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2001-2002
I moved over to where I could listen in on the conversation, and looked over Heinz's shoulder to see that he was looking at photos of redrock slot canyons. "This is my fantasy," said Heinz. "When I am in Germany, I dreamed that I will come to America and buy a very large American car because Germans have only very little cars. Then, I am driving all day on a long, straight road, and listen to rock 'n' roll music. Head out on the highway looking for adventure and whatever comes my way. And then I build a little fire and sleep outside, because you can't sleep outside in Germany due to the fact that it is raining. I want to go here," Sasha said. "You can't go there." "Why not, no Europeans allowed?" "It's underwater. They built a dam." "Stupid Americans," said Heinz. "That is not a good place to put underwater. But we can anyway go sleep by a campfire, instead of staying here where it's boring." - Amy Brunvand, "Nature's Pilgrim's," January 2001
In spite of my interest in ice climbing, I am a rational individual interested in self-preservation, and I happily packed my bag and made for the gorge's rim and more difficult but safer routes. But just as I started laying a heavy curse on the Ouray Ice Park and its inhabitants, my defeat was happily mellowed when calls of "take it easy, Rocky" and "just come back down the rope" filled the air. Peering over the edge, my eyes feasted on the woman who had so recently bullied us out of the Schoolroom. She was now roughly halfway up the slabby route and apparently stuck. Paralyzed with fear and shaking in her super-gaiters, Rocky heard none of it, and rested there quietly weeping. Unable to resist the urge, I got her and her companions' attention with a boisterous, "Welcome to the Ice Park!" Justice had been served, not by me but by the Ice Park. - Will Sands, "Crampons, Conjones & The Circus: A Trip Inside the Ouray Ice Park," January 2001
Unstoned, our driver was the Worst Driver in the World. Stoned, he transcended all categories of Automotive Badness. - Rob Schultheis, "The Worst Journey In The World," January 2001
Six weeks after entering the fourth grade, my Scottish brogue was gone forever, and I was taking my cues from the Brady Bunch (my parents didn't, and got divorced). Greta hated America for years, and speaks with an accent to this day. Right now she has reverted to broad Scots, and is describing just how tired she is. "I never exercise, and here we are out here for nine bloody hours," she mutters, as we slog our way up toward the Ridgway Hut, sweating. "I'll be too tired to eat me dinner. You'll have to feed me my Dewar's with an eye dropper." I know now what I didn't want to know while I was growing up, which is these statements don't require an answer. I look at the sky. I know she is having a great day. - Lisa Jones, "Repairing To The Mountains," February 2001
Boys will be boys? Boys must be boys. And sometimes, men must be boys. - Ken Wright, "It's a Man-thing, Man!" February 2001
"Do you know what happened to the last writer who skied with us?" John, one of our guides, asks. My mind spins, but I just calmly shrug my shoulders. "He took one run and spiral fractured his femur," he notes in a serous tone. But then, smiling, he adds, "We still got a really good write-up. He had a hell of a run." - Will Sands, "Riding The Cat," March 2001
"How would you feel about seeing Pothole Arch included in a new map series?" I asked my friend T.J. He stared at me for a moment, took a sip off his beer, and leaned a little harder on the bar. "How would you feel if someone burned your house down?" - Ron Georg, "I've Got A Secret," March 2001
In a growth-buzz-addicted culture, even the stems and seeds get smoked. - Ken Wright, "Wild People, Unite!" April 2001
While I knew everything I needed to know about Byron, Keats and Shelley, Kerouac, Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti, I had no idea where Derbisol crept into the cultural picture. In all likelihood, I had unwittingly crossed that dangerous line called middle age and begun my inevitable trot toward the shady land that leads out to the pasture. - David Feela, "A Gram of Truth," May 2001
"So strange." Gail described the experience. "I'm driving Ed Abbey's truck through downtown Salt Lake City. There's 48 cents in change sitting in the ashtray. Forty-eight cents that probably fell out of his pocket. This is like make-believe. This is Ed's truck. I'm driving it, unlicensed, unregistered and uninsured the 21 blocks towards my little house up on the east bench. I'm trying to find that switch on the floor to light the high beams when I see the dry lightning begin. Great huge flashes of light and electrons going every which way in the night sky. Shivers. All over, full body shivers. Ed, you are a legend. We'll do our small part to add just a little footnote to it." - Amy Brunvand & Gail Hoskisson, "I Drove Ed Abbey's Truck," May 2001
