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?"

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!"