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Show Moab Happenings www.moabhappenings.com ? J -- ? - - i v A Rite of Passage ...Stand down among these gorges and the landscape seems to be composed of huge vertical elements of wonderful form. Above, it is an open, sunny gorge; below, it is deep and gloomy. Above, it is a chasm; below, it is a stairway from gloom to heaven. John Wesley Powell is It a descent into the unknown and unwelcoming. It is harsh and rugged. It is the beauty of our homes, the elegance of our own backyards, and desire of millions of visitors. It will make men of mere boys and it is a womans first true kiss. It can make an atheist a believer and swallow the fearless and disrespectful. I speak of the river and the landscape we take for granted everyday outside our front porches and swamp-coole- d living rooms. I speak of the landscape that awaits visitors to Moab. I recently returned from my first trip down Cataract Canyon on the Colorado River. I have never taken my surrounding utopian environment around me for granted, but I was in for a new look at it this time. I had rafted the 15B was fretting about my early deadline for Happenings this month, wondering how I could inspire myself to get cooking on my writing when my son, Zach, returned from his first trip down Cataract Canyon. I listened to him wax poetic about the river and the moon and the canyons and I was hit by a stroke of genius: Make him write my column! Hes already inspired! So, this month I ask you to welcome my sometimes guest columnist, my son, of whom I am very, very proud, to "Life and Times in Moab. jl k awe-seeki- July 2000 ng Daily By Zach Lowe our town, the truth and history that lies within the canyon walls, and most important, the river that nurtures us. I was ready, after a view from the rim, to climb down this chasm of a stairway into a different at the kind of heaven. We met up with our boats downriver. continued beach and wrong What was to come was the part I had waited for, heard stories about, and read about, the rapids. In the words of my mother, she said it was a christening of sorts, a rite of passage, a loss of virginity in a way, and I believe her. After a safety lecture and demonstration that frightened our passengers and even jolted my heart, we pioneered our way. I had to conquer the rapids, I had to defeat the river, I thought, but I knew all I could really do was go where it took me and hang on. In a surge of testosterone and adrenaline, I rode on the most dangerous, yet most fun, seat on the boat: the foremost snout. Despite warnings about the snout, and floated I heeded no advice, but did listen Westwater but never once had I been able to venture into the heart of Canyonlands by way of river. Now while writing this article, I feel saddened that I am staring at a computer screen and listening to the tireless drone of my fan instead of gazing awestruck at the illuminated canyon walls and immersing myself in the roar of the mighty rapids. On my first night back, I feel like I have changed. I feel like I have gone through a rite of passage and though I onIyswamped a trip, I feel I followed the footsteps, of John Wesley Powell or at least followed the river way. could not sleep the night before the trip. I was like an impatient child waiting for Santa Claus to drop in, eat cookies, drink milk, and most important leave presents for me! I tossed turned, and dreaded getting up knowing I would have less than four hours sleep if I fell asleep immediately. Then, EHNN, EHNN, EHNN, EHNN, my alarm beckoned me but I refused and hit snooze as I had done for a good year and half to two years during college. (Shusssh .dont tell my mom!) Late, I awoke and was out of the back door before I even realized I was up. I had gone through too much trouble to miss this trip. It turned out I was not late, just early for rigging and preparing for the three-da- y jaunt. In my no coffee stupor, I locked my keys in my truck, but I didnt care about such trivial dilemmas; I cared about the river calling my name. After driving to the put-i- n on Potash Road and some final rigging 12 French tourist, two guides and myself we ventured forth into the unknown, at least unknown to our guests and myself. The first day is what I had expected and heard about; lots of floating. A time for contemplating, reminiscing, deciphering religions and philosophy, solving highly complex multi-variabcalculus equations, and simply just relaxing. We stopped for the day and camped. The entire day I was unconsciously learning the ways of a guide. I learned some tricks of the trade, talked river jargon, and began to learn how to survive,, at least one night, on the river. I slept next the river huddled in my sleeping bag listening to cicadas and beavers converse. I waited for the nearly full moon to splash on the canyon walls, but I missed it and awoke in the morning, this time to a coffee call of a Frenchman. I must admit it was a more subtle approach from slumber than my previous snooze and scurry method. Aftercoffee and breakfast, I was to lead several guests on a hike on the Loop Trail just above the section of river conveniently called The Loop. Our boats left us to meet us on the other side, and we started our ascent from the shady gorge to the sunny rimtop. At the top, I gave up trying to guide the stubborn tourists and let them go where they wanted. I was at their mercy. I did not care. I only cared about the