I've worked hard to reconcile my love of mountain biking with the realization that bike dorks now rule the world. - Will Sands, "Seduced by the Dark Side of Single Track," July 2001
"The dog's name is Balls, eh, 'cuz that's the first thing he goes for," she told us at first. "You know, we've got this special spray, and it'll tell if you've smoked marijuana in the last 40 days," she declared, upping the ante. "You boys ever been strip-searched," she said, betraying her ace in the hole. - Will Sands, "Border Blues," May 2001
We haven't seen another human being in nine days. The San Juan Canyon has been our entire world, and the two of us the whole human race. Now, when we see the Navajo shuttle driver standing on the riverbank, a kid in orange, pin, green, blue and yellow Fauvist pants from Wal-Mart and a long-sleeved Metallica t-shirt, raising his hand in solemn greeting, he looks like the Brother From Another Planet, an emissary from a Lost Continent. And we, we probably look like a couple of Mudmen, the misshapen primordial monster-clowns the Pueblo and Navajo Indians believe inhabit these desert rivers, squeezed out of the mud, the rocks and sand and sent up into the daylight world of Men to do mischief and frighten the unwary. - Rob Schultheis, "Sacred Waters," June 2001
Life is Class V sometimes, so shut up and row. - Ken Wright, "Leaving My Sorrows on the River of Sorrows," July 2001
A few years back I was speaking to a Los Angeles police officer, proudly telling him how we were conducting road blocks on our rural highway in order to stop the crack cocaine from coming into our county. He just laughed in my face and said, "What are you going go do, Sheriff, build a wall?" I realize now that our existing situation, as bad as it may be with the crack, meth, heroin, pot, GHB, ecstasy, or water, it is not as bad as what I see coming over the horizon tomorrow. Unless policies change, the future is one filled with designer drugs like the meth that can be made today, at home, from supplies obtained from the local convenience story. These new drugs will be able to be made anywhere by anybody who attended a high-school chemistry class. The supply will be endless and the police will be completely overwhelmed, as if we are not already. - Sheriff Bill Masters, "Tell the Truth About Drug Prohibition," July 2001
My favorite coffees are the stomach-churning "Thunder-Bolt" or "Black Canyon Storm" - varieties so overloaded with caffeine it's enough to make your head spin - but I still go back for more. And they mix pretty well with whiskey, too. - Jim Mimiaga, "Hey Cowboy! Need a Latte?" August 2001
So Dave was surprised when a long-time customer, one of Moab's mountain bike pioneers, started buying more road parts recently. After a few stops for things like handlebar tape and skinny tires, the rider revealed to Dave that the world of mountain biking had grown too pretentious for him - a trend Dave had seen as well. "Now, road bikers tend to be more down to earth, while mountain bikers can be a bunch of geek posers," Dave explained. So, many dirt enthusiasts are returning to the tarmac for a different experience, both physically and emotionally. As Dave puts it: "You don't get a lot of road bikers saying ?dude' at you." - Ron Georg, "On The Road Again," September 2001
"'You have an hour" I'm told as the mountain of beef is placed on my table. The enormous cut of Texas beef is around four inches thick and it flops over the sides of a large plate. I'm apparently one of several of the ravenous, not to mention the merely curious, lured here. I see a few trucker-types going for the gargantuan freebie at a table across the dining room. A small fuss is made each time the meal is delivered. Other diners nearby look up from their meals to occasionally gawk. If you are feeling famished enough to go for it, like I did, you'll first have to fork over $54.13, tax included, for the privilege. "You get your money back if you clean your plate," my chirpy waitress smiles. "But you'll have to finish the shrimp cocktail, baked potato, salad and a roll, too." I imagine children starving in Africa, and my mother scolding me to clean my plate. The friendly waitress watches from a discreet distance after telling me the rest of the rules. "Once you start, you can't leave the table," she says. "You don't have to eat the fat," she adds, "But I will be looking to see if you've cut close enough to it. And I'm sorry to have mention this, but if you get sick, you lose. Now, are you ready to go?" I gulp and nod. She clicks her hand stopwatch. - Steve Cohen, "Carnivores Nirvana Lures Hungry Travelers," October 2001
