THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT!

“Chindi”

        It all started with an ear-splitting scream and ended with a loud boom! In Navajo the word “chindi” means devil. Well, for a few short weeks that old pest was working overtime in Whiterock.

The Naked Truth

        Our morning ritual of waking up early and jogging the mile to the artesian showers never changed. Even the frigid winter weather couldn’t keep us away. By the time we reached the showers, laid our clothes on the wooden bench and cranked the giant wheel releasing a flood of hot well water, ice crystals were forming on our sweat covered extremities. Stepping through a warm cloud of steaming mist and into hot gushing water was heavenly! It felt like standing beneath a warm cascading water fall. Knowing how cold it would be drying off, dressing, and walking back made lingering in the hot shower that much more enjoyable.

What's left of the artesian shower many years later.

        Washing my hair in the rich mineral water turned out to be a problem. I found that Prell Shampoo was the only brand that left my curly locks feeling clean and looking shiny. One morning after arriving back at our place I noticed my beloved Prell had been left behind. We jumped in our truck and raced back to the showers. I couldn’t let my magic shampoo fall into the wrong hands! Upon arriving I detected steam drifting out of the small window on the men’s side. Hustling over I peered through the opening and, YES, I spotted my green tube of Prell sitting on the wooden bench right where I had left it.

      Over the sound of pounding water I shouted to the steam shrouded bather, “Hey, shi k’is (my friend), can you hand me that shampoo?” When the surprised bather turned and stepped out of the steam I was horrified to see a woman, not a man. Ear-splitting screams filled the air! I don’t know which one of us screamed the loudest. I yelled, “Sorry!” and ran for the truck leaving my precious Prell behind.

        “The Mormon Elders are shower peepin’ perverts!” The topic might have come up at the next Chapter meeting. As we visited new camps with new faces I often wondered if the shower victim was one of the faces staring back at me.

        But she was showering on the men’s side!

Road Rage

        Elder Kurtz was a great elder and we got along fine – most of the time. However, driving the terrible reservation roads mile after bump mile, day after rutty day, after rutty day, after rutty day could make even the best of Elders a little crazy. And it did!

Elder Kurtz in his Wellington boots and coveralls, sitting on the rock we painted white. We felt the place needed a more celestial looking rock to reflect its name, Whiterock. New Mexico, 1965.

        It was our custom to trade off driving every other day. On this particular day it was my turn to drive. As the morning wore on we encountered some pretty bad roads. I was doing my best to navigate through the worst of the ruts and bumps by veering from one side of the road to the other. Meanwhile I noticed Elder Kurtz slouching lower and lower in his seat, arms folded in silent irritation.

       Suddenly, without warning he shot up in his eat and shouted, “Must you hit every bump in the road?!!!” “What,” I responded. “You heard me!” he said. “MUST you hit every bump?” I thought I had been doing quite well considering the condition of the road. So, I shot back, “No! If I hit every bump in the road, it would feel like THIS!” Then I proceeded to hit every bump in the road, thus jostling both of us wildly around the cab of the truck. “STOP, STOP!” Kurtz yelled. “I would rather walk than ride with YOU!” Upon hearing this I immediately hit the brakes forcing us into a sliding stop. Elder Kurtz flung open his door. slammed it behind him, and marched off in a huff. 

        There was no point in trying to talk to him. He was too riled up and needed time to cool down. So I bounced on down the road keeping an eye on my companion in the rear view mirror until I rounded the next mesa. There I parked and waited.

Navajoland in winter with low hills and stunted wild brush.

       When enough time had gone by for him to see the error of his ways, I returned to pick him up. I expected to find a friendlier face but to my surprise there was no face at all. No face, no body, no nothing! Elder Kurtz had disappeared. I honked the horn and slowly drove back and forth, hoping to spot him. I half expected that he would leap out from his hiding place, we would share a good laugh, and then be on our way. No such luck! Where could he have gone? We were a good eight to ten miles from home and there was nothing out there but hills and stunted wild brush.

        I continued to search for the next hour with no success. Finally I reluctantly decided to go back  to our place and wait for his return. Time passed. Morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon soon became evening.  Where was he? The sun was setting and in short order it would be dark. Now I was really getting concerned. Do I need to alert the members and start a search?

Hmmm. Where could he have gone?

       Just as I was beginning to panic our old wooden door slowly creaked open and there stood Elder Kurtz -- sunburned, sore, and covered in grime and red dirt. He stumbled in, flopped down on the edge of his bed, and started to explain. He said he needed time to think and mull things over so he had set out walking cross country, not really considering the distance he would have to cover. To my surprise he apologized and asked me to forgive him. Wow. I wasn’t expecting that! I accepted his apology warmly and offered him a heartfelt apology of my own. We ate what we could scrounge up for dinner, then knelt down for our nightly prayers. Tomorrow would be a new day and it would not be my turn to drive!

