Mike recently finished building another guitar and was trying it out the other night.  Bob really liked the sound of it. 

My dad, who is 86 and lives about 2,200 miles away, calls me on an irregular basis about once a month or so.  Usually he has been on one of his auto trips to either Niagara Falls or Gettysburg to visit the friends he has made on previous trips and has some anecdote to relay.

The last time he called I asked him if he was still able to navigate okay, what with his failing memory.  He said he did get a little confused occasionally but he was beyond the age of being too proud to ask directions.  As a matter of fact, he said, he'd gotten a bit turned around on the last trip.

He was on one of his mini trips to Niagara Falls and found himself in an unfamiliar location (aka lost).  He stopped at a convenience market and pulled up next to a young man and woman, who were buying gas, to ask directions.  The lovely, buxom, young woman was very helpful as she leaned into his window to explain the route he needed to take to get back to the highway. 

His attention was captivated by the vision of her ample pomegranates, unavoidably thrust into his line of vision.  Making an heroic effort to keep his eyes riveted on her face as she bobbed and twisted to point out the direction he should take, he felt certain she was unaware of his utter distraction.

At last, when she had finished, he thanked her and drove down the block to the nearest service station where he explained his inability to make heads or tails of her instructions to the two mechanics who were standing at the front of the store.  In absolute sympathy with his male sensitivities, they kindly reminded him, “Turn right at the next signal and you will be on the road you want”.   They were still LOL as he pulled away.

It seems most of my subscriptions are as carried away with life as I've been lately, because few of them are posting.  (Either that or Xanga's not notifying me, which has happened before.)

I'd gone to bed last night on a sad note, having received an email from my sister, Babs, that one of her beautiful cats had been hit by a car.  I shared the news with Mike, who had tended her brood while we were in Kauai, and he commiserated with me, as only a fellow cat lover can.

But today was one of those days where I could only marvel at the joy of life.  Almost every day has a preponderance of good stuff, but today was nothing but the best.

First off, I slipped into my Farmer John outfit and went out to the garden to plant the little beauties I'd bought at Home Depot yesterday.  I picked up two hybrid tomato plants (teeny, tiny, wee things for 98 cents apiece) but couldn't bring myself to pay $4. for the more mature heirloom plants.  I did spring for two slightly larger eggplants at three bucks apiece.  Considering that the spider mites had enveloped the ones I planted last year faster than they could put on new growth, that was quite a leap of faith on my part.

I chatted with Mom for a bit and then dashed inside to get dressed for work.  Yes, you read that correctly, WORK.  The little temp job looks like it's a permanent little job and, surprisingly, I'm ecstatic about having a reason to get dressed in the morning.  You might want to start a pool to bet on how long this enthusiasm will last considering my affliction of dilettantism

This was my tenth day at work and I had already told the boss that I needed to leave early to host the Veterans History Project meeting at the senior center.  He was cool with it which is one of the things I like about this job.

I was feeling that I had let my guys down because I hadn't prepared any kind of a program for the meeting and had sort of decided to resign my position as I don't see much hope of having any more time in the future to devote to this project.  Imagine my relief when I walked in and one of the regular guys, a gravely voiced, stringy Viet Nam vet, told me he had invited eighteen of his buddies to join us.   We normally have a group of 12 - 15 men and two or three women, all of whom have shared their stories at previous meetings.  I happily set my minions to setting up more chairs. 

We had so much fun, introducing ourselves, sharing new stories and old, and the guys were so effusive in their appreciation of my efforts that, of course, I decided to continue to make time to work on this immensely interesting project.

One of my favorite vets invited me to join him and his friend, Ginny (who helps me transcribe the interviews), for a beer at the local watering hole after the meeting.  By the time I got there, Ginny, who is about 5 feet tall and weighs about 98 pounds, had downed the better part of a pint, and was even more ebullient than her normal self.  Her buzz was infectious and Bill and I enjoyed it vicariously.

I excused myself earlier than I would have liked because I'm dogsitting for my friend, Gloria, again and I was looking forward to introducing Grace (my neighbor's terrier) to Layla.  I hadn't eaten all day so I crammed down a granola bar and ran next door to collect Grace.  She didn't care too much for the ride over but regained her normal enthusiasm as soon as she met Layla.

