IT’S THE TRUTH...NOTHING BUT FICTION
This publication has been a strictly non-fictional enterprise for almost 20 years. Once, I wrote a piece about a conversation between George W Bush and Jesus Christ in the Oval Office, that might be labeled fiction, but I still insist the event really happened and Jesus remains in leg-irons at Guantanamo Bay.
At other times, stories that I swear were the absolute truth have been met with skepticism, even anger. You know...stuff like, "You lying bastard Stiles! That’s fiction and you know it!"
(Why am I still doing this?)
But for the first time, I offer the "Totally Fiction" issue. I solicited contributions from the readership and received several, two of which I’ve chosen to include in the print version of The Zephyr. Another story, by the infamous Chinle Miller, appears on the web site (Hers was just too damn long!)
In April, we’ll return to the dreary realities of Life in the Southwest in the early days of the 21st Century and, if James Lovelock is correct, the Last Days of our crumbling culture. Until then, cheer up, it’s totally fiction.
THE DESERT’S ALWAYS GREENER
IN THE WINTER
Wintertime. Even down in the canyon country, red rock desert dwellers can experience a dose of brutally cold weather every now and then. Though it’s nothing like the ‘good old days.’ My first descent into Moab, 30 years ago, was a sobering experience. My VW Squareback had no heater and I finally resorted to burning cans of Sterno on the floorboards, between my legs. It felt good.
Even with global warming, it got so cold last year, an outside pipe, three inches below ground level, ruptured in zero degree temperatures and sent a geyser thirty feet high into the night. Forgot that damn heat tape again. In any case, most desert dwellers have a higher tolerance for heat than cold, or at least that’s what we tell ourselves in February, when we think longingly and hopefully toward July and shirt sleeves.
High summer in the red rock desert. The temperature can exceed 100 degrees on any given day. The wild flowers, that were so abundant in May, have been blasted by the fierce sun and turned brittle and brown. The animals are hunkered down under rock ledges or burrowed into their underground shelters, waiting for dusk and dinner.
Most animals have better sense than to venture out into the full heat of a July afternoon, and while humans, on an intellectual level at least, know better, we are stupid enough to wallow in it. Hypnotized by the light and the radiation, we actually enjoy being broiled like a chicken.
The heat can fool you out here and sometimes the effect can be deadly. The best way to learn about the risks of dehydration is to be stupid, get dehydrated and survive the ordeal; that’s what I did and I never forgot. On one of those summer trips out West, between my ongoing efforts to flunk out of college, I returned to the Southwest to hike a canyon I had found the previous year. In June there were springs at every bend. I carried my steel cup on my belt and all I had to do was dip it in the next bubbling pool to quench my thirst. Giardia never occurred to me; when it comes to microbes, I’ve always believed in mind over matter.
But now, in August, I failed to notice the changes that summer heat causes and so I again left my water bottles behind. Five hours later my throat was as dry and hot as the same steel cup that dangled from my belt. It was even too hot to touch. The pools were gone.
But I was determined to continue and so I spent the next seven hours in 100 degree plus heat, searching for a glass of water. When I stumbled back to my car in the late afternoon, I don’t think I had another half mile of hiking left in me, but I never forgot.
Others aren’t lucky enough to have a second chance. When I think of desert dehydration stories, I think of Abbey’s "Dead Man at Grandview Point" in Desert Solitaire. But even more remarkable is the sad story of Leroy V. Black in the summer of 1959. According to Park Superintendent Bates Wilson’s monthly report, the 67 year old man was returning from Sipapu Bridge at Natural Bridges National Monument, and missed the trail to the Kachina parking area where he had left his car.
Instead, Mr. Black continued to hike down White Canyon for almost 15 miles, where he was finally located by a search party three days later. According to Bates, "As there was not sufficient time to remove him from the canyon, he was made as comfortable as possible in a sleeping bag and fed small quantities of broth and water. By 10:30 PM he seemed much stronger, but around midnight, he died."
The great irony in Mr. Black’s ordeal was that he died of thirst when there was water all around. Most of the potholes were full, but they were also teeming with life. Fearful that he might contract an illness from the insects and algae in the water, he denied himself the only hope he had of survival. His dog, which had not been so concerned with water waders and green slime, was fine.