The Big Bang

        I had been through Army Basic Training, but nothing I had learned prepared me for what was about to happen. You see, there are unforeseen dangers living in a remote wilderness situation. Just outside the abandoned trading post we called home was an open fifty gallon barrel we used for trash. When it became full we simply struck a match and the contents went up in flames.

Old Whiterock trading post where the Elders lived. Trash barrel located behind the fence. 1965.

        Now that winter had arrived the garbage looked to be a bit wet and soggy. Matches proved to be useless in starting the fire. So, I went in search of something stronger. Inside our storage shed we kept a old metal container of white gas. It was a special mix we used to fill our lanterns.

Metal gas container.

       I topped off an empty soup can and headed back the trash barrel. This should do the trick, I thought, while sprinkling the white gas over the barrel’s contents. If a little is good, a lot should be even better. So I kept sprinkling and sprinkling until the soup can was completely empty. I waited patiently, allowing the gas a few minutes to work its way to the bottom. Then like any good boy scout I tossed in a match. KABOOM!

        The barrel went off like a cannon blasting hot burning trash thirty feet into the air. I found myself flat on my back, blown over by the powerful explosion, and looking up at fiery debris raining down from the sky. "Hells bells! I’m lucky to be alive," it slowly began to dawn on me. The smell of burnt hair filled the air. Frantically I began to inspect myself for damage. Yow! The hair on my arms was burnt to stubble. I had no eyebrows or eyelashes. And a sizable patch of hair from the top of my head was missing. Parts of my clothes had small burnt holes, some of which were still smoking. 

       The loud explosion brought Elder Kurtz running. After taking in the scene he remarked, “Man, you don’t look so good!” “What?” I questioned. The explosion had temporarily affected my hearing. I learned after the fact that white gas is much more explosive than regular gasoline. Guess I kind of over did it. 

       No serious damage done, missionary life went on as usual. I’m sure the people we visited were impressed. This hairless Elder with the burnt, red face must have recently returned from Vietnam they probably surmised.  After the endless questions of who, what, where, and why, I finally resorted to answering, “The “chindi”made me do it!!

       I already knew what Earl Pioche was going to say, "Do-ya-shonda, Bilagáana!" Stupid whiteman!

STATE FAIR CARNIE

       The State Fair was coming to town: Animals, Music, Ferris Wheels and Cotton Candy. Every thrill ride known to man was going to be there. We gassed up the family car the night before and woke up at first light. We wanted to hit the rides early before the crowds arrived. Standing in line for rides was for suckers!

       

        We made the 50 miles from Provo to the Salt Lake Fairgrounds in record time, parked the car, bought a bundle of ride tickets, and were ready to enjoy the best the Fair had to offer. The first ride the kids ran to was the Octopus. They handed their tickets to the Carnie and jumped into the first car, securing the chrome bar tightly across their laps. Their eager looks broadcasted, “Push the button! Let’s get this show on the road!”

The Octopus ride at the State Fair.

      From across the park sounds of rides firing up and kids screeching began to fill the air. But, there they sat. Five minutes passed, enough time to have completed the Octopus ride and be off to the next thrill while the lines were still small. But, no! There they continued to sit, locked in their seats like caged animals. After ten minutes two more excited riders showed up and were locked in, but the ride stood still.

State Fair rides.

       More rides were coming alive all over the park. The sounds of joyous children were everywhere, except on the Octopus. I approached the Carnival Professional. They had looked long and hard to find this greasy haired, toothless, tattooed prison parolee. “Could you please start this ride?” I asked.

Typical Carnie.

        “Not 'til all them seats is full!” barked the Carnie. He was enjoying this. It was a power trip! Seeing a white collar family man squirm under his control was giving him goosebumps. “If you won’t start the ride, could you please take my kids off so they can move on to other rides?” “No can do! They have to wait.” Fifteen minutes had gone by and no one else had gotten on the ride. This could go on forever. I felt we were stuck in a horrible nightmare.

  

        Now twenty minutes had ticked by since our excited kiddos had been locked in their seats. The Fair was in full swing. I couldn’t believe this. We were caught in the “Twilight Zone.” The kids were stomping their feet and pounding on the sides of the car. “Do something, Dad!” they implored. 

The Twilight Zone.

