A Christmas Mission and Memories

For decades, my sisters, Rita and Francie, my brother-in-law Matt, and their son, Campbell, had joined my parents in their annual holiday pilgrimage to family graves to lay wreaths. Given the distance from Connecticut and the frenzy of the season, Dave and I had never been able to go. This would be our first time. While my parents died years ago, Rita’s partner, Bill, and her son, Jared, would join us as well.   

Rita’s van seated six, so it was a tight fit, but we wanted to travel together. Dave and Bill insisted on squeezing into the way-back, folding in knees and tucking toes under the seats in front of them. It was not a surprise when they launched into a convincing big brother/little brother performance.

 

 “He touched me!”

 

“No, I didn’t!”

 

“Yes, you did!”

 

“Make him move!”

 

“You can’t make me!’

 

Sigh. Too easy for these two to pull it off. 

 

The car was awash with laughter and the scent of pine as we made our way to our first stop, St. David’s. 

 

Those who could, hopped out of the car.  Extricating the two men from the third seat involved all manner of contortions: lifting legs, reaching hands, and angling butts. Dismount complete, Rita raised the hatch of her van, and we lifted out swags of greens and holly. After slipping off the cellophane sheaths, we twisted wires around the ends to affix red velvet bows. 

 

The original church, built in 1715, still stands adjacent to the graveyard. Creeping ivy twines around the trunks of towering firs, their sheltering boughs swooping low over rows of granite headstones. More subdued now in this solemn place, we walked around a long stone wall freckled with pale lichens to the graves of my aunt, uncle, grandparents, and great-grandparents and laid down our offerings. 

 

But… where was Hobie?

 

My grandmother, Gaga, lost her firstborn son when he was 18 months old. Spotting his bottles sterilizing on the stove, he had reached up to grab one and tipped the vat of boiling water over on himself. To us, her granddaughters, and perhaps to the children born after Hobie’s death, Gaga was kind but distant. That consuming love was a risk she would not take again. 

 

Much as I sought to banish images of the accident, my thoughts invariably turned to my grandmother and her lost little one when my kids and grandchildren reached 18 months. It has been my comfort to think that Gaga and Hobie were reunited for eternity, and I’d assumed they rested together here, at St. David’s.

 

“No. He’s in Penllyn with Granpa,” Francie said. 

 

Of course. Hobie died long before my grandmother and was buried where they lived at that time, before my grandparents’ divorce. 

 

Francie pointed to a grave partially hidden by ivy behind that of my great-grandparents. A stone cross marked that of another small boy, a child I’d not been aware of. Gaga’s mother had also lost an infant son. My heart ached at the shared agony the women before me had endured. 

 

Despite long-ago sorrows, graveyards have always been a place of comfort for me. The sadness and stresses endured by those resting beneath blankets of grass and moss had been resolved, and I believed, I hoped, there was reunion and peace for them on the Other Side.

Next, off to visit Mom, Dad, Uncle Henry, and my grandmother Byeo, mom’s mother, at the Church of the Redeemer. The last time I visited this site, my daughter, Casey, went with me. When I’d suggested the idea, Casey said, “Mom, it will make you cry.”

 

“No, it won’t. I’m in a great mood! Happy! I just want to visit.” 

 

So, we’d driven over and climbed the small rise to the graves. I said, “Hi Byeo. Hi Mom and Dad”… and burst into tears. 

 

But this time, I felt only joy at being there. After placing the swags, we stood in a circle and sang, “We wish you a Merry Christmas.” I indulged myself in imagining those beloved spirits taking a seat on their stones, smiling at the circle of family. 

Penllyn was a trek, a trek we’d made every other Sunday when I was young. We three girls would sit in the back seat - perhaps playing a bit of annoying “she touched me!” ourselves - wearing dresses, short white socks, and patten leather shoes. Luncheons  with my grandfather, step-grandmother, and great-aunt-Anna had been formal affairs. 

 

An old red brick church stood watch over this graveyard. Francie directed my gaze to the steeple. “The bell tower was dedicated to Uncle Harry when he died in World War I.” 

 

Captain Harry Ingersoll was the revered young uncle my father never knew, but whose memory brought Dad to tears whenever his name was mentioned. He is buried in the Meuse-Argonne Cemetery in France, but a stone honors him in this place. Nearby lies his brother, my grandfather, and Ingersolls going back three generations. Here, also, is Hobie, nestled close to my step-grandmother. I bristled at this cozy set-up: Hobie should be with Gaga.  

