HEY: There is an “Introduction” one section back. You might want to read that first!
Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com
CHAPTER ONE
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A little whirlwind tour of the years leading up to my final departure from San Francisco:
In late 1996 I had been working in a family-style Restaurant in the Italian neighborhood of San Francisco for most of the past three years. Then I got the wanderlust again and quit so I could travel.
That wasn’t the first time I had done such a thing. I had left San Francisco several other times over the years– usually for months at a time: for Europe, for South America, for a winter in Aspen…But each time I came home I returned to the City by the Bay, as I had planned to do each time I left. Yes, like a yo-yo, I had come and gone repeatedly– from the city nearest to my heart– and all told, I had called San Francisco home for most of a dozen years. This time, however, I believed my defection would be final.
I spent the next six months rambling around Southeast Asia. I had a good time. But I came home from that voyage with a neurological virus called Guillain-Barre’ Syndrome, that brought a temporary paralysis to my hands and feet. It also affected the circulation, so my feet were icy all the time.
I had a mild case, it turned out—and thank God— but it badly hobbled me none-theless, and I had to move into my parent’s house for a few weeks while I recovered.
That house was in Belmont- the suburb of San Francisco where I had grown up. Later on I relocated to my sister’s house, in Oakland, to continue my convalescence. I was out-of-action for six weeks, all told, and it was during those weeks of recovery that I decided to move to Lake Tahoe.
Ever since I had spent a season in Aspen Colorado in the early 90s I’d wanted to live in the mountains again—to enjoy winter sports, white-water rafting, and hiking. I didn’t really want to go to Tahoe though. I wanted to go even deeper into the “West” (which meant further east, of course, if you’re in California) but I settled for Tahoe because it was as far as I dared to drive, with my still crippled fingers and my cold, clodden feet.
Having decided that, then, on a mid-May date in 1997, I drove my Buick to Tahoe City. I didn’t know anybody there, so I slept in my car each night and bathed in the public restroom while looking for housing and employment. I was looking for another waiter job, and I distributed my resumes all over the West Shore, as the greater Tahoe City area is called. Then I waited. And I waited.
Soon I found a job waiting tables at the Sunnyside Resort. That was the only offer I received, though, and it came in just as I was getting discouraged.
I worked there for most of the next four years. I call those my “Tahoe Years”.
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Those Tahoe years were punctuated only by a winter I spent in Park City. That hiatus was a mixed bag but it’s another story. The Tahoe years, on the other hand, were for most the most part outstanding– but I will breeze merrily through them, here, because they are not really the story either. What is important to note is that I prospered there, made friends, and found lots of love and respect. For the first time in my life there I ran around with a group of people and felt like I really belonged someplace. I was looked up to, also, by several people, and that was very satisfying.
The friendships endured after I left the lake. Of those friendships, though, I will mention just a few, because they will show up again in this treatment. You don’t have to remember their names, because I’ll remind you who they are. All of them started out as co-workers. There’s Sean Gomez and Erin-Kate Murphy, who were also my housemates, for a while. There’s Matt Plenge Rick Taft, and Cathy Maybury. My best friend at Tahoe deserves a mention too, even though he won’t be mentioned again, in this pages. But it is my narrative (by God), and good old Jeff Lilley deserves a mention. Oh yes: I almost forgot. I have to mention Ryan Voss.
Anyway, as much as I found respect from my co-workers at Tahoe, I was troubled by the lack of respect I seemed to compel from the Management. I told you my Tahoe years were outstanding, and that is largely true. But recalling this problem I will back off a little bit from that contention. The truth is that those years could have been even better, had that sword not hung above me.
The collective management seemed to regard me as a Peter Pan, I suspect- and perhaps they would have even been right. Perhaps that was due to my age and marital status. From a distance of years I wonder too if it wasn’t about a group dynamic aimed at a guy who never gets the girl and doesn’t even bothering trying anymore.
Yes, I have my speculations and my theories about this- and they occasionally get bitter. But for whatever reason, the managers seemed to discount me.
Nevertheless, by the time I left the Sunnyside Resort, in the Spring of 2001, I had been a Head-waiter and an Employee of the Month, and believed myself capable of being a Manager. But the lack of respect dogged me, and when some other late-tenure episodes of disrespect left me reeling, I decided that no one with healthy self-regard could allow himself to stay there. That’s enough about that too. There are so many digressions I could make, but I am struggling to keep this all reined in.
It tells you a little about me, though- and that’s the important point.
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I spent the next four months rambling around the West, as I so love to do. First I went to Moab, in the southeast part of Utah. That’s a former mining town, set amidst stunning canyon scenery, through which the Colorado River flows. Moab is now famous mostly as a mountain-biking mecca, but it was not for the mountain-biking that I went to Moab. No, it was for the river rafting. And within a short time after landing there, I had scored a river guiding job, with Tag-A-Long Expeditions. That was a close call too, be-cause I was the last person they hired that year!
So I figured on making Moab my home for a while. I envisioned it as a base from which I could explore the Colorado plateau. That could easily be a lifetime’s worth of exploring, too, for that plateau is immense. It describes a vast geography, which has been near and dear to my heart since long before I ever even saw it in the flesh. You see, I already knew it well, through all the books I’d looked at as a boy!
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Several years earlier I’d taken a white water guide school course on the Kern River in California. I had never really used it though- having gone off to Europe that summer, after I had trained.
The Kern River boasts of a lot of class 4 rapids, which are pretty exciting. Well upstream from Moab there is fierce water too- and there are some storied waters well downstream- but the Colorado River through the Moab area really is pretty tame. Class 2 waters, really. Lazy stuff. But what it lacks in excitement it compensates for in beauty, and I was content with it for the time being- figuring I’d work my way up to the bigger waters in the ensuing years. So during that hiatus in Moab—back in 2001 again now— I trained as a River-guide again- on the comparatively calm waters of that serene part of the Colorado.
