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Show THE ZEPHYR/FEBRUARY-MARCH 2008 “Really?” said Jack, “Maybe you'd like to find a ranger of your own choosing? The visiJack turned off the main highway at Balanced Rock and followed the dirt track a few tor center is only eighteen miles away. I’m sure your idiot boyfriend can hang on another hundred yards, where he paused briefly and then shut off the motor. Just over the rise, couple hours in this heat while you try to find an employee of the National Park Service out of sight from here, was Ed Abbey’s trailer site. Few park visitors knew it was here; who is more...accommodating?” few cared. When Bannion first occupied the trailer at the Devils Garden, he had been Heather glared fiercely. hounded by Abbeyphiles, who, like him, had been transformed by Desert Solitaire. He’d “TI go get the gear. Try to keep Chad calm til I get back.” finally scribbled a sign that he attached to his front door that read: She watched Bannion hurry back to the cruiser. “You're a real asshole. You know that Ranger?” fs THIS WAS NOT EDWARD ABBEY’S TRAILER. GO AWAY. “Madam,” he replied with unflinching sincerity, “You're lucky I didn’t just shoot your bohunk off the cliff face with my service revolver. That would have got him down in no time at all.” Bannion patted the holster of his sidearm, smiled grimly as he pulled himself behind the wheel, slammed the door, turned the ignition and raced back to the Devils Garden rescue cache. Heather, visualizing the “nice ranger” snapping off a few rounds at her rimrocked boyfriend, shook with anger. What kind of monster is this man? She wondered. I thought rangers liked to help people. It was clear to her, Ranger Jack Bannion was quite insane. It took another two hours to extricate young Chad Harrington from his precarious But they'd kept coming and Bannion couldn’t say he minded that much. It was how he found kindred spirits. Now, all these years later, the sign was unnecessary. A few old farts like himself stopped by to reminisce about Ed, but rarely did anyone under 30 bother to ask or even know who he was. They came to climb rocks and party. Bannion pulled his ThermaRest pad and his light down bag from behind the seat and depended on the starlight to find his sleeping spot, the same hollowed out slab of Entrada sandstone he'd used as a firm mattress for decades. It was as familiar to him as...well, perch. As Bannion had feared, there wasn’t a natural anchor point to be found, once he’d climbed to a location above the stranded hiker. Not a large rock outcropping or an overhang. Not a solidly rooted juniper. Not even a big boulder. He was forced to drill three nothing was as familiar as this isolated hideout. A few puffs filled the sleeping pad---one of this culture's rare great inventions, Ban- holes in the sandstone with his hand drill, a tedious task, even in this soft rock, then place nion conceded---and he crawled into the bag. It was still warm and the rock beneath him continued to generate heat, so he left it unzipped and kept his right leg out of the bag altogether. But later, in the dry high desert, he knew the coolness would come, especially up here where the air could move. He peered at the stars that filled the black dome above him. It was April and Orion was about to disappear from the night sky until early Autumn. When it returned, on the pre-dawn east horizon, it would portend the coming of winter and cold nights and short days and all the melancholy and ennui and bad memories that came with them. Still, the starlight on this night was stunning. So many stars. So far away. But he remembered his own words, spoken just days before everything changed. He could remember the shattered look. “Even on the brightest and starriest of nights,” he’d declared, “it’s still mostly black out there. As black and hard as the godless void...Get used to it.” He buried the memory as he was prone to do. Enough. He turned on his side and assumed a modified pre-natal position. All he remembered of this afternoon’s rescue and confrontation was the weariness he now felt in his shoulders and arms from the rappel. Ultimately, he rationalized, he’d been a good ranger who had done his job. Maybe he had been a tad cranky but crankiness was part of his charm. He'd convinced himself of that. expansion bolts in each hole, and rig an equalizing harness to the three bolts—if one bolt gave, the other two would “equalize” the strain and hopefully hold their combined weight. Jack really needed a backup and was even in violation of park climbing regs; a second rope and a belayer were mandatory, but he’d already spent precious minutes pointing out the absurdity of this “rescue” to Chad. They would now both be twelve goddamn feet above the ground. If Jack expected this idiot to endure a fall, he must be willing to risk it himself. Fair was fair. By sunset, the ordeal was over. Chad touched the