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Show Road poked a solitary asphalt finger into what had been agricultural ~ land for almost 200 years. Behind our house, a wheat field still stretched across an eternity of space, bright and golden in the summer sun. And beyond the field, beyond the reach of any four year old kid, lay a forest as dark and impenetrable as any fortress Nature could construct. We simply called it "The Woods." No matter how old I live to be, no matter where I may travel on this planet, there will never be a place so full of mystery and excitement and adventure as was The Woods to my friends and me. The stories and legends that grew out of those trees still rekindle powerful feelings even after all these years. ‘ For one thing the place was obviously haunted. An old cemetery that had been consumed by grape vines and poison ivy was a perfect breeding ground for spirits. And we were sure that a remnant population of bears still resided deep within the forest. Never-beforeseen bottomless swamps were teeming with slime and dead bodies and poisonous snakes. And most frightening /exciting of all, reports _ of a hobo camp in The Woods, led by the notorious Big Lips Louie, sent chills up and down our spines when we discussed the possibilities. A hobo had once come to the back fence, looking for a handout, but we suspected he wanted to take us with him. "What would he want with us?” I speculated to my friend Peter Caldwell. _"What do you think, you dumb little kid? He wants to cook you! Who do you think they throw in the swamp?” Peter walked away, disgusted at our ignorance, but then he was older and wiser in the ways of the world. He was six. some booster elevation for a truer aim). Volume 13 Number 6 February/March 2002 4..... POINTBLANK “Moab Enacts Human Zoning Laws! Sets Plateau Precedent!" By Ned Mudd NEW WEST BLUES By Jim Stiles "Winter Doldrums” 9... NUTSHELL: The Photographic Evidence DOG OF THEDECADE = — "BUTCH." the beloved pooch of CHARLIE STEEN, is the hands-down winner of the 50s D.O.M. ..and CHARLIE is Reader of the Month. Ultimately, The Woods had everything a kid needed-- weathered gravestones and the ghosts that inhabit them, monstrous tall trees covered with grapevines for swinging, poison ivy as an itchy reminder, bottomless swamps. And Big Lips Louie. God that place made me happy. One early morning in the autumn, as my dad shaved and got ready for work, | came into the bathroom and stepped up on the box my parents had provided me (I was still too short for the toilet and needed THE ZEPHYR I looked out the window across the wheat field to my beloved Woods. What I saw in that next moment, that one moment, has haunted me ever since. There, along the tree line, lined up bumper to blade, were almost a dozen large road graders and bulldozers. They were bright yellow and so out of place, so ugly to the eye, as they sat belching smoke and destroying the silence of what should have been just another day in the life of The Woods. "What are they doing?” I exclaimed to my father. He set. down the razor and gazed out the window for a long “moment himself. "That’s construction equipment," he said. "They’re going to put in a new subdivision over there...just like ours." I stared blankly at him. "But what about The Woods," I asked. "Well," my dad hesitated. "I’m afraid they'll knock down a lot of those trees. But, Wel ce, people need a place to live. Families just like us. It’s progress.” Then, as if to soften the blow, he added, "Maybe ru make some new friends." I watched the action across the field long after my father had finished shaving and dressed and gone to work. I watched most of the day as the big machines went to work as well. It didn’t take long. The big trees snapped like match sticks. Clouds of dust engulfed the , dozers and the men running them---engulfed The Woods itself. When the dust truly settled, weeks and months later, the place had been transformed. It was a mirror image of Glen Meade Road-—-rubber stamp houses with sodded lawns and a Chinese elm in the yard. There was not a hint of the haunted lovely forest that had so completely captured our fancies. And there was no sign at all of the hobos. Four decades later, | still remember that moment. I remember it every time | see another remnant of a once perfect world plowed under or paved over. And so the next time a new motel uproots an old cottonwood tree, or a condo development replaces a sagebrush meadow, and somebody says to me, "What's the big deal?” my answer is simple... "Graveyards, bottomless swamps, and Big Lips Louie." ie THE ‘FABULOUS' FIFTIES ee of Moab from a half century ago... 14..MY OLD MAN: The Uranium King By Mark Steen The youngest son of Moab’s most famous resident, Charlie Steen, sets the record straight about his father’s discovery in 1952 16....FROM RAGS TO RICHES Life changed rapidly for the Steens in 1952... From a tar paper shack to gilded boots 6 more... Photographs from the early days. 20.... THE HISTORY OF GLEN CANYON DAM. By Dr. Richard Ingebretsen The president of the Glen Canyon Institute ne the events that led to the damming of Glen Canyon and the environmental revolution it inspired. 22... KEN SLEIGHT RETURNS TO THE 50s Selsom Seen started the decade as a soldier and a tire salesman and ended it as a seasoned river runner. But he spent the early part of the decade, dreaming of the Colorado River in a cold isolated part of the world called Korea. 25... ONE LAST LOOK: An ore truck rumbles north on Moab’s Main St. during the uranium boom. 30..... FEEDBA CK: The Readers Respond. including a new polemic from earth_raper. SUBSCRIBE TO THE ZEPHYR TRADITIONAL RETRO DISCLAIMER...AND THANKS Just a reminder. Although this issue is not distributed until late January, it is printed before Charistmas. If any event occurs in the interim that renders part or all of this edition tasteless, inappropriate, or disgusting, it’s not our fault, Thanks this year to Dan O’Connor and Alexandra Woodruff who shared the photo morphing job. They are responsible for all the glory or all the blame. And finally...to that anonymous person (or persons) who sent me flowers and the encouraging note, you're the best. For a guy accustomed to ‘brickbats,’ your ‘bouquet’ was greatly appreciated. And they smelled good too. SIX ISSUES (ONE YEAR): $15... TWELVE ISSUES (TWO YEARS): $28 EIGHTEEN ISSUES (THREE YEARS): $40 NAME ADDRESS CITY. STATE 6 9-DIGIT ZIP PLEASE READ THIS! 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