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Bob Jones was the owner of Tag-a-Long, housed in a building on the northern end of town. Bob owned another building too- a ramshackle affair, just a few doors down the street. That had been a restaurant once, called “The Attic”, but it had long since fallen into disrepair. And behind that building, on an open dirt lot, Bob allowed his employees to camp out for the summer. I camped out there too.
That old restaurant sported a covered patio, where the patrons used to sit. Nobody used it anymore, though. The problem was that it was full of clutter: discarded old rafts, for example, and all manner of garbage. But it occurred to me that that patio could make a great adjunct to the camping area- if it were just cleaned out. So I took it upon myself to do that- with Bob’s blessing. It surprised me that nobody had bothered to do that before. It seemed very lazy.
Anyway it only took a couple days of concerted effort, to transform that old place. It was hard work, though, for it meant loading up Bob’s truck and hauling several hundred pounds worth of crap to the dump. But I did it, and then gave the place a good sweeping out. When I was finished, it made an excellent new addition to our employee living area. Indeed, right away the other employees started maneuvering their way in. Bob praised me for my effort, too, and I was very proud. So things started out quite rosy for me, there in Moab.
But within six weeks, things had turned sour. The heat was oppressive, for one thing- and fixing to get even hotter. Every free day I had I hunkered down in a local coffee house to take advantage of the air conditioning. Then I had a dispute with a co-worker, who was a glib Texas liar, if you ask me. He had blamed me for a safety breach on the river that he had in fact committed, and he took credit for something I had done on the river that may have saved a life. I wasn’t present when he claimed these things, but when I learned about them I marched straight to my manager Suzette to tell her the real story. Sadly, she was in no mood to listen, and refused to hear me. Her mind was already made up. That event wounded me, and made me think that if I stayed there I’d be starting out under a pallor of guilt that I did not deserve and was not allowed to address. So once again- between that and the heat- I decided I had to leave my elected home again.
The next day was overcast and a whole lot cooler, but it did not matter: I packed my van and left. On the way out I stopped to tell Bob that I was leaving. I figured I owed him that much. I didn’t tell him the whole story though- about Suzette and the liar.
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For the next two months I rambled about, finally landing in Jackson, Wyoming. I only stayed a few days, but I became smitten, and considered staying there and making it my home. I seemed to be eternally looking for a home. Sunnyside had been my home, but I had been expelled from it, I felt. Now I wanted that sort of experience again.
This time though, I was a bit more circumspect: a bit less impulsive about making such a commitment. Instead, I resolved to go back to San Francisco, reasoning that if after two weeks of being “home” the spell had not yet broken, that I would move back to Jackson for the winter. So back to SF was where I went- as I told you.
Oh yes- in Jackson I got a ticket for not having insurance. The cop pulled me over and gave me some bullshit about how my van had “swayed”, such that he thought I might have been drinking. Bah. They can claim anything, you know. But that ticket detail will take on significance later.
Instead of going back to Jackson, I ended back at the New Pisa- the family-style restaurant in the Italian section. That was the job that I opened this chapter with, that I left to go to Asia. So much for the finality of my exodus from San Francisco.
The first round at the New Pisa had proven to be a good job, which I had embraced during a difficult time of my life, and out of which much that was serendipitous emerged. It was in the vacation house of my Manager from that restaurant that I later lived in during part of my Tahoe years, for example. Also, he knew the General Manager of the Sunnyside, so his recommendation helped me to get the job there.
I still knew the menu there too, so when I went back to that glorious city by the bay yet again– after those tapped–out Tahoe years- and during the era I am currently highlighting- it seemed sensible to go by there and at least inquire about temporary waiter gigs. Well a spot was available, so I started working as a Waiter there again.
Within days the new manager Igor lauded my abilities and told me I could come back to work there full-time. I was flattered, of course. But I told him that when I left San Francisco four years before that the rents were absurd, and that during the ensuing dot-com boom they had become impossible… I said that the only way I could imagine doing it would be if Tom—the Owner—let me live on the abandoned third floor of the building. Believe it or not, Igor asked Tom and Tom okayed the arrangement. So I accepted and moved into the new Pisa. There I stayed for eighteen more months, before I pulled the plug once again.
But before I left it for the final time I was managing it- and living like a king in that long-abandoned “penthouse” above it. I refurbished it you see: I removed the dead rat and the overly-crispy Christmas tree and an enormous amount of other garbage; I scrubbed and swept and repaired the broken window and patched the walls and ceilings…and I hung pictures and draped the ceiling and furnished it with eclectica like has never been seen… the result being that I created a North beach studio to die for. The main room was 20x 24 feet with ten foot tall ceilings and south facing windows that looked right at the Transamerica Pyramid, and…
But I’m getting far a-field of those narrative restraints I pledged myself to. Suffice to say that my creation was so fine that I might have even stayed there forever, had the building not sold, thus forcing my long-since healed hands- as well as my ever-peripatetic feet to move on.
Obviously then, I didn’t go to Jackson Hole that winter. Instead I was ensnared by those pleasant circumstances for another year-and-a-half: to make another installment in my love/hate dance with that alluring city.
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In those first days of my residency above the New Pisa, I only had a few basic things in my apartment. I slept on an old couch, and perched my old television on a table next to it. Well I had only been living there for a couple nights when I woke up very early one morning and went to use the toilet. Then- as I went to crawl back into bed, I did something I cannot remember ever having done before in my life, at such an early hour: I turned on the TV. And what I saw I will never forget. Nor will anyone, I suspect, who was alive and conscious on that late summer day. It was September the 11th, 2001: the day that lives in infamy as 9-11; the day the World Trade Center was destroyed, by terrorists with airplanes!
It was not yet 7:00 in the morning, on the west coast, as a new era was ushered in for my country. Horrified and stunned by it all, I called my parents, and woke them up. The world had changed before our eyes.
Soon anthrax fears and high-anxiety followed. But they are not my story either.
All of this is just included for historical perspective.