everything around me. Everyday I am amazed at the marvel of where I live. I marvel at the cliffs that protect us, the laccolithic mountains that loom over I le to the warnings hold on! and dont fall off! As the first rapid drew near. Brown Betty as they call it, the clatter of our guests turned from the constant French tongue we never could understand to that of fear and excitement, distinguished by AAAHHH and OHHHHH. Myself, I sat up front wishing I were the first to pioneer Cataract Canyon, to tame the West, and to be the role model for hundreds of guides years later. I wanted to be John Wesley Powell. Reality struck me cold and furious as a large wave and knocked me back. What better way to be slapped back into the into the passenger real world than to be head-butte- d behind and worse, almost lose your favorite hat. Ok, ok, remember Zach, the river owns you, respect it; it still can kill you, fear it like a good boy, but brave this storm." Every rapid after was constant struggle. AflA ETOMES VAN TOURS AND SHUTTLE Site seeing and photography tours Short hikes to interesting sites Boat, bike and vehicle shuttle DEALER AND OUTFITTERS OF TEPEES, LARGE TENTS AND YURTS UTAH: 435-259-26- 67 COLORADO: 070-021-35- 74 Cell: 435 260-217- 1 a wrestling matching between little 5 10 me and a wave. I seem to have won by default as we went through each rapid and then ran away from each. I could do this, I was thinking in the back of my garbled head. On two particular occasions, I could do nothing but smile and laugh. I had my hat on backwards and my glasses tucked into it so I would not lose them, (my favorites too.) Therefore, after a good drop and 100 or so gallons attacking my position, my glasses filled with water and I could not see the next rapids. I patiently waited and held on for the next assault, SMASH, whew, that was it, then suddenly WHAM, another pummeled me. I survived, now a little more of a man. On the best rapid. Number 18, 1 sat as high as I could on the snout and held on. I saw the drop coming up and it was large, a potentially-able-to-enZachs-life-drobut I was ready. Unlike a roller coaster ride, I could not see the 25 foot drop below me. When I felt my stomach rise to my throat and the 20 foot wave crash into me, I rode it out, feeling even more of a man and I knew I was falling in love with the river. Our guests left the trip humbled and tired. I left it more of a man than ever before and more smitten, than over any girl before. My heart was full of something I had never really felt before, and it was a feeling I would not fully understand until the full moon rose that night. After we served our guests and they fell asleep for an early morning departure, we stayed up and watched moon shadows dance on the towering cliffs of inferno red. The trip leaders delved into nostalgic reveries of past trips and the earning their blisters on the daily, as I will be doing shortly. I could feel the love they had for the river and what it meant for them. I could glance into their eyes and see how the river made them and changed them into who they were. I could imagine their first Cataract trip and their own personal rites of passage, their own lovers spell, and the subsequent respect and knowledge of the river. Throughout the night we sat on the boats retelling stories, with me prying boatmen secrets from them and falling more and more in love with the river. We finally crawled into our bags, nestled on our boats, like the need to sleep with your new baby. I needed to fall asleep before the full moon began to dance upon my eyes and imagination. Hurriedly, I fell into a light sleep, waking to hear a bat brush by or a wave crash into the shore, or simply the movement of my neighboring guides. I woke many times to an orb as bright as the summer sun and said hello to the man in the moon. He simply nodded and waved hello. Quite a merry old chap, I thought. How many faces had he seen? Had he seen Captain Powell forging the rapids and making camp at this very spot, maybe? Had these bleachers of red rock and beauty cheered him on, maybe? Could this be a job I could easily fall into? Could this trip be a rite of passage, into manhood, into nature, into something yet unknown? Yes, I : thought, yes. I woke the next morning with memories of the : laughing moon and patient canyons in my slumber. I felt alive. I felt anew. I felt like I was no longer the young immature sprite that I claimed to be and stubbornly held on to. I was given a gift of passage. I respected the land, the people I knew would come after me, and especially those who had gone before me. I was in love and could not help myself from falling. It had happened maybe only twice before, once when I, met my dog, Zoe, and another when I realized what Moab meant to me. Therefore, I challenge everyone to Find yourselves again. Can you remember when you cut loose last? If you live here,. can ybu remember the last time you big 20-fo- ot d- p, smiled at the "cliffs around you and, actually remembered where you live and why? If youre visitingare, you seeing everything you can, making the. mostjof every ipiny(e?,.DQ ..something that scares,! you or something you have always wanted to do. ..run Cataract on a full moon, walk to work, kiss your dog, watch the sun set, and remember when you were young and dumb, like I once was, and still selectively claim to be. Everyone has a passage .and everyone has a right" - if not obligation to find itr" ' |