Adventure 397: Park City, Utah/Post B

Utah State Capital

The "Open Window", a short story by Saki is one of my favorites. It ends with the line, "Romance at short notice was her specialty." We filled today with the kind of romance Vera imposed on Mr. Nuttle, and what a day it was. First, we spent an extra moment catching some winks as it was frightful outside, and our cozy bed felt so warm against the damp, cold snow that fell overnight. Then, since our schedule was empty until eleven, we decided to eschew our regular oatmeal for a fried egg and cheese sandwich, a yogurt parfait, and an extra dose of rich coffee. The Cager managed to sneak out a win, and in my abject sadness, I barely maneuvered our way to my cousin, Douglas' condo. We then set off on a small tour of Salt Lake City. In our travels, which include five or six trips by the great Salt Lake, we've never before ventured into the city. Naturally, our first stop was for food at an authentic Belgian waffle and frites  shop within walking distance to the capital. Judy and I shared Flemish Stew and frites (The owner's grandma's recipe). Douglas had sausage and frites. Both were exquisite, and we all shared a cinnamon waffle for dessert. Fully charged,we set off for the capital, which is a simply magnificent marble building set on a rise overlooking Salt Lake. We hiked about three miles up City Creek, an amazing oasis right in down town Salt Lake that was the original water supply for the settlement back in Brigham Young's day. Now, it's part monument, part recreation opportunity, and part retreat. It's quite stunning. After our small tour, we made our way to West Jordan, a suburb just South and East of town where my Uncle Butch and his wife Patty live. Butch, the youngest of twelve, is the last remaining Ruden in the original batch. Both my mother (Chris) and Douglas' mother (Barbara) had a significant connection with Butch, whose real name is Sam. He's eight years older than me, and our connection goes all the way back to when he used to babysit me when I was five and he was thirteen. Over time, he babysat all of my mother's kids and my aunt Barbara's too. We spent a few hours visiting, trading terms of endearment, which in our family means crude, rude insults with a sharp bite. It's really nice to be able to depend on Butch being the same guy today as he's always been. We had a light dinner that aunt Patty fixed (Soup and salad). It was excellent. Patty said it was Aunt Diane's recipe, another of our crusty, hard drinking, foul mouthed, role models. We all loved Auntie Diane. The fun part for me was meeting two of my cousins. Butch has seven kids, and two of his daughters were able to make the "visit" of the cousins from the West. Though both are full grown women with families of their own, I'd never met either one, and as I listened to them catch us up, I was struck how much they resembled my mother and my aunts. I shouldn't have been surprised, but it still made an impression. We left Butch's home in time to make it to a town hall meeting (My first ever) held by Chris Stewart, Utah Congressman from the second district. He met with a very hostile crowd, spewed a few artful responses to questions from a crowd who entered the room loathing him. I was very uncomfortable with the rudeness of those who shouted out constantly; I was very disturbed by Stewart's pompous position that in a democracy votes matter, which basically told the crowd, "I won; you didn't, so if you think this outrage is working for you, keep it up." The whole evening did little to encourage my already diminished faith in the process. Nonetheless, he did have a point. Our only recourse for change is the ballot box. Where I have trouble is seeing into the future far enough to find a Democratic candidate with enough vision, integrity, and political capital to be elected (At any level). That's why I get on my knees at night. I give myself over to my higher power. I just hope I'm not missing something like that guy after the horrible flood who sat on his roof. People in row boat came by and offered him sanctuary. He declined saying the Lord would provide. A larger rescue boat operated by the Police came by and offered him refuge. He declined saying the Lord would provide. A helicopter dropped him a life saving line. He declined saying the Lord would provide. He finally succumbed to the rain water. When he got to heaven he asked the Lord why he had forsaken him. The Lord replied, "I sent you three life lines. You ignored all three. The point, I guess, is at some point we must takes steps to live by the idea that God helps those who help themselves. Perhaps that's what makes life good, especially today.

 Down town Salt Lake City.

 I could have snapped pictures all day inside the capital building.

 The Senate chamber.

 White marble and gold leaf figurines decorate nearly every space in the building.

 This solitary native American gives a nod to this land I now call the United States of Irony.

 Douglas and Judy checking the trail map of City Creek.

 Judy, Butch, and Patty.

 My cousin, Maria.

 My cousin Molly (right) and her daughter, Bryson.