It was in that restaurant that I met my girlfriend Melissa, one November night- just two months after the carnage of 911. I was managing, and she’d come in for a meal of lamb shanks, and a glass of wine. Well that was at a time when I was so full of confidence that I thought I could do anything. I had never felt that way before— nor since. And espying such a lovely creature sitting all alone, I walked up to her as she was eating and started talking. She talked to me too, and we had a nice conversation- but about what I no longer know. She gave me her phone number that night– so within a couple days I called her, and we met another time. Pretty soon we were an item- a couple. And for well over a year she was the light of my life. Life was very good.
She worked at a big inter-active Science museum, in San Francisco, where she was a Project Manager– which seemed like an enviable position to me. In fact she’d been involved in some very cool projects during her tenure there- and had met some amazing people. Just during the time I was with her, for example, she’d rubbed shoulders with a handful of Nobel hopefuls, as well as James Watson- of DNA fame- and Benoit Mandlebrot, the mathematician!
She was pretty, and smart, as I’ve already told you. And she was well-read, too. In fact, we’d read a lot of the same books. She was also a bit of a loner- just like me, again. In short, she was perfect for me- so I had gotten lucky.
She was 40 years old then, and I was 43. She was going through a divorce, too- so someone else’s loss was to be my gain. Yes, Melissa was a gift from God- but a gift that I disdained. I mean that I left her, after a year and a half of bliss. I told you all of that. Men. We’re stupid like that. And my stupidity was underscored—emphasized—broadcasted– by the circumstances I fell into after I left her. Sometimes I think that all this hell was just God’s punishment for having been so brazen as to have left her: that he was vengeful because had given me such a gift– and because I had shat upon it.
So like an idiot I left her. That’s all I want to say about that, though– except that I had made a huge mistake.
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For all its benefits, however, that final round at the New Pisa never felt like home. San Francisco didn’t feel that way any more, I mean. Yes, that’s closer to the truth now. And I think that’s what I’ve already said, more or less: it felt like just another stopping off place, before I found another home. I hadn’t had a home since Tahoe– and that’s the salient point. But it’s also true I am no longer certain that anyplace will ever be my home.
As time went by the siren of the outdoors sang to me again.
I was getting older, at that point, and I believed that my last chances to establish a new career were closing in on me. I never could never do the 9 to 5 job. But since I had no family to support, modest needs, and an abiding love for the outdoors, such an out- doors job seemed ideal. What was more, I enjoyed people, and relished the idea of being a guide and teacher, in some capacity. I readily saw myself doing that, when I reflected, and several people who know me well told me I’d make a good teacher. So I’d searched the horizons of my soul for a career that could provide these things, and in which– though unlikely to grow rich– I could float off into my figurative decline: my middle-aged and later years– happy, and satisfied. And that career, I decided, was to be as a River Guide. Ah– but not just to be a Guide on any old river– no: I wanted to be a Guide on the grand-daddy of all the American rivers: the Colorado- in the Grand Canyon, of course!
I knew that I could not just waltz down to Arizona and get such a job. But I had completed that white-water guide school in California several years before. I told you that. I also told you I had flitted off to Europe, the summer I had taken that, and so I didn’t fold myself into that profession when I’d had my best chance.
I sigh as I write that, because my life has been a paean to lost chances. I have lots of regrets.
Several other times after that I had resolved to go become a guide, somewhere, but each attempt became another false start, and led to another change of direction– just as it had in Moab. Maybe the truth is that I was afraid. Irrational fears have also been my bane.
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My van had gone kaput by then, so in anticipation of my final leave I bought a Subaru. It had 197,000 miles on it already, but the miles did not concern me. And since that car served me well for the next three years, my lack of concern seems to have been justified. I was very happy with it too, because for the first time in my life I had a car that had all the things I’d always wanted- and needed- in a car: four-wheel drive; intermittent wipers; headlights that go off by themselves (if you forget to turn them off); a gas-gauge that lights up when you are very low on gas (enough said there too); and a lock that discourages forgetfully locking oneself out (…). Okay- guess what some of the things I had done several times are?
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I said I might have stayed in San Francisco forever, but that cannot be the truth- for the grand adventure that the West still promised was harkening to me often, and that call of the wild was too relentless to resist. Swept away by images of river-rafting and snowboarding and the like, I finally succumbed to my hobgoblin again. Come spring, I knew I’d have to go. And I was tired of San Francisco again anyway. That’s why the sale of the restaurant made it easy to leave behind the city and the job. I could leave San Francisco again, with one more sense of finality.
As for the girl I left behind, well: Melissa was the best girlfriend I have ever had. She was loving, and feminine and smart and pretty, and I loved her too– and I should tell you now that only a crazy man would have left her. So you might undertake this narrative with justifiable suspicions that my sanity was a bit in doubt anyway, as I embarked upon my grand misadventure.
It was in December– four months before I left for the last time- that I told Melissa I would be leaving, in case you’re wondering. So do not think I sprung this on her, and then just walked out. Au contraire, I gave her several months notice. It was only right.
Ah, but the restaurant had not sold yet, then, when I made my decision. So am I telling the truth? Hmmm. Aha! I think it’s more accurate to say that I knew it would sell eventually. Yes, that’s it: I knew it was for sale, and that eventually I’d have to go…
Could I have taken Melissa with me? Maybe. Perhaps she would have even come, if I had asked. But there were other issues too: like he fact that she had a great job in San Francisco; like the fact that she was forty and didn’t want children. See, I still thought I would want some kids someday. But my excuses do not satisfy me, even as I write about them now. So perhaps a more satisfactory explanation is just that I am very dumb.
Although she was sad that I would leave her, Melissa was loving and supportive through the whole break-up. She even attended my farewell birthday party at the end of March. She gave me lovely gifts that day too, including a shiny new camera, and some pastel crayons: both intended so that I might capture the stunning landscapes I would see.
My sister Leslie had arranged that party: just a family affair, really, aside from Melissa. So my niece Chelsea and my Brother-in-law Jeff were there. My parents were there too. My mother gave me a gift that day that I still remember well: a little multi-use tool to be kept in the console in case of emergency. It had a hammerhead end that could break the window and a knife blade that could cut the seat belt too.
