Tag Archives: utah

Satan lives in Moab: painting + story (born from a song)

My pals in the defunct Provo, Utah band from the 1980s had a song called “The Devil Lives in Moab” and the Canyon Country Zephyr newspaper also had an article about Satan sightings in the area. With these facts in mind, i wrote a story about Satan living in Moab and (as the song dictated) sold hot dogs.

Then, for a spoken word performance of the story, i (and Marty Kendall) painted this mixed media mural on a refrigerator box. Along with a few others, it lived in my VW bus for many years and now it is gone.

Moab, Timp and other sundry Utah — Photo Collection

Ahoy! Rarely shared artifacts from wonderful times rambling the mountains and canyons and parties and dumps of Utah circa 1987-8.

1) Me and Dane Christensen at the Moab dump which is clearly the world’s most scenic (note this may be my most popular photo on Flickr and been invited to join all sorts of *interesting* groups)

At Moab, Utah landfill, world's most scenic

2) Me, barely 17 at the Fat Tire Festival in Moab (was this the first year?) Halloween Party dressed as Santa Claus. At that ti     me i did not have an awsum beard so i though the disguise would let me wrangle beers. Totally worked. Note the Nun and Priest in the background blessing my effort and the fact that this is a film selfie taken before many of your were born. ‪#‎oldskoool‬

Halloween at Moab Fat Tire Festival circa 1988

3) Next is “Scenic Tours VWs” – a personal fave remixed over the year starting with a shot of Lin Ottinger’s infamous fleet of split-window/23 window VWs which would roam the Canyonlands long before the thrings of motorhomes, lycra-clad knuckleheads and 2 storey buildings came to Moab. Tis surrounded with other buses i’ve loved, admired, drove and encountered.

Collage of VW featuring Lin Ottinger's Canyonlands Tour buses

4) Back to Fat Tire Fest and Halloween where Brandon G Kiggins and I did the very bare minimum for costumes with drugstore purchases of Mr. T and, i dunno, some space warlord of some kind. I don’t recall bringing a bicycle that year, just a fake ID and a desire for chaos.

Halloween at Moab Fat Tire Fest

5) Mt. Timpanogos towers over Utah Valley (AKA Happy Valley) and is famous for it’s caves, a perpetual ice field, wild mountain goats and is a relatively easy day climb to the summit for hearty folks. Me and pals and brother Bob  rambled up this peak from every direction, season and circumstance. Amazed and taken by the splendour at the top, i posed in naught but my tan hide and gazed at the valley below.

Free and nekkid atop Timanogos

6) I wasn’t always nekkid atop Mt. Timp, on a windy day, brother Bob and I captured the successful summit attempt in front of the surveying shack which allows theodolites to calibrate Boyd Christensen correct me if i’m wrong here). Either way, a windy day but two ruggedly attired (exclusively from Deseret Industries thrift stores) disciples of Smoke Blanchard posed for a pic to send to our Dad (RIP).

Atop Timanogos Mountain, Utah circa 1987

PS Dane, Eli Morrison or Brandon Kiggins – do any of you have a recording of the Devil Lives in Moab by The (infamous) Trees?

The Earthship Lives!… In Utah, as a Sauna – Catching up with my Beloved VW Bus

Hey Dave!
So we acquired the earth ship from Zac Down scrawny lil dude who is like a second son to us I believe he bought it from you? I don’t even remember exactly what I wrote to you but ALOT has happened! Check it out she’s the “Earth Ship Volkswagen Sauna Bus” I will send a few more!
Check out pictures of our cabins here in Utah! Both can sleep a couple comfy or several people & both have Hot tub’s! The Scraggly Squirrel & Angry Beaver’s Den also has Tipi’s, Volkswagen Sauna Bus, End of Trail Saloon gameroom & more!
Mangy Moose Retreat
Scraggly Squirrel
Angry Beaver’s Den
Hottub, Volkswagen Sauna Bus, End of Trail Saloon