I had not been to Penllyn in close to 50 years. The last time I can recall was to introduce my long-haired hippie boyfriend, Dave, to my very proper step-grandmother. For this momentous meeting, Dave had chosen to wear a flannel shirt and well-worn white carpenter overalls. We had barely entered the door when he leaned over and split the seam of his pants. Quickly, he tied his yellow rain slicker around his waist and politely refused every offer to hang it in the coat closet. Memorable indeed.  

 

Once all the swags had been laid and holiday greetings given, we headed home. As we drove past the white stucco Blue Bell Inn, I reminisced about exploring my grandparents’ barn and discovering the ancient coach they’d put back in service during the war, Aunt Anna’s Christmas parties, and the excitement of Santa’s appearance at the top of her stairs with presents for every child. I thought of the many early evening trips home on Sundays, snoozy in the dark of the back seat with my sisters, marveling as the moon seemed to travel the sky alongside us. I reflected that I am now the grandmother, the baton passed from one generation of women to the next. Children grown, little ones beaming, eyes bright at the aura of pine boughs laced with tiny lights, and the prospect of a kindly gentleman in a red suit delivering joy.    

 

It will be a while...

Paul and Lexi’s suitcase is packed and zipped, the outfits I’d chosen for them laid out on their beds. My son, Tucker, and his wife, Lisa, are home in Massachusetts, scurrying to empty the last cans and jars from their cupboards and ferrying final loads to the dump and Goodwill. After months of planning, acquiring Visas, squaring things up at work, and seeking renters, they are moving to Switzerland in two days. While I have dreaded this final step, delivering the kids to the airport, I am in departure mode, geared for the drive to Boston. 

“I don’t want to wear that!” Lexi whines. 

 

“Everything else is packed, Sweetie.”  

 

“But I don’t want that shirt!” she says as she flops on the bed, her face set. 

 

Honestly! I am not interested in a stupid squabble over clothes, and my impatience shows. 

 

“You like this shirt, Lexi. Just put it on.”

 

“No!”

 

I glower at her and prepare another stern salvo, when… wait.  Stop. Some inner angel has the good sense to snag my attention. Am I really going to bicker over clothes with this precious four-year-old who is about to move far away from me? 

 

No. Not for a second more. 

 

I unzip the suitcase and pull her close. “Okay, Sweetie. Show me what you want to wear.”

 

She shuffles through her clothes, rejecting a pink tee-shirt with a sequined heart, the rainbow leggings, and an orange “Bingo” jersey. “This,” she says, pulling out a dress she’s worn twice in the past week. Fine. She tugs it over her head and looks adorable. 

 

Paul and Lexi have been with us for a week, and it’s been a whirl of playgrounds, Hide N’ Go Seek, crafts, and Candyland. Swimming, tea parties, “helicopter rides” and Red light/Green Light marathons with our daughter, Casey, and four-year-old Eleanor.  Mornings with the kids in soft PJ’s, watching “Bluey” on T.V. over a breakfast of frozen waffles, fruit, and “LeaLea’s special yogurt.” 

At ages seven and four, Paul and Lexi are up for anything: filling the bird feeders, vacuuming, husking corn, and baking. They want to be with us, no matter how mundane the errand. “I’m just going to put the clothes in the drier…”

 

“I’ll come with you!”

 

“I’m just going to empty the compost out back…”

 

“I’ll come with you!”

 

“I’m just going to get my sunglasses out of the car…”

 

“I’ll come with you!” And a little hand slips into mine for every jaunt or task. 

 

While Paul or Lexi happily folds warm tee shirts stamped with unicorns and dinosaurs, my nose prickles, tears barely in check. While dumping the compost, I brush my eyes dry with the back of my hand. Behind my retrieved sunglasses, my eyes are damp. The little kid years are short, so very precious, so blessed with humor and snuggles, and Dave and I have basked in that light. We are keenly aware that it will be a while before the next visit. 

 

Usually, Paul procrastinates and fidgets while getting dressed, but not today. He is quiet as he puts on the shorts and tee shirt I’ve selected, perhaps more conscious than his little sister of the momentous change ahead.  

 

His fingernails need a trim, so we go to the bathroom and fetch clippers and scissors. Paul sits on a wooden stool Casey made in middle school, and I sit on the floor. “I can do my left hand, but will you do the right?” 

 

“Of course!” 

 

He is methodical and takes his time. Each nail requires several clips as he angles the clippers this way and that. It is all I can do not to hurry him along, to suppress a breezy, “How ‘bout I take it from there?”

