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Show PAGE 9 THE ZEPHYR DECEMBER 1995 Environment". We read from works by Thoreau, Emerson, Muir, some guy named Abbey. Fine writers all, but mostly they served for me as a kind of hazy the instructor. Who had an background for the main focus of my attention absolute passion for his subject, such an obvious love for the indifferent mountains and rivers and wild reaches of which we read that it was almost sad. Well, and then of course he was devastatingly gorgeous. Which made the mountains, rivers etc., inspiring though they were, difficult to give my full attention to. So that by the time the quarter neared its end, I had, sadly, missed much of the underlying content of the course, lost as I was in my musings. During the final week, the class took a trip south. Into the land of deep green pools and golden alcoves and delicately sculpted cliffs and chutes. Into the heart of paradise. Into the canyons of southern Utah. I was totally unprepared for the wild, overpowering beauty I encountered there. Back then, the place (you'll never hear its name from these lips) was still relatively undiscovered and untouched by man. The quiet enveloped all the senses, punctuated only occasionally by the songs of canyon wren. We dove into deep emerald pools there was no other route to take and stretched out on rocks to dry like lizards. We traversed impossibly vertical rock faces because we were young. At night we took shelter under the stars and breathed in the clean and perfect air. On the last morning our leader buried his guitar in a place where he knew it would lie undisturbed till he dug it up next year. That day we ascended what I only remember as The Sand Dune From Hell. I seemed unable to make any progress and finally gave up, imploring the others to save themselves and maybe send back a helicopter later. It didn't matter. I would die happy in the knowledge that I was making some buzzard's life a little fuller. Somehow, between Brad the fearless football player and Steve's salt tablets, we got my very dehydrated self to the top of the endless dune. And as I lay passing in and out of rational thought, it came to me that I had not spent one minute of this trip in love-sic-k musings over the instructor. I me for life. Later that year the the that had claimed knew at that moment canyon emerald pools and seeping springs and the hapless guitar were covered by the diseased waters of Lake Powell. Yes, it receded eventually. I never did return to make another attempt at The Dune. Sometimes you really can't go back. But out of the anger over the drowning of paradise there arose a determination to keep other sacred places from being desecrated. And so every time I stand at a hearing and face a hostile crowd to speak in defense of wild things, in the back of my mind is an instructor who gave up a long weekend with his family to really teach us. And beneath my words is a silent thank you. Those first two years of college may be something of a loss in the great academic scheme of things, but they were packed with gifts. Around my sophomore year I became acquainted with the Utah Wilderness Association. It or, more appropriately, accompanied by narration began with a slide-shoThe A of my own drowned version more extensive Canyon. poetry describing paradise, it had been lost forever to the power and landscaping needs of Phoenix. But there were others canyons and rivers and desert slopes which could still be saved. These had served as the impetus for Dick Carter to form the Utah Wilderness Association. He spoke eloquently and passionately of the need to preserve our wild things. And in the ensuing fourteen years, he has spoken even more eloquently, but always politely, in defense of those places of wildness. He has gone up against bureaus and alliances who could not even spell the word wilderness. He has lost some heartbreaking battles to those groups. Always he has dealt with them with decency. (1 think it is his favourite word). To those of us who stormed out of hearings in disgust, vowing never to return, he remained the quiet voice of reason, urging us to continue the fight. Reminding us of our love for our wild Utah and renewing our passion to defend it. This year, Dick Carter is stepping aside as UWA's leader. The group will remain and hopefully continue in the tradition he established. But with a piece of its heart missing. For those years, that dedication and the gift of his quiet, unflagging support and humour, another thank you. Yes, all things considered, I would have to conclude this Christmas season that the hope is not misguided. The sun will continue to return, the common thread will keep us all somehow connected. And the gifts will be always, always remembered. - - i TECHNICA PACIFICA THE INFORMATION EXPERTS 59 EAST CENTER. MOAB, UTAH 84532 FAX (801) 259-410- 1 PHONE (801) 259-410-0 - 9rom atC eclinica-fpactfi- ca cannon country friends happiness and good fortune in this holiday season. i i i i i -- - ever-diminishi- i ng WATCH FOR OUR GIFT BOOK CATALOG Books - Maps - Trail Guides Full selection of parebacks Top 10 New Releases Computer - Self Help - Business Sports - Tostcards - Children's Cookbooks - Magazines -Books on Tape - New Arrivals Daily National & International newspapers 50 South Main (801) 259-BOO- K , we'd like to wish ail our - w of us at 0 |