Today, more than ever, the desert has become, in many minds, one big playground for whatever recreational challenge suits your fancy. But the desert itself is just as harsh and unforgiving as it ever was. In the end, the rocks will outlast us all.
A comforting thought, don’t you think?
THE NEXT BIG THING?
THE SATELLITE/GROUND TOUR
OF YOUR FAVORITE CANYON
It’s almost impossible to dodge the label of hypocrisy these days. I claim to have Luddite leanings but I use a computer to publish this paper and I drive a car almost every day, and I climb onto a jumbo jet and travel thousands of miles each winter, just to escape to the ‘simple life.’ Though I don’t have cable tv, I’m mesmerized by it when I visit someone who does. And nothing astounds me more than Google Earth.
Recently I Google Earthed my Aussie pal John Wringe’s farm in Western Australia. I found Donnybrook, followed the highway to Kirup, turned right at the pub (home of Kiryp Syrup) and went west a few kilometers on a one-lane road. Finally I saw the familiar red tile roof, the work shed...I could even see cows in the paddock.
And yet, like every other technological advance, it seems to take a another bit of mystery away from our world; I’ve wondered what’s next.
"What’s next?"
Apparently other mega-media companies are vying for the Google Earth market. When these guys start competing you know we can expect big changes. Big "improvements." Now they’ve found a way to integrate satellite aerial photography with ground imagery. Even as you read this, thousands of crews are crisscrossing the continent, with triple-mount cameras, recording every road and highway in America. Others are carrying hand-held cams that allow the photographer to take us just about anywhere.
Imagine, according to one report on NPR, you’ll even be able to shop in this fashion.
You descend from geostationary orbit, 23,000 miles in space, heading for New York City, to Manhattan. You see the street grid below you. Fifth Avenue. Suddenly you’re at sidewalk level, moving north, until you find the store you’re looking for. You go inside, browse the shelves until you find something to buy, and click on the ‘purchase now’ button. Voila!
But what about other applications?
I’ve cursed backcountry guidebooks for years, but in the future, they may seem like quaint relics from a primitive past. Soon the same "green capitalists" who brought us the amenities economy—the enviropreneurs--- may be able to take guidebooks to their ultimately obscene conclusion. Consider for a moment, camera crews roaming every wilderness area in America. Every canyon. Every peak. Every pristine mountain lake. Imagine a technology so sophisticated and the resolution so clear that it even allows the viewer to check out nearby rock art or an old cowboy inscription or an especially notable wildflower.
No one would ever have to wonder what lies around the next bend of the canyon. Or what’s just over the next ridge. They’ll know everything that awaits them, right down to the most intimate detail.
In a world where people who have traveled thousands of miles to a national park and still ask, "Is this hike worth it?" (They’re in a national park!), I can only assume that the general public, by the millions, will embrace this technology, when and if it becomes available.
The idea of wilderness, to me, always meant more than the resource itself. It was that unknown quality, the Mystery of it all, that drew me to it. I cannot imagine a natural world with no mysteries. With no more untold secrets.
But do you know what really worries me? If these ideas become realities, if it becomes that easy to "explore," will I have the strength not to look?
TSA in LOUISVILLE..
UNUSUALLY ANAL RETENTIVE
TSA (Transportation Security Administration) has a job to do and I respect them for that when they do it. But more often these days, some of them have the demeanor of small-minded dimwits who, when given a bit of authority, feel compelled to do their best impression of a a jackbooted tyrant at airports across the country.
I recently flew back to Kentucky to help my mom celebrate her 80th birthday. I never seem to have a problem with the TSA people in Salt lake City. But coming back, via Standiford Field in Louisville, is another story. They always have an attitude and I don’t know why. Kentuckians are generally a friendly people—sure they smoke too much, and drink too much Jim Beam, and eat too much fried chicken. But then again, maybe that’s why they’re usually so happy.
So somebody give these TSA grumps some bourbon and branch and a box of the Colonel’s best. These people are taking themselves way too seriously.
By now, we all know the drill and I’ve got it down better than most.
I show the TSA man my boarding pass and picture ID. I take off my shoes and put them in a tray. I take off my jacket and place it in a tray. I take my laptop out of its case and put it in a tray. I put my carry-on in a tray. And now, finally, I carry my liquids in a plastic bag and put it in a tray.
That’s five trays. It takes a while.