 

But again, thank heavens, I think, wait. Why rush this time together? It will be a while before the next visit.  

 

When he’s ready, I take his right hand in mine and slowly snip while telling him how Byeo, my grandmother, did my nails. “She cut, filed, and buffed them to make them shiny. And then – this is interesting – she’d run a white pencil under the top of each nail.”  

 

“Why?” asks Paul.

 

“I guess she thought it looked nice. Isn’t it funny that I still remember that? I wonder if you’ll remember this when you are 70?”

 

Paul doesn’t say anything, but he’s a thoughtful boy, and I can tell he’s thinking about it. And, again, my nose prickles…  

 

It’s one of the many gifts of time with Paul, Lexi, and Eleanor that memories of my kids’ childhood, as well as my own, are revived. While making drip castles with sand, playing “Birdie Dear,” or trotting a child on my knees for “This is the Way the Farmer Boy Rides,” I hope Byeo is watching these reruns of her games. And I hope she beams as much as I do when Lexi asks indignantly, “Why can’t it be a Farmer Girl?”

 

All three kids like to paint, and a few days ago, I’d noticed one of Lexi’s pieces was particularly specific, hieroglyphic in appearance with squiggles and shapes paired with numbers. When I put her to bed that night, she pointed at one of the spindles on the headboard and said, “I tried to draw it, but it wasn’t very good.” 

 

Startled, I looked around. “Was your drawing this afternoon about your bed?”

 

“Yes.” And I watched as she counted the carved arcs and spindles in the headboard, then pointed to one pillow, two sheets, and one blanket, all as drawn and numbered on her picture.

 

“Wow, Lexi. Actually, it wasn’t just good, it was amazing!” Dave and I have marveled at so many signs of how much, and how quickly, our little ones are thinking, learning, and growing.  

 

It has been a throw-back week of making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and remembering to pack changes of clothing and snacks no matter how short the excursion; of snuggling up with cozy stories; and splashing in the pool with Casey, Eleanor, and PJ. What a respite from my usual newsfeed doom scroll. What a gift to be immersed in unicorns, rainbows, dancing, and giggles. 

 

Dave has been gleeful in playing catch with his grandson, pulling up his former glory years as a pitcher in putting on Tucker’s old catcher’s mitt and a sports caster’s voice to call a play by play with Paul as the star. “And the crowd goes wild!” Dave would whoop when Paul delivered a solid pitch. 

 

Every joyous moment is heightened, poignant, as we strive to freeze it. We know it will be a while until the next visit. 

 

Before we head out, we give the kids our phones to dash around the house and take pictures. Paul decides to video, and his is a heady ride of blue-sneakered feet and floorboards as he runs through the rooms for quick pans interspersed with extreme close-ups: my mother’s porcelain milkmaid; an air vent he helped Dave fix; the dragon-headed fireplace tools; and the springy flag on the Fischer Price castle.

 

Lexi’s going for stills. Hers are carefully composed, mostly in focus, some, surprisingly artistic. She takes several pictures of the items on my bureau: a card she made for me, and photos of 6-year-old Lea with Byeo. She captures vignettes in the guest room, a glimpse down the stairs, a shot of the suitcases and backpacks waiting by the back door. We are touched by what they choose to capture and wonder how much they'll remember.

The ride to the airport hotel in Boston is uneventful, and when we arrive, Tucker and Lisa are waiting for us. Before they fly, we have one last day together to run races through the sky bridge, frolic in the hotel pool, play catch in our room, and Hide N’ Go Seek in the lobby. Their flight departs at 9:00 P.M. and the kids are remarkably cooperative given the late hour. They put on their pajamas in hopes they’ll sleep through the flight and slip on their backpacks. Then, our caravan of kids, carts, weary parents, and sorrowful grandparents sets off.

 

Tucker has scoped out the long and circuitous route to their gate from the hotel. He and Dave push carts loaded high with massive suitcases through corridors, across a parking lot, into an assortment of elevators, and down to the terminal while the kids scamper alongside. During his earlier reconnaissance, Tucker had met with the TAM Airways representative who would check them in, and she is an incredible help with the ungainly process of filling in forms and checking those bags. 

Finally, it’s time to say good-bye. 

 

We’re not allowed to accompany them to the gate, and the airport employee who turns us away is kind and apologetic as we all hug and cry and cry and hug. Oh, this is hard. 

We know it will be a while before the next visit.  