       I approached the Carnie once more. “We’ve been here twenty minutes. It’s time to start the ride or let my kids get off!” He was grinding what was left of his teeth. Hatred for people like me was beginning to surface. His left eye was starting to twitch, his hands began squeezing into fists, his mouth and throat were making guttural noises before he spit a blob of tobacco juice just inches from my shoe. “I’ll let ‘em off. But they don’t get no tickets back!” he growled. “Whatever!” I replied. He smiled a sly grin and turned toward the ride. The kids were squawking, “Come on! Hurry up!” This slowed him to a snail’s crawl.

      While this was going on I noticed our tickets laying on the entrance stand. I snatched them and stuck them in my pocket, feeling a twinge of guilt for taking back my own tickets. Strange! Released from Carnival Lock Down the kids came running, eager to finally get on a real, moving ride.

        Suddenly, with the howl of a wounded animal, the Carnie was after us. “Give me them tickets!” In a flash we were toe to toe. He could certainly move fast now! His dirty-nailed hand was out and shaking. “The tickets!” “Oh, you mean MY tickets? The ones I paid for so my kids could actually go on a ride?” His shaking hand jerked upward, and quick as a striking rattler he grabbed my shirt and almost lifted me off the ground. He must have been pumping iron in prison for years. This guy was strong!

Musclebound iron pumping prison parolee.

        From behind me the kids were yelling, “Beat him up, Dad! Show him whose boss!” “Yeah, you want me to be toothless too?” I thought to myself. Just as my pride was shattering and the kids’ belief in their dad’s invincibility was quickly disappearing, a voice, as if from heaven, boomed, “Hey, Joe! Get the hell over here and do your job!” A slight pause, a moment of indecision, then a quick shove, and Joe the Carnie reluctantly trudged away.

State Fair Cotton Candy booth.

        The kids enjoyed the rides, the animals, the freaks, and the cotton candy, but I felt sick inside. My kids would always remember their dad being collared by Joe the Carnie for as long as carnivals  came to town. 

MOUNTAIN RESCUE

   Time was ticking down. I had received my mission call to the Southwest Indian Mission. My farewell was coming up Sunday and in a matter of days I’d be off to save the world – at least a small part of the world – a very small portion of the Navajo Nation. 

   But there was still enough time to make one last trek to the sheepherders’ cabin located high in the mountains above Rock Canyon. It wasn’t much of a cabin -- one small log room with a dirt floor, one window, a wood plank door, and a rock fireplace missing half its chimney. It most likely had been built by early settlers grazing their sheep in the mountain meadows nearby.

What remains of the sheepherders Cabin. Rock Canyon, Provo, Utah

  The cabin was one of my favorite getaway places. I had stumbled onto it quite by accident while hiking the canyons behind Y Mountain. Nestled back in the tall pines and surrounded by scenic mountains, very few people knew of the cabin’s existence. 

Overlooking Provo and Utah Valley from Rock Canyon.

   I would be leaving home for two years with no girlfriend attachments, but I did invite a girl I had just met to tag along. It would be my last jaunt to the cabin before leaving on my mission. We would drive up the canyon, enjoy the scenery, hike to the cabin, barbecue some steaks, and be back home before dark. At least that was the plan. We loaded our supplies into Dad’s red VW Bug and headed up Provo Canyon to the Rock Canyon turn off. The sun was out and the trees were still showing some fall color. It was a beautiful November afternoon. What could possibly go wrong?

Rock Canyon. Provo, Utah

   After ten miles of climbing along the winding dirt road we began descending the steep curves into Upper Rock Canyon. Turning off the main road we bumped along the overgrown trail leading us closer and closer to the secluded cabin. We found a good clearing, parked the car, unloaded our gear and began our hike into the thick pines. Upon reaching the cabin my new friend exclaimed, “It’s definitely rustic! Not much to look at.” In no time at all the fire was crackling, the steaks were sizzling, and our mouths were watering.

Steak sizzling over the fire.

   Meanwhile, outside the sky had morphed from bright and sunny to dark and ominous. Strange how fast things could change! We had just started enjoying our perfectly grilled steaks when I noticed a few white snowflakes drifting past the open window. I thought, “We had better finish up quickly and get back to the car. This isn’t the place to get snowed in!”

Ominous sky before an impending show storm.

   By the time we packed up and hiked back to the VW Bug there were 2 or 3 inches of snow on the ground. I quickly assured my worried friend that this would be no problem. The rear engine of the VW would give us plenty of traction to climb out of the canyon.

   Things went fine making our way back over the trail to the main road. But as we edged our way upward along the steep climb out the back tires began to spin. This couldn’t be! We hadn’t even reached the steepest section yet. By now the valley was socked in and we found ourselves in blizzard conditions. The snow was piling up faster than ever. I got out of the car to check the rear tires. Surprise, surprise, the tires were bald! I convinced my skeptical friend to stand on the back bumper to give us more traction.  A few more futile attempts and it was obvious we weren’t going anywhere.          