ground, pumped the air with a clenched fist and yelled, “What a rush! What a fuckin’ rush!” Heather raced to embrace him and she almost looked tearful again for a moment. But she turned away from her man and caught sight of the rescuer, now coiling the ropes and loading the gear into the cruiser. “Ranger Bannion? she shouted. Bannion sighed, “Just tell them it was that ‘asshole ranger’ at the Devils Garden. They know me down there. I don’t need a badge number, ma’m.” Jack thought of B. Traven. “I DON’T NEED NO STINKIN’ BADGE NUMBER!” Now as he drifted toward sleep, it occurred to Bannion once again, that he was, himself, in violation of park rules and regulations. All campers must stay in designated campsites or possess a valid backcountry permit. Violators will be prosecuted. Bannion muttered drowsily to himself, “I don’t need no stinkin’ permit.” Moments later the sounds of the night, the chirping crickets, the hoots of a Great Horned Owl, the rustle of Mule Deer browsing the scrub oak, were embraced and amplified by the heavy erratic snores of an illegal camper. Above him, deep in the crevices of the Dewey Bridge sandstone, the Raven tucked his head beneath his wing and tried to Jack looked up, caught sight of the beautiful “honey blonde” walking his way. She re- muffle the roar. He dreamed of things to come, and, for once, the Raven slept poorly. ally was a sight to behold. What the hell, he thought. No point in staying mad. And she’s nice to look at. If she wants to thank me for saving that fathead, Ill just let it go. Hell, maybe she'll see the foolishness of her ways and abandon that kid for a guy with a bit more...experience. What was it Jack’s hero and favorite author always said? Hope springs eternal in the male gonads. “Yes, Heather,” Jack said as he snapped carabiners together. “Looks like your boy is no worse for wear.” “Ranger Bannion,” she snarled. “I just want to let you know I will be filing a grievance against you for the reprehensible and disgusting, and may I even say threatening, way you treated Chad and me. You should be ashamed of yourself. You are a public servant and I’d like your badge number.” Bannion looked surprised, but only for a moment. “I don’t have a badge number,” he said. “Why does everybody always want a badge number?” <{ My, ha, hi, i, Me, Mn, Ln, Mi, i, Mn, Ma, Mn, Ms, TSAKURSHOVI “Well then, how do I report you?” Bannion sighed, “Just tell them it was that ‘asshole ranger’ at the Devils Garden. They know me down there. I don’t need a badge number, ma’m.” Jack thought of B. Traven. “I DON’T NEED NO STINKIN’ BADGE NUMBER!” She looked at him vacantly. “Don't you get it? ‘Stinkin’ badge number? “The Treasure of Sierra Madre?’ Goddamn, I crack myself up sometimes.” The girl said, “You really are insane. And we're going to report you.” Jack paused. “It’s what keeps me from going crazy, Heather...Have a nice night.” He tipped his battered un-official, non-regulation straw Stetson, Gary Cooper-style, and headed home. : A unique selection of traditional Hopi arts, crafts and cultural items including over 150 Katsina dolls done in the traditionalstyle, as well as baskets, ceremonial textiles, jewelry, potteryand more. By the time he’d put away the ropes and hardware, it was past nine and he was too tired to drive a hundred miles into the tall pines, but Bannion was determined to get away from the trailer and the tourists. Bannion dressed quickly, turned off the park’s Motorola base set and locked the trailer behind him. He kept his truck equipped at all times with camp gear, a grub box and other necessities, including a 1918 Winchester 30/30 rifle, a treasure he kept locked in a wooden box that was bolted to the truck’s steel bed. He loved to “be prepared,” as his Boy Scout motto admonished him to do, so many years ago. All he needed, at the end of the week was to climb in and go. He traveled slowly at night, never faster than forty, because the wildlife in the park was too precious to run over. He’d spent more nights than he could ever hope to recall, patrolling the park roads. He knew the nightscape intimately. He chased faded midget rattlers We also have complete visitor information (including connections for knowledgeable and articulate guides) to make your visit to Hopi a memorable and enjoyable one. So come visit Tsakurshovi, the shop with the unpronouncable name. We're located 1 1/2 miles east of the Hopi Cultural Center at MP 381 on Highway 264 in the heart of the Hopi Rez. TSAKURSHOVI (The home of the "Don't Worry-Be Hopi" T- shirt) PO box 234, Second Mesa, AZ 86043 off the asphalt, braked for the mule deer, and carefully watched the kamikaze antics of his favorite jack rabbits. He’d once encountered an entire family of long-eared owls, sitting atop the old wooden Upper Fiery Furnace sign. He knew these critters on a personal level; they were the reason he stayed. 1-928-734-2478 VvvvTVvVvvVvvTVvTVvvVvVv 23 |