 

 

 

         

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

   

Trip West, Part VII: Majesty, Signs, and Stupidity

The guy standing next to me on the rim of the Grand Canyon had an aging hippie look but for his bookish, black-rimmed glasses. His gray hair was pulled back in a straggly ponytail and his eyes were blue and bright as, quietly, we urged the two condors hunkered on a rock far below to take wing. The giant birds were not listening and refused to show off their ten-foot wingspan.

As was a ritual with everyone encountered on our trip, the man and I exchanged stories about our experiences at the parks we’d visited.  I told him about the condor expert in Zion and his plea to pass along word to any hunters that they switch to steel bullets since the commonly used lead shot was lethal to scavengers. Having chatted awhile, and feeling I was on reasonably safe ground, I murmured, sotto voce, "I'm not a fan of hunting."

 

“Me either,” he said. In fact, he was well aware of the perils facing wildlife from human activity given his work as a veterinary pathologist. 

 

“Ah. It must be hard to be immersed in the harm inflicted on creatures, whether intentional or not,” I said.

 

“Yes. Certainly. But my hope is that my findings will make a difference by increasing awareness. The restoration of condor populations is one of conservation’s great success stories.” 

 

“We learned from that condor guy that their numbers had sunk to twelve breeding pairs. A near-miss in terms of extinction.”

 

“Truly.” 

 “Speaking of, have you seen the sign over at The Lookout about not throwing coins into the canyon?” I asked.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Obviously not safe to hikers passing below to throw anything, and again, condors are scavengers. They’ll go for the coins, and the zinc can poison them.” 

 

“Exactly! Yet while I was reading that sign, a few feet away a kid was tossing stones over the side.” Incredulous, I looked at the pathologist. “They were stones, not coins, but still. What the hell?  He was 11 or so, old enough to know better.  I had to say something. In my nice –but-concerned-grown-up voice I said, ‘did you read this sign?’ Judging by his expression as he scurried away, he had.” 

 

We shook our heads. Humans. Sigh. 

 

While some signs at the canyon offered alerts such as the one about coins and condors, others conjured… novel images. In one hotel restroom, a sign urged visitors not to drink the toilet water, and another insisted that guests not stand on the toilets. Hm. Surprising. 

Along the popular Bright Angel Trail, the signs were cartoonish, but ominously clear:  people have gone over the side. Dehydration creeps up on you. Pay attention. You could die here.

Personally, I needed no warning signs. The Bright Angel is narrow and sinuous, the soil, dry and sandy. It is well-traveled by seasoned hikers laden with enough equipment for a week and folks like me and Dave who just want a lovely experience of the canyon beyond the rim. I was mindful that an errant sneeze, a misplaced foot, or an inadvertent hip check from an overlarge passing backpack could mean a fatal plummet. 

The canyon is staggering in its immensity and vibrant hues. Rock faces layered in pink, white, and red plunge a mile to the shining ribbon of river below.  Our human status as relative newcomers to the planet - perhaps with self-imposed, short-lived tenancy - felt evident while in the presence of this massive fissure in the enduring, still-evolving Earth.

When first Dave and I hiked the trail, I hugged the cliff wall and crept with an old-lady caution that prompted a passerby to ask sympathetically, “Afraid of heights?”

 

No. Afraid of falling. The evening before, when I returned to the bus after a stunning sunset tour, I’d asked our guide how many people die in the canyon each year. He responded, “Maybe three or four? Not bad given the millions of people who visit annually.”  As my eyes met those of my fellow passengers when I walked down the aisle to my seat, it was apparent that none of us liked those odds.  

 

Dave and I had already witnessed some risky behavior: I’d had to resist the urge to hover around a toddler who was cheerfully collecting stones near the precipice while his  parents enjoyed the view.  And there was the couple we encountered while resting along the trail who were visiting with their teenage boys. “The twins have already run down to the bottom. If you see them on the way back, tell them you saw us and their dad’s still alive.”

 

Ha, ha, ha… but this pleasant fellow had had open heart surgery six weeks before. He was huffing and puffing and needed that rest stop. Was it really wise to hike the canyon so soon? I tell you, I was relieved to see him later in the gift store. 

 

Then, there was the young man – dark hair, 25-ish, loose white shirt, jeans -  we met on our way back up Bright Angel on another afternoon. He came prancing down at a solid clip … in bare feet. He had no water with him. After we chatted a bit – he had just arrived that day for a job working in one of the restaurants for the summer – I told him, again with the nice-but-concerned-grown-up voice, that sneakers and water were a must. He dismissed my worry with a laugh. We offered him one of our water bottles, but he turned it down. Then, he noticed a hat caught in some shrubs about 20 feet over the side. “Look! A cap! I’m gonna climb down and grab it.”