 This orderly crowd turned into quite the surly crowd once they were seated inside.

 Bear's Ears National monument, which President Obama dedicated, is under attack by the new administration. This issue caused much consternation tonight.

 On the way in, some guy was handing out this paper money he called "Rubles", and claimed it made us paid agitators.

The man of the hour, who like Daniel, jumped straight into the lion's den.

Adventure 396: Park City, Utah/Post A

Home Sweet Home for the Final Four.

In his book, "Hillbilly Elegy" J.D. Vance made reference to the reason poor folk of all ilk lose hope. He said that the psycho babblers call it "learned helplessness" in that those afflicted feel like whatever they do can have no effect on the outcome of their lives. I've never felt that, nor have most of my relatives. We refused to give into our plight, and we were no less poor than Appalachian hillbillies, inner city Blacks, or border town Hispanics. We simply wouldn't accept the given, and except for one, we clawed our way out. Tonight, as we sat around my cousin Douglas's table playing crib and replaying acrid stories of our childhood, which by now we laugh off, like whistling through graveyards. At one point, I looked over at Judy whose secure life no more resembles ours than the man in the moon selling cheddar cheese. Her face was flush, her mind awash. She couldn't relate, but still she laughed. In fact, we all laughed until our eyes watered, and though the chandelier hung over us like an ever present gallows, we all realized that we've made it because we're winners. Judy because of fate (And talent), and us because we refused to lose. It also helped that we're graced with brains, luck, grace, and good will. I prefer to think of it as preferential treatment from my guardian angel, but that's just my Catholic upbringing talking. It's most likely a combination of things. I'm struck not only by the contrast of the interaction with Judy's family, which is one of constant love, constant affection, and undeterred faith, but also by my interaction with my model family, the O'Brien's whom I've tried to emulate all my adult life. There's is a model of pure acceptance, undying loyalty, and ever present hope. In contrast, my family breeds a caustic love, a sharp edged existence, a balance that relies on performance,  and a loyalty that is constantly tested. We've experienced the ultimate betrayal, the most egregious lies, the emptiest apologies. So, when we relate stories of our formative years, they always have a truth that is burned into us like a brand. It makes us wary and afraid. In part, it explains our bluster. So when I relate my surely subjective memory of this uncle who injured me or this aunt who nurtured me, it's a memory seared, a memory forged into permanence, and even if it has some level of inaccuracy because of lack of context or perspective, it's no less hurtful or no less inspiring. Small things injure, and small things inspire. My nuclear family lived with instability, with uncertainty, with doubt. All my life I've surrounded myself with the opposite, but as J.D. Vance's Mamaw said, "You can take the boy out of the Kentucky, but you can't take the Kentucky out of the boy." Frankly, I look at the life I lead now, and I can't believe it. Millions are suffering, but I'm not, nor are those I love. Why? I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I could spread the fortune I enjoy to others, and I try, but mostly I thank God that life is good, especially today.

 We left Fremont Indian State Park about 8:30 and among the pleasant surprises along the way was this magnificent view of Mt. Nebo (@12,000).

 We got to my cousin's place in Park City about noon. This is the view from his living room window.

 Bordering his property is the the Swaner's reserve, which is  a portion of land set aside for migrating birds and other such environmental treasures.

 So, not only is he guaranteed a great view for ever, but the birds who migrate through the area are also guaranteed a nice place to stay. Quite humane of us humans.

 Art shot of the day. I could imagine this piece to be saying, "Guard what's precious, if you please."

 My cousin, Joan, former city attorney of Bellingham, WA, has retired to a life that is good in Park City.

 Douglas, Me, and Joan. We lived together as children. We're better for it.

 Douglas, ever the exquisite host, fixed us seared flank steak. roasted brussel sprouts, and fresh salad for dinner ( And he did the dishes!).

 Don't tell anyone, but there are fighting liberals alive and well in Park City, Utah.

 My relatives actually carried these signs (I had the bail money ready).

Adventure 395: Fremont Indian State Park/Post B

Come here if you can. Excellent find.