Layla is a standard poodle and towers over little Grace but they took an instant liking to each other.  Layla welcomed Grace into her huge back yard and soon they were romping around with the wild abandon that only youngsters can.  When they had taken the edge off their pent up energy I snapped on their leashes and put into practice the lessons I'd learned about pack leadership from The Dog Whisperer, Caesar Milan. 

If you've ever watched The Dog Whisperer you know how easily Caesar manages a half dozen dogs at a time while confidently roller blading down city streets.  I decided to forego the rollerblades for the time being.  The first couple of blocks were challenging as I sorted out who was going to walk where but soon we were trotting along like a well organized team.  Initially, both dogs were excited by the company of another dog but by the time we had gone less than a mile, they had accepted each other as part of the pack. 

Back at the house they chased each other around until they collapsed, panting companionably in the cool grass with contentment written all over their grinning faces. 

We all agreed, life is good.

I'm back from Kauai and already that beautiful week seems like only a fleeting dream.  Thankfully, my sister is posting her journal, complete with photos, so I'm relieved of that responsibility.  Check it out at www.xanga.com/babs430. 

Thursday I glanced out the window in the back door and noticed that a couple of the cats looked seriously alarmed.  Then I realized there was a big dog in my back yard.  I bolted out the door intent on shooing him off before any of the cats did anything stupid, like run, and attract his attention. 

This dog was not just big, he was a sexually mature, unneutered male American Pit Bull, weighing in at well over 50 pounds, I'm guessing. 

I recognized him as belonging to my neighbors several houses down the street.  I said, "Oh, Guero, it's you!" and he turned around and trotted towards me.  Just as I reached for his collar, Big Bad Bob came charging out with malice in his eye.  I scrambled to get between Bob and this mountain of muscle of a dog but Bob was determined to evict the interloper. 

King of the realm.

Guero (that's Mexican for white boy - or more literally it means pale or blonde) was unfazed and continued on his way back out the gate and down the driveway.  Bob, emboldened by Guero's retreat continued his charge.  Surprised, Guero stopped to see who this audacious whipper snapper was and suddenly they were nose to nose.  I grabbed Bob to snatch him from harm's way and he turned on me, hissing and scratching.  That was enough to convince Guero to beat a hasty retreat. 

Guero's family was at the end of my driveway and they quickly loaded him into their waiting van.  The woman said to the guy incredulously, "Did you see that cat?  He was chasing him!". 

The guy turned to me and said, "That's one bad ass cat", with a stunned expression on his face and awe in his voice. 

It goes to show you, attitude is everything.

The bad ass cat.

It looks like I'm going back to work finally.  It's only 16 hours a week and it doesn't pay much but I can ride my bike and I expect to learn enough to make it worth while.  It's a little computer repair shop, desperately in need of some organization, owned by a long time acquaintance.  Should be fun for a while.

Our twenty year old dishwasher started having some issues recently.  I had bought one just like it at a garage sale a while back just for the racks, which were in better condition than mine, so I talked Mike into swapping them.  We weren't sure it worked, but since it was two years newer and looked to be in better condition, it was worth a try. 

I suppose you're wondering why we didn't simply buy a new one so I'll explain.  We intend to remodel the kitchen someday soon, at which time we want to put in a European style, taller one.  That will entail building taller cabinets to accommodate it.  This used one was the perfect temporary solution and Mike soon figured out why its previous owner had discarded it.  Whoever had originally installed it had sloppily half plugged the water intake filter screen with plumber's putty and it had a leak at one of the fittings.  Both problems were easily remedied.

I left to get groceries with Mike lying on the floor (cursing and complaining) connecting the hoses.  I returned to find blood smeared all over the floor but no sign of Mike.  I went back to Mom's house to ask if she knew anything and naturally, she hadn't heard a thing.  I proceeded to put the groceries away as I puzzled over the mystery.  Curiosity led me to call my next door neighbor, Robin.  She said that a guy in a gray car had come and picked him up.  By her description I figured out it was Steve, my friend who is a surgeon.  Mystery solved.

In a short time they came back.  Steve had stitched his hand up and Steve's girlfriend had given him a shot of antibiotics in the butt.  He had such a bad reaction to the antibiotic that he could hardly walk.  Poor guy. 

With his ass hurting so badly he could barely move, he managed to finish hooking up the dishwasher before the anesthetic in his hand wore off.  Whatta guy!

