DESERET THIRST and REVENGE OF THE RIVER FROG

    George Taylor, a.k.a. "George Terrance Taylor, the Terrible Termite" for short, was an adventurous friend. He was an avid hiker, runner and adventure seeker. He had run the Colorado River with the famous explorer, John Cross. Now George was recruiting friends to do it again. This would be the last summer before Lake Powell would cover that part of the Colorado River forever.

Colorado River.

    Dave Beck, Dave Clark and I signed on. The scenery was incredible, each bend in the river revealed a new view of burnt red, sandstone cliffs towering hundreds of feet above us. It was a 10-day trip and John Cross insisted we row downstream. George was at the back of the rubber raft directing us away from dangerous rocks and currents with the rudder. The sights were great, but the heat reflecting off the water was greater. 120 degrees at least it seemed, and no shade to protect us.

    Don't drink river water. Don't pee in the river. Don't stand up. Don't splash. Keep your toilet paper wrapped up in plastic at the top of your duffle and row, row, row! We slowly paddled along, occasionally stopping to examine petroglyphs, old Indian dwellings, outlaw grottoes, and pioneer crossings. 

    One of the highlights on the expedition was Rainbow Bridge. We pulled ashore about sunset, laid out our sleeping bags and tore the plastic off our toilet paper. We would leave the next morning to make the 5 or 6 mile hike to Rainbow Bridge. The fresh water we carried in the boat was running low. "Don't fill your canteens. There is a spring about halfway. You can fill them there," instructed John Cross.

Floating along on the Colorado River

    In the morning, while shaking out my sleeping bag, a dead scorpion fell out. We had spent the night together! I must have rolled over him during the night. With empty canteens strapped on we were off, hiking the desert sandstone and sandy washes uphill toward Rainbow Bridge.

    The sun rose higher in the sky and the temperature rose with it! We hiked on, looking forward to the cool water gushing from the desert spring. Time dragged on, the lack of water and the heat was dehydrating us. Hours passed. With dry tongues and parched throats we welcomed the cry, "The spring is up around the next bend." Like race horses bolting from the gate, we were off. The race was on to see who would be first to splash into the cool water and quench their thirst!

    What spring? What cool water? This must not be the right spot! There stood the mighty explorer, John Cross, scratching his head in puzzlement in the middle of the waterless, sandy remains of our desert oasis. "There must have been a drought out this way," he reluctantly announced. He searched the banks for the source of the now dry spring. He found it. From the downward tip of a desert plant water was slowly drip, drip, dripping from the now defunct spring. Drip, drip, drip.

    We lined up with our canteen lids in hand, captured our ten drops, swallowed, and went to the back of the line. Repeating this process for over an hour, our thirst somewhat satisfied, we set out for Rainbow Bridge. I have never appreciated water so much! If it sold for $100 per canteen, I would have gladly paid it.

Rainbow Bridge

    Hours later we finally reached Rainbow Bridge. It was fantastic -- all it was cracked up to be! We spent some time just soaking in the beauty of this natural wonder. The quiet peace that surrounded us was inspiring! This was a sacred place.  Very few people had enjoyed this desert gem in person. It was just too difficult to reach. Today you don't have to make the hike. You can float very close to it by boat on Lake Powell.

    In hopes for finding water, John Cross decided to take a different trail back. We were going downhill. Maybe we could make it back to camp without water. But we did find water! Pools of it, captured in bathtub sized holes in the hard sandstone. Most likely these had been filled by desert thunder storms. We frolicked in the pools until we had our fill. Then we were off again. Back at camp we slept like babies, dreaming of gushing desert springs and cool water. 

    The next morning we loaded the rubber rafts, picked up our oars and were soon stroking our way to the famous pioneer crossing, Hole in the Rock. 

Hole in the Rock Pioneer Crossing

    The closer we got to Hole in the Rock, the more my stomach began to gurgle. I knew what that meant. There must have been something in that spring water! It was horrible trying to hold off the need to go for hours on the river. My sphincters were ready to blow! There was a reason we kept our toilet paper dry and at the top of our duffle bags. I began eyeing the duffles trying to spot my bag. Just my luck it was buried under the pile. A desperate plan began to take form. Dave Beck's bag was right next to me and he was rowing away, two places ahead of me. I discreetly unlatched his duffle and snatched his dry fluffy roll, quickly stashed it under my shirt, and relatched his bag.