"Hey, it says here I can win a one-karat diamond if there's a message in the bottom of my pop can. It also says, ?chances of winning one in three million.'" "You have a better chance of dying tomorrow," Steve laughs. Scott thinks about that for a minute, sipping his soda and trying to peer down through the clear carbonated syrup. He's not a winner. "That's good," he finally says. "It should be easier to die than win a diamond in a pop can." - Ken Wright, "A River Runs Through Us," November 2001
"Damn sumsabitches rich weasels," Johnny muttered from the first row, sleeve bleeding oil onto the chair arm. Encouraged, the speaker continued, "And we can sit on our backwards asses and look up to the glittering towers rising from Johnny's Up In The Rocks, megalithic monuments to those rich inbred bastards who screw everybody, and then we can go clean their toilets in their oxymoronic wilderness lodge, or we can put an end to this horse crap here and now, running them outta town, symbolically at least, although I myself prefer the concrete and specific." "Yes," yelled a woman in Row 12, a thin wiry mountain biker who lived on latte, Power Bars, and vitamins. "Let us pray," the man was gaining confidence now, "pray that God sends down his angel Macaroni, or whatever you Mormon folk call him." "Moroni!!" yelled someone from Row 5. "God sends down his angel Moroni, to burn and blast out every one of these blasphemous liars. And while he's at it, have him take out these sacrilegious councilmen here, backsliders from the Church of Our Holy Redrock, our friends and elected representatives who will undoubtedly sell us to hell tonight." - Chinle Miller, "Johnny's Up In The Rocks Radium, Utah," November 2001
"What's cowdog coffee?" I asked Dean. "Well, I'm not sure what it really is. They already had it made. They told me that cowdog coffee is like cowboy coffee, you put it in the pan and boil it over the fire, except it makes you howl." "Did you drink any of this cowdog coffee?" "Actually, no." "Did they howl?" "Well, yes, they sat there and drank it and howled. I suspect they'd put a little whiskey in it. A park ranger finally came up the trail and made them quit howling and put out the fire. It was a little embarrassing." - Chinle Miller, "Two Rats and A Doctor," December 2001
I like to drink and drive. This is, of course, a very uncool thing to do. And these days it's an even uncooler thing to say. But the fact remains: I drink and drive, and I like it. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that I get drunk when I drive; that's not the objective of my drinking and driving, and it's not the point of what I want to say here. What I mean to say is that for me there is something about driving along backwoods roads, like, say, a one-lane dirt road that wanders up a little valley and off into some distant brown mountains, while in my truck I hold the wheel in one hand and a beer in another, occasionally sipping while listening to bluegrass or old country and western or just the sound of the tires grinding gravel, with the window open and my elbow hanging out and the breeze blowing in . . . On the surface, this backcountry drinking and driving is a rather silly, perhaps ridiculous, even stupid activity to praise. It may seem that the whole scene - a guy in a beat-up old pickup drinking beer and driving through the hills to the twangs of country music - is one to stick into the "redneck" file, an activity low in intellect, lower in status, and devoid of benefit. Maybe it is. Still, for me it is something else. - Ken Wright, "Drinking & Driving," December 2001
When one diehard bought her a drink and handed it to her, she threw it in his face. She was a pistol. That night in my car was like the Kama Sutra in a frozen phone booth. The next morning she asked me if I wanted a job. "Doing what?" "Cleaning rooms at the Riverside." "A maid?" "Damn, you're smart. Yeah, a maid. Six an hour, plus anything you can steal." I thought she was joking, but when I looked at her I saw she wasn't. I thought about it. "Who do I see?" "Me. Congratulations, you just got the job." - Rob Schultheis, "Mountain Women," December 2001
As a reward for clear thinking and swift action, the rescuer received two cases of beer, both imports. - Joel Tracy, "Attitude of Denial," January/February 2002
I swing the stove door open wide, step back and sink into my rocker to watch the world's oldest and still-best late-night movie: the flickering fantasia of flame. - David Petersen, "Logging On: A Postmodern Awakening," January/February 2002