   We mutually agreed to get back to the cabin and wait out the storm. Following our tire depressions in the snow we finally made it to the meadow and parked the car. By now the snow was almost 8 inches deep. And the blizzard wasn’t letting up. Trudging our way through the snow we finally stumbled back into the cabin, shut the door and shuttered the window. It was dark and very cold. Our wet clothes didn’t help. We weren’t prepared for a freak November storm. And the snow just kept on coming! 

Winter blizzard in the mountains.

   For now we needed to prepare for the worst, build a fire, wrap up in the picnic blanket we had brought along, and conserve as much heat as possible. If we were careful there was enough wood to keep a fire going until daylight. Then we could think seriously about forging through the deep snow, and making our way down the canyon to the valley many miles below. We settled in for a long cold night.

Tough hike in the snow.

   We took turns tending the fire and doing our best to dry things out. We talked about what might be going on at home. Maybe my friend's roommates would raise the alarm if she missed her dorm curfew. I couldn’t remember telling my family where we were going. It was supposed to be a short trip up and back. Between refueling the fire, we passed the time by telling scary stories. We soon had to stop when our imaginations kicked in and we started hearing creepy noises and seeing movement in the shadows. Who knew what creatures were lurking outside in the quiet darkness. Our conversation deteriorated to meaningless chit chat just to pass the time. About the time my friend started droning on about the virtues of her boyfriend in Idaho sleep overcame me and I dozed off. Hours passed. I woke several times to check on the fire. The relentless snow just kept piling up. By now it was well over 2 feet deep with no signs of stopping. I made myself as comfortable as possible and continued my fitful sleep. Slowly the hours passed.....

Glowing embers

   Suddenly I woke with a start. The fire was down to red embers. But that wasn’t what woke me. I checked my watch in the dim firelight. It was 3:15 a.m. Then I heard it. It was a soft sound, barely above a whisper, like someone was quietly calling my name through a hollow pipe. Was I dreaming, or maybe hallucinating? I stood up, opened the shuttered window and listened carefully. There, I heard the ghostly whisper again.  “Francis, are you up there?”  From far off I thought I heard my father’s voice. Was this for real? I woke up my sleepy-eyed friend and we both listened intently. “Francis, are you up there?” Yes. It wasn't loud but we both heard it this time!

   We quickly gathered our things, wrapped up in our picnic blanket, and pushed our way through the snow, following the sound of my Dad’s voice. “We’re coming!” I yelled as loud as I could, my voice muffled by the deep snow. Leaving the tall pines and moving into the clearing, a welcome sight greeted us.  There was Dad, standing next to the front bumper of a very large Search and Rescue vehicle. He was holding a megaphone in his hand and leading the charge. He was thrilled to see us, but no more than we were to see him!

Search and Rescue emblem.

   The rescue party soon had the Red VW securely chained behind their huge 4-Wheel Drive truck and we began the climb up and out of the canyon. What a relief to be warm and safe as we pushed through snow drifts three to four feet high. “How did you know where to find us?” I asked Dad. It turned out my sister, Kay, had overheard me talking about going to the sheepherder’s cabin, and my younger brother Joel knew where it was located. Joel and I had stayed in the cabin while camping in the mountains.

    As luck would have it we made the news, both on T.V. and in the newspaper along with several others who had been trapped in the mountains by the storm. I took quite a ribbing from all the locals seeing how my mission farewell was only days away. I would soon be on my way to the Navajo Reservation. But my unfortunate friend, being a BYU student, was left behind in Provo to face the music with the Honor Code Committee. I never saw that girl again, but I still remember the smirking men who rescued us at 3:00 in the morning.

Daily Herald Article. November 12, 1964.

FIFTY YEARS LATER:

   My brother Joel had been horseback riding through the high meadows of Rock Canyon, and ran across what was left of the sheepherders cabin. He took a photo and text messaged it to me. This inspired my hiking buddy, George Taylor, and I to go in search of it.

Picture of the Sheepherders Cabin taken by Francis and George on their hike. Rock Canyon, Provo, Utah. 2014.

   It took us two separate trips behind the mountain before we located the cabin. A single window and some of the pine log walls were all that remained. My memories from fifty years earlier are far more vivid, but it was a good trip down memory lane and a great excuse for a beautiful fall hike with my friend George.

Francis Rogers. Rock Canyon in the fall. 2014.

George Taylor. Rock Canyon in the fall. 2014.

Two happy hikers: George Taylor and Francis Rogers.

     As we were leaving the canyon, George turned to me and quipped, "You're not going to write about this, are you?"