    After what seemed like an eternity we finally reached the shore. I was off like a shot, safely behind bushes before the others could even locate their duffles. Having satisfied my urge, I made my way back towards camp. Just then, there on the side of the trail, half covered by brush, I spotted the largest frog I'd ever seen. It just sat there. It wasn't trying to get away so I carefully picked it up thinking, "I'll give it to Dave as a peace offering."

    As I entered camp, there was Beck frantically tearing through his bag. "What's the problem?" I chirped. "I can't find my toilet paper. I know I put it right at the top of my bag!" he squawked in desperation. Extending my hands with the giant frog I said, "Look what I found for you!" No sooner did I get the words out of my mouth when the beast cut loose, spraying a quart of stinking yellow liquid all over Beck and his duffle bag. Rapidly shrinking to half its original size the frog leaped away. "What the heck?" Beck croaked. Pulling his roll of toilet paper from under my shirt I said, "Would you like to borrow this?"

    One more night at Hole in the Rock and we would be on our last float. Bobbing along on the river the next day we made our final landing. After dragging our rafts ashore we waved goodbye to a six foot long dead carp floating by. A fitting ending to our 10-day saga! The best part of the trip was savoring ice cold watermelon at the closest café to the river. What an adventure, thanks to "George Terrance Taylor the Terrible Termite!"

"Y" MOUNTAIN BOY - SNAKE EYES and A WILD MAN

        It took about a week to get over the cave in experience and regain my desire to explore. Now it was time to check out Y Mountain’s north side. At the base of Y Mountain was a trail leading over to Rock Canyon.

Francis age 10.

        I would start north of the orange cliffs and work my way toward the canyon. It was a quick hike through the foothills to reach the base of the mountain. My first rest stop was in the cool shade of the Easter Cross. Some early settlers had built a large cross made of rock and cement on the hillside. It was about 14 feet high with about a three foot diameter. It had been built to stay put for a long time, a great destination for Easter egg hunts and cracking eggs. Today the hillside is covered with homes, but back then hardly a home could be found.

        All rested up I moved upward, looking for the elusive trail. It turned out to be exactly where the steep mountainside joined the rolling hills. Now let's see what lies ahead! Not much of interest so far. A rotted out carcass of a dead deer. A little fur and a few bleached bones were all that was left. Wild animals had run off with most of the skeleton. Now and then a lizard or a chipmunk would dash for cover.

Cliffs on north side of "Y" Mountain foothills.

        Things were getting a little boring. No large cliffs or tunnels, only a small stand of gray rock about 25 feet high on the steep mountain side. I had recovered from my cliff climbing trauma and examined the gray rock face carefully. Plenty of hand and foot holds, it would be a fun challenge with a low danger level. If I did get in trouble, it was low enough I could jump to the bottom.

        I began the climb, working my way upward, making slight adjustments to the right and left as needed. The top ledge was getting closer and closer. It had a solid lip where I could pull myself up. Inching my way upward with both hands on the ledge, I hoped there would be enough room at the top to rest before starting down. As my eyes cleared the last obstacle, a scream caught in my throat. My heart beat wildly. There, only inches away was a rattle snake sunning itself on the warm rocks! We were almost eyeball to eyeball, locked in a hypnotic stare.

Western Diamond Back coiling, ready to strike.

        The snake was as shocked to see me as I was to see it! Suddenly it moved, coiling faster than I thought possible, its rattle sending out a frightful warning. No time to think or analyze my situation. My head and hands shot below the cliff’s edge in a split second. A rattle snake bite here could be deadly. I scrambled down the rock face as quickly as possible, jumping the last 10 feet, landing and rolling to the trail. It was the first rattle snake I had ever seen and that was enough for me! The snake could have that spot, I thought anxiously to myself as I hustled down the trail, putting greater distance between me and the snake. I had been face to face  with death and survived!

        As I made my way along, the trail began to fade where it entered a section of the mountain covered with thick scrub oak. Here the trees formed a tunnel with branches that poked and scratched. Working my way through the oak maze I started hearing weird sounds -- limbs cracking, grunting and moaning noises. Something large was making its way through the low hanging trees. The sounds grew closer and louder. Was it a hungry bear or a cougar? I popped the snap on my hatchet and swiftly removed it from the scabbard.

Old Hermit

       Just then, bursting through the trees, a large creature leaped onto the trail. Not a bear, not a cougar, but a Wildman with long hair and beard, small twigs protruding from both. His clothes were torn, and

threatening grunts and shrieks filled the air. His beady eyes focused for a moment on me and my hatchet. With a grunt he was off crashing through the oak brush down the mountainside. Then silence. He was gone. Where he went and who he was, remained a mystery. It was time for Mountain Boy to head for home. He'd had enough adventure for one day!

