My friend Herb Ringer died on December 11th, 1998; he died on my birthday. It was a death in the family.
For many of you who are regular readers of this publication, you know of Herb's old photographs that have appeared regularly in The Zephyr for the last ten years. And you know something of his life, a remarkable journey that spanned eight and a half decades.
Herb kept it simple. He never had much money. He needed very little and wanted even less when it came to material things. Until four months before his death, he lived in the same 8 x 40 trailer that he and his parents bought in 1954. There was history inside that little tin home and Herb immersed himself in the memories that resided there, long after his traveling days were over.
His "traveling days" began in 1938 when he left his home in New Jersey and went West, settling ultimately in Reno, Nevada. In the next 52 years, he crossed and re-crossed America, logging (by his estimate) more than a million miles along the way. He loved America and he spent all those years documenting the land that he cherished through his remarkable pictures and the words he kept in his journals. Herb worried that when he died, all his old photos and artifacts would wind up in some dumpster. So he was delighted to find a receptive audience in The Zephyr. (His work will continue to appear each issue)
Herb had friends from one end of the continent to the other. He cherished his friends and treated us as if we were family. In a sense, we were. I was proud and grateful to have a very special friendship with Herb Ringer. We were kindred spirits, he and I. Over four decades separated our ages; yet I can't say that there was ever a generation gap. Or if there were, it didn't matter. Herb was there for me when life got rotten and I tried to be there for Herb when hard times came to him.
More than a year ago, I wrote a story about Herb's life in these pages and scores of you took the time to write Herb. You thanked him for his photographs and words, but many of you also expressed admiration for a life lived simply and well. He was overwhelmed. Herb's eyes had deteriorated to the point where he could not see the print anymore, but a friend in Fallon read each and every letter to him and taped them to the wall of his trailer. When I went to visit Herb later that spring, I got to read his 'fan mail' for myself and I was so impressed. These were not hastily scribbled notes but heart-felt letters of appreciation and thanks.
For years I had told Herb how much his work was admired but he always dismissed me with a chuckle. "You're just trying to make me feel good," he'd say. But as I read the letters, he stood beside me and said, "You know, I always thought you were just trying to be nice, but these people really care about me."
To all of you who wrote Herb, you have every right to feel very special. Give yourselves a round of applause---you did something very good for a very good and decent man. As he started to drift away last summer, he still basked in the glow of the warmth from your caring.
Herb was a very devout Christian and read his Bible every day. When he could no longer read, I bought him the New Testament on audio tape. He worried about my own skepticism but it never affected our friendship. "I'll put in a good word for you," he'd say and I'd answer, "There's nobody I'd rather have speaking on my behalf."
After this issue is printed, I'll be traveling to Nevada to retrieve Herb's ashes. In late June, my buddy Pastor Don Falke and I will make our way to an alpine lake above Crested Butte, Colorado and return Herb to one of his favorite spots on Earth.
The center section of this issue is not so much about ten years of The Zephyr, but about Moab's last decade. Those of you who have arrived in Moab to live in the last five years, and especially the many of you who are just visiting, cannot imagine the transformation that Moab has witnessed since 1989. For me, being able to document the changes has definitely been a love/hate experience. My kindred spirits and I have won a few battles and lost a lot more.
Someone suggested to me recently that I really wasn't "clinging hopelessly to the past;" that, in fact, I was clinging hopelessly to the future. And maybe she was right. Without some kind of hope, what's the point? I'd hate to think I kept cranking out The Zephyr just to annoy people, although I have certainly been accused of it and have wondered if that were the sole reason myself.
While there are many reasons to despair over the changes that have come to the canyon country, there is still much out there to be grateful for. There are still incredible vast expanses of canyon and mesa and blue sky and solitude. There are still secret spots, favorite little hideaways that we who live here guard with our lives and our silence (if we're smart). It is still possible to walk for days and never encounter another human being. I know I can still walk into the desert night and see the Milky Way and the Andromeda Galaxy with the naked eye.
I've made a few trips to Australia in the last few years and I love it there. The threat of overpopulation simply does not exist in most of the country and the so the slower pace is a great relief from Moab and hordes of crazed tourists and developers and speculators. Still, I've come away realizing how unique the canyon country is. There is simply nothing else like it anywhere. And much of it remains pristine.
As a result, of course, much remains that can be threatened and destroyed. I've lived long enough to know that nothing is too sacred to escape the developer's knife or the speculator's check book. Would anyone have dreamed ten years ago that in 1999 a chairlift would crawl up the side of the West Wall?