 

“Ah, no. You’re not,” I said. My tone was light, but I meant it. Not on my watch was this foolish kid going scrabbling over the side. “You can come back and get it once I’m gone.”  

 

I know you’re thinking who the hell is she to boss this guy around?  I totally get that, but if you’ve stood on that trail and gazed out over the vast majesty of the canyon and peered inches past your feet to the dead drop to the bottom, you know. The Grand Canyon is no place to mess around. 

 

But it IS a place to glory in the elements that have shaped the Earth. A spectacular place of beauty where upheavals and erosion have banished seas, carved craters, and uplifted pinnacles. 

 

A place where condors now swoop and soar.  

 

 

 

    

 

      

Trip West, Part VI: We Ruin a Navajo's Day

Dave and I have different approaches to fueling a car. He is comfortable running on fumes, while I see a half-tank as time to get gas. The drive from Arches National Park to the Grand Canyon was going to be our longest – over five hours - and I had no interest in a nightmare desert-stranding adventure. As we left Moab and passed through Blanding with its welcoming gas stations, I said, “Let’s be on the safe side and fill up.”

“Nah. We’re good,” said Dave. 

 

A glance at the gauge indicated over half a tank, so, uncharacteristically, I didn’t argue, and off we went. 

 

At first, the sky was unsettled, dark clouds competing for drama with snow-streaked mountains and windmills slicing the air with skeletal blades. We passed rundown homes, battered cars, and a dog running down the side of the road with a dead rabbit drooping from his jaws. Wild horses pranced across the plain, stirring dust clouds around their hooves. One broke away, galloped across the road in front of us, jumped the bank, and reared up upon encountering another horse.  Whoa.

 

It sounds stupid, but I had to remind myself that we were out west. Out West!  After seeing video clips and posters at the Hollywood Museum, I should have needed no further convincing, but the National Parks seemed a category unto themselves. Now, in spotting riders on horseback trotting across scrubby land in the distance and a dead horse on the side of the road, it sunk in. 

The land stretched open and increasingly barren to either side of us as we neared Tuba City.  Only an hour to go before we reached Maswik Lodge at the Grand Canyon, but I needed to pee and by this time, I was insistent about filling the tank. Dave agreed and pulled in at a pump behind a black pickup truck. In my race to the restroom, I had one leg out the door… when the truck backed into us. 

 

Shit. 

 

A diminutive, graying woman climbed from the truck, her face crumpled in misery. “I’m sorry! So sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

 

We got out of the car and walked around front to scrutinize the hood and fender. Fortunately, the damage was minor, but since the car was a rental, we had to get the woman’s insurance information.

 

She did not have it with her.  Of course. 

 

I went inside the service station to use the bathroom and call the police. Dave tried to calm and comfort the woman who was increasingly distraught as she called her son on her cell. 

 

When I returned to the car, Dave’s mouth was set in a thin line. He looked at me and grimly shook his head. The woman was still on her phone, one hand covering her eyes. 

 

“Her husband passed away a year ago, and she doesn’t know her passwords or how to get the insurance information,” said Dave. “Poor woman. This is the last thing she needs. If this were our car, I would forget about it and go. Ugh. What a drag.” 

 

We waited. The woman’s son, Jeremy, arrived, but no police. 

 

We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and described what had happened. 

 

Wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, his hair cropped short, Jeremy was friendly, but serious. Like his mother, he was Navajo. While Dave and I had keyed into the bleak land, forlorn houses, and battered vehicles - the legacy of U.S. policy toward indigenous peoples – we’d not realized we were on the Navajo Reservation. 

 

“How long have you been waiting for the police?” Jeremy asked. 

 

“Maybe half an hour?” said Dave.

 

Jeremy sighed, took out his phone, and tapped in a number. Within minutes, a white SUV emblazoned with “Navajo Nation” pulled in. Clearly, Jeremy had the juice. 

I was quietly thrilled. “Dave,” I whispered. “Don’t be so discouraged. Think of it! When would we ever have a chance to talk with Navajos?” 

 

Jeremy, Dave and I greeted the officer and filled him in. He spoke to Jeremy’s mother, slipped into the cruiser, made a call, then returned to us. He handed Dave a scrap of lined paper torn from a notebook with several numbers scrawled on it representing the case, his badge, and a phone number. 

