Mark started out calling me a rent-a-guide. This was generous. By the end, I think that even he realized I was simply a parasite: I relied on him to keep me safe on the river; I relied on his wife to feed me; and I relied on The Kid to do all the dirty work around camp.
Speaking of camp, our first one was at the take-in. It was not necessarily notable except for the swarms of mosquitos. I'd like to blame Mark and Kristi for those since their trip planning and execution was otherwise flawless, but I think Titi's explanation was best: They came with her from Minnesota.
After a couple of long hard days on the creek, softened only by a small ration of beer, wine, and gin, we made camp above Triplett. This is where the fear and loathing began. The roar of Triplett in our heads all night left us queasy (or was that the roar of half a dozen martinis and an after-dinner romp through Zimmy's psyche?). Then, after a nail biting run that almost sent me for a swim in Triplett's first pour-over we fetched up on the shore above Hells-Half-Mile. It was here that I was reminded of an important life lesson: You can always make things worse, but you can't often make things better.
We watched another group float through Hells and I realized that a lot of fancy maneuvering was completely ineffective and might send me over Lucifer backwards or upside-down. And so I thought, "To hell with it, I ain't going to try to pull in behind this or that pour-over or try to dodge this or that lateral, 'cause that will only make things worse. I am going to paddle straight down the tongue, straight into the pillow on the right side of Lucifer, and, if I have to swim, hopefully it won't be until after that." And, I didn't. Swim, that is. So, I think that means that I can paddle as good as Lannom (
http://searching4whitewater.blogspot.com/).
As for sleeping, however, I will never match Mark. He claims to have slept soundly--after half a dozen mixed drinks by Ms. Mayhem--on a matrix of box elder roots approximately three inches in diameter. Oh, and did I mention that it was raining, which is why he was under the tree?
When we arrived at Jone's Hole for our last night, the rainy weather had set in for good. We could tell because Kristi set up the Moss (and because the dime sized hail was painful). While the light was beautiful, the storm put a bit of a damper on our dress-up party. Rich didn't find the child's-size grass skirt to be quite the thing for a September hail storm, and JR's boa couldn't stand up to the rain.
The rain at the put-out was worse yet. This is because I unwisely paddled Split Mountain and arrived at the ramp soaked to the bone. If it weren't for the warming effect of cleaning two groover boxes, I might have been hypothermic. Actually, Rich helped me with the groovers and it is a good thing he did: I think Kristi was feeding us glue all week . . . let's just say that it was a sticky job.
I didn't arrive in Escalante until about 11:30p. I was tired, but it was a good tired. Another great week on the creek.
This was the last day of the art exhibit celebrating Zion National Park's 100th anniversary. We went down to St. George to see it. It had two parts. On the ground floor was a juried exhibition of new works created by contemporary artists specifically for the centennial celebration. Valerie had submitted works to the jury and had not been selected. So, we were wondering what kind of pictures got in. In addition to the usual stuff from painters whose work I don't tend to like—for example, Bonnie Posselli and Jim Jones—there were a handful of very strong paintings from some unfamiliar artists. My favorite was probably Salt Lake painter Anne Penrod's vivid abstraction entitled The Road Less Travelled. It was like she had done Maynard Dixon one better with her strong blue shadows and bright blocks of color.