Anything is possible.
That's why I wish we could recover some of the spirited activism that made Moab so unique ten years ago. We were absolutely incredible. (For a review of those days, see page 19.)
Outrage has its place and these are times that require more of a commitment to the land and the water and the air than collecting aluminum cans. Complacency can be the death of the canyons, more than anything else; that and the fact that in this overcrowded frenetic last year of the second millennium, we who are seeking refuge are often as destructive as those who are trying to destroy our refuge. Too many worshipers, crammed into the same church, will still destroy the pews.
I heard an Australian radio commentator once say that Americans are only interested in three things: the rate of return on mutual funds, weight loss programs, and eliminating stress.
I'd like to know: what's wrong with stress? We need stress. Of course we need to avoid becoming over-stressed, but should our goal be to eliminate stress altogether? Do you know what the absence of stress is? It's a coma. You know...deadfromtheneckup. Stress is another word for motivation. Motivation is the fire that's lit beneath us that makes us try to do things we didn't know we were capable of doing. A worthy cause goes nowhere without motivation.
And fighting for a cause is rewarding. Even hopeless causes can give satisfaction. Stress can be fun!
Which brings me to Abbey---if only Abbey were here. Ed knew how to have fun with his stress. And he knew how to inspire others to join him. Ten years after his death, no one has been able to light fires and have fun at the same time like Ed. A bunch of us miss you Abbey.
This is where it gets tricky. After ten years there are a slew of people that I need to thank. There is an excellent chance I will leave someone out. Even more than one. If I do it's only because (as one of my best friends discovered lately) I've exceeded my Hayflick Limit. But let me give it a try...
Many thanks to: The first 100 subscribers who in 1989 gave me their money not knowing if I'd actually print a paper. Bill Benge, who lent me his computer and taught me how to drink buttermilk with Tabasco Sauce. Trish West, the first Zephyr typist, who somehow managed to decipher my scrawl. Ken Sleight, who remains the Smiling Radical after all these years and who has become the social conscience of San Juan County, whether those white folks down there like it or not. Larry Hauser and the gang at Cortez News, who have printed The Zephyr since the beginning and who still make it look much better than it deserves to. John Hartley who was the lead county councilman to drive a stake in the heart of the Book Cliffs Highway AND who spent more money on advertising in The Zephyr than any business in its right mind should...DOUBLE thanks. Jack Campbell, who wrote a column for several years, even though his adversaries say he is a secret government agent. Jane S. Jones, whose eclectic essays always kept me guessing. Scott Groene who managed to combine intelligence, passion and wit to defend Utah lands as no one else can. And to all the rest of you SUWA people who carry on the good fight.
How about a new paragraph, just to break up the page a bit?
Thanks to six advertisers who have actually been in every issue of The Zephyr for the last ten years---Ken and Jane Sleight and Pack Creek Ranch, the realtors at Century 21, Honest Ozzie's (formerly owned by Donna Rivette, now by Mike and Sarah Macke), Lois and Izzy Nelson at Nelson's Heating, Ron Maupin at the Haggle of Vendors in Grand Junction, and Vern Erbes at the Hogan Trading Co. All I can say is: ARE YOU GUYS NUTS? Seriously, thanks guys.
To all the writers who have contributed to this publication over the years (How's that for a catch-all/cover-my-butt sentence?). Jan Peterson who took over the job of mailing out the subscriptions from me when, after five years, the thought of putting one more label on a paper made me weep like a baby. Kerri Bathemess and Linda Vaughan who ably filled Jan's shoes after she and Charlie fled Moab for Colorado (where normal people live). Niels Adair, who distributed The Zephyr for years while contemplating the god-less void in his existential angst. And Jose' Churampi who has now cornered the newspaper-distribution market in Moab...he's the Distribution Magnate!
And to the brilliant Dan O'Connor, the Morph Man, and the creator of the 10th anniversary cover.
OK...I'm getting close to the end. Hold on...
Thanks to all the advertisers who have been with me over the years. I probably should have included Joe Kingsley and Arches Realty in the list of charter advertisers; he got mad at me for a while, but Joe and I have never seemed to stay mad at each other for very long...what's the deal?
And thanks to all of you who keep reading...without you ("sniff...someone bring me a hankie."), none of this would have been possible. Sorry...this is getting just too damn maudlin. But you know what I mean.
One more time...Thanks.