I am only telling you about that because I imagined myself driving off the road, into a river somewhere, and using that device to save my life. And for a long time after the events I am to tell you about I wished I had indeed driven off the road, into a river somewhere- and just died there. But that is getting too far ahead of myself.
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I felt like I owned the world when I left San Francisco on an early April day in 2003. Those of my worldly possessions that were not either in my storage locker, or in my sister’s garage in Oakland, I brought with me, packed carefully into plastic bins in the back of my Subaru wagon. They included the props of the coming lifestyle I envisioned: paints and crayons (the ones Melissa had given me); books and notebooks; a backpack and a bicycle; and a duffel bag full of clothes. I brought my wet-suit too- of course- because it related to a primary motive for my exodus. It would not be necessary on the Grand of course, but I wanted it with me anyway.
I had plenty of money too, with my life’s savings of $20,000 easily accessible- being mostly in liquid form- as well as over $30,000 worth of unused credit, on my shiny gold cards. And I had time too- not just the ten week block free and clear before I was tentatively scheduled to arrive in Jackson Hole- but a sort of unlimited time: an unencumbered expanse of time before me during which I could reorder my life, re-establish my base, and re-inaugurate some of the interests I had occasionally cultivated- or dreamed of initiating. In short then, I was free: utterly free.
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CHAPTER II
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Going back even further now, but only for a moment, I want to introduce a friend from High School, named Keith Virostko. Actually he was more of an acquaintance than a friend. I first met him through a school-sponsored backpacking trip to the High Sierra, which lasted for two weeks. And though we both loved the outdoors, Keith was more involved in mountaineering, while I just liked to hike. I suppose that’s why we never got closer, at that time. But I kept in touch with him for several years, until we finally lost touch.
But during that final stay in San Francisco I stumbled upon a website where I could look people up and see where they were living. So I looked Keith up, and lo and behold, I found him to be alive and living in Jackson, Wyoming. Wow! I wondered if he had been there when I’d gone through there two summers before! So I called him, and we renewed our relationship.
That winter I took a week off at work and drove out to Jackson and stayed with him in his apartment for a week. Being a snowboarder, I also took advantage of the epic conditions there. Well Keith was planning to move into a house that summer, and would be looking for a roommate. And since we got along well while I was there, he asked me if I’d like to move in with him then, and I accepted!
There’s a little confusion here, because Jackson is in Wyoming, and so nowhere near to the Grand Canyon. So it seems strange that I was planning both on dedicating my-self to guiding the Colorado, and also to living in Wyoming. The resolution of that quandary, I think, is that I did not expect to find work as a guide right away, and figured I’d devote myself to the under-taking only until the middle of June. By then the canyon country would be getting too hot to bear anyway- and I would move on to Wyoming… Unless, of course, I got some unexpected and too-good-to-refuse job, I suppose. Yes, I think that’s right. I’m no longer certain. Sometimes I’m a mystery, even to myself.
Another hypothesis is that I hadn’t really committed to Jackson at all: that those plans were tentative, at best- just one alternative, for a perpetual peripatetic. That would explain why I never called Keith to confirm that I’d be coming.
In any event, my anticipated arrival in Jackson was the only time constraint I had put on myself as I motored out of San Francisco, in my Subaru, on that early April day. That meant I had two months of unencumbered freedom ahead: and I did not intend to waste any of it. My first stop would be Kanab.
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Situated at almost 5000 feet in elevation, Kanab is a sort of oasis in a topography of desert. It is known for its temperate climate, by those who know of it at all. It boasts of having only short, but severe winters, and of lengthy, moderate springs. The summers are hot, but less hot than in the famous landscapes which surround it, and amongst which it is nestled. And indeed, I suppose that it would necessarily be nestled amongst that which surrounds it, but let us not nit-pick. My point is that those parts get wicked hot: those magical places, which are just stones throws away: Zion and Bryce Canyon, to the north, and the Grand Canyon, to the south. But hottest of them all, if you ask me, is that Marble Canyon Corridor, as I call it- which climaxes just 60 miles east of there. I learned that it reached 115 degrees there, later that summer, while I was somewhere else. And during all that swelter Kanab remained considerably cooler- for that is what Kanab does.
The name Kanab is derived from a Native-American word for “willow basket”- but which particular native tribe that word derives from, my reference didn’t reveal. Per-haps it was from the Hopi, or the Navaho, for they are the still predominant tribes in that area today.
The first white settlers came 1858, according to my sources. It was on June 7th of that year, as a matter of fact. But Kanab began inauspiciously, amidst skirmishes with the natives. (That’s what natives do, you know: they “skirmish” with invaders). But the invaders eventually got their way. You knew all of that.
Being Utah, you might assume that those first settlers were Mormons. But that was not the case. It was not until 1870 that Brigham Young himself assigned one Levi Stewart to “settle” that area. Well “settling”, of course, as we’ve just seen, is just a euphemism here- for usurping and expelling. But forget I said that. I’m just bitter. Anyway, the better known Jacob Hamblin cleared the way for the Mormon settlers, by somehow “negotiating” with the “locals”.
In any event, the area was soon “settled”, and laid out with those typically wide Mormon streets. Later, Hollywood discovered the area too, and starting filming Wes-terns there. Tom Mix was one of the first to make a movie there, filming “Deadwood Coach” as early as 1922. But by and large Kanab remained a small agricultural community– until the completion of a monstrous dam– 70 miles to the east. Since then, the town has burgeoned to about 3500 people. As such, it is the largest town and County Seat of present day Kane County.