 

I’m not kidding. A scrap of paper. 

 

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m out of forms. Use this when you turn in your rental. Call me if you need further information.”

 

As weirdly unsatisfying as that was, we weren’t about to push an officer of the Navajo Nation.  After staring with disbelief at the shred in his hand, Dave tucked it into his wallet. 

 

My husband is a man of countless questions, and once the “paperwork” was finalized,  he asked how the officer came to the police force. “It’s hard to keep young people here,” he said. “I left. After finishing school, I found a job elsewhere. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt the pull to return to my people. To serve my community.”

 

I asked about local schools, the quality of education, and whether there was adequate government funding in general. He said it was all good.

 

Hm. Really? I hoped so, but wondered, was he being protective or proud? Maybe keeping up a front for tourists? The website for “Partnership with Native Americans” says, “federal treaty obligations are often unmet and almost always underfunded, and many Native families are struggling.” Judging by history and the desolate lands and houses we’d seen, our officer was surprisingly positive.  

 

Still, other than the woman’s distress and our travel delay, everything about this interlude was ... a blessing. Jeremy’s mom calmed down once her son and the officer arrived. The employees at the gas station were helpful and sympathetic. Jeremy and the policeman were kind. We were kind. 

 

And we made it to Maswik in time for dinner having been given a chance to talk with Navajos.

 

 

Trip West, Part V: Once Upon a Time

On the radio, David Bowie sets Major Tom adrift in space as we drive through land as barren and red as Mars. We skirt expanses of gray sand and follow the road as it curls between cliffs, slopes, and swoops of rock seemingly frozen in cresting waves. We drive through snow fields as flurries whip the windshield. And in Capitol Reef National Park, we pull over to see petroglyphs painted on a rock face thousands of years ago. In life, it is the journey as much as the destination, and our trip west has proven that true. 

We are on our way to Arches National Park, hoping to snag an entry time despite being told none have been available for months. Every vista along our way steals breath at the work of wind, water, and shifting plates in sculpting the Earth over eons. With that, our fury at the possibility of being closed out has evaporated.

 

Still, I watch the clock as we close in on Moab. The visitor center at Arches closes at 6:00 and we were told that a few entry slots were released every day at that time. We pull into the parking lot at 5:55. 

 

Dave says, “I’ll park! You run in and grab a reservation!”

 

I scurry inside, envious of those strolling out with souvenir tee-shirts and water bottles having clearly wrapped up a day of hiking. A ranger at the counter glances at his watch as I approach and ask if he can give us a time for the next day.

 

“You can do that online, “ he says, “But go in now if you’d like.”

 

“Go in? To the park? Now?” I say.

 

“Sure. No reservations required after 4:00. Go on in! Enjoy it!”

 

When I head outside, Dave is sitting on a bench, head bent to his phone. “I’m almost finished,“ he says.  “We have an 11:00 AM entry tomorrow.” 

 

Sigh. There’s a lesson here. When I think of my simmering anger and worry on the rim of Bryce Canyon... such a waste. My front-of-mind mantra for years was “Have faith in the unfolding;” clearly, I need to brush it off for display on my mental dashboard.    

 

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After several stolen hours during our gift of an open-entry-past-6:00 at Arches, it was dark when we arrived at Red Cliffs Lodge. In my relief, I’d not noticed the prominent “Hollywood Museum” sign by the entrance. 14 miles off the main road had felt interminable given our serpentine route between rockslide-ready cliffs and a dead drop to the river. Did I have the right address? Did I have the right place? As we closed in, I saw only the blessed name of our lodging. So, it was a revelation when, while in search of a ladies room after dinner, I saw a sign to the museum and an arrow pointing to the lower level.

 

John Wayne welcomed me at the foot of the stairs. Down the hall, the dummy that went over the cliff in a convertible instead of the real-life Geena Davis in Thelma and Louise looked as shocked as would be expected in such a plummet. Props and original posters from Back to the Future III, City Slickers, and The Lone Ranger as well as many iconic westerns going back to 1949 filled display cases. A video loop ran clips of films and highlighted the spectacular locations around Moab where they’d been shot, some right at Red Cliffs Lodge. 

