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Show "MY CANYONLANDS' By Kent Frost The Zephyr is head to publish an excerpt from legendary Utah explorer/historian/author Kent Frost's 1971 collection of essays and personal remembrances. Now again in print... Summer trips make good winter dreams. On a cold night, the winter after my first San Juan trip, I was carving a new gun handle before the fire, and it began to seem like an oar whose blade needed smoothing to cut the water better. The roar of the fire turned into the roar of a big river’s rapids. “A river trip of my own... ,” I told myself. Just then my cousin, Ruell Randall, arrived. He was my age and we frequently worked together when he came up from his home in Arizona. I was living alone at Dodge. My parents had moved into town permanently. The solitary life appealed to me, so | farmed for them. Ruell was a welcome visitor. We sat for a long time before the fire while I described my San Juan boat journey. I don’t remember anyone at home being curious about the trip, so, evidently, when I had a captive audience, I exploited ie “Sounds like come hing I’d enjoy,” said Ruell, hours later. Then he told me about a hike he’d had with Mel- trouble with that turned out to be that there was no water up there. It was hot and dry. Towards 8 P.M., we stopped to rest and eat a bite. | said, “Let’s hike tonight when it’s cool.” The air was so refreshing at 2 A.M. that it wasn't hard to get up and start out again. We got along fine until midday. Then, hot and thirsty, we napped under a juniper tree. At that point it was possible to reenter White Canyon and again use the bottom. Seven miles later, the same day, in the midst of plunging landscapes and rising cliffs, backed by towering mountains, we reached the Colorado shores. From the custodian of the Bridges, "A river trip of my own..." I told myself. Just then my cousin, Ruell Randall, arrived. He was my age and we frequently worked Zeke Johnson, we got a package of rice and a little sugar. The rice went well with together when he came up from his home in Arizona. vin. “Mel took the heels off his shoes to be like the Indis,’ he said. “When his feet got sore, he had to wrap cowhide around the shoes to build them up again. Walking behind him, I could sure smell those shoes.” I was thinking, “Ruell and I both like to hike. He’s interested in the river trips and has met Nevills. He was good company on a couple of reservation flour trips with me.’ So when August came I took Ruell by surprise. He was back again at Monticello from Arizona for the summer. We were attending a fathers-and-sons picnic on Blue Mountain. “Would you like to go on a little hike with me, Ruell?” I asked. He was willing. I had planned for this particular departure, but he hadn’t. Earlier that day I had climbed to the nearest peak and figured out the way from Blue Mountain towards the Henrys. How many times before had I climbed a Blue Mountain peak to brood over those distant Henry Mountains? Now I was going to head for them, with a companion. We simply walked away from the picnic without saying good-bye to anyone.in our families. I set our course down from Blue Mountain into Indian Creek. I had the only pack. In it I had stored candy, dried fruit, cornmeal, raisins, matches, and a hatchet. We took turns carrying it. I had 100 bullets with me for my .38 special pistol. Crossing over West Mountain, we camped the first night at Mormon Pasture Canyon. Next night, we bedded down late on Elk Mountain. Natural Bridges, 75 miles from home, was as far as we could get the third night. The site is extraordinary for having three great natural bridges together. Two of them are so large that each spans the main canyon. They were all formed from the same Cedar Mesa sandstone that covers so much of this country and from which so many wonders have been carved. Arches, Indian caves, hundred of canyons —White Canyon, Fish Creek, Dark Canyon, Grand Gulch, Fable Valley, the Needles, Salt Creek, Horse Canyon, Beef Basin—all eroded from pink and white solidified sand dunes, alternated with bands of red mudstone. The bridges are so white that it’s hard to believe they are in the same formation as the rainbow Needles or Dark Canyon. How the ancient Indians must have loved the bridges—Indian ruins are dense in this area. From the custodian of the bridges, Zeke Johnson, we got a package of rice and a little sugar. The rice went well with stewed rabbit. As we hiked around to examine the bridges, night