David Olson!   I am the newest owner of The Earthship.
This thing is the coolest thing i have ever laid my eyes on
and i promise to take great care of it, and i will post
photos of it when i am done shaping her back to working


Im so stoked my lil bro trev got a hold of you,
Ok my name is zac i am 19 in draper utah there is a pretty
long story behing the recent purchase of your bus, about 4
months ago me and a few buddies  were just hangin out, now
this is the uncut family unkown story but its how it
happend, so in my friends house we were browsing the net
and came across your  classified add i read it all through
and the end caught my attention, how it had bean everywhere
even held gunpoint, so i told my buddies around me they read
said ya cool whatever, so later on in the night we eat some
fun guy,   so we laugh we giggle we find out the meaning of
life  but the whole night i had the story in my head, so
after that night i knew i had to buy a bus  and travel this
world, so after a few weeks of  seaching  classifieds every
night after work i see on craigs list the same impossible
to find FULL dome  dream machine for sale in logan!  so i
dream that night about it wake up and knew i had to get it
So i talk to my parents they unexpectedly  lent me the 450
till my tax return  came,so after i knew i was gonna  go
look at it i tell  trevor about it and he caught the vision
as well so we take the drive  check it out already know ing
some background encouraged the buy, so we paid  for it  and
the next day drive up again with a few buddies, pushed it on
the trailer and took her home, so after about a week of
sitting around in it getting some of the bees out  pictured
in my head what the classic made modern earthship will look
like, after 2 short months the inside has a fold down bed a
sink a dvd player with 2  screens and soon a sun roof, now
all this is just sitting in there loosly  until everything
is ready to  be perm placed,
##dead eugene bus family photo
bob reed and dave near st george sunshine daydream blue bus sunshine daydream dave dan kids green bus beloved vw bus ScragleySquirel_36 ScragleySquirel_20 ScragleySquirel_19 IMG_2126 IMG_0785 IMG_2952 Bus hibernating in Logan Utah Bus hibernating in Logan Utah IMG_1538 IMG_0782

‘DamNation’: “Desert Goddess” Remembers Arizona’s Glen Canyon

‘DamNation’: “Desert Goddess” Remembers Arizona’s Glen Canyon.

History of the early days of Mountain Biking and Racing in Utah

This article appeared in Utah Adventure Journal and shares narrative history from my pal and backlands mentor Ron Lindley, who taught me and others about how to organize races, events, rides, and participate in a scene. Also Martin Stenger who was the fastest rider and hardest toker and fcking coolest guy around, Cindy who was a badass lady on a Klein and Charlie who ran a ski/bike shop in Park City. All these folks were important influence on a 17 year old renegade.

Utah Mtn Bike Variety

I added some comments and may yet do a follow up piece but, in the meanwhile, here’s a chunk from Ron, Martin and some snaps of Utah Mountain Biking and Hot Springs circa 1987-9.


The Scene: An Oral History of the early days of Mountain Biking and Racing in Utah….

Ron Lindley
Racer, promoter, trail builder, etc. Park City

After purchasing my first mountain bike back in 1985, I immediately started dreaming about racing. Not having any bike racing experience, I had grandiose delusions about how I would just get out there and set the World on fire. I started asking around about mountain bike race opportunities but there were virtually none at that time. One exception was a thing called “Bike and Tie” that I believe was produced by someone out of Park City. They had one scheduled for the Provo area in the summer of 1986, but it fell on the same weekend that I was immersed in studying for Physics and a Chemistry final and decided to give the competition a break by postponing my racing debut. Later that summer, I found out about a mountain bike race that was scheduled for the Wasatch Mountain State Park in Midway and attended it with my riding buddy Brad Sorenson. Brad was literally the only other person I knew who owned a “mountain bike” at the time. I figured out early on during this race that I was not only a beginner at the sport, but that there were a whole bunch of really fast guys who were well equipped to leave me way, way back in the dust. I finished second-to-last in that first race (much thanks to my buddy Brad).

