The View from Moab Getting High Without Gurus: Part 2 By Jim Stiles Son: the view from on high does not have the desired effect. Not long after reluctantly leaving my favorite campsite at Big Rock, I found myself returning to a place I first saw more than 20 years ago. Since the highway department built the glorious new Bicentennial Highway to Lake Powell in the mid-’70s, much of the old Highway 95 has been abandoned and allowed to crumble. That's particularly the case where the road snaked its way down the side of Comb Ridge and into the shadows of giant cottonwoods that grew in the wash below. The road was empty most days. So, feeling a little nostalgic one day, | made a sentimental journey to the top of the Comb Ridge dugway. The one-lane road washed out completely to vehicles years ago. Yet, the area shows signs of abuse and overuse everywhere. From garbage to offroad jeep and bicycle use, the place was pretty hammered. Still, on this particular morning, the air was clear, the birds were singing, and I had the place to myself. Or, at least I thought I did. I had walked several hundred feet down the old goad when I heard something strange. Only the sound of my footsteps and the song ofa canyon wren had disturbed the silence of this lovely morning, when I thought I heard the sound of group laughter and applause. I took a few more steps and | heard it again. To be honest, it sounded like the laughtrack on “Leave It To Beaver,” and I wondered for awhile if my efforts to project myself into the past through wishful thinking had finally paid off. But I knew there must be a-more logical (and grimmer) explanation. I pulled out my binoculars and waited for been watching this kind of destruction for decades. But somehow it rankled more than usual. And I decided to go down there and find out who this mob of people was and why they chose this sacred location to do group laughter and applause. I made my way back to the new road, drove through the cut in Comb Ridge and turned onto the dirt road that led to their camp. Close up, the sight was worse than from afar. A big eee truck provided support for the cooking operation, which looked prepared to feed a small army. Handsome young men and women with appropriate outfits chatted pleasantly with the sounds again. They were definitely coming from Comb each other as they loaded their cars with state-of-the-art camping equipment. I walked up to a man in his early 30s. He was shaking the sand out of his shoes, sitting on the tailgate of his Toyota. He cleared his throat and said, “We're trying to develop a more positive attitude about ourselves.” “Excuse me?” I said. “We're trying to get to know ourselves better,” he explained, mildly exasperated that I even had to ask. “Maybe you should talk to our leader,” he added and pointed vaguely toward the cook tent. Eventually, I found their leader, or to be exact, he found_me. I had begun to draw stares as | snapped photos and grumbled just slightly under my breath. Jim Muir (no relation to John) was a nice man and was concerned with my concerns: “I can certainly understand how you feel.” “Excuse me,” I said. The man looked up and nodded serenely. “Well, I said, “I was just wondering who And: “I can sure see your point.” But ultimately, he felt his program was a good one. “These are professionals,” he explained. “Doctors, lawyers ... some of them have never camped out a day in their lives. This is giving them a whole new way of looking at this planet and their own lives. We are tiful little oasis, called Comb Wash. I became livid. I don’t know why I took the hell are you people? Is this some kind of group?” “No,” he replied. “Tt isn't?” I said looking around. “Well, increasing their consciousness.” “Sure,” I nodded. “But at what cost? They cant be taught environmental ethics and the fragile nature of the desert in one or two this why are all of you here?” Wash, almost a mile away. I looked through the glasses and saw a colorful sight. There must have been 50 to 75 people, dressed in a wonderful assortment of mauve, teal, turquoise and taupe, all clapping and laughing enthusiastically. I couldn't see why they were clapping, actually. All I knew for sure was that scores of humans in dozens of cars were crammed into what used to be a beau- particular incident so personally. I’ve continued next page Like bee? Love beee? Wish you knew mae about bee? Come taste the holtest miciobrews from mound the county. Lean the difference belween paiter and stout, pine: and ale. See how your old favorites hold up against the competition. O/tn entire event devoled to beer. his could be a festival afler your own heait. Hi Weekly gs ie S a oO Snowbird Resort Event Center. Sunday, August 17, 1997. 1:00 pm - 5:00 pm i wy = © >} < e Yaa L eB) vt ww < a $5 admission; $15 for 20 beer coupons. To order admission tickets call Fruyg 1-800-888-8499 / (801) 467-8499