tiny cockpit and put their lives at risk.
On the day that I got my license I called Kaye and told her to see if mom could watch the kids because I wanted to take her out to dinner. I failed to mention that after dinner I was going to take her for a night flight over the city in our airplane. We went to dinner. We flew over the city. The lights were beautiful. But by the time we got home I knew that this was a very stupid idea. Well, I knew it was wrong from the start but remember, stupid is as stupid does.
Have you ever heard the saying I can forgive but I will never forget? I somehow knew that tonight would be one of those events. She didn’t blackmail me. She didn’t threaten me. It’s like she has a hidden card that can be drawn out of her back pocket and played at any time. It would be okay if the card could only be played once and it would be all over but that isn’t the case. After the card is played it is put back into the pocket and the game can begin all over again.
If you are stupid enough to buy a plane and learn to fly without telling your wife, don’t expect her to congratulate you on your accomplishment.
I think it was Tom Hanks in the1994 movie Forrest Gump that made the statement Stupid is as stupid does famous. I don’t like the word stupid but sometimes there just isn’t another word in the English language that does justice to some of the things we do.
The year was 1973. My son Todd was three and my daughter, Leslie was just a few months old. Our little family was gathered around the dinner table for the evening meal. We were struggling financially to pay off the debts of one of my previous adventures. In the middle of dinner I casually said that I would like to get my pilot’s license. My wife Kaye stopped eating; looked over at me and said, “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Realizing that right now might not be the most opportune time to discuss this idea; I dropped the subject and said nothing more about flying. What Kaye didn’t realize was that each day after work I had been dropping by the airport and watching planes taking off. I had been going to the airport long before Kaye came into my life. There was a small private grass runway near our home that I visited as often as mother would let me ride my bike that far. Many of my childhood dreams contained flights of fancy.
The local airport advertised sucker lessons. A sucker lesson is an introductory flight where you only paid for the gas that the plane used for your first ride into the air. From then on, grab hold of your wallet because you were going to be opening it every time you got near one of those fancy flying machines.
Whether the plane was fancy or not, flying was an expensive hobby. My first flight was in an old Piper Cherokee 140. As we climbed into the cockpit I notice that the wing had missing rivets and oil smears along the cowling of the engine. But I was hooked. Yes I was one of those suckers but I worried about those missing rivets and oil streaks on that old plane. The answer to my worries came the next day when the flight manager showed me a little 1967 Cessna 150 that was for sale. It was just what I needed. Well, I also needed a partner to help pay for this little bird of the sky. The answer to that problem came in the form of Mike Hill. Two days later we were the proud new owners of N2701S. In aviation jargon the plane’s call sign was November 2701 Sierra or for radio transmissions the abbreviated call sign was 01 Sierra. I lovingly referred to our little plane as 01 SugarBabe. I later flew 01 SugarBabe to Utah when I moved there and I still see her occasionally at the Salt Lake Airport. But I am getting too far ahead of my story.
Mike Hill and I studied for the written exam together. Well, Mike studied and I read aviation magazines. One day he informed me that he was ready to take the written exam and wanted to know if I desired to tag along. I agreed. Once at the testing center I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to see if I could pass the test without studying. A score of 70 was required to pass the exam and I suppose I was fortunate to only make 67. Had I scored 70 I know that I would have never cracked the books and burned those concepts into my brain.
Next came the actual flight training. I had the misfortune to pick a teacher who just received his instructor’s license. I was his very first student. I think he was more nervous than I was. Or maybe I was too naive to be nervous. We flew hour after hour and each lesson I would ask when I would get to solo (fly the plane all alone). He would put me off by saying something like maybe next time. To me next time seemed like it would never come.
In frustration one day I finally said, “If you don’t let me solo today, I am going to fire you as my flight instructor. I don’t care how many hours we fly or how many landings we practice, when the sun goes down if I haven’t flown this plane solo, tomorrow I will start looking for a new teacher.” “You can’t intimidate me to send you into the air all alone before I think you are ready,” said my instructor. “I’m not trying to intimidate you, I’m telling you what you need to do if you want to keep your job as my instructor,” I said.
I did solo that day. I think my instructor was more frightened than I was. After multiple landings he told me to bring the plane to a stop. My instructor opened the door of the plane, stepped out and said, “Don’t ruin my reputation.” I was scared and excited at the same time. Singing at the top of my lungs I pushed in the throttle and away I went. From there I went on to get my private pilot license which meant it was legal for me to entice other people to squeeze into the tiny cockpit and put their lives at risk.
On the day that I got my license I called Kaye and told her to see if mom could watch the kids because I wanted to take her out to dinner. I failed to mention that after dinner I was going to take her for a night flight over the city in our airplane. We went to dinner. We flew over the city. The lights were beautiful. But by the time we got home I knew that this was a very stupid idea. Well, I knew it was wrong from the start but remember, stupid is as stupid does.
Have you ever heard the saying I can forgive but I will never forget? I somehow knew that tonight would be one of those events. She didn’t blackmail me. She didn’t threaten me. It’s like she has a hidden card that can be drawn out of her back pocket and played at any time. It would be okay if the card could only be played once and it would be all over but that isn’t the case. After the card is played it is put back into the pocket and the game can begin all over again.
If you are stupid enough to buy a plane and learn to fly without telling your wife, don’t expect her to congratulate you on your accomplishment.
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