Some people say the journey actually is the destination, while others romanticize their contact with foreign people, foreign cultures, and, less endearingly, foreign washrooms. The greater the distance, the more exotic the land, the more pronounced the boundary, the more revered the slide show, or so the logic goes. Now, I've never been to China. Nor did I visit Eastern Europe during the Cold War. I've not been to India, Africa, or South America, and while I have been to Canada and to Mexico, my border crossing were uneventful and there was no ritual search of my person, luggage, or laundry to suggest I'd been out-of-bounds and exposed to something mysterious or forbiddingly unique. I have been to Utah though, and when it comes to feeling like you've been blown clean out of Kansas and into Oz, Utah comes pretty close. - Joel Tracy, "The Behave State," March/April 2002
The backpacking rule of thumb which states that the second day is a bitch turns out to be true for ski trekking as well. - Brett LeCompte, "The Imperial Trans-Canyon Expedition," March/April 2002
When I had the chance to meet Abbey, perhaps my greatest writerly hero of all, I stalled, deferred, and ended up opting out of the opportunity. I didn't know it then, but it was an opportunity that would never come again. Why didn't I go? I think it's because for me, like many others, Abbey was more than a hero - he was a figure of mythic proportions in my life. And I realized I wanted the myth more than the man. - Ken Wright, "Edward Abbey: A Life," March/April 2002
Sure, attributing human traits to snow is silly. Then again, snow is the only precipitation that stays around long enough to be anthropomorphized, so we've done it for years. Snow gods get characterized as angry, quirky, and sometimes kind. Snowmen seem jolly, though sometimes abominable. We describe a resort's snowpack as grabby or icy or other words that also apply to bad human prom dates. - Rob Story, "Cling to Car Hoods & Life In The Mountains," March/April 2002
By mid-afternoon, Troy and Gus are giving me guff because I brought a fishing pole and have yet to use it. Troy tells me that there are no fish in this stretch of the river although I know he is wrong. My only problem is that I will never be able to prove it. With the run-off, the water is the color of Yoo-Hoo and though my only lure is shiny, I will never catch a fish this trip. Gus informs me that I never catch fish anyway, regardless of what the water looks like. Troy repeats that there are no fish. Forget what I said before, I don't like these guys very much. - Terry Maloney, "Floatin' Thru Life," April/May 2002
On a proper pilgrimage the journey is at least as important as the destination: to be going fishing, in some way, is to be fishing already. - Dave Welz, "Trout Lust and Tree Hugging on the San Juan River," June/July 2002
We rested halfway up, only to watch large dark cumulous billowing up near the peak we were just on. The familiar rumble of the Colorado high country on a July afternoon commenced. Still above timberline, near 12,000-feet, we scrambled to lower ground as fast as possible. A clump of small, young trees in an avalanche zone just a few hundred feet below would have to suffice. We dropped our backpacks about 50 feet away, then got low. My partner's hair was standing straight up, and I swear I saw some small, blue sparks above his head. He put on his hood and said, "This is not good." - Shirena Trujillo Long, "Lightning Safety and the Thunder of the Gods," July/August 2002
Golf and the West are incongruous for many reasons, including, and this is not a joke, the fact that cattle have been known to choke on golf balls. This Reporter is deeply disturbed by the image of a rancher administering the Heimlich maneuver to a heifer. - Lou Bendrick, "Golf and Other Reasons to Pray for Rain," September/October 2002
So it was when my own consummate entry to the market economy came, after a six- to eight-week wait, with the much anticipated arrival of one plain brown packet containing sea monkeys. Alas, the grandeur of the moment was short-lived. Even though I followed the barely legible mimeographed instruction sheet carefully and with recommended adult supervision, my sea monkeys failed to develop as shown in the advertisement. They did not build castles. Nor did they appoint and adorn king and queen. They merely swam about with humping undulations. I checked daily for some sign of order or progress but saw only spasmodic homogeny and a desperate, almost human, existence in ever murkier water. Adding insult to injury, my best friend called them shrimp. - Joel Tracy, "Buyer's Regret," October/November 2002
It wasn't my friend's momentary meltdown in fully justified anger that bothered me, I realized; it was what she did after that. What she did represents what many people who share our intangible, unexplainable, and gut-level feelings about things like rivers do after those feelings erupt as emotions: We quickly pull ourselves together. We quiet down and chill. We "return to our senses." Sometimes, some of us even pull back, embarrassed, like we were the ones who farted at dinner. - Ken Wright, "just say no, No, NO!," December/January 2002-03
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