That dam is the Glen Canyon Dam. Completed in 1965(?), and very slowly filled, it created the enormous Lake Powell. Well I have been on Lake Powell, and I declare that it is stunning! I even hitched a ride across it once- by boat- with a doctor and his son from Whistler, B.C. We went to the magnificent Rainbow Bridge. That’s an enormous natural feature that spans the tributary there– which is part of the lake itself, at its highest levels. Well at that time, the lake was at its highest level, so its bathtub rings did not offend the eye. The brimming reservoir even shimmered, then, with an ethereal light. So yes, the lake is beautiful, I grant. But it is not a fitting substitute for that which it usurped.
I was just a wee lad in California when that dam was completed– so I’d never seen the place. But when my father brought home a picture book, by the Sierra Club, depicting all its soon-to-be-buried treasures, I looked at them and was crushed. I knew that with the submersion of Glen Canyon that something grand was disappearing from the earth. It was something that I should have been able to see, too– in my lifetime, I thought. But it was too late.
Sorry. Once again I shamelessly digress, and betray an agenda. But you now know where I stand. Let us just say that Lake Powell broke my young heart.
Fortunately the Colorado plateau is still a wonderland of enchantment, and despite that watery grave there remain a myriad of amazing places, to enthrall us with red-rock facades, canyons, arches, amphitheaters, and streams. There is still a paradise of forms out there, to fill a lifetime of exploration. For me it is a love- and a lifestyle as well.
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But let us leave all that behind, for the moment, and journey to the Kanab of April 2003. That is where my story really—and at last— begins.
I arrived there after two days of concentrated driving. My first stop was a place called the Rocking V Restaurant. There was a table out in front, and it looked inviting, so I sat there to have some coffee. Of course, I had brought a book. I always had a book.
The Owner himself served me my coffee, and we began to chat. I’ve since forgot-ten his name, but I remember that he was from California too. That should surprise no-body, though, seeing how prevalent we have become everywhere. First everyone wanted to come to California– then everyone wanted to leave it. But I mention this only because as I look back across the landscape of my story, this respite was a nice beginning. I am struck with that memory of serenity as I sat there, with my dream still afoot, and with my first encounter warm and friendly.
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I was under the impression that the bulk of the guide companies were centered in the Kanab area, in the southwest part of Utah. It’s just like me not to have thoroughly researched the matter. And of course that conception proved to not be the case. There were, however, several such companies based near to there. A couple of them were as close as Fredonia Arizona- only seven miles away. And another trio of companies were strewn not too far from there: between Kanab and the place where the river trips begin their storied descents.
That place is called Lee’s Ferry. It gets its name from an early Mormon leader named John Lee who– being held responsible for the Mountain Meadow Massacre- was exiled to that place.
The massacre took place on September 11th, 1857. So it was another 9-1-1! (Some accounts say it was on Sept. 10th) On that date, 300 miles south of Salt Lake City, at least 50 Mormons– led by Lee and likely in cahoots with some Paiute Indians– massacred 120 men, women, and children settlers who were en route to California.
Lee was excommunicated and exiled, and 20 years later was finally shot to death by firing squad.
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Back in 1857, Lee’s Ferry was the middle of nowhere. Even today it’s remote. But a good highway services it. That’s Hwy 89. And from there to Kanab, that road describes what I call the Marble Canyon Corridor. That’s for lack of any better name. The map doesn’t call it anything, so I call it that because the closest town to it on Hwy. 89 is named Marble Canyon- and also because it sounds cool.
Quickly I called upon several of those river companies, where I introduced my-self and announced my intent. Encouragements ranged from lukewarm to exuberant. But the most encouraging response came from a man named Marty, at Grand Canyon Expeditions. He led me to believe my plan was an excellent one. Another encouraging reception came from Sarah Hatch, at Hatch River Expeditions. She took my name and number and promised to keep me in mind.
Thus encouraged, I quickly honed in on those two companies to give the bulk of my attention to. Grand Canyon Expeditions, hereafter known in these pages as GCE, is headquartered in Kanab itself- which, as I said, stays reasonably cool. Hatch River Expeditions, on the other hand, does not boast of such an advantage– being located in the tiny and sweltering town of Vermillion Cliffs, along that Lee’s Ferry route, 60 miles closer to the river.
Hatch River Expeditions will henceforth be known in these pages, for brevity, as HRE. But I liked to refer to it- tongue-in-cheek, and only to show off– as the Holy Roman Empire. I still had a sense of humor then.
After that I fell into a routine, and spent about four days a week haunting those domains. The rest of the week I was off visiting or exploring someplace else. But I spent the majority of that time– when I was in that region– in Kanab itself. Being cooler there was obviously an advantage. And as sleepy as the town was, there was still a lot more to do there than in the Marble canyon. Not that I did anything special there anyway. I’d just read in the coffee houses for most of the day, then at night I’d read in the little Chevron Station market– before driving up to sleep behind the water tower.
When I was down in Marble Canyon, I’d drive down to the river, and sit there reading or writing poetry. I had a National parks Pass I didn’t have to pay each time I went down there. In the evenings I’d sit in the little store back up in the town of Marble Canyon. After dark I’d sleep by another water tower– at the edge of that town too! I liked water towers. But there was more to it than that, because I’d sleep in the back of my car, and I had to remove a bunch of my stuff to make room for me back there. So since I left some of my stuff beside my car at night, I had to be careful where I did that. The water towers were pretty deserted places, I had found.
And each time I drove back to Kanab from Marble Canyon, I’d stop in at HRE along the way.
Anyway, one day Sarah Hatch led me out and introduced me to a couple of the guides. I figured that that was a very good sign. I can only remember one of them, now, but I’ve forgotten his name. In any event, nothing came my way from that meeting. But with patience, perhaps something would!
Near the HRE establishment there was another restaurant, with another patio, where I liked to have my coffee. There I met a delicious 40-something waitress named Cher. I’d left Melissa just two weeks before, but already I was anxious to get something new going. I missed having a relationship. And Cher excited me– so I had my eye on her.
Nothing came of it, though– I’ll tell you already. But a guy can hope. And we’ll see her again, so the introduction was necessary.