came, so we camped under Kachina Bridge. The bridges are in White Canyon, and it seemed like a good idea to continue following the canyon the next day. There had been a flood in it a few days before, so there were plenty of potholes of fresh water. But the bottom got too rough. Ruell developed a bad blister on his foot. | cauterized it with hot water. It seemed best to climb out at Duckett, where following an old horse trail would make easier going. The The logs held together as we bobbed through the Hite “rapids.” We were whooping and hollering with our success. We floated on fo: a mile, our handmade raft carried along by a two-bk ~k-wide river in the wilderness. “What's that ahead?” asked Ruell. “A water wheel!” we said together. It was turning in the river current. We pulled ashore to see it. Down came a man, then his wife, and then their two sons. “Hey,” said one, “where you goin’ on that thing?” “Town the river on this raft,” we said with dignity. “How far?” “Lee's Ferry.” We noticed the father exchange looks with the mother. “We're surprised, we added. “We werent expecting to see a family living down here.” “No more surprised than we are at seeing you. We've been living here about six months, placer mining for gold. We're not the only ones here. Why don't you cross the river and talk with Arthur Chaffin? He has a fine ranch there, and he knows more about Glen Canyon than anybody alive.” Before we could come to a decision of our own about it, we found our little raft beached and one of the Ger- stewed rabbit. As we hiked around to examine the bridges, night came, so we camped under Kachina Bridge. Photograph by Dugald Bremmer It was beautiful. Three canyons met at Hite: Farley and White almost came together where we stood; Trachyte was on the other side. Beaches touched the cliffs on our side, farm bottoms on the other. Green trimmed the tall, red walls: green willows, grasses, shrubs. A blue heron flew by. Coming to an abandoned prospector’s camp, we searched it. “More supplies,’ we chortled, holding up a quart bottle full of cracked wheat and a small amount of chocolate in a can. “This is a good place to build our raft,” I suggested. Ruell hadn't known I meant a river trip until we arrived at Hite where Glen Canyon began. I could swim, but he couldn't. I told him it was the quietest part of the river. It was a gratifying mark of his confidence that he agreed calmly. He must have figured ] knew what I was doing. It didn't take long to. choose driftwood logs from a big pile and tie them together with pieces of old rusty cable that were lying around the shore. “Are we done?” Ruell asked. “Is this it?” Maybe it wasnt much, but it looked great to us. We watched a tree branch sail down the center of the river. “About three miles an hour,” Ruell guessed. “That'll be our speed.” “Well?” “Well?” Then our eyes met. “All right,” I said, “let's shove off. If we don’t make it, well always think we should have.” PAGEI8 hart boys rowing us across in their family boat. Mr. Chaffin was just as surprised to see us as the family on the other shore had been. He was about 45 years old on that first visit in 1940. “Where did you come from, boys? What are your names? What are your plans?” We discovered that he knew my father. When he learned that we were planning to float through Glen Canyon on a raft, he was very concerned. “Now why don’t you stay here for a week?” he suggested. “You can work for me, and I’]] pay you by building you a small boat which would be much safer. You'll get to Lee’s Ferry just as soon, because it’s quicker to row a boat than just float on a raft with the current.” We were reluctant. We wanted to be on our way. Many years later I learned that the Gerhart family’s son had been sent to tell him our raft was very unstable and dangerous. I’m willing to admit now that it probably was. Mr. Chaffin finally convinced us, so we put our pitifully tiny pack of supplies on a corner of his porch and went in to meet his wife. She seemed surprised to see us, too, but gave us a friendly welcome and sent us to wash for the meal she was ready to put on the table. She surely was a good cook, and their ranch was a marvel. That place called Hite was as far as you could be from civilization ...on the wild Colorado River, deep down between the highest walls of canyons that had to be followed to their heads, 80 miles east or 50 miles west, to meet any other permanent dweller. Yet they had all kinds of fresh fruits and vegetables, and urged us to feel |