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Show _THEZEPHYR/ APRIL-MAY 2005 The next morning we started for home. The day was much warmer and we shed our winter jackets. We crossed the river on the ferryboat and stopped to visit with the ferryboat people again. When we finally left Hite for that last time, Grandpa stopped for a while near the mouth of North Wash. He said he wanted to show us something. He pulled the truck off the road and into the scattered tamarisk bushes near a flat place by the river. We walked through the tamarisks a short distance to where an old rock chimney towered high above the willows. Around the chimney were scattered a few old planks, rusted barrel hoops, tin cans, broken slivers of purple glass, and other odd bits of trash. The junk was sinking into the weeds and dirt. There were a few notched and decaying cottonwood logs strewn about, remnants of the log house that had once been wrapped around the chimney. Grandpa took us toward the river, through the tamaracks, to where a great, cedar post was planted firm in the willows. It was almost hidden by the thick tangle of bushes, and Grandpa had to search for a few minutes to find it. The post was bleached from years in the sun, and the uncaring tamarisks had crowded right up against it. When he finally found it, he pointed out where scars and rope burns dug deep into the wood. The heavy post stood just back from the river on a sandy bar that held it slightly elevated above the level of the river floods. a Grandpa stood near the post and pointed at the river. “This is the Dandy Crossing of the Colorado,” he said with an air of absolute conviction. “People think it was down at the ferry site, but it wasn’t.” He then pointed out some features of the river. “Can you see how the river makes a bend here?” he asked. “The current changes sides here, twice. We are standing in the middle of the bend. The current is right up against the shore here at our feet. If you get in the water here, the current will take you across the river to the other side. If you are on the other side of the river, all you do is go upstream a little ways and the currentis at your feet over there. If you get in the river there, the current brings you right here to where we are standing.” It was so obvious. He continued: “This post was a brace to help pull wagons or rafts up out of the river. ... A horse was used to pull a rope against this cedar brace. That’s why the rope cut so deep into the wood.” He pointed at the river again. “Right here is where the Indians and the early pioneers crossed the river. This is Cass Hite’s Dandy Crossing of the Colorado.” He stood and looked at the river for a long time, as if watching it all happen. | looked at the river too, and while I stood there, painted Indians on beautiful horses, Conquistadors, cowboys and covered wagons, all swam the river at my feet. The man was stupid, and he nodded innocently, allowing that yes, he had done that. I followed the direction of my Grandpa's finger and the yellow paint screamed at me when I saw it. There ... on that sacred, dark brown sandstone ledge was a gaudy billboard: Milo and Vivian San Francisco California 1959 Grandpa came uncorked. I knew he was a scrapper, but I had never seen him with blood in his eye. He was probably thirty years older than Milo, but he stepped right up to the dim-bulbed San Franciscan and stuck his chin out as if daring the man to take his best shot. I don’t remember all that was said, but I remember how he said it, and I thought Grandpa restrained his language admirably; after all, the man’s wife was present. Suffice it to say that Milo knew right away that he had made a big mistake. Grandpa told the man that North Wash was our back yard and he didn’t want to see old Milo’s name every time he came down that road. He told Milo that he didn’t give a damn who he was or where he came from. Grandpa was fuming and Milo looked like he was going to be sick. But Milo might Spanish The Dandy Crossing of the Colorado was almost due west of the present site of the Hite Marina and near the mouth of North Wash. It was a little south (downstream) from the base of that towering butte where John Wesley Powell camped and Jack Hillers photographed in 1872. It was at the site of the hardscrabble gold camp called “Crescent City” that Robert Stanton photographed in 1889. As we started up North Wash on the way home, we boys started pestering grandpa to stop at Hog Spring and say hello to the Moki Queen [pictograph] again. It just didn’t seem right to drive past that Indian Princess without stopping to pay our proper respects. When we got to Hog Spring, there was a man and a woman camped there, which surprised us. I couldn’t remember other people ever camping there. I thought Hog Spring was our secret, private place, and I was annoyed by the intrusion. The people were strangers, and they looked out-of-place on the desert. They were Grandpa was upset and anxious to be gone and we were soon headed for Hanksville. Grandpa held the steering wheel in both hands and puffed on his smoke like Popeye the Sailorman. photographs by Charles Kreischer probably in their late twenties or early thirties, and they were driving a silly little car out there in the rocks and gravel where everyone who knew better drove a pickup truck. The little car had an ugly gypsy rack on top that was bulging with suitcases, gas cans and camping gear. There was a canvas tarp spread on the ground near the little car, and on it were a thin cotton mattress, several blankets, pillows, and clothes. : The people were dressed like foreigners. He was wearing a stupid fedora type hat, dress pants (slacks), and a silky, short-sleeved shirt. He was also wearing low cut city shoes out there in the sand, and that made me smile. She was decked out in tiger-striped pedal-pusher pants, a short-sleeved blouse with the tails tied in a knot around her middle, and slippers. Her hair was tied up in a red bandana and she looked like Lucille Ball doing a comedy sketch. We got out of the truck and said hello to them politely and cautiously. I’m sure we were staring way too much at their improbable clothes, transportation, and camp outfit. Grandpa made polite small talk for a few minutes and then he noticed the fresh yellow paint on the ledge beyond the spring. He stood with his mouth open for a moment, and then he pointed and asked, “Did you do that?” have been smarter than I knew. He wisely didn’t say anything and just stood there stupidly with his mouth open. I thought for a moment that Vivian was going to abandon old Milo to his fate and flee into the ledges like a prairie chicken. She stood with both hands over her mouth, eyes wide in panic. We didn’t stay long at the Moki Queen that afternoon. In fact, we didn’t even get to visit with her. Grandpa was upset and anxious to be gone and we were soon headed for Hanksville. Grandpa held the steering wheel in both hands and puffed on his smoke like Popeye The Sailorman. He said it was a good thing we didn’t show Milo and Vivian where the Moki Queen was anyway. The sorry (expletives deleted) would have probably painted it over. As we left, Milo and Vivian were breaking camp and hurrying to be gone. Vivian was dumping armloads of camp gear into the back of the little car like she was taking out the trash. Milo was on his knees, rolling up the bedding and pretending that he still had the strength to walk, if he really wanted to. They were the first real tourists I ever encountered on my red desert, and they were the spearhead of an invasion. Wilderness, uranium, red rocks and sand. An eyewitness account of things that were, and things that were lost. “It does make me sad, yet makes me smile, to hear some new-aged adventurist with a backpack and a sunburned nose talk “_.. a treasure, a priceless cultural study of life and childhood in the 1950s, in a town and landscape now gone. Tom McCourts The Times Independent writing is pure entertainment.” At a bookstore near you, or contact: Wy Southpaw Publications www.southpawpublications.net tom@southpawpublications.net | 435-637-4544 6l cele WHITE CANYON _Jwite FERRY 102 about the desert like it belongs to only them. I’m a guy who knows better. It really did belong to me and my grandpa once.” Tom McCourt |