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Show Page A6 The nitmgg-nbgpcnbe- Thursday, August 5, 2004 nt Idle Thoughts from Mt. Waas ' way it Sam Remembers by Sam Taylor by Ollie Harris . . A SCORPION IN THE HOUSE running they could climb trees. had heard all my young life about Chesler Park and wanted to see it. My interest had been sparked by a 1 940s article in National Geographic magazine with photos and text supplied by noted author Jack Breed. The author had been treated to his first taste of Chesler after a long horseback ride along with Moab area trekker, Ross Musselman. Chesler Park, though, was not on the agenda for our group, and wanted to see it. So took a k day off and set out on foot, following the It into Chesler. on was trail from Cave Springs a long hike and it was hot. enjoyed the whole day. On approaching Squaw Flat, noticed a big thunthe distance over derstorm doing its thing far-iGrand View Point and Junction Butte. It was headed my way. took partial shelter under a rock ledge and watched it approach. Within minutes it hit, and was drenched. The temperature had dropped, Im sure, 40 degrees and it was cold. It didnt take long for it to pass, and soon it was 1 00 degrees again. Amazing weather patterns in canyon country. From my vantage point, noticed a small post standing in the middle of Squaw Park, and being curious hiked out to it. To my surprise found a Salt Lake City parking meter standing by itself in the middle of nowhere. Some cowboys wry attempt at humor, surmised. Later in the day, followed the track up a treacherous dugway into Chesler Park. The first glimpse to me that just sat and was so looked. have been back many times since, particularly during the early 1960s in the years leading up to the congressional establishment of Canyonlands National Park in 1964. got so sick of Elephant Hill during those years that it wasnt fun anymore just hard work. Chesler never ceases to amaze me. And now that it is a national park, it's just about as hard to get to as it was when walked there in the early 1 950s. It is still, g though, a experience for me. One of the nicest things about living in Moab is the scenic country surrounding the town. As a life- I long resident, have enjoyed and marveled at this green valley surrounded by rocky desert. Even more, have enjoyed a lifetime of venturing into that desert at times into virtually unexplored and uncharted places. have always loved Arches. To me, it is a gentle, soothing landscape that brings peace of mind no matter how many times one visits the place. have traveled it on dirt roads, and made my first visit to the Devils Garden section after hiking in from Salt Valley, long before that section was served with a road built by Grand County crews. Dead Horse Point has always been awesome and a little frightening, making me realize just how small man is when compared to the whole matter of things. It remains one of my favorite places to I I I I two-trac- I I I visit. The Needles section of Canyonlands National Park, though, blows me away and always has. The verdant look of Chesler Park, surrounded by d sandstone spires and hidden passtill brings chills to my spine. sages, saw it first in 1 952 or 53, after a long hike, and have returned many times. On that first visit, was camped in Horse Canyon with a group headed by Jack Rudy from the University of Utah Department of Anthropology. The group consisted of Rudy, a few townspeople including retired Dr. I. n Bill Hines, and W. Allen, Moab Bates Wilson from Arches National Monument. Also on the week-lon- g trip was a group of Exfelt privileged to have from Moab. Scouts plorer been invited. The purpose of the trip was to locate and map the hundreds of Anasazi sites in Horse and Salt Canyons, although we spent most of our time simply exploring and enjoying. From Dugout Ranch in Indian Creek, the trail was pretty primitive. Before reaching the two canOur yons, we were already in of handful of a transportation consisted Jeeps, and a couple of units that had been purchased war surplus, veterans of military service. None were very dependable, although when I multi-colore- I I I I I I I super-firema- I awe-inspiri- I I I e. early-gen-eratio- I I n The scorpion that was in my house last night was not the least concerned. There it sat on the carpet, tail straight out the back, not moving at all. I, on the other hand, was a bit animated. The scorpion was about an inch and a half long, which is medium sized for around here, and fat. It had been feeding well. My intention from the instant I saw it was to kill it. I might have looked for ajar to catch it in but I didnt dare let it out of my sight lest it scurry off and I not know where it went. I was barefooted. There, on the end of the couch, where my cousin had left it, was my cammy boonie hat. I figured a boonie hat could kill a scorpion. I whapped the scorpion a couple of times, picked it up in a piece of paper towel and dropped it into the trash. My bare toes shuddered. Dont tell Barbara, or any of my children or grandchildren about this, either. None of them will want to sleep here if they find out there was a scorpion on the floor. Barbara may be especially put off because of the incident at the Hideout mine some forty years ago. We were young. Chrishawn was just a little girl and Terri was still in her mommys belly. We lived in a company house which was actually pretty nice compared to other places we had lived. Barbara arose one morning and put on her pedal pusher pants. The problem was that a scorpion had already taken up residence in one of the pant legs, it nailed her about three times before she could get out of them. It was not good. Counting the