So the first TSA guy looks at my ID and sends me forward. I start the ‘stuff in the tray’ process, but now a nasty TSA woman ahead of me starts screaming, "DON’T PUT AWAY YOUR BOARDING PASS! I HAVE TO SEE YOUR BOARDING PASS AGAIN!!"
A TSA agent just looked at my pass; why would I need to show it again, 30 feet down the gauntlet? Doesn’t she trust her own co-worker? Then she starts screaming at me, "SPEED UP! MOVE YOUR TRAYS FORWARD!"
I’m shoving all this stuff through, with my driver’s license and boarding pass now clenched in my teeth.
FASTER! FASTER!
I make it though the metal detector without beeping and the screaming TSA woman almost looks disappointed that she won’t get to wand me.
I start to re-assemble my stuff and she stops me.
"SIR, YOUR PLASTIC BAG IS TOO BIG!"
"Huh?"
"BUT I’M GOING TO LET IT PASS THIS TIME."
"Thanks."
"BUT I AM CONFISCATING YOUR SUNBLOCK!"
"Why?"
"IT’S TOO LARGE!"
"What’s the limit?"
"3.4 OUNCES."
My Neutrogena oil-free SPF 45 sunblock weighs 4 ounces.
"I’m six-tenths of an ounce over and you’re confiscating my sunblock? Are you kidding me?"
"SIR, RULES ARE RULES!"
"ARE YOU CRAZY?"
Now we’re both yelling.
"LIKE I SAID, RULES ARE RULES."
"TELL ME...TELL ME HOW MY HAVING SIX-TENTHS OF AN OUNCE MORE SUNBLOCK THAN THE LEGAL LIMIT CONSTITUTES A THREAT TO THE SECURITY OF THE UNITED STATES AND ITS CITIZENS!"
Her voice drops. "You’re free to file a complaint if you like."
"WHERE?" I snarl.
She points to a man sitting at the end of the gauntlet; he is already holding a complaint card. He holds it out limply, his face without expression, like someone recently embalmed.
"I guess you do this all the time."
"Rule are rules," he replies
God bless Amerika.
THE CELL PHONE CONSPIRACY
By now we all know the drill. We call our friends on their cell phone and hope to High Heaven that they’ll answer, because if they don’t, we know we’re in for a siege.
You know what happens next:
The number you are calling.....4-3-5-2-6-0-1-2-7-3.........has been transferred to an automated voice mail.......At the tone, please record your message.....When you are finished, please hang up (duh), or press ONE for more options.
You’re waiting for the tone, but it doesn’t happen. Instead...
If you’d like to leave a fax, press TWO.
Now?
If you’d like to leave a callback number, press THREE.
Please?
If you’d like to leave a numeric page, press FOUR
By now, between 30 and 40 seconds have passed. Finally you get to leave your message. But by adding all these ‘options,’ Verizon or Sprint or AT&T, or whoever, are increasing their profits, simply by making you wait for the ‘tone.’ Airtime starts when the recipient of the call or his duly appointed representative, i.e., his voicemail, answers. While you wade through the options, the cell phone companies rack up the seconds, which over a month, among millions of callers and tens of millions of calls, adds up to millions of dollars in revenue for our cellular pals.
There must be some way to bypass all those options (I don’t have a fax and I don’t even know what a numeric pager is) but I have no idea how it’s done. I’m appealing to the more techno-savvy of you...tell me how to stop this injustice!
THE STANDARD WINTER ISSUE DISCLAIMER
As always, the February/March issue is printed months early, so that I can go screw off and herd sheep and say "oi!" or do whatever it is I normally do when I’m half a world away. I always warn my readers that if some event that occurs after press day renders all or part of this issue tasteless, it’s only by accident and not intentionally.
I’m normally thinking of World War III or a terror attack when I offer these disclaimers. Last year it was personal. My dear old friend Bill Benge died last year, just a day after the two winter issues ran. As a result, his back page ads ran for three months after his death. It was painful for me personally, but I think Bill would have enjoyed the irony. And watching me squirm a bit.
In any case, let’s hope we don’t lose any more of the good guys this year...as WC Fields once said, "The ranks are thinning."
A REMINDER ABOUT SUBSCRIPTIONS
Again, if you were receiving the print version of The Zephyr, and you thought you were paid through March 2008, and it suddenly stopped last April, and you’re reading on-line now, contact me asap. It’s my fault.