Back in Kanab, having made myself available to GCE, I checked in every couple days. I always checked in in person instead of calling. My purpose was to keep my memory alive, and to see if help was needed. One never knows when some personnel crisis will develop– and I intended to be around when that crisis developed. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, or something like that. But I was walking a fine line too, for I didn’t want to be too present: I did not want to appear overbearing, I mean– and therefore a pain in their neck.
But I spread the word that a wanted to be a swamper, which is an extra hand on a river trip: a gopher, that is. The swamper is the one who breaks his back just for the experience and doesn’t expect any pay.
After a few nights sleeping behind the water tower in Kanab, I discovered an-other place to sleep. It was a few miles outside of town, beside the Kanab Creek. It was partly that the water tower seemed too close to town, that I’d sought another place. Even though nobody had bothered me there, I felt a bit obtrusive. Well actually one couple did descend down the trail there and surprise me and we all felt uncomfortable. And that water tower was no place to sit around anyway– or nap– between my coffee house sessions. So I went looking for something nicer, and within days I’d found a perfect spot beside the creek. There was solitude there too. After that I slept there every night, when I was in town. I liked falling asleep and waking to the sound of moving water. And for stretching my legs and sitting to ponder it was a site hard to beat. Sometimes I’d even venture small baths there. I say “ventured” not because it was cold, but because it wasn’t very deep. Thus a bath meant finding the deepest part and rolling around in it. Usually I preferred to shower– at the local trailer park.
But even if I went a couple days without a shower, my hair didn’t get dirty, be-cause I’d gotten a crew-cut, in anticipation of the heat. I hadn’t had one for over 30 years, so it was difficult to get used to. Kanab was not too hot, as I have said, but I figured that down in the canyon– if I should get the call- it would be ungodly hot. And I wanted to be prepared. I wanted to be able to pack and go with a minimum of warning- if I should get the call.
One concern was that my cell phone did not get reception down by the river. That could be a problem, because, inasmuch as I was purposeful, it behooved me to wake up somewhere where I could get reception, if that sudden crisis developed. I wanted to be available, I mean, should one of the river companies require me in a pinch.
And damned if I didn’t miss one such call, one morning, I later learned. A Swam-per at GCE dropped something on his foot, and had to be disqualified. Damn! Had I got-ten that call that morning my life might have gone very differently!
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I had been through southern Utah many times other times, over the years. Usually I had gone directly to Moab. But I’d been to many other places on that vast Colorado Plateau. I’d been down along the Escalante River, for example, several different times. Usually that was for a multi-day backpacking trip, in one tributary or another. Once I’d even gotten lost out there– high above the river. Man: that was unnerving: lost, out of water and out of daylight, I ended sleeping on a sloping ledge….In the morning I shimmied along ledges and finally got back to the trailhead- where a sympathetic hiker let me gulp from his canteen. I had done a couple other extended hikes, in other Utah canyons too: like the Paria River, which is an incomparable four-day hike. Like Dark Canyon: a four-day hike to the Colorado River, in Cataract Canyon. My buddy and I finished that one by hitching a ride with a commercial expedition from the confluence to the marina at Lake Powell.
I must pause to mention Eric Last here: another friend I’d been to Utah with on several occasions. Hell: he deserves a mention too…We will meet him later on, anyway-albeit briefly– in this account. But don’t confuse him with another person we meet later who has a similar name. Remember that my friend was named Last—as in final
So I’d seen a lot of southern Utah. But I had been through Kanab only twice be-fore. Once was back in 1977, when a buddy and I did a driving tour of the west. At that time I had another old friend who worked as a guide on the river. He worked for a company in Kanab, which was why we had stopped there. But whether he’d worked for GCE or for another I can no longer say. Anyway I came through again in the mid-nineties, but that time I only looked and did not stop. Both times it had seemed quite lifeless. It exuded repression.
This time, though, I saw some vast improvements: a couple of espresso cafes, for one thing- and a Community Theater. It had an Art Museum too. At least, it claimed to have an art museum, but it was never opened. I tried to see it several times, and each time it was closed. But never mind that.
Kanab also hosted some worthwhile events: a Greyhound Day, for example, when people who owned Greyhounds paraded them around town. I was there for that, and I got to see a lot of lovely beasts, for they were everywhere: all sleek and friendly, bow-tied and obedient. A 10k footrace is another example. I was in town for that event too. In fact, I happened upon it unexpectedly, one morning, as I tried to drive my car into town from behind the water tower. I encountered an impasse, so I drove back to the tower and proceeded by bike. I should have been doing more of that anyway.
Nor was the occasional Greyhound the only four-footed beast of note around those parts, for just outside of town was located the Best Friends Animal Sanctuary, where wayward and wounded animals might find a new life, and which I had the pleasure if touring. In fact, I fell in love with a dog, and longed for the day when my lifestyle might include one. They count on people falling in love there, of course—and adopting an animal. That’s why they do the tours.
As I edit these very words, I note that that place is gaining in notoriety. I’m glad.
So Kanab was moving in the right direction, it seemed to me. The scenery, however, was always the same. And that scenery was striking: red rock buttes, that sinewy mountain creek, and a scattering of trees. Those buttes were pretty, but they weren’t my favorite topography, in that southern part of Utah. That’s because there were lots of other red-rock formations further from Kanab, and I liked them even better.
I told you I stayed in Kanab for about half of every week. That was because the river trips left GCE only Thursdays through Sundays- so it only made sense for me to be there Wednesday through Saturdays. Those were the days the boats were loaded and pre-pared. I also implied that Kanab was not exciting enough a place to stay in all week around if you did not have good reason to. I did not, and so I availed myself of the interludes to radiate out to the surrounding attractions.
That is to say, I used Kanab as my hub, and fanned out from there. Sometimes I just went hiking- but not too far away. I’d go up to the Escalante Grand Staircase National Monument, for example, and hike the canyons there. Or I’d go to the slot canyons at ————. But on one especially ambitious hike I went way out on the Navaho Reservation, to the east of the Grand Canyon.