one that stung her in 1963, this one was the second I have ever seen inside a house. Well, the third if you count the one in Asuncion, Paraguay, but it was dead, collateral damage from the chemical assault we had launched against the cockroaches. Last nights scorpion comes on the heels of the bull snake that was stretched out across our south step. What is it with these critters that they figure they can come around and startle my family? The snake was sighted two days in a row and hasnt been seen since. It must have moved on. I got a pretty good photograph of the snake, too. It only just now occurs to me that I should have photographed last nights scorpion. I would have liked to but I didnt think about it in time. Besides, I would have had to leave the room to get the camera and theres that chance it would have crawled away to hide somewhere. Did I mention that I was home alone and barefooted? am not the enemy of arachnids and snakes. A bull snake or water snake is just fine in the flower beds. I wouldnt tolerate either loose in my house. There are even a few spiders that I put up with inside. Others I kill. Scorpions, like rattlesnakes, are not welcomed anywhere near my house. I was once with friends between Johns and Slickhom canyons. We shared the night with a small fire before us, the Hale-Bop- p comet above and a scorpion that came trundling into the firelight. Scurrying along, it sensed something amiss and raised its tail protectively. As it neared the shadows beyond the firelight someone asked, Are you going to smash it? The rest of us answered, Im not. It was free to go hunting through the night. There was the early Sunday morning when I was the first to arrive at the west doors of the stake center. Scattered on the abutment ben tween the doors clung a small scorpions, a recent hatch I guess. I looked them over, bade them good morning and went inside. They werent bothering anyone. But, I figured someone more squeamish than I would smash them if they dallied there for long. Except that they are so ugly, and will sting the heck out of you if they have to, I dont know whats the big deal with scorpions. Barbara reports that their sting is not much worse than that of a wasp. Of course, I wouldnt want to step on a wasp with my bare foot, either. I bike-packi- half-doze- I mind-blowin- High Country News Writers on the Range Many Trails Bumper stickers and the politics of rage i by Linda M. Hasselstrom by Adrien F. Taylor - Having an advertiser wanting color on page A the opportunity to put a little color on page 1 as well. However, not that many elements on the front page lend themselves so well to color, so there is just a touch here and there. Kind of brightens things up, though. aft Last week was the annual retreat of the Wasatch Woolpack Handspinners Guild, of which am a member. We hold this retreat in a mountain meadow that belongs to member Kathy Wright and her husband, Bob. It is between Park City and Kimball Junction, and a hideaway without parallel. Bob has installed ground lights along the pathways, along with hot and cold running water and electricity. Hidden in the trees is a pors serve the needs table shower. Five of 30 of us, although trips in and out are accomplished with all haste by the time Sunday arrives. The purpose of our retreat is just that: to get completely away from our daily lives and relax among people (mainly women) who share like interests. Nearly everyone there has a knitting project along, as well as her spinning wheel, a drop spindle (three in my case), required materials for workshops, and far more fiber than one could ever spin in four days. This year decided to take four ounces of a really nice half merino wool, half silk preparation that has been in my stash for some years. It is dyed a deep red, with touches of other colors, and begs to be spun much finer than was able to spin when purchased it. Time for the challenge! One of my fellow spinners stopped to ask what was spinning. Its from Chasing Rainbows. One of Nancy Finns creations, replied. thought so, she said. Some peoples work is so distinctive that it's easily recognized. Nancy Finns studio is in California, and think bought the roving in Oregon. havent met the lady, but would like to. Sharing expertise is also a part of retreat. This g techyear took a workshop on Most or anklets. bracelets made niques. people The table was crowded, so joined in after others were finished, and just made some earrings. learned the techniques was interested in, though. They make it look so easy! Another workshop was on needle felting. Most people are lamiliar with regular felting often by. virtue of having put a wool sweater in the washing machine inadvertantly. Teddy bear wear. A needle felting needle is barbed along two sides. So poking it repeatedly into two or more layers of wool will enmesh them. But be careful! Traditional felting to create a bowl over an inflated ball was another workshop. understand the principles of doing this, so didnt take that one. did, however, receive a lovely piece of sparkly red roving from the prize tent that begs to be felted into such a bowl, and may do that with some grandchildren yet this summer. Oh, yes. The prize tent. There were about 500 items in the prize tent this year. Participants bring prizes, and others are bought with part of our registration fees. Prizes are usually drawn after each meal. However, there were so many this year that an extra drawing was held Friday afternoon, at which time drew a smiley face instead of a number. There are four smiley faces each year. A smiley face entitles the bearer to anything she chooses in the tent, and took my time. finally emerged with a woven carry bag. It