The twenty-four degree temperature kept the furnace busy last night, even though it was set at sixty. Frost on the sage brush welcomed us in the morning, so we lolly gagged until around ten-thirty before starting our ride. As advertised, the azure blue sky belied the still crisp air, but armed with our coats and gloves we set off for Candy Mountain. Even though we've ridden this trail three times now, it's winding, smooth pavement and its gently steady climb up the canyon still inspire us. The grayish ripples of the creek, flushed as it is with mountain runoff babbled its way down as we chugged up. The descent, a coast really, gave us a chance to see folds in the red rock we'd not yet seen. All in all, it was a spectacular 22 miles. We had lunch, rested a bit, and then we started exploring the points of interest around the park. The Fremont Indians populated this area around 1100 A.D. They grew corn, some beans, gathered pine nuts, hunted deer, rabbits, bear, and elk. It seems from the archeological evidence that they survived quite nicely in this canyon. I was struck, as I always am, as I made my way along the path next to the rock faces that hold the treasured Indian art that men such as myself walked this same path nearly 1200 years ago. Life was much harder then, more simple, but judging from the etchings on the rock, men of that time were asking important questions about their existence, and they were recording their stories for later peoples to read. In that, we're much the same. After our hike, we needed to get gas, which is much easier without Frac attached, so we drove twenty miles into Richfield along the road that connected these towns before I-70 was built. Richfield appears to be a farming community. It's small, apparently industrious, clean, and quiet. In other words, it's everything you'd expect from a Mormon enclave. As a treat, we shared half of a banana split (We'll share the other half for dessert tonight). It can't get much better for a guy to share ice cream with his favorite gal at the local Soda Fountain. In other words, once again, life is good, especially today.

 While we rode just a portion, this path goes twenty miles into Richfield.

 They call this "Newspaper" rock because it's chock full of petroglyphs.

 Some theories state that the pictures record stories.

 The Fremont Indians built their pit houses on top of the ridge because it was easy to defend, less bothered by mosquitoes, and had a spectacular view. All possibilities.

 Some of the etchings look like space aliens.

 Some resemble insects.

 Take me to your leader.

 In their heyday, there were enough of these pit house to hold 200-300 people.

 In the "100 Hand Cave", a natural shelter, there are literally a hundred painted hand prints.

 Howlin' Wolf said something like don't call me fat, I'm built for comfort.

This is the Sam Stowe Canyon, which meanders up behind our campsite. Stunning!

Adventure 394: Fremont Indian State Park/Post A

Bitter bile for breakfast.

We left sunny St. George after walking to a very nice breakfast at Kneader's Bakery where the Wiley Cager left me in the stink hole to win the St. George open. She did fumble her pegs at one point, so I've asked Congressman Nunes, whose reputation for impartiality and forthrightness is unquestioned by his Republican colleagues. Maybe he can get to the bottom of things, since he claims to be effective. In the meantime, I'll just salt my wounds with the bitter bile of the beaten. At the freeway entrance we had a choice to head South to warm sun, beautiful bodies, and a need for sun screen. Instead, we headed North (It looked like Alaska). Before long we headed into a near gale (Headwinds blowing well beyond what I'd be comfortable sailing in), and then, right around Cedar City, this white stuff appeared everywhere. At first I thought it was cotton left over from the Mormon settlers, but then I remembered: Snow. (That stuff we went South to avoid). The truck thermometer read 34 degrees, which even with the heat turned on created goose bumps on my bare legs because, silly me, I still thought we were in the tropics. Things got way better when we made the split from I-15 to I-70. We climbed up and over a snow laced grade into a jagged rock valley which eons ago was home to several hundred Fremont Indians. The state park is a monument to their lifestyle, and much of their history remains, including several hundred  petroglyphs, a few replicas of the pit houses they lived in, and a very nice museum. We're tucked nicely into site #2 at the Sam Stowe Canyon Campground. It has only seven sites, and has been mostly used as a group site. The state just opened it to single campers, which may explain (If the snow doesn't) why we're the only ones here. We'll stay here two days because the weather tomorrow is supposed to be near sixty with little wind and a promise of bright skies. We'll ride one of our favorite rides, which my cousin Douglas turned us onto on our first trip through here a few years ago. It's a paved rail trail a little over six miles long up toward an area called Big Rock Candy Mountain. The trail is three times longer if a rider were to follow it all the way to Richfield. We won't. We'll leave from our campsite here and the round trip will be somewhere in the mid twenties. Excellent. Actually, I'm just giving my Bunny a hard time. Truth be known, I'm just as anxious to get home as she is, but the romance of that will wear off as soon as I hit the biting cold of Spokane spring. She says I can just hide down in the shop. She's pretty smart, that one, so in that light life is good, especially today.