Much of the vintage footage was so familiar: when I was a kid growing up in the fifties and sixties, much of our TV fare was westerns. We idolized all those handsome cowboys with their square jaws and perfect white teeth: Wyatt Earp, Sugarfoot, Davy Crockett, and our favorite, Brett Maverick. There was no ambiguity about Good Guys and Bad Guys. When the Indians swarmed, whooping, over a ridge and across the plains, they were ferocious and savage, their faces painted and long, black hair streaming behind them. Battles were loud and furious, but virtually bloodless: the Trail of Tears and broken treaties were not in those scripts. 

 

When preparing to travel, I focus on necessities. I Google distances and drive time between locations. I consult TripAdvisor for ratings in considering places to stay. For the most part, I don’t delve into area attractions until we arrive, which has generally worked out okay. It also leaves room for surprises, like encounters with John Wayne and Marty McFly. 

 

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An athletic blond in a cropped top, short-shorts, and hiking boots sits next to me on a steep stretch to the opening of one of the Double Arches. In her youth, beauty, and skimpy garb, she is intimidating, but friendly and kind as she smiles at me and says, “You’re almost there.  You can do it!” She, too, has paused on this incline. It’s convivial here beneath the arch as people aged 8 to 80 contemplate the remaining climb to the opening. A father encourages his son to go for it while the mom watches from below, one hand shielding her eyes against the sun as she warns, “Be careful! Maybe stop there!”

Like beads on a necklace, people perch along the curve of the arch. Dave has decided not to try and is taking a video as I reach for the tiniest hint of a fingerhold and inch my toes a bit higher in search of better footing. This is not as difficult as I’m making it sound, but always I am weighing the possibility of injury over triumph. 

 

“It’s a nice view – pretty dramatic,” says a man as he descends. “A dead drop on the other side.”

 

Dead drop. Hm. I take that under advisement.  I want to make it up there and take in that view, but there are ample vistas in the park that don’t seem as risky. I back down and cheer on my blond friend as she scales the rock to the rim. 

 

We felt this same camaraderie at Zion and Bryce in the shared joy of extraordinary experiences. Arches, though, has been unique in its accessibility to little hikers as well. Really little hikers. Toddlers of three can manage some of the short trails and easier inclines, and they are adorable with their “Junior Ranger” vests and walking sticks. Some intrepid souls carry babies in canopied backpacks. Several of the families we’ve spoken to are traveling in campers: having always loved the parks and hiking, they are infusing their children with a love of the Earth and the outdoors from early on.

 

At the other extreme is a practical woman who has taken a seat on a bench near the parking lot. She comments to her companions, “Really, the view of the arches is better from a distance. You go ahead. I’m staying here.” 

 

Trip West, Part IV: Hell's Backbone Farm and Grill, the Anasazi, and Unintended Consequences

If ever I needed proof of avian communication, the conversation among the geese on the pond outside our room at Boulder Lodge would have convinced me. Such a heated give and take! Such honking and grousing! We were frustrated eavesdroppers in need of an interpreter.  

After yesterday’s mood swings from anxious to uplifted in our ultimately successful search for the slot canyon, Boulder Lodge was a lovely haven. My friend Edie had suggested nearby Hell’s Backbone Grill and Farm for dinner but cautioned that we might not be able to get a reservation because it was one of the best restaurants in the country. I assumed that was hyperbole: what would the best restaurant in the country be doing here, in the middle of nowhere?

Because that’s how it felt. After settling in, Dave and I saw only trees, hillsides, and the occasional house when we took a leisurely drive to find the charming little western town I expected Boulder to be. We later learned that, while expansive in miles, the town center was basically Boulder Lodge, the post office, and the restaurant. Where, by the way, we were able to get a reservation. 

 

We’d poked our heads in the door right after check-in and were warmly greeted at the desk by the hostess, Lacy, and one of the co- owners, Blake Spalding. When I related Edie’s rave review, Blake smiled and gestured to the wall behind the hostess stand, a wall crowded with James Beard awards. 

 

Whoa. We were lucky to get that reservation! 

 

When we returned for dinner, Lacy greeted us and led us to a table by a window that looked out over the mountains. Best table in the place; thank you Lacy! 

 

After perusing the menu and reading about the restaurant’s environmental goals and “No-Harm farm” that supplied the organic produce and grass-fed beef, we ordered roasted cauliflower with mint, toasted chickpeas, and a house-made spice rub so divine we bought two jars to bring home. For our main course, we tried the skillet-fried trout encrusted with blue corn, molasses and almonds; cilantro-pepita rice; and organic asparagus. 

 

Delicious. James Beard was right.

*          *

 

It was a brisk November day in 2004 as David Holladay hiked the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in Utah with his dog. When he spotted an arrowhead on the ground, he knew by its pinkish tone and craftsmanship that he’d discovered something extraordinary. He left it in place until he could return with the proper authorities. 