was bought at a thrift store, so we dont know where it was made, but suspect South or Central America. Not only is the bag exquisite craftsmanship, but it was stuffed with a variety of fibers, plus hand cream and a candle shaped like 8 this week gave us A-- I I I porta-pottie- I I I I I . a sheep. Meals are group preparation affairs. There is a head cook each day, and participants are expected to volunteer to help prepare, serve and I I clean up after one meal. We bring our own plates, cups, etc., so refuse is minimal, and we each wash our own. A highlight of the gathering is Saturday afternoon, when the annual fiber exchange culminates. Those participating (not mandatory) will have made something from fibers donated by another the previous year. Last years exchange was bags, and there was a fabulous variety produced. This year there was no theme, and made teddy bears from the preparation had received. Next year the theme is footwear. Sox seem obvious, but Im thinking slippers. Over the four days, incidentally, managed to get one ounce of the four ounces of chosen fiber spun. I I I I I I I I jewelry-makin- I I I I Wcz xxM&-t3lnbzpmb- Youll be lucky to get out of South Dakota the professor said, looking at one of my bumper stickers. He siniled, adding, I may be kidding. This was not my first warning that this bumper sticker might be dangerous, Leaving that small college campus, I was thoughtful. My cars have carried the same message for years, with replacements from an organization that provides every possible political view in bumper stickers, pins and posters. I have given extra stickers to bank tellers, gas station attendants, fast food servers anybody who for one. On long road trips, I read asked bumper stickers as entertainment, a way of sharing a joke with a stranger. One of my favorites is Pass with Care: Tobacco Chewer, spotted on a pickup in Wyoming. For that, I was paid $50 by Playboy magazine, one of my first writing sales. Surely, I thought, no one takes bumper stickers seriously enough to kill over. In South Dakota, neighbors have known me for 50 years, know I pay my bills and contribute to charity. A bumper sticker doesnt tell anybodys whole story. But lately, in city traffic, drivers behind have honked, shaken fists; one even bumped my car. I mumbled nervously, Go ahead; hit me and I'll sue you. One driver screamed that God would punish me, and waved his hand, with a particular digit upraised. Another howled that God loved me even though I obviously was worthless. By mail, Ive received photographs of my car; no message, no return address. Last year, a thousand miles from home, another driver hailed me in a parking lot and said, I recognized you by your bumper stickers. Then a woman from Tennessee called to tell me her friends teenage son was killed on his bicycle in a drive-b- y shooting. Police investiof his life and finally congated every aspect cluded that maybe he was killed because of the he was wearing: The same slogan on the words are on my bumper. Could that happen in the West? I wondered. My bumper sticker reads Bom Again Pa- - alive, all-ti- I mt 8 ISSN (UPS) 6309-200Entered as Second class Matter at the Post Office at Moab, Utah under the Act of March 3, 1897. Second class postage paid at Moab, Utah 84532. Official City and County Newspaper. Published each Thursday at: 35 East Center Street, address: editormoabtimes.com Moab, Grand County, Utah 84532 P.O. Box 129, Moab, UT 84532 Postmaster: Send changes of address to: The or FAX 1538-183- 0) ail Times-lndepende- 435-259-75- 435-259-77- Samuel J. and Adrien F. Taylor, Publishers Adrien F. Taylor, Editor Sadie Warner, Assistant Editor 'iS&ofci Ntm 0, to! -- tonfc gan. As a writer, I know the word pagan is Latin for country dweller, a term originally applied to folks who lived too far out of town to attend church regularly. It referred to their loca-.- ! tion, not to their religious orientation. Writers have to be picky about word usage, and I consider the sticker to be a signal that I am not giving in to the sloppy thinkers who define pagan as one who opposes religion. Worse yet, some folks associate the term with Satanism. The words meaning has nothing to do with my church attendance, which is no one elses business. The slogan is also particularly appropriate because I am a rancher, a person who prefers to live in the country. In our household, there was always tension between my churchgoing mother and my father, who frequently mentioned that he had a ranch to run, even on Sunday. He believed God would be pleased that he was taking care of His creation even on Sundays. My mother and I usually went to church alone. As a writer, my work centers on these ranching roots, and my deep concern for the landscape on which my family makes our living. Like my father, whether I go to church or not, I have always assumed that I might please God by my concern for the only world we have. Once I moved to a Wyoming city, the message took on ironic meanings. I had been reborn to a new city life, but could hardly wait to be born again by going back to the ranch. So the bumper sticker seemed to fit the unique circumstances of my life. If necessary, I am perfectly willing to die defending some of my beliefs and the things I love. But Im not ready to be shoveled under because some moron judges me by my car bumper. So Bom Again Pagan is gone. I still have my And my car still announces My Other Car is a Broom. Do you think we have enough sense of humor left for that one? Linda M. Hasselstrom is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country News inPaonia, Colorado (hcn.org). She divides her time between a South Dakota ranch and Cheyenne, Wyoming. rt. |