 We're heading North for what reason?

 This is a way cool campground: Power, water, scenery. Nice!

 This is part of a monument to Jedidiah Smith, a mountain man who first traveled this area. There are fifteen or so points of interest that we'll  check out tomorrow afternoon.

 The homestead family, (Mom dad, and six kids, originally) lived in this house from the late eighteen hundreds until 1953. 

 More pictures of Indian art tomorrow. These are etched on the rocks right behind Frac.

Site #2. Clearly, the good life.

Adventure 393: St. George, Utah/Post E

Way smoother than it looks.

My wing girl read the weather runes just perfectly, which meant our twenty mile ride through Snow Canyon was just superb. I'm pretty sure I could visit this canyon every day. Like I said a day or so ago, in any other state Snow Canyon would have National Park designation. We rode from a small park just North of St. George. The Snow Canyon bike trail took us into the park where we gladly paid our $4.00 fee for the day. We rode the paved trail, uphill, until it ran out. From there we hit the main road, which is brand new pavement as smooth as the inside of a rifle bore. I let gravity play with us until my eyes started to water, trusting the smoothness of the road, the reliability of my equipment, the confidence of my stoker, and we swooshed down, losing quickly the elevation we'd worked so hard for. Judy suggested we ride up and do it again, and we may have if the ominous nature of the gray clouds wasn't lurking behind the mountains. By the time we got back to Frac, the wind had begun to whip the flags, and leaves (There is very little litter here) tumbled like slinkys down the street. Still, after lunch we walked about two miles in order to tour Brigham Young's winter home, which was suggested by Rose Milhem. She was right. As a baptized Catholic and a practicing Presbyterian, I'm fairly far removed from the Mormon faith. I've read a fair amount about their faith, but I have some trouble gaining confidence in much of their doctrine. However, they do family very well, and that's something I appreciate. They also do education well; they work hard; and my gosh, are they beautiful. They're also very kind, and I'd take a Mormon student in my class every day of the week. What teacher wouldn't want a respectful, smart, industrious, well behaved, talented kid to make him/her look good? At Brighten Young's home, a Mormon couple (our age) led the tour. The husband gave the history. The wife led the tour of the home, quite fitting actually. We later met another retired couple from Idaho Falls. Both couples are serving an eighteen month "mission" in St. George as a way of serving the church. Clearly, the spirit of the prophet is upon them, and listening to them answer my questions, it's clear they live in a place of absolute faith. That's easy to respect as well. It reminds me of what I loved about Whitworth College. The professors (and most students) weren't intimidated by my doubt. They took no affront to my questions. They simply presented themselves as they were. I always liked that about Judy's parents and Jack and Chostie as well. The bottom line is, Be good, do good, share willingly, and help everyone you can. I think I can live with that doctrine. We'll be moving on tomorrow even though a cold weather front is about to move along the Wasatch range. Like Judy said, "We can't stay here forever." So, we'll soldier on, realizing as we try to do every day: Life is good, especially today.

 There are several round abouts in St. George. Each has sculpture as its centerpiece.

 One of the old time Mormon settlers wrote, "If I owned land in Hell and some in St. George, I'd sell the land in St. George." Time has changed a little. This is one in a string of gated communities that house fabulous homes, verdant golf courses, and a large dose of privilege.

 There is a small, very popular campground in Snow Canyon. This is the view from site 16B.

 We're catching the desert at a time when it's greening up. This photo does little justice to the scene. Make your way down here; it's worth it.

 Brigham Young believed in his people being industrious and  creative. He always had work done by locals. This fireplace, just one of the amazing wooden pieces, is made out of pine, but it's painted in such a way as to imitate marble. Stunning.

 In another show of ingenuity, this stove has a reservoir built in so that hot water was always at the ready (As long as the fire was stoked).

 Nothing much in the way of crops grew in St. George, but cotton thrived and provided a good living until after the civil war when the new railroad system brought cheap, Southern cotton West.

 You would have found what they call a "Mormon Bed" in nearly every home. It served as both couch and bed. Some even folded out to form a double bed. 

 The St. George Temple, which is the foundational anchor of the Mormon Saints, built from 1871-76.

This scrumptious pizza pie served as dinner, and will be lunch on the road tomorrow.

I plan to build an outdoor pizza oven in our backyard this summer. It could look something like this.