Canyon Country Zephyr

The plan at Marble Canyon is astonishing in its ambition. (You may have to read this twice to understand its full implications.) The Bureau of Reclamation calculated that the vertical fall of the river from the first Glen Canyon dam site to “the headwaters of the potential Bridge Canyon reservoir was about 1,260 feet. That kind of water movement is perfect for the generation of hydroelectric power. To avoid building even more dams within the boundaries of Grand Canyon National park, BuRec offered the “Kanab Tunnel option.”

“To take advantage of this drop and yet avoid the construction of dams or other works in the park, the Bureau of Reclamation suggests a plan to divert waters ‘not needed to maintain a steady stream for scenic purposes in the park’ through a 44.8 mile tunnel from just above the east end of the park to a power plant on the Colorado River near the mouth of Kanab Creek. The capacity of the Kanab Tunnel would be 13,000 second feet. A 298 foot dam at the Marble Gorge site would divert water to the tunnel. Water released from the dam for scenic purposes in the park would pass through the power plant.”

“Scenic purposes?” The idea was to allow just enough water down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon for it to still at least look like a river.

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There is no ‘good’ ending to this story…The last moment that anyone knows with absolute certainty where Dennise Sullivan was on the night of July 4, 1961 came barely a minute or two after Abel Aragon fatally shot her mother, Jeannette, and critically wounded Charles Boothroyd. Dennise had tried to escape the scene in the Volkswagen Beetle, had managed to travel barely seven-tenths of a mile, when Aragon, after repeatedly ramming the small car, forced her from the road. The VW came to rest near a culvert, just west of the Seven Mile Canyon switchbacks. She was never seen again.

Coming up the switchbacks at that precise moment was an oil field worker named Leonard Brown. He was headed west, back to his rig and was almost an eyewitness to the shootings. Minutes later he found a bloody Charles Boothroyd lying in the middle of the road. But first, before he realized that anything wrong had happened, an eastbound Ford sedan raced past him. According to Brown, he saw the Ford and thought nothing of it, but barely 200 yards later— 15 seconds — he came across the VW. It was that close.

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In 2011, I returned to that part of New Mexico and to the Bueyeros Church, wanting to share the experience and the oil condensate odor with a new friend, and discovered a new resident and perhaps landlord/priest of the parish. It was a white dog—the friendliest sweetest animal I think I have ever encountered—especially considering I was a stranger. He ran out to the car to say hello, then followed us around the church and through the old cemetery, with a permanent smile emblazoned upon his beatific face. His tail never stopped wagging. And if I paused, his instinct was to roll over on his back and wait for a belly rub. It seemed like a good idea. If white dog was as divine as he appeared to be, a good belly rub might get me absolved of at least a few of my more troubling sins.

We stayed half an hour, then walked back to the car. He followed us and waved goodbye as only happy dogs can. Finally I asked him if he were Jesus himself and he just rolled over on his back and grinned at me again . I think he was. 

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The death of old Dewey Bridge on April 6, 2008, burned to death by a seven year old playing with matches, was almost more bad news than I could bear to hear. As one relic after another of the rural West’s past vanishes, this was one remnant I thought would survive. It was just a few years ago that Jennifer Speers, the millionaire with a soul, bought up the adjacent Dewey Bridge subdivision from a developer, plowed under the roads, dismantled the infrastructure and tore down a $600,000 home in order to restore the area to the way it had been.

I first heard about Dewey Bridge, believe it or not, from my mother. In 1973, I was still living in Kentucky, trying to scrape together enough money to come West again, if only for a month or so. The previous winter, I’d passed through Moab for the first time, on one of the coldest days in recorded history. With a can of flaming Sterno on the floorboard of my VW Squareback (the damn heater never worked), I stopped only long enough to gas up and then drove all the way to Grand Junction, where I used my dad’s Gulf Oil credit card for a warm bed at the Holiday Inn.

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I know how to win a Pinewood Derby contest. I know this because my Grandpa taught me the trick of graphite lubricant to the wheelbase of a sleekly carved piece of wood. The man probably humbly won (or, ahem, advised many boys on how to win) more Pinewood Derby contests than he had children, toes, fingers, blades of grass, and grandchildren. I know how to sail a 4 stage model rocket into the sky because my grandpa taught me to do so. The Saturn 5 won the show that day. I know that each stage demands powder that will keep the life-saving parachute from catching fire. I know how to catch a fish because my grandpa taught me how to bait a worm and salmon eggs. I did not learn to swear or drink because of my Grandpa. Best anyone can tell, he never did either. A fact my Grandma and extended family are still in awe of. I know how to shoot a gun because my Grandpa taught me how to do so. I know how to be a good husband because my Grandpa taught me how to do so. I know the importance of Midway because my Grandpa taught me so.

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