This is the final segment of my journal of a supported mountain bike tour through Canyonlands National Park, in Utah.

Wednesday

We awoke to a pastel landscape.  Our breath was visible on the air so we stayed in our sleeping bags until Guthrie announced coffee was ready.  The stillness of the morning contrasted pleasantly with the tempest of the previous evening. 

After a leisurely breakfast of sausage, blueberry pancakes and assorted accompaniments, Pablo and Jane laid out sandwich makings for lunch and invited us to create our own masterpieces from their amazing array of fresh vegetables, cold cuts, cheese and condiments.  The luxury of crisp lettuce and firm tomatoes after four days of back country camping was not wasted on me. 

The ride for the day was to be out to the Land of Standing Rock and back.  We would not have to break camp as our final night would be spent in the same camp.  This in itself was a nice reprieve because it meant we didn't need to tear down our tents and pack up all the gear.  Our guides probably appreciated it even more than we did since they had to heave our heavy bags to the top of the truck every time we broke camp.

Becky and Jim opted to stay in camp to recuperate from the previous day's beating.  This was the first time both Jane and Pablo could ride with us since the truck could not follow on this rough track.

Most of the roads in this area, and I use the term "road" very loosely here, are remnants of the uranium exploration frenzy that occurred in this part of the country in the 1940s (I'm guessing at the dates).  They were never more than a barely passable jeep trail and little has been done to maintain them in the succeeding decades.  The result is thoroughly challenging mountain bike trail.

The fun began just outside of camp as the trail dropped off a series of moderate sandstone ledges to cross a small stream bed.  It continued winding and twisting through the junipers, plunging into dry wadis and then coursing up the opposing bank.  After a couple of miles it settled into sandy rollers where Pablo coached me on how to lift the front wheel.  Guthrie demonstrated how not to do it by piling it up in the sand.  Thankfully, it was a soft landing and no harm was done except for a little sand in his hair.  Since none of us had had a shower in days, it probably improved his style.

In the following picture Pablo is actually invisible.  Since privacy is scarce in a group like this, the rule was "if you don't make eye contact, you can't be seen".  What I didn't realize is that you can't fool a camera so easily.

When we reached the rock formations known as the Land of Standing rocks, we stopped for lunch and a nap.  From this vantage point we could see the backside of the Chocolate Drops, the rock formations we viewed from our latrine at the Maze overlook.  Don woke himself up snoring so we took it to be a sign that it was time to head back to camp.

Standing Rocks

On the way back, Jane led us on a short hike to an overlook of some cave ruins.  We would have liked to have followed the trail further but our stiff cycling shoes, with their steel cleats, did not lend themselves to cliff scaling.

Back at camp the solar shower was waiting.  This was just one of the advantages of staying in the same camp for two nights. The campsite was situated on the rim of an intriguing drainage.  Becky and I explored along the edge, looking for a safe way down into its depths.  From one vantage point we could see that the walls constricted to a narrow slot and we could only imagine what lay beyond and below.  We spotted a potential path into the canyon but the sun was already setting and dinner preparations were well underway so we decided to explore further the next morning.

Our last dinner was as wonderful as the first.  A Mexican casserole was served with spinach salad and warm brownies for dessert.  After dinner, Jane gave us a star tour, again impressing us with her extensive knowledge.

Jane had been a mechanical engineer for a heating and airconditioning company when she signed up for a tour with Western Spirit.  She was so impressed with the organization that she applied for a job and (obviously) was accepted.  Pablo had let us know early on that if we had mechanical problems with our bikes, Jane was the one to ask for help.  Ironically, Jane’s front shock was almost completely compressed and had no rebound, though it didn’t seem to slow her down at all.

Thursday

Before the sun was up Becky came scratching at our tent to drag me out for a quick exploration of the drainage below our camp.  I decided I would not be able to get everything packed in time for our departure if I joined her so she went off alone.  She came back with descriptions that made me regret my decision not to accompany her. 