Even with that first dismal finish, I was hooked. I was also determined to get to a level where I could compete with all those aforementioned “fast guys”. My path to glory was made much easier the following summer as some really awesome people decided to promote some really awesome mountain bike races: most notably Tim Metos, Bruce Ewert, Charlie Sturgis and Brock (Hansen?). Tim started running the local Salt Lake City classic “Wild Rose” series, Bruce was responsible for promoting the unbelievably cool “Rustler Run” at Alta and Charlie and Brock put together Utah’s first really big-time mountain bike race Park City’s “Bonanza Bonzai”. These events really represent the starting point for the “golden years” of mountain bike racing in Utah.

Since I was a Utah County native, I naturally felt like there should be at least one race somewhere in the Utah Valley area that could draw the best Utah racers that these other events did. Working with Brad, I started looking for a good place to conduct a race. After lots of searching we found the perfect spot: a Boy Scout camp in Payson Canyon. Hence the “Bike-o-Rama” was born in 1988.

This Bike-o-Rama enjoyed a 4-year run and was a real turning point for mountain bike racing in Utah. After a so-so first year, the race just exploded in its second year and with that success a new partnership was formed. This partnership was between me and an opportunistic mountain bike enthusiast named Bob Walker. Bob’s vision was to develop and series of races in Utah that would rival the old C.O.R.P.s Series in Colorado. He got me excited about the idea and I joined Bob to help him create the “Utah Fat Tire Festivals” series. This was the first N.O.R.B.A. sanctioned, state-wide mountain bike series (which has eventually evolved into Ed Chauner’s very successful Intermountain Cup series). Bob and I promoted a few races ourselves but also formed a coalition of promoters from Logan to Cedar City to broaden the scope of the series. We even persuaded the Canyon Country Cyclists (mainly Bill and Robin Groff) to promote Moab’s first big time mountain bike race, “Moab Rocks,” and add it to the series. Things eventually fell apart with Bob and myself and Ed stepped in and saved the day…the rest is history.

My recollection of the “golden years” of mountain bike racing would not be complete without mentioning a few names of some really special racers who earned my respect and admiration for there incredible talent and strength. The top of the list would have to include the following: Martin Stenger, Glenn Adams, Mark Smedley and Jeff Murray. These four guys were the first super stars of Utah mountain bike racing. Other truly notable racers included Rich Perrier, Cyndi Schwandt, Todd Henneman, Tom Noaker, Scott Lung and Jeff Osguthorpe. I’m thinking of many others but they’re too numerous to mention here. These were the people who were making the podium not only at local races, but national races back when they involved thousands of athletes.

I hope this brief look back sparks some fond recollection for those who were there to witness the proud beginnings Utah’s mountain bike racing heritage. For those who weren’t there but love to race, just take pride in the fact that Utah has hosted some of the best local racing anywhere in the World, and it still does today!

From Martin Stenger (now a brewmaster in Sun Valley i heard)

Martin Stenger
Slingshot team rider, Salt Lake City, Moab, Boise…

On what was attractive about mountain biking early on:
“A lot of the community spirit and grass roots; racing was what you get, it was part of mountain biking. There was a lot of community spirit. Coming from a road racing community, where people were competitive and didn’t hang out much, there was a kind of camaraderie among good-natured people that attracted me.”

“There was no exclusiveness. Everybody was there together; the accomplishment was finishing.”

“That was part of the motivation, to get to the top before the beer was gone.”

My Comments: 

Really enjoyed this article. Scanned a few flashbacks from that era to share from various excursions around Utah circa 1987:

* Canyonlands Fat Tire Festival (1987, Moab)
* Ride to Diamond Fork hotspring
* Rustler Run (Alta)
* Time trial races in Park City
* Moab’s Slickrock trail before suspension (incl poker run at Fat Tire Fest)


Team White Salamander representing featuring Ron Legend Lindley, Gabe Alps W. and a young hippie named Weed with cameos by Brad Sorenson and Pyper.

