Canyon Country Zephyr page 13

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Salamacha and after moving some gear from my car, we sat down with a beer to

study the topos and plan the next day's trip. We had barely settled in to our chairs when the doorbell rang. At Hans Flat, no

one rings the doorbell. At the time only three or four rangers lived at Hans Flat.

They were the only human inhabitants in an area that spanned millions of acres.

I got up to open the door. I couldn't believe it. It was that Limey again. "Hello mate," he said. "Fancy meeting you again way out here." I looked around for his car and then remembered he was hitching. Still I'd

neither seen nor heard any vehicle at all.

"Yes," he groaned, "it's not!"

I almost hit him with my beer bottle. "What in the hell are you talking about?" I roared. "What the hell is WRONG with you?"

"Let me explain this to you, Yank. You said to me 'Aren't you tired?' That is to say 'Are you not tired?' Well, of course, after walking 32 miles in twelve hours, I'm very tired indeed. So my answer, properly phrased, should be:

'No, I am.' Do you understand?"

"Well, not exactly. Aren't you turning everything backwards?"

"Yes.....I'm not."

Salamacha walked over. "Here Stiles.... Have another beer."

The next day, Mike and I headed for the Maze Overlook, and Jeff came along. He still needed to recover the raft, cached somewhere above Spanish Bottom. We reached the overlook in the afternoon, and the next morning, Jeff took a route via Pete's Mesa to the Dolls House, while Salamacha and I explored the Maze. Twenty-four hours later, he'd rejoined us. When we saw him come around a bend in the canyon, he looked like a giant duffle bag with feet.

That afternoon, as we trudged through pools of quicksand in a beautiful, deep side canyon, the Limey pulled up next to an old cottonwood tree and opened his pack. Mike and I stopped, and came back to the tree.

"Why are you stopping?" Mike asked.

"Tea time, mates," he said.

Sure enough, he pulled out his stove, a pot, a canteen, and a tea bag. Jolly good show. He advised us to get out our cups, so the three of us did the civilized thing and had our cup o'tea at four.

It was pretty much like that for the rest of our time in the Maze. I started wishing I had a crumpet, and I didn't even know what a crumpet was. Two days later, we were back on top. From Hans Flat, Jeff drove with me back to Moab, where he immediately re-packed and took off again. A few days later, I heard a ranger report on the park radio that he'd issued a warning to a hiker without a permit. Some crazy guy trying to walk the White Rim. What's a hundred miles or so?

"Aren't you exhausted?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "I am."

I was confused, "What did you say?"

"I said," he explained, "'No, I am."'

"'No, I am?' What kind of answer is that?" I asked.

"Well," he explained, "You said to me

'Aren't you exhausted?' and I replied,

'No, I am.' What is so difficult about that?"

"How did you get here," I asked. "Oh... walked up from the river," he explained. "The river? What? Which river?" "Oh, you know, mate...the Colorado."

By now, Salamacha had joined us and knew the distances better than I. He was amazed. "That's a good thirty miles," Mike said. "You came all that way in one day?" Jeff shrugged. "Well it was a bit up hill, wasn't it?"

We brought Jeff inside, and he told us his story. Here's what he had accomplished in a matter of a few days. After charming a woman ranger with his tale of adventure, she loaned him the use of her two-man rubber raft. He floated down the river and after several days had reached Spanish Bottom last evening. This morning.... this morning, he strapped his pack and the rubber raft (deflated) to his back and hauled this enormous load to the Doll's House, two thousand feet about the river. There, he hid the raft behind some rocks, and with only his fifty pound pack to slow him down, managed to walk another 32 miles and end up mooching a beer off Salamacha just a few minutes after sunset. Mike and I studied the Limey closely as he took a last gulp of Budweiser.

"Awfully weak, this American beer," he grumbled. "Mind if I have another?"

Mike uncapped one more and handed him the bottle.

"Aren't you exhausted?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "I am."

I was confused, "What did you say?"

"I said," he explained, "'No, I am.'"

'"No, I am?' What kind of answer is that?" I asked.

"Well," he explained, "You said to me 'Aren't you exhausted?' and I replied, 'No, I am.' What is so difficult about that?"

I looked at Salamacha. He shrugged and went outside. Salamacha was a lot wiser than I've ever been.

"So," I continued, "Are you tired or not?"

"Yes and no," he answered.

"Yes and no? Can't you make up your mind if you're tired or not?"

"Of course, I can. I've answered your question as honestly and directly as I know how."

"Isn't that just like the British to make something simple into something complicated?"

For his next trick, Jeff walked the Colorado River to Spanish Bottom. When I later asked Jeff how he'd intended to perform this particular feat, he explained that he'd heard it was a "low water year."

In the months and years that have passed since our first meeting, Jeff Woods has come and gone many times. He helped me build a cabin and used up all my tea bags. He drove my ex-wife's car off a cliff. He ran over a cow in a VW bus on the road to Hanksville. (It was, he said, a black cow, on a black road, on a black night.) He went around the world. Twice. He got mugged in Albuquerque, but chased down his attackers and single-handedly disabled their pickup truck. Today, Jeff Woods rails against our materialistic society and the apartheid policies of South Africa at an all girls' Catholic College in Scranton, Pennsylvania... I hate Jeff Woods.

The last time my little buddy came to town, I introduced him to some friends of mine. Jeff told them about the hikes, the black cow, the mugging, the ex-wife's car.... nobody believed him. When he'd left, I heard someone say, "Isn't he the most outrageous person you've ever met?"