The final leg of the trip was the longest but almost entirely flat or downhill.  We retraced our path through the pasture land and headed south at the intersection called Four Corners.  The road was well graded and we rode in formation to take advantage of the draft created by the stronger riders in front.  After about twenty miles, the road began to veer west following the contours of a vermillion wall that eventually crumbled into a few pinnacles of standing rock.  The road cut between two of the towers and entered a broad, white-sandstone drainage.  We could see that our destination was the other side of this drainage which was maybe a mile away as the crow flies.  Our trail of course, was more circuitous as we had to skirt around the precipitous canyon to a place farther upstream where the drainage was a flat sandy wash.  From the road we could peer down into the folds of sandstone to where the canyon slotted up.  It looked like a mountain bike path could be found into the canyon that would be more direct and far more fun than the road, but that would have to wait for another trip. (A side note:  it has now been ten years, and I haven't yet been able to persuade any of my traveling companions to go back to this canyon that still beckons to me in my dreams.)

Rounding the point of the mesa that divided one drainage from the next, we were treated to our first glimpse of the infamous Lake Powell (or Lake Foul as it’s know to the more ecology minded).  We had yet another deep drainage to skirt before the trail finally started the serious descent to the lake.  From this perspective the white bathtub ring around the sparkling water looked quite beautiful.

Many years of reduced rainfall have dropped the water level in this enormous man-made reservoir.  I was in my twenties when I first explored the remote canyons made accessible by the rising lake waters.  Navigation on the lake was treacherous because there were still huge trees floating downstream.  In the side canyons, one could see the tops of thirty-foot tall cottonwoods that had been drowned, along with pictographs, Anastazi cliff dwellings, and riparian canyons of heart breaking beauty, many of which had been experienced by only a handful of white men. 

Fortunately the shuttle van was not waiting where the trail met the highway so we pedaled another three or four miles on the pavement.  I stopped on the bridge over the Dirty Devil River to gaze up the serpentine canyon, imagining how it must have looked before it was inundated by Lake Powell.  Even with its bathtub ring and milky, still water, it was beautiful beyond all description in the noonday sunshine. 

The ride culminated at a beach on the lake at what must have been the confluence of the Dirty Devil and the Colorado rivers.  The water was cold but after five days without a shower, most of us felt a brief dip was advisable. 

Lunch was laid out before we were dry.  Amazingly there were still fresh vegetables, breads, cold cuts and a wonderful chicken salad. While we ate, Pablo and Kara, our shuttle driver, loaded all the bikes onto the van. 

The ride back to Moab via Hanksville took about three hours but seemed shorter because we were content to sit in the air-conditioned comfort after spending so many miles on our hard bicycle saddles.  Back at Western Spirit we collected our gear and bid a fond farewell to Jane and Pablo who, by this time, seemed more like friends than hired guides.

I bid an especially fond adieu to Pablo.

I want to give credit to my friend, Becky, who took all of the pictures posted in these blogs with the exception of the one of the Standing Rocks.  I borrowed that one from a magazine article titled Desolation Roads and published in Bike.  The photo was taken by Lee Cohen.  (Lee, if you ever learn of this, please forgive me for using your picture without obtaining permission.  Your photos in that article perfectly captured my experience) 

I've gone back and posted more pictures in the previous segments.  These photos are all scanned from prints so they lack the clarity of modern digital pictures but I hope they hint at the natural beauty of Canyonlands.

This is the fourth segment of my journal of a supported bicycle tour through Canyonlands National Park, Utah.

Tuesday

During the night the wind kicked up and we were awakened by the tent flapping against the tension poles as if it wanted to take wing and fly.  By dawn it had abated somewhat but there was a chill in the air and ominous looking clouds were scudding into the basin from the west.  We washed down a hurried egg/muffin breakfast with steaming coffee and hit the trail, retracing our tracks of the previous day. 

The wind was at our backs and the first few miles were mostly downhill.  Predictably, as the trail started to climb the wind shifted and we were driving into it.  We had all donned our rain and wind gear so we were able to maintain a comfortable body temperature as long as we were climbing steadily.  Soon it began to rain but the climb grew steeper so we were still able to generate sufficient body heat for comfort.  As we gained elevation though, the rain turned to sleet and then to snow.  The wind in our faces mocked our efforts to climb the increasingly steep ascent. 

By this time, we were pretty well spread out along the trail, each one suffering at his own pace.  At one of the many wash crossings Mike and I crouched under an overhanging bank, out of the wind, to restore feeling to our numb fingers and toes until Becky and Jim caught up with us.  I pushed on, leaving Mike and Becky to fend for themselves.  What seemed like miles later, Pablo, who had been riding at the rear of the group, overtook me and politely asked if I would mind turning back until I met the truck.  Nearly spent, I was only too happy to comply.  He continued on until he caught up with Don and Guthrie who were about 60 yards ahead of me. 