        A few years later I related this story to my friend who lived in one of the few homes on the mountain side. “Oh, that was most likely my Uncle. He was kind of crazy and would escape to the mountains now and then. He was harmless, and it was easier to let him wander around than keep him locked up.”

        Well, my friend's crazy uncle scared the devil out of a little boy looking for adventure!

"Y" MOUNTAIN BOY and MYSTERIOUS CAVE

       I stumbled onto the old abandoned mine quite by accident. I was exploring the foothills south of Y Mountain when I came upon a pool of water surrounded by a grove of trees. It was tempting to take off my shoes and soak my sore

Francis age 10.

feet in the cool spring water, or maybe take a dip. I was alone and the water looked clear and refreshing, especially on a hot day like this one. But first I would look for the source of the spring. The water would be cleaner and maybe drinkable.

       Rounding a group of trees, about 24 yards from the pool, I spotted an opening in the mountain. It was tall enough for me to enter standing up. What could be inside? Bears, snakes, or maybe cougars. Being a Mountain Boy I was always looking for adventure, so I entered. There was enough light reflecting from the entrance to see old fractured railroad ties bracing the dirt walls and the roof about every 10 feet. About thirty feet in from the entrance the tunnel forked abruptly, one passage way  going left and the other veering right. The one to the left called my name.

       Walking slowly I made my way along the tunnel. The pattern of railroad tie braces continued but the light didn’t. The farther I moved from the entrance the darker it became. Soon I was feeling my way along the rugged wall and cautiously  shuffling my feet forward in case there might be an open mine shaft.

Possible site of mysterious cave entrance as seen today.

        I kept looking back to see if I could see the light from the entrance. As long as I could see the light I could find my way out. If I had a flashlight I could continue on, but I didn’t and it was getting too dark to go on. I kept telling myself, “Just a few more steps. As long as I can feel the wall and see the faint light from the entrance I will be ok.”

        Just then my arm was scraped hard by a sharp sliver of wood protruding from a wall support. It was painful and I didn’t want to get scraped again on the way out. Without thinking I ripped the offending piece of wood from the tie and threw it on the ground. The sound echoed down the tunnel.

Abandoned mine tunnel with railroad tie supports.

        “It’s time to get out of here,” I thought, but before turning back to leave I notice a faint light flickering from deeper in the tunnel. Curiosity grabbed me. I had to find the source of the light. Keeping my hand on the damp wall, again I began carefully inching my way deeper into the tunnel, moving along toward the mysterious light which was beckoning me on.

        Step by step, inch by inch, I crept forward. Finally, there it was. Crossing the tunnel diagonally was an opening in the tunnel floor. It was about three feet across and full of glowing water. Light was reflecting through the water from some outside source. I had a hunch maybe this was the spring that fed the pool on the outside.

Natural pool of water inside cave.

         I couldn’t tell how deep it was, but I was tempted to get in the water and follow the light. No, bad idea! Something told me it was time to get out of here. I might check the pond again from the outside to see if it gave any clues. I'd come back later better equipped for the job.

        Getting out should be easier than coming in. Once I felt my way back to where I could see the light from the entrance it would be a piece of cake getting out of here. Just when my confidence was rising, from behind me I heard a loud crack and a boom. Then a cloud of dust rushed toward me up the tunnel. No time to be cautious! I dashed for the fork near the entrance, turned right and ran for the opening, chased by the menacing cloud.
       My heart still pounding in my chest, I gazed back at the cave. That was close. I had truly dodged a bullet! Evidently one of the beams had cracked and given way, maybe the one from which I had ripped off a piece. I wasn’t going back in to find out. Eyeing the pool as I passed, I  still wondered if it was the source of the mysterious light, and what kind of an opening might have connected it to the tunnel. This had been such a traumatic experience that I never returned to the pool or the old abandoned mine.

Desert News article.

        About fifty years later there were two young men, a young woman, and a teenage girl who drowned while exploring a water-filled cavern in an old mine, at about that same location. They had run out of air while swimming through an underground tunnel, then panicked and drowned. It was a terrible tragedy. After that the mine entrance was sealed up and can no longer be accessed. On that day, many years ago, I definitely had dodged a bullet!

“Y” MOUNTAIN BOY and POPSICLE PETE

        If I said hunting knives, rattle snakes, mine cave-ins, hanging from cliffs, and crazed grizzlies, you would probably think I was talking about Grizzly Adams or Indiana Jones. But I’m talking about “Mountain Boy” or more specifically “Y Mountain Boy.”