No, I replied. He is.

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	Salamacha and after moving some gear from my car, we sat down with a beer to study the topos and plan the next day's trip. We had barely settled in to our chairs when the doorbell rang. At Hans Flat, no one rings the doorbell. At the time only three or four rangers lived at Hans Flat. They were the only human inhabitants in an area that spanned millions of acres. I got up to open the door. I couldn't believe it. It was that Limey again. "Hello mate," he said. "Fancy meeting you again way out here." I looked around for his car and then remembered he was hitching. Still I'd neither seen nor heard any vehicle at all. "Yes," he groaned, "it's not!" I almost hit him with my beer bottle. "What in the hell are you talking about?" I roared. "What the hell is WRONG with you?" "Let me explain this to you, Yank. You said to me 'Aren't you tired?' That is to say 'Are you not tired?' Well, of course, after walking 32 miles in twelve hours, I'm very tired indeed. So my answer, properly phrased, should be: 'No, I am.' Do you understand?" "Well, not exactly. Aren't you turning everything backwards?" "Yes.....I'm not." Salamacha walked over. "Here Stiles.... Have another beer." The next day, Mike and I headed for the Maze Overlook, and Jeff came along. He still needed to recover the raft, cached somewhere above Spanish Bottom. We reached the overlook in the afternoon, and the next morning, Jeff took a route via Pete's Mesa to the Dolls House, while Salamacha and I explored the Maze. Twenty-four hours later, he'd rejoined us. When we saw him come around a bend in the canyon, he looked like a giant duffle bag with feet. That afternoon, as we trudged through pools of quicksand in a beautiful, deep side canyon, the Limey pulled up next to an old cottonwood tree and opened his pack. Mike and I stopped, and came back to the tree. "Why are you stopping?" Mike asked. "Tea time, mates," he said. Sure enough, he pulled out his stove, a pot, a canteen, and a tea bag. Jolly good show. He advised us to get out our cups, so the three of us did the civilized thing and had our cup o'tea at four. It was pretty much like that for the rest of our time in the Maze. I started wishing I had a crumpet, and I didn't even know what a crumpet was. Two days later, we were back on top. From Hans Flat, Jeff drove with me back to Moab, where he immediately re-packed and took off again. A few days later, I heard a ranger report on the park radio that he'd issued a warning to a hiker without a permit. Some crazy guy trying to walk the White Rim. What's a hundred miles or so? "Aren't you exhausted?" I asked. "No," he replied. "I am." I was confused, "What did you say?" "I said," he explained, "'No, I am."' "'No, I am?' What kind of answer is that?" I asked. "Well," he explained, "You said to me 'Aren't you exhausted?' and I replied, 'No, I am.' What is so difficult about that?" "How did you get here," I asked. "Oh... walked up from the river," he explained. "The river? What? Which river?" "Oh, you know, mate...the Colorado." By now, Salamacha had joined us and knew the distances better than I. He was amazed. "That's a good thirty miles," Mike said. "You came all that way in one day?" Jeff shrugged. "Well it was a bit up hill, wasn't it?" We brought Jeff inside, and he told us his story. Here's what he had accomplished in a matter of a few days. After charming a woman ranger with his tale of adventure, she loaned him the use of her two-man rubber raft. He floated down the river and after several days had reached Spanish Bottom last evening. This morning.... this morning, he strapped his pack and the rubber raft (deflated) to his back and hauled this enormous load to the Doll's House, two thousand feet about the river. There, he hid the raft behind some rocks, and with only his fifty pound pack to slow him down, managed to walk another 32 miles and end up mooching a beer off Salamacha just a few minutes after sunset. Mike and I studied the Limey closely as he took a last gulp of Budweiser. "Awfully weak, this American beer," he grumbled. "Mind if I have another?" Mike uncapped one more and handed him the bottle. "Aren't you exhausted?" I asked. "No," he replied. "I am." I was confused, "What did you say?" "I said," he explained, "'No, I am.'" '"No, I am?' What kind of answer is that?" I asked. "Well," he explained, "You said to me 'Aren't you exhausted?' and I replied, 'No, I am.' What is so difficult about that?" I looked at Salamacha. He shrugged and went outside. Salamacha was a lot wiser than I've ever been. "So," I continued, "Are you tired or not?" "Yes and no," he answered. "Yes and no? Can't you make up your mind if you're tired or not?" "Of course, I can. I've answered your question as honestly and directly as I know how." "Isn't that just like the British to make something simple into something complicated?" For his next trick, Jeff walked the Colorado River to Spanish Bottom. When I later asked Jeff how he'd intended to perform this particular feat, he explained that he'd heard it was a "low water year." In the months and years that have passed since our first meeting, Jeff Woods has come and gone many times. He helped me build a cabin and used up all my tea bags. He drove my ex-wife's car off a cliff. He ran over a cow in a VW bus on the road to Hanksville. (It was, he said, a black cow, on a black road, on a black night.) He went around the world. Twice. He got mugged in Albuquerque, but chased down his attackers and single-handedly disabled their pickup truck. Today, Jeff Woods rails against our materialistic society and the apartheid policies of South Africa at an all girls' Catholic College in Scranton, Pennsylvania... I hate Jeff Woods. The last time my little buddy came to town, I introduced him to some friends of mine. Jeff told them about the hikes, the black cow, the mugging, the ex-wife's car.... nobody believed him. When he'd left, I heard someone say, "Isn't he the most outrageous person you've ever met?" No, I replied. He is.

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