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Show THE ZEPHYRJUNE 1994 e got my money anyway. This one should appeal to those of us who actually like to mountain bike (if there are any of you left). And as the victim I will say it was quite a rush and almost worth the money. These are only one some of the many ways that we; as ordinary citizens, can take the current invasion into our own hands and actually do something in our own small way to help. I bet there are many others out there who have even better plans to reduce all those obnoxious armies of city people invading our small town. I know of one much better plan first explained to me by Lee Goodman; maybe she can write it up for next month and make a regular column out of this. If we are truly successful in our efforts to dispel the oncoming rush of tourists, the U.S. State Dept, will slap a Travelers Advisory" on us! It is a goal we can all work toward. The one end only Lucy Wallingford is a long time resident of Moot. PAGE 25 wildlife; crystalline water, and abundant beaches. I stared hard at the tiny stars and kept asking, "Of all places, why Prince William Sound?" The answer, of course; was that is where we put the pipeline terminal. What have we done since the spill? Alaskans are still fighting with Exxon. Legislation that would have required more sturdy tankers has been weakened and bogged down in Congress. Americans balk at any hint of a gas tax, whether to reduce the nation's deficit or to fund stronger enforcement of shipping regulations. We bought a new truck for our trips to the desert, one that takes more gas than the old one. The fossil-fu-el machine still has us firmly in its grasp. We hiked for another week, far from newspapers and radios. I walked the desert outback among wondrous wind-carve- d hoodoos and dark, narrow defiles, the skylines filled by bright orange cliffs. The local news brought comfort of good tidings: verbena wafted fragrance across a dune, each morning began with a solo performance by the resident blue-gre- y gnatcatcher. But these were not enough to drive the shadows from my mind's eye. After each day under a brilliant sky, the image of an beach was what I took to bed. It was what I woke with at dawn under an indigo dome that shimmered with lucid stars. The image remains, now five years hence, awakened by a photograph of Stevens Arch. ed Ghosts From the Exxon Valdez Writer Susan Marsh lives in Jackson , Wyoming. By Susan Marsh Don and I were walking up the Escalante River, with a man from Lebanon who we'd met in Coyote Gulch, the day the Exxon Valdez hit the rocks. It was a pristine morning, the cool, still air punctuated by the tumbling songs of canyon wrens under an intense blue sky. The three of us stood in the shifting river sand gazing in wonder at a huge window to the sky looming above us Stevens Arch. A week later, we heard the news when we met Louisa, just off a plane from Washington D.C., at midnight in Capitol Reef: eleven million gallons gushing towards the beaches of Prince William Sound. At Fruita we huddled under soaring Wingate cliffs. A cool night breeze brought us the scent of grass as the tall rock faces gathered starlight. Under those stars, while we spoke in solemn whispers, a poison hemorrhage tossed on distant waves, glistening like pewter under the dark sky. I could hear its thick slurp breaking over mussel-encruste- d rocks as clearly as I heard Louisa's voice from the back of her truck. She crouched in a pile of camping gear, tossing the linen suit she'd worn on the plane into a comer, and fished around for sweatpants. "It sounded like the skipper was ," her voice was edged in outrage. But the potential for this had hung like a raised fist since the Alaska pipeline was completed. We all had a hand in this disaster by demanding the oil that is shipped so perilously across the oceans. We had traded the safety of Prince William Sound for cheap oil, and reaffirmed the decision every time we travelled by truck or airplane. In the campground we were surrounded by the dark, quiet hulks of large RVs. Red blinking lights in the stars signalled machine, all of us passing planes. I felt like, a cog in a giant, unstoppable fossil-fu-el dependent on it for our commerce and recreation, none of us wanting what happened, but acquiescing nonetheless. The debate over the Alaska pipeline and transshipment of its oil into the ports of Puget Sound had fanned the early flames of my environmentalism. The images that seabirds billowed like nightmare specters on that still night in Fruita of and beaches thick with heavy ooze had me hopping fifteen years before. The future I could not bear for my beloved shores was unthinkable in the place where it was now unfolding, an estuary so remote and wild it was known worldwide for its diverse - shit-faced- I - - I V i oil-soak- JL Far away from Prince William Sound...and yet so close. ed ft ENTRADA RANCH "Come to where the 20 South 100 East (across from the library) action isn't.' ...Just the river, the canyons, and the quiet. Complete houses & adjacent cabins P.O.Box 567 Moab, UT 84532 801-259-57- Aid now sfrcaga fcfcrbdg from Charlie Peterso-n- a fry In the Grand Emporium -- Something 96 9 . ice crest ta COFFEE FROM SALT LAKE ROASTING |