I remember that hike particularly well, because on that trip I got into trouble again. First of all I drove 40 miles across the reservation in search of the trailhead– but I couldn’t find it, and there was no one else around. Fortunately, I finally I found a Navaho Shepard who showed me where it was. It was too late to get started then, so I camped by my car and left the next morning.
Then, while attempting to descend the Salt Creek Trail to the Little Colorado River, I quickly lost the trail. Not to be deterred, though, since I could see the distant river, I tried to just wing it. That means I climbed right down the canyon itself– instead of skirting it, as the trail would have done. That meant a lot of bouldering too– to negotiate the drop-offs along the way. It meant tossing my backpack down first, sometimes, so that I could turn around and get a grip.
After a couple hours of that, I was tired and thirsty– and the river was still miles away. So I realized the futility of my endeavor. And by then- of course- I was already low on water. Hell: if I’d stayed on the trail I would have been down to the river already, where there was plenty of water– so I didn’t think I had to carry too much of it. But I decided that I had to go back out: to retreat. And climbing back up was even more arduous. So by the time I got back to my car, the hour was late, and I was exhausted.
I belabor this because in spite of my travail, I was luckier than another fella’ on another part of the plateau who got in trouble that same day. That now famous young man was Aaron Ralston. You might remember him as the guy in the Canyonlands who got his hand trapped under a boulder and had to cut his own hand off with a pocketknife. Yikes! So I fared better than he did- at least on that day!
I took a number of less eventful side trips as well. One was to Page, Arizona. I remember meeting some young European guys there who were trying to rent a boat. Well three of them revealed that they were from Italy. I’d been to Italy, so I asked what part, and all that jazz. The fourth guy hadn’t said a word, though, so I asked him where he was from. He somewhat sheepishly told me he was from France. I figured the sheepishness was because my country had just invaded Iraq, and a lot of stupid Americans had been roused to a rancor against the French, because they would not support us in our war. I was not so stupid, though, and I wished I had said something by way of apologizing for the crass behavior of some of my countrymen. Shit. It was a lost opportunity. I was quite cordial though, but I could have even overcompensated.
Another spur took me to Taos, to visit my friend Stephen. Yet another sojourn led me back to the Escalante river– to a secret place I won’t reveal. I also drove to Sierra Vista, in southern Arizona, where my only brother Mark and his family lives. So yes, I have another sibling- who had not made my birthday party. Mark had settled in Sierra Vista after being sent there by the navy, a number of years ago. He had flown helicopters for the Navy, and lived in Japan. Later he went to the Naval Post graduate School in Monterey, California. From there he graduated at the top of his class– with a Master’s in Oceanography- so the Navy sent him to the middle of the fuckin’ desert, to work on unmanned aircraft. Go figure. He’s retired from the Navy now– but he and his wife and their two daughters still live down there.
Anyway, he is ten months older than I. My sister Leslie– who you met at the party– is four years older than I. That makes me the youngest.
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Finally, one other trip took me back to Moab, which never stops calling me!
I did two important things in Moab that time. One was that I donated $100 to an organization called “The Living Rivers”. That organization’s avowed purpose was the decommissioning of the Glen Canyon Dam, far downstream. I’m very glad I did that too- while I still had some money! In appreciation of my donation, the founder of that organization, John Weisheit (who was also the husband of my short-term boss Suzette, from Tag-A-Long) furnished me with the name of a woman in Kanab, who was a potential contact for getting hooked up with a river trip!
The other thing I did was to visit Tag-a-Long Expeditions again, and say hello to my old boss, Bob Jones. He remembered me and remembered that I had cleaned out that decrepit patio area when I lived there. And right away, upon seeing me, he asked “Do you need a job?”. I thanked him but declined– though I now wish I had taken it. Then I asked him if there was a chance I might swamp one of his Cataract Canyon trips.
I told you that below the Moab area there is some challenging river. Well Cataract Canyon is the stretch of the Colorado River that starts just below Moab, and ends in Lake Powell. That’s the lake that will be emptied if “The Living River’s” ever gets its way. Anyway he said he’d keep me in mind: that swamping the Cataract for him was a real possibility!
Before I left town I surveyed that patio area that I had cleaned up. The guides had enthusiastically embraced it, I saw, because there was furniture and tents and TV and a refrigerator there. That made me very happy too. It’s nice to leave something that lasts.
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When I got back to Kanab, I looked up the woman Bob Jones had referred me too. Her name was Amanda Gorski. She was 26 years old and quite lovely. She worked at the Willow Creek there, which was a combination Sporting goods/ Bookstore/Espresso Cafe. My kind of place, in other words. A few nights after meeting her I took her out to dinner at the Rocking V. That, you may recall, was the first place I had stopped at when I’d got-ten in to town. The food was very good.
After that I visited her several times at the Willow Creek, but we did not find occasion to go out again. A guy can hope, but at the same time, she was pretty young. In any event, she couldn’t really help me with my quest either. Hell, she wanted those river trips for herself– as did almost everyone else in town, it seemed.
The other young lovely I met in Kanab was Osha Miller. Yes, Osha- and she’d already heard all the wise-cracks about the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. She was twenty, which is young too, obviously, but she seemed more worldly than I expected, for somebody her age. She was a little less flighty than Amanda, too, and I enjoyed her company more. It was also pretty thrilling to have a woman that age wanting to hang out with me. But she did, and over the next several weeks, we went on several hikes together. She even took me home to meet her parents: Eric and Norma Miller. I liked them too- and I think they liked me back. Part of the reason I mention them is that we will meet them again.
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So not only did I know a couple women in Kanab but I had my trio of hangouts- where I would drink my coffee and read my books. One of those was the Chevron Station, as you know, which was mainly my late night place, after everything else had closed. But the other two: Willow Creek, which I mentioned, and the Vermillion Café, where I started my days, were hip enough to reveal that Kanab actually had a pulse: that it was more than just the drab pallor of Mormon fundamentalist oppression that it might seem to the uninitiated– that one might prejudge it to be, I mean, just from knowing that’s it’s a Utah town.