Francis age 10. 4th Grade.

        As a youngster, my mother would feed me breakfast. Usually it consisted of mush (hot oatmeal) with a few raisins and a little brown sugar thrown in to make it edible, or eggs and bacon scrambled together to hide the “thing” (you know, the squiggly little cord that can choke or even kill innocent kids!)

        Then I was off on my own adventures for the rest of the day. It was summer, and there were things to see and places to go. The normal kids were packing lunches and heading down Ash Avenue to Wasatch School for Summer School. Can you believe it? They had just finished nine months in that place and now at last they were free and what were they doing? They were going back for more! It was like an ex-con saying “Oh, please send me back to Prison. I miss it so!” Not me! I had interesting things to do and “Y” Mountain was calling my name. But first I needed the right equipment.

        Before school had let out for the summer we were loaded with marketing propaganda, a little extra weight for our backpacks. There was one item that caught my eye, the Popsicle Pete Prize Catalogue. It contained serious toys, enough to tempt any red blooded kid to eat nothing but Popsicles all summer.

Popsicle Pete Catalogue.

        The object of my excitement was a deluxe hunting knife and hatchet combo with leather scabbard. All this for only 200 Popsicle bags. I spent hours hanging out at Carson’s Market on 9^th East, gathering bags from young kids and BYU students who stood around slurping Popsicles. I looked like a homeless kid going through the garbage cans, searching for bags. I even began to appreciate “Litter Bugs” who would just throw their bags on the ground. Kiwanis Park dumpsters were a gold mine.  It seems picnickers loved Popsicles!

Kids' Hatchet and Hunting Knife Combo with Scabbard.

       Then it finally happened. As I fingered through the piles of sticky bags I counted 198, 199, 200! I had done it. 200 bags! I’d better count them again just to make sure. I counted them two more times. There were 200 bags for sure.

Popsicle Pete "Polka Dot" bag. 

        After sending all 200 bags to the address in the catalog it became a matter of waiting. Would they really send me such a great prize for a box load of sticky trash? Time went by and, just as I was beginning to doubt, a package arrived addressed to “Francis Rogers.” There was only one thing it could be. Popping open the box and throwing out the stuffing, there they were: knife, hatchet and leather scabbard, just like in the catalog. Mountain Boy was equipped and ready for action!

        Hiking to the Y was a regular occurrence, but soon became dull. I needed more. True explorers, and Mountain Men, didn’t follow man made trails. They blazed their own. Coming down from the Block Y I decided to start blazing. I veered right toward the orange cliffs where I planned to make my way down.  From where I stood, the cliffs would be a challenge but I could do it! Carefully working my way through ravines and crevasses I was making good progress when suddenly there was nothing left but cliffs and jagged rocks below. Taking courage, I thought, I can do this! and started down.

"Y" Mountain and the zig-zag trail trail to the block "Y"

   Facing the rock, searching for hand and foot holds, I worked my way down until there were not enough hand or foot holds to go on. Now I was stuck. If I fell here no one would find me. I was off the beaten path. If I yelled, no one could hear me. There was only one choice: climb back up.

   Pulling myself up and over ledges was much harder than going down. My mind flashed back to Primary lessons on prayer. I needed all the help I could get. Looking down was a big NO! I needed to concentrate on one small move at a time. At times my feet would slip out from under me on the loose rocks, leaving me hanging and fighting for a new foothold. Totally exhausted, I finally pulled myself over the last ledge, fell on my back and let out a big sigh of relief.

    I worked my way back through the scrub oak toward the block "Y" and the safe trail down the mountain. Now the man made trail didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I bounded down the zig zag switch backs like a young buck, thankful to be alive. The great Y Mountain Boy was down safe and ready for more adventures on another day. At least I had my knife and hatchet safely secure in the scabbard on my belt.

"Y" Mountain with trail, block "Y" and orange cliffs viewed from the valley floor.

    Looking down to admire my prize, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The beautiful, shiny hunting knife I had worked so hard for was gone! Somehow in my struggles the leather snap had come undone and the knife had slipped out unnoticed. If it was on the cliff face I would never see it again, but had it fallen out while I was bounding down the trail I might find it!

    Slowly I began the long hike back to the Y searching the brush along the trail and asking hikers if they had seen my knife. No luck. I hiked back down, still searching every bush and rock along the way, then turned for home, a very sad and worn out lad. But tomorrow would be a new day with new adventures!