I found Jane and the truck about a mile back down the trail in the bottom of the wash.  Mike and Becky were huddled under a tree nearby, too cold to pedal further.  Jane was concerned about flash flood danger in the wash bottom and instructed us to head back up the trail until it reached higher ground.  So we garnered our waning strength and enthusiasm and climbed back up the way we had retreated earlier.  Jane pulled the truck off the road about 50 yards short of where Pablo had caught me and asked me to turn back. 

Within minutes Jane and Pablo had a canopy erected behind the truck and the dry bags hauled down.  What a sight we must have been!  We pulled off our wet clothes down to bare skin and dug frantically through our bags for dry clothes.  Modesty fled with the wind; we were in survival mode.  While we dressed, Jane and Pablo fired up the stove and prepared warm drinks and soup. I must have been slightly hypothermic because I wandered around half naked, obsessing about finding my hat or socks or something until Pablo insisted I take his hat and stuffed me into the cab of the truck with Don and Guthrie.  By the time we had regained a normal core temperature, the storm had passed and a feeble sun poked its rays through the retreating clouds.

After a quick lunch we pulled our nearly dry cycling clothes back on and continued the climb out of Elaterite Basin.  Except for a very short section of the Golden Stairs, the climb was not too steep to ride.  In fact, the boys rode the entire Stairs without stopping.  Becky and I congratulated ourselves upon reaching the summit thinking that we had nearly reached our destination.  When Jane caught up with us in the truck she informed us that we still had about twelve miles to go.  We fervently hoped it would be downhill but it proved not to be. 

The wind returned with a vengeance and the temperature was probably in the low fifties.  Jane and Pablo were visibly concerned about the next section of trail that crossed a bentonite deposit.   Bentonite is a very fine clay that becomes as slippery as ice when wet.  Just to make things interesting, the trail was carved into the side of the canyon wall and in several places sloped precariously towards the cliff edge.  We were relieved to find that the track was firm enough to traverse safely.  That worry behind us, we were presented with a series of steep climbs followed by equally abrupt descents as the path traversed a number of hogback ridges.  Each ascent demanded every ounce of strength I could muster.  Straining in granny gear to the crest, I was stopped dead in my tracks by a frigid blast at the top.  Determined to use gravity to assist on the next rise, I ignored the ruts and rocks in the path and pedaled furiously down the next slope, crouching low over the handlebars to minimize wind resistance. To no avail, another gust swept me completely off the trail and left me helplessly giggling as I extricated myself from a small bush. 

Jane and the truck had fallen far behind again so we stopped to let her catch up.  There was little shelter from the needling wind and without the exertion of pedaling, we soon lost our body heat.  I laid down in low spot in the road soaking up as much solar heat as was available while the rest of the crew hunkered behind a large rock.  When Jane arrived Pablo grabbed some snacks from the larder to fortify us for the last six miles.  We were all burning calories like a house afire. 

As all good things must come to an end, so did this trail.  We dropped into a rolling, grass covered valley.  The wind was at our back as we sailed the last four miles to our final campsite.

Though this site was as beautifully situated as the previous night's had been, the urge to explore was tempered by our exhaustion and the unrelenting wind. 

We hastily pitched our tents and donned just about every item of clothing we had packed.  Jane and Pablo huddled around the grill to shield it from the wind in a vain effort to make the charcoal last long enough to bake the potatoes.  We politely ate the cold, soot encrusted chicken and semi-warm potatoes then scurried off to our cozy sleeping bags leaving our tireless guides to clean up. 

Jane and Pablo did not have tents to protect them from the wind.  They dressed at the far side of the truck and slept in bivy bags (sleeping bags with protective hoods).  I assume that they didn’t have time to bother with silly luxuries like tents and sleeping mats.  I considered inviting Pablo to share our two-man tent but Mike would have wanted to invite Jane in too and that would have simply been too crowded. 

Create your own visitor map!

Slinky posted a beautiful picture of her Valentine's mug http://slinky.xanga.com/ which got me to boasting about my mug collection, and one thing led to another, and the next thing ya know she suggested that we post pictures of our favorite mugs  and here you go.

