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Show evening, and then at the microphone. Then at Dana again. I do not believe this. But I knew I had to call in; we kept the park ambulance at the campground and it sounded as if it was needed. At the time I had no idea just how critical the situation was. | left Dana and the cheeseburgers and headed "down the hill" as we used to say, toward the park visitor center. When I reached the switchbacks above the Arches stunned by the view. All traffic had been stopped by law enforcement and the line of trucks and cars stretched up the Moab Canyon and out of sight. I called Douhan again and the orders were the same, so | pulled onto the emergency lane of US 163 (now US 191) and bypassed three miles of the traffic jam. I crossed the Colorado River bridge and was stopped at the river road junction by Moab Volunteer Fireman Corky Brewer. Corky and crew had pulled back from the fire and now they stood helplessly beside their pumper, expecting the worst. "Corky, I got calléd to report to the hospital. Is it ok to go?” "Hell NO," Corky replied. "Those underground tanks could blow at any moment. Even we backed off. | wouldn’t go to Moab if I were you." But I was stupid and running on pure adrenalin by now and told him J thought I'd give it a try. "It’s your funeral,” he said. "Good luck." I punched the accelerator and off we went (I'd collected two more rangers at the visitgr center). As we approached the Doxol plant, I was concentrating on the road and my speedometer as | passed 85 mph. But it was impossible to ignore the orange tongue of flame still leaping from the end of the tank. : "Damn," | muttered as the park ambulance shot past. Luck was on my side and we found our way to the hospital through the crowds and congestion. By the time we arrived, the injured had been flown to Grand Jct. by LifeFlight and | found myself doing “looting patrol,” although there seemed little if any threat of such activity--everyone was too scared to think criminally. My greatest concern was for my friend Reuben Scolnik, a retired NASA engineer who spent most of his sunimers in those days searching for arches. Reueben’s trailer was directly adjacent to the propane plant; only a wooden fence separated him from the explosion. Earlier, as I raced past the inferno, it was clear that the fence had been incinerated by the blast. Now word came that there were fatalities among the injured and I feared the worst for my good friend. We wandered the streets of north Moab aimlessly, assisting when we could, but offering no real news. It was a long dark night. Finally, an hour before dawn, the sheriff’s office announced that the threat of any greater explosions had passed, thanks mainly to the heroic efforts of Doug Farnsworth. Doug, an employee at the propane plant, had plunged into the flames just after the explosion to shut off critical valves. Had he not risked his life to cut off the propane to the underground tanks, many additional lives may have been lost. Finally, we were “released” to return home and I headed straight for the campground. | had to know about Reuben. By now hundreds of people had descended upon the campground and all of it was illuminated by harsh and un-worldly emergency spotlights. All I could see was a mass of strained faces. Then, through the unfamiliar throng, I spotted a familiar sight--a godawful powder-blue, sweatstained pork-pie hat that Reueben Scolnik wore 18 hours a day. His tired but relieved face was under it. It had been a close call for my friend. The fireball passed within fifty feet of his trailer and four campers in a tent died in the fire. The red plastic running lights on Reuben’s trailer melted from the heat (see photos, page 9), but otherwise he was okay. I finally reached the campground at dawn. Dana was still there but fast asleep. She’d left me a note, in case we somehow missed each other. "The cheeseburgers were great. Sorry you weren’t here to eat them.” : It didn’t matter. I was too wound up to eat or sleep. J just stood there, in that shabby little trailer, listening to the hum of my refrigerator. Then someone knocked on my door to complain about a plugged up toilet in comfort station #3. "We're having a real crisis up there with no toilet, ranger." All I could do was smile. You have no idea. NOTICE TO SUBSCRIBERS If your mailing label indicates a: 8/01 OR 9/01 your subscription is ABOUT THE ZEPHYR Volume 13 Number 3 entrance, I was Economic development...who REALLY benefits? 6....POINTBLANK: NEW WEST BLUES: The Return of REN MAN (6 all that is civilized in Mobville...) 9... THE NUTSHELL: Photographic Evidence Looking back at the Propane Explosion, 20 years ago. DOGS OF THE MONTH? Buffalo Gals and guys and Robin Groff too??? 12..A LETTER FROM CACTUS RAT..#1 The ramblings of the mysterious C. Rat? Who is he? or she... I5..... THREE OF ABBEY'S PALS...or "MAD MUTANTS OF THE WEST...VOLUME 1 16...TOM ARNOLD: By Jim Stiles VW Mechanic, Economist, Philosopher 18...An interview with JOHN DEPUY "The Madman G Seer...Painter of the Apocalyptic” 20....BOB GREENSPAN: By Jim Stiles The Music. The Man, The Polyps 22... EDWARD ABBEY: A Life "The Bard of Moa6, 1974-1978" By James Cahalan An excerpt from the new biography... 24...STREAMOFCONSCIOUSNESS ‘Reminder of Good Fortune" By Anne Wilson 26...AROUND THE BEND AGAIN . By Ken Sleight 30... WALNUT CANYON to NEBRASKA The Conclusion to the Severance Family's 1921 Trip. 33... MAD MUTANTS OF THE WEST The Photographic Evidence and one last look at Three of Abbey's pals... ‘Feedback’ issues of The Zephyr. SUBSCRIBE TO THE ZEPHYR SIX ISSUES (ONE YEAR): $15.. TWELVE ISSUES (TWO YEARS): $28 EIGHTEEN ISSUES (THREE YEARS): $40 TO EXPIRE! 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