 

Wait. What? He left it there? Who would do that? If I spotted an arrowhead, I’d absolutely pick it up and pocket it. And, despite guilt being a default for me applicable in countless situations, I’d have felt no guilt. Why would I?

 

Turns out Mr. Holladay did the right thing. An artifact’s placement reveals significant information, and the Bureau of Land management asks that any such discovery be left in situ, and the BLM notified. 

 

But, but, but… Mr. Holladay and the experts were unable to return to the site for months because of snow. So much could have happened in the interim! What if run-off or another hiker had carried the point away? What if the melting snow had changed the ground enough to leave the location unrecognizable? Seems to me Mr. Holladay took a risk with his good intentions, but in the absence of theft and unruly Nature, Mr. Holladay’s Clovis Point is now on display in the Anasazi State Park Museum, our primary reason for visiting Boulder, Utah. 

 

While the archaeological dig of the Coombs Anasazi village site out back was intriguing, as were the displays depicting Anasazi dwellings and implements, it was our conversation with the docent that prolonged our stay. It began with my questions about the microscope that was broken, the interactive panels that didn’t work, and the items that were missing. While there was much to see and do, the theft and damaged exhibits were noticeable. 

Jamie, the docent - or was she the director? – acknowledged that these were concerns. Large school groups were hard to monitor as were the increasing numbers of tourists following the sequestered year of Covid. Jamie asked if we’d noticed the Clovis Point, which, to be honest, I’d seen, but breezed by. There were lots of pretty arrowheads on display, so why linger on one? 

 

Because it’s between 8,000 – 11,000 years old. Because, to a point connoisseur, it was remarkable in workmanship. Because, well, it was displayed all by itself under a spotlight, so I should have known it was special. 

 

Dave is curious and always bubbling with questions, and Jamie was delighted to have inquisitive visitors. She squired us around the museum, with particular attention to the reproduction Anasazi dwelling, tools, pigments, and sandals created by the same David Holladay who discovered the Clovis Point. There was also a beautiful fan-like array of arrowheads he’d made during demonstrations at the museum. 

 

Informative, and clearly an admirer of the Indigenous American jewelry bedecking her fingers, neck, and waist, Jamie was generous with her time. The tone of our exchange wavered some, dipping and rising in a diplomatic dance, when I asked her about Bears Ears National Monument.

 

In 2016, President Obama designated the Bears Ears buttes and 1,351, 849 acres as a National Monument. In 2017, former president Trump reduced the monument by 85%. In 2021, President Biden restored Bears Ears to the original acreage. Hm. Definitely some politics involved.  

 

As a local, Jamie’s take was practical … and bitter.  “I understand the need and wish to preserve lands in National Monument designations… but they don’t include funding nor anticipate the repercussions when lands previously left pretty much alone suddenly come to the public’s attention. People swoop down in droves…and there are no restrooms, no parking, no trails, no plan for garbage collection.” Her nostrils flared in disgust as she described the results of such omissions.  

 

Federal protections in general led her to mention her sympathy for ranchers who’d lost livestock to wolves. We were treading in tricky territory.  She was a local, no doubt had rancher friends, and was certainly far more knowledgeable than I, but I love wolves and if, like my canine friends, I had hackles, they would have been bristling. 

 

Wolves have been given a bum rap. Humans kill and eat innumerable animals, so vilifying wolves for doing the same in order to survive is sheer hypocrisy… but I tried to say that nicely. I asked if Jamie had seen the video “How the Wolves Saved Yellowstone” that demonstrates how wolf re-introduction had bolstered other animal species and restored riverbanks and shrubs. 

 

She had. We agreed that these issues are complicated. 

 

As if to graciously acknowledge my point, Jamie mentioned past efforts by farmers to eradicate beavers, believing that their dams diverted water from crops. To the satisfaction of the farmers, that effort, along with trapping for pelts, led to the near extinction of beavers in North America in the late 1800’s. 

 

Jamie raised an eyebrow and said, “Well. That certainly backfired.”

 

In the animals’ absence, farmers came to recognize, and miss, the ecological benefits of beaver activity in creating streams and pond systems. Now programs have worked to re-establish beaver populations in order to efficiently and inexpensively retain local water supplies, revive degraded wetlands, and support biodiversity.  

 

Hm. Humans and the peril of unintended consequences: so many lessons, yet we are so slow to learn.