This is the star of my collection, given to me by my niece, Tuesday.  I've since tried to find the others in the collection and, if I were not such a tightwad, would now have all three of them.  However, the only ones I found were in England and were priced at something like 35 Euro, plus shipping.

And this is my other favorite, a gift from Babs, my sister.

Okay, Slinky, the game is on.  Let's see the rest of you top these.

Sitting under the dryer in the hair salon today, a small earthquake rumbled through.  The woman in the chair next to me turned to me and asked, "Did that feel like an earthquake to you?"  I agreed it had been a small one.  A couple of minutes later a stronger one bumped us out of our private reveries.  It felt like someone had dropped a bowling ball beneath our chairs, she commented.

My usual need to make the tame exciting exerted itself.   The building that the salon is in is one of those old brick buildings, built so long ago that electrical wiring is run in visible conduit on the inside walls.  I glanced around the room seeking a suitable place to take cover if the need arose.  I spotted a place next to the stairs that looked like it might afford a livable space.  I suggested to my companion that if we were unable to make it to the exit she should take refuge with me next to the stairs.  She agreed that was a good plan.

Moments later she mused how awkward it might be, assuming we made it out of the crumbling building, to be standing in the parking lot with our heads coated in chemicals and foil wrapped.  What would we do if there were a disruption in the water supply?  Not to worry, I told her, the YMCA was just down the street.  We could use the swimming pool there to rinse the hair color our of our hair.  Good idea, she agreed.  Then she wondered aloud how the chemicals in our hair would respond to the highly chlorinated pool water. 

This was one of the more interesting conversations I've had at the hair salon.

This is the third segment of our supported mountain bike tour of Canyonlands National Park in Utah.  Western Spirit www.westernspirit.com provided the support.  This is a link that describes the tour we booked in April, 2000

http://www.westernspirit.com/tripinfo.cfm?id=1198796482187  It has some professional quality photos of the places I so inadequately describe in this blog.

There was an interesting spill off slot in the sandstone wash bottom (the trail skirted this by climbing up the opposite bank) that begged exploration while we waited for Jane to catch up. The plunge pool below the slot still held water from the last storm which we hoped would improve the odds that we would not encounter any more rain in the next four days.     

When Jane finally caught up with us, she expressed some trepidation about navigating another upcoming wash crossing.  Pablo rode along near the truck while the rest of us pedaled on ahead to a good vantage point to watch the spectacle.  The truck looked precariously top heavy as Jane maneuvered carefully down the bank and across the gully.  Where the road climbed up the other side it looked dangerously off camber.  The truck wallowed  heavily as Jane exhibited considerable driving skill to get around an overhanging rock outcrop on the left without getting too near the loose edge on the right.  With Pablo’s calm direction, Jane made it look easy. 

The trail continued descending the length of Elaterite Basin and crossed the wash for the last time, skirting a chasm that abruptly appeared at the road’s edge.  Here the river dropped into a sheer-walled bowl, a couple of hundred feet deep. (We don't need no stinking guard rail!)  After the road crossed this broad sandstone wash, it started climbing gently uphill and grew increasingly sandy. We struggled to keep up sufficient speed to stay on top of the sand but as the slope got steeper some of us got bogged down and were forced to walk for a few yards.   Topping a rise, we were rewarded with our first view of the Maze District.  A labyrinth of sandstone canyons and spires stretched out below us, one twisting into another as each water course made its way to the Colorado River hidden below.

There were two group campsites, separated by a hill, perched on the cliff overlooking the Maze.  While we all went in separate directions to set up our tents, Jane and Pablo prepared lunch.  By the time we had gotten organized and changed into dry clothes, lunch was announced.  The fare included couscous salad with sun dried tomatoes, cucumbers and piñon nuts, and a variety of cold cuts, cheese, fresh vegetables and breads.

It is still a mystery to me how Jane and Pablo could throw together a meal and clean it all up faster than I could eat it and get ready for the next adventure.  This was another testimony to their professionalism.

The next adventure was a hike down into the Maze to the Harvest Scene, a wall of pictographs.  The trail immediately became very interesting as it descended steeply, hugging the side of an eroded peninsula that was topped by a rim of harder material that was cantilevered over our heads. 

