The Breaks of the Paria

I put the Chev in four wheel drive and crawled over one more bad spot—steep, abrupt, and loose. “There,” I thought, “that should put me beyond the reach of the drive-by killers.” Yeah, even in the middle of a cold November week, they were out. California, Arizona, Nevada, even Pennsylvania. It was a who’s who of license plates. Zoom in, stop, step out, snap a picture, close the door, floor it, zoom out. This is Kane County, Utah, the Walt Disney World of the west. There are dozens of attractions. Drive fast enough and you can check another one from your list before dinner time.

It was my own fault. I wanted to hike up the Paria, starting at the old town site, but I was only thirty miles from Kanab. The road to the river was generally good enough for a regular car, so there was nothing to stop them. Until now, at least. The road down the side wash was rough enough to require a little commitment—I thought—and that is one thing a tourist doesn’t have. The sun was low and the light was beginning to glow. I parked in the wash, got the camera, and began a slow stroll through a little clump of white hoodoos. It was quiet.

Briefly. Then, brrrroom, crash, here came one of those new four door jeep wrangler hard tops that look like a Hummer—hammering in and out of the wash without any hesitation. He was from California. He stopped by my truck—because tourists don’t like to be alone, and they don’t like to let you alone either—jumped out, snapped a picture, jumped back in, swung around, and pulled up next to where I was standing. He opened the door, heaved himself up into a patch of bitterbrush, and said, “I’m here to do what you are doing.” He was, of course, wearing shorts. “No,” I thought, “you’re not even dressed. I doubt you are here to do what I’m doing.”

Mr. California pulled a brand new Canon off his neck—more hardware than I can afford—and told me, “I just got this, can’t even figure out how to work the settings, what are you doing with yours, hey, that rock over there looks like a walrus.” Creacheeck. Creacheeck. He pounded the shutter a couple of times. “At least the light is pretty good,” I said lamely. “Well, have fun,” he rejoined. He jumped back in the Jeep and was out of sight in seconds.

It just goes to show that, what I think takes commitment, doesn’t anymore. I won’t leave a graded road and venture into the Utah back-country on a cold November night, unless I’m prepared to take care of myself. I’ll have on a pair of pants, for one thing. But, I’m the only one. Modern sport-utes and cell phones have removed all sense of commitment. Commitment to what? I’m just here for a quick picture and then off to watch TV at the Holiday Inn Express. If I get stuck, I’ll call the AAA and tell them to bring sushi, so I can eat while they pull me out.

I thought about that while I lay under a bright moon with a cold wind ruffling my sleeping bag. I wasn’t quite warm enough and, being November, it was going to be a long night. How easy it would be to get up, throw my crap in the Chev, drive back to town, and check-in at the Parry, where John Wayne used to stay. Who am I to blame the drive-by crowd when I like a little luxury myself? I mean, why put up with the inconvenience of a cold night in camp and the need to make breakfast in a cutting wind?

Twelve hours later, I had my answer. I was sitting on a boulder on a little bench at the confluence of Kitchen Canyon and the Paria when I heard a rock fall in Kitchen Canyon. It wasn’t a large rock, and it didn’t crash down, it just toppled over, maybe brushed by a walking deer or something. But, hearing it, I realized that it was the first sound I’d noticed in hours. The toppling rock broke, just for a second, an immense stillness. When the rock settled, the stillness returned. Sure, the wind was rattling the dry leaves of the cottonwood, the creek was chattering over small rapids, and the canyon was full of migrating mountain blue birds, but none of this disturbed the silence. I was surrounded by perfect silence. And, it was deafening.

It was also depressing. It was all I had, and it was time to start back. If I didn’t start moving, I wouldn’t make it home before I was expected by my family. Against the weight of silence, I picked up my depression and began to walk. As I walked, I thought of C.S. Lewis: “For a few minutes we have had the illusion of belonging to that world. Now we wake to find that it is no such thing. We have been mere spectators. Beauty has smiled, but not to welcome us; her face was turned in our direction, but not to see us. We have not been accepted, welcomed, or taken into the dance. We may go when we please, we may stay if we can.”

Pictures HERE.