Almost 25 years ago, on May 20, 1989, hundreds of people from across the West and the country came together on an isolated expanse of slickrock near Arches National Park to celebrate the life and work of Edward Abbey. Fellow writers and friends paid tribute, to honor the man that so many of us had come to love. Among them was Ken Sleight, one of Ed’s oldest friends. As Ed liked to say…his companero. These were Ken’s comments on that bright and memorable May morning…JS
Dear Ed,
I wish I could rise above this. Your sudden leaving on this great journey caught me unprepared as I’ll not be able to see you for a while. You came into this country alone; you departed alone. But while here, you left us a lasting legacy. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. Never has any man had such influence on me as you have. We share many of the same thoughts and ideals. I admire you greatly. Since you left, I have tried to recount and remember all of our shared experiences and thoughts. I fear my faulty memory may not allow me to recall or record all of them. We lived expressively, you and I. Life was given us to be lived. And we did it.
When you were at Arches, I knew our trails would eventually cross. It did so on the Colorado River at Lee’s Ferry. There I arrived with my girlfriend and a truckload of boating gear and supplies to lead a group through the Grand Canyon. I believe that was some 21 years ago. As I pulled down to the river, you as the ranger came strolling down to announce your presence and to inspect my outfit. After the rigging chores, we sat for hours on those ugly rubber rafts swapping tales. As you know, we spoke with derision about the Glen Canyon Dam. That God-awful dam was destined to become the object of many discussions. We commiserated together. The rape of the canyon had been complete. We had lost a beautiful river wilderness, thousands of ancient Indian sites, Music Temple, Cathedral in the Desert, Hidden Passage, Gregory Natural Bridge.
God what a tragedy…what a waste! We were determined that something had to be done about that dam…that eventful evening was the beginning of a great friendship with a common bond between us and a common objective.
So much has happened through the years. We’ve shared many trips and experiences together. When I get ready to write my book, I’ll tell of them–some of them anyway. Remember the time we found that old smashed-up canoes on the banks of the Rio Grande in Big Bend? Some poor soul had been forced to abandon it. Or maybe the boat abandoned the boater. We were able to bend it somewhat back into shape, even tough daylight could still be seen through its underside. But it floated. You said if it floated, it must be a boat. So you took a paddle and we pushed you off, captain of your ship. You were able to bring that bent-up contraption through the canyons of Santa Elena and Mariscal. A great feat. As you know, we brought that boat back to Green River. Clair and Bob Quist have it now, I think. It ought to be placed in the Green River history museum.
And while on a boating subject, you must remember that trip through Cataract Canyon—the time I was thrown from my proper rowing position into the back of the boat and no longer in control. And neither was the boat. Remember how attentively, or self-preservationally perhaps, you jumped to the boatman’s seat, grabbed the oars, pulled with all your might, plying the oars to the fierce current to keep us from sinking into Satan’s Gut? I was directly behind you yelling, “Pull, Ed, PULL!” And you pulled. And at that precise moment there was a “CRACK.” Pulling the splintered oar to the surface you looked at it with a silly grin, then at the frothing hole ahead, and then turning to me (still with a silly grin), you said, “Ken…Do we have another oar? This one seems to have an imperfection,” as we suddenly dropped into a hole.
You were always able to put words together so all of us could understand them. It was exactly the way we wanted to say it, but couldn’t. You spoke for many of us. I told you how Desert Solitaire affected me. And when you loaned me your manuscript of The Monkey Wrench Gang, I took it down on the sandy banks of the Dolores River and intently and joyously lived each word. I delighted in the book’s edification. Here you had created characters doing just what many of us had dreamed of doing. Their actions seemed a bit rebellious. It sent me a message, loud and clear and resonant—
THERE IS A POINT IN EACH OF OUR LIVES WHEN WE SAY—NO MORE!
It’s at that point we make the stand. And we ACT! There is indeed a time to take up the monkey wrench. Your writings were your monkey wrench. Likewise it is with a number of other writers. Likewise too, as we once discussed, it’s ok to say NO. It’s ok to say NO to more Glen Canyon Dams. It’s ok to say NO to a nuclear waste dump near our national park. By saying NO we’re actually saying YES to a better environment, to a better life, to a healthier life and to a joyous life. Ed, I thank you for spelling out for us this great lesson. For us. Anyway, that’s the way I read it.
Ed, that trip last fall to Grand Gulch with you will always remain in my memory. Always. It was our last wilderness trip together. And of all the trips we have shared, the memories of it have been well-inscribed forever in my mind. There you were—riding that huge and magnificent Appaloosa horse. Your own large frame fit nicely. You were a great pair. And I rode Knothead, another great horse. It felt good having you as a fellow wrangler–riding down those canyons.
There was something more about that trip. Because of the small number of guests, we had more time to spend talking around the campfire and in those ancient Anasazi ruins. We exchanged many ideas. You were especially open—your words seemed more deliberate, explicit and directed than ever before. We talked of our own personal plans. We talked of the things that had to be done on behalf of the environment. And how to accomplish these things. You sid it all before in your books—but here it was, it seemed—all in a nutshell. The need for a new renaissance –a new thinking. Fresh and new actions. A rekindling of energy. A renewed emphasis upon the education of our youth toward maintaining the real quality of life an in preserving our earth. A society that is open where records can be freely shared, where meetings are no longer held in secret, where there is open discussion always.
The People govern. The People lead. Those in positions serve. A society where there is no intimidation and where the rich and powerful are rendered impotent. Some day I’ll write about this trip.
When many of us faltered, you stood there telling it the way it was and ought to be. And even in moments of your own despair, you rose above it. May we all have that same quiet faith and courage.
Why did you have to leave us now? My dear friend Abbey. When it seems that we need you most. How can we manage without you? You came to this beautiful land suddenly. You made your mark. And you departed just as suddenly. May we always appreciate you and what you have done for us. WE shall now proceed on with the tools you’ve given us.
I just wish you were here.
Your friend,
Ken
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