We scrambled down a series of ledges until the trail leveled out as it traversed a ledge some 200 feet below the canyon rim. Just when we had begun to relax, the trail suddenly dropped down a constricted slot.  Jane led the way while Pablo coached each one of us, showing us how to find the shallow toe holds carved into the sandstone.  We lowered ourselves backwards into a dry plunge pool and then squeezed through a narrow slot onto more level sandstone.  Becky and I were congratulating ourselves on our bravery until we came to an even more hair-raising drop. 

The next test of courage required lowering ourselves into a crack that was barely wide enough for our bodies to fit into, and dropped nearly straight down about twenty feet.  Pablo showed us how to wedge our feet into the bottom of the crack so we could step down almost as if there were stairs.  By the third or fourth technical section, Becky’s legs were shaking so badly she could barely stand.  The final pitch entailed squeezing through a slot, traversing a narrow ledge and then backing down a twelve foot drop.  Becky sat down and told us to pick her up on the way back because she could go no further.  Pablo calmly described each move we needed to make to safely navigate this section and soon had all of us convinced we could do it.  Jane went first, nimbly lowering herself as easily as descending a ladder.  Then she guided our feet from below, to the next toe hold, which we couldn’t see because we were clinging to the cliff wall with everything we had.  This was the first time I recall being grateful for having small breasts.  We were all feeling very brave by the time we reached the canyon floor.  The fact of the matter is, Becky and I were so charmed by Pablo we would have tried anything he said we could do. 

Pablo was an adventurous soul.  He had been an alpine guide before he joined Western Spirit.  He confided that he had trouble believing they paid him to do this because it was so much fun and so easy compared with his previous lives.  As a young rock climber, he had lived in his car for several years.  By contrast, Western Spirit provides dormitory style lodging for their guides when they are between trips.  Despite his own self sufficient style of wanderlust, he was remarkably serious about seeing to our comfort and safety. 

The trail along the canyon floor meandered beneath gnarled cottonwoods whose trunks bore witness to higher water levels.  Their leafy canopy provided welcome relief from the intense sunshine that was not mitigated by any hint of a breeze.  In places the stream flowed above ground, clear and tempting. 

We came upon a deep pool that beckoned to us, inviting us to linger, but our guides pushed on.  Eventually we came upon a side canyon that must have run north and south because the canyon wall provided shade on the trail. 

A short hike up this canyon took us to our destination, the Harvest Scene.  A series of well preserved pictographs stretched for many yards, just above our heads, along the canyon wall.  There we removed our hydration packs and rested up for the hike back to camp.  A couple of small rose colored lizards scurried about on the sandstone wall, oblivious to our intrusion.  A lone turkey vulture glided soundlessly overhead, drifting on the air currents wafting up the canyon walls.  Conversation faded as we all fell into our own reveries, enjoying a unique sense of solitude and camaraderie.

The hike out took half the time it had taken to descend in spite of the elevation gain.  Simply being able to see the next hand hold made all the difference. 

By the time we had slipped into our cocktail dresses, Jane and Pablo had appetizers laid out.  This was perhaps the best time of the day, as we set up camp chairs along the rim of the canyon and opened that first cold beer.  Our appetites were piqued by crunchy baguette served with a spread of feta cheese, sun-dried tomatoes and pesto, and fresh grapes.   Yumm!

Our hunger temporarily assuaged, we took some time to spit bathe, organize the tent, and locate the groover (just in case nature called during the night).  This time it was far enough from camp that concealment was not an issue.  Pablo took advantage of the location and arranged it so we had a magnificent view of the Maze with the Chocolate Drops in the background. 

In due time dinner was announced.  Scrumptious veggie lasagna was accompanied by crisp Caesar salad and garlic bread.  When we thought we couldn’t eat another bite, the Dutch oven containing peach cobbler was pulled off the fire.  It’s astounding how much one can eat after a day of hiking and cycling. 

The red buttes in the background are called The Chocolate Drops.  Two days later we would be viewing them from the opposite side.

After dinner we arranged our chairs near the canyon rim to watch the moon rise.  Mike and Pablo took turns playing Pablo’s guitar while the rest of us set about the serious task of digesting.  As the last light of day waned we were awed by the infinite array of stars, planets and satellites overhead.  Living in a densely populated part of Southern California, we had long ago forgotten how dazzling the night sky is.  The Milky Way gradually appeared like a star ship uncloaking.  Anticipating the long climb we faced tomorrow, we soon crawled off to our sleeping bags where sleep came easily even though our weary legs continued to twitch with the memory of the day’s efforts.