And it wasn’t just a Mormon town, either, as you’ve probably gleaned by now. The churches there represented several denominations. Nor was it exclusively Christian: Willow Creek was owned by a Jew, named Charlie Newman. At least, I think he was a Jew. I hardly knew him at all, but the point is that I was pleasantly surprised to find that there were any Jews there at all.
The Vermillion Café was owned by a man named Harold Brain, who I got to know a little better. I doubt very much that he was a Mormon either– and not just because it was a coffee house. It was because those two coffee houses were the hippest places in town. Some of the literature I found on the tables there might even be called subversive: flyers mockingly critical of the Bush Administration, for example. Such stuff as that surprised the hell out of me. You see, I too had expected to find Kanab to be a den of status quo conservativism. Instead I sensed that there were people of political courage there– people who might even take unpopular stands, and speak their minds! I was very encouraged.
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I met some other denizens of Kanab too. The Fire Inspector, for example. That happened when I was four-wheeling on a dirt road at the edge of town. I’d never had a four-wheel drive, and so I was anxious to try it out. But I quickly hit a dead end, and then backed up too far, too fast, such that one wheel was hanging off the road. Sheesh. I couldn’t get unstuck, so I walked back to town, and hailed the first person I saw. That was Andy Aldrich, working in his garage. He didn’t know me from Adam, nor me him, but without a second thought he dropped what he was doing and came to my assistance. He drove us to my car in his big truck, and quickly pulled me loose with a rope. Very neighborly of him. Thanks again, Andy.
I went to the Library regularly, to check and send e-mails. So soon the Librarians started recognizing me as well. The townspeople were friendly, and I was becoming familiar around Kanab. Or so I thought. And when I noted a piece of land at the edge of town for sale, I even started to wonder if I could live there. I mused about buying it.
Back at GCE, I made a contact that was a stroke of luck. That was Bob Skinner. Bob was one of the River guides for GCE, whom up until that point I had somehow failed to meet. Well it turned out that Bob spent his winters in Park City, and was friends with my former housemate from the winter I lived there. I told you I had spent a winter in Park City– several years before. Life is strange. Well Bob and I got along quite well too, so he became another friend in town- and someone who might even indirectly vouch for me.
That voucher was timely too, because one of the owners of that company was feeling uneasy about my presence, it seems, and soon expressed that fact to Bob. Shit! It was something I had feared. Well the other owner, Marty, had been full of encourage-ment, when I’d met him early on. But this guy, Mike, didn’t seem to care for me at all. And since I hadn’t done anything to warrant such opprobrium, I was baffled by his attitude. But Bob explained to me what the problem was. It seems that in years gone by some other would-be swampers– had been overly intrusive. A couple had even intruded themselves into the guide house, out behind the main building. So Mike was merely being protective of his interests.
That was funny, in a way, because until then I hadn’t even know they had a guide house. But that’s beside the point. I suppose my age and questions about where I was living were on his mind as well. I hoped therefore that Bob would smooth Mike over, and help me move towards my goal.
Bob Skinner did in fact sort of adopt me, and started folding me into the program. Later he even arranged for me to ride down to Lee’s Ferry with him and his crew, to set up and load one of the boats by the riverside there. Yowza! It was an “S-rig”: one of those enormous floating fortresses that careen down that canyon. And setting that S-rig up is no small chore: it took us most of the day- working in the hot sun. But our reward was that that night we got to stay there and sleep on it. The National Park Service allows that, for boaters.
Before we went to sleep, that night, on that gigantic raft, we took the boat out on the river and Bob let me drive it! I was so excited I was like a big kid, then. And I seemed well on my way to realizing my goal.
In the morning Bob and the boat went down the river and I went back to Kanab with another GCE Driver.
But then the momentum waned, suddenly, and Bob had nothing more for me. He did suggest that I come back on a mid-June date, though, when Marty would be working with him there. He said that would be a good opportunity. That was still weeks away, though, so I felt put off. I figured that Mike had put the kibosh on me.
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Finally I got a call from Tag-a-long, and just in time, I suppose. For despair was closing in. Bob Jones had created a spot for me on a Cataract canyon gig— as a swamper— and I was beside myself with excitement. I accepted without pause, and set out without delay. Yes, the Grand Canyon seemed to be slipping from my grasp, but Cataract Canyon was soon to be mine- ha ha ha ha!
There were twenty of us, on the four-day trip. We utilized two boats: J-rigs this time, which are smaller than those behemoths they maneuver down the Grand. Huge boats are not needed there anyway, for the trips are shorter and the rapids smaller– but it is a stunning and memorable excursion nonetheless. And of our two guides one of them was very good. Even though I thought the other one was lacking, I still did what she said.
It was a magnificent trip!: four days of beauty, serenity, excitement and good company! Oh, can I even hope to do justice to the juxtapositions, the colors, the aromas and the ambiance- to the gurglings and ———-, the sand and the spray? I think not. But it was everything I imagined it to be, and more. And through it all- through the hard work and the long days, the fireside conversations and the recreational diversions– the hikes and the swims, the explorations and the ruminations– I confirmed to myself that that was what I was born to do: to be a river guide, I mean. It was glorious!
And not only was I doing it and born to do it, but I was a major factor in its success, I believed. I worked hard, interacted well, and contributed a measure of charm– if I do say so myself. So when my guides received a record take at the end of the trip- when the tips were meted out- I believed I had had a lot to do with that result.
And then it was over. The two guides, by the way, gave me only $50, from their $800 score. Well I hadn’t done it for the money, but under the circumstances, I thought they could have been a little more generous. The next day, I even told them so later. They demurred from offering me more, however, citing the horrible conditions of the year before, and averring that they were only now “making up for it” Blah blah blah! But fuck them. Ironically, I promptly lost the $50 bill too– and isn’t that just perfect?
But I thanked Bob heartily and left town again. Later I sent him a thank you note.