Escalante Flashflood – From Community College to Canyon Bottom

flashflood dave marty tent

With my right hand, I gripped on to the side of the cliff. There wasn’t much to grab on to. The rock was red and sandy. I was perched on the tiniest of ledges which is sleek with the fresh rainfall. Below me was a waterfall that dropped off 12 feet or so. Down below, Marty was bobbing up and down in the swirling pool.

The rain had picked up now. Large branches and small trees that we’ve passed hiking just a day or so ago were now shooting off the ends of the waterfall — torpedoing, javeling their way towards Marty.

He tells me to throw down the second pack. I’m grasping it with my left hand. As I hang out over trying to lean to get enough leverage to throw it over the lip of the waterfall — so it doesn’t get caught right underneath in the froth. Instead makes it out to the pool where Marty can grab it before it rockets down the river and meets the torrents of water. I gripped hard. The harder I grip the less there is to grip. I heave and I tried to swing with my left arm through the strap at the top of the backpack and, he bend over.

The backpack floats forward a scant few feet but far enough where Marty can scramble after it. He’s already holding the first backpack which is only floating because of foam mattress lashed to the outside.

I’m not sure what comes next. I looked down after the pool — the bottom of the waterfall. There was nothing but straight up canyon walls. The walls were maybe 20 feet across. Went up well, it wasn’t really worth counting feet at this point. The only thing that matters was to get out of there. After the waterfall, the river took a bend and, beyond that there was no way of knowing what lay ahead.

We were only into the trail a couple of days and started along the side of the river. It seemed comical at this point to think about it. First, we were like concern about getting shoes wet, getting boots wet. Now, I just needed to get off this rock over the waterfall without breaking my neck and, somehow land and grab my backpack. Then, float down the river and then — I don’t know what next. I don’t know what next.

It wasn’t so much to jumping as a controlled fall. I pushed off with my feet and tried to keep my feet pointing downwards. My body flay all over the waterfall and splash down in the pool below. Immediately, the shock of the coldness — but also realizing that the rocks were burling over the waterfall as well turning around at the bottom with their banging up against ankles and knees.

I scramble to get above water and chase down my backpack and, Marty who was being pulled away by the current. But I knew we’re going to be alright because I believe Marty was invincible. Not entirely but practically.

There’s really no chance of rescue and you know we had it. There’s no one aside from brother Bob who had any idea where we’re at. Even now the name of the canyon, it was one of the Escalante canyons — but there’s hundreds of them. There are thousands of paths you can take. All sorts of trails and adventures you can lose yourself on. I’d made a habit of always taking the weird trails — always taking the ones that you weren’t likely to come across.

The groups of Cub Scouts or the cheap pierced swigging rednecks, or the uber hikers, who just spent yearly income at the Patagonia store before heading out. No, we’re looking for solitude and weirdness and adventure. We’ve found it!

Marty was the coolest guy at the local community college. This is no damning statement! This community college on the outskirts of Provo, Utah wasn’t eclectic mix including fifty something steel workers laid off from the aging World War II era, toxic plant that loomed over the horizon.

After numerous labor disputes, in which the labor had no bargaining power, the steel mill was constantly changed and people were constantly laid off. Many of them realizing that they didn’t really have the skills to get a new job. Find a way into the community college and mixed with the high school drop outs like myself — vaguely stumbling towards the degree that will eventually be called Adult High School.

Mormon Kids would come out to BYU, the giant Mormon-church owned university nearby but hadn’t made the grads but ended up biding their time at the community college. To their parents, we keep sending the checks and tell the folks back home that, “Oh, he’s going to school in Provo.” It’s a badge of honor.

In amongst this, eclectic mix even Marty was unique; shaggy blond hair, a couple of years older than me. I went to a different high school or dropped out of a different high school but everyone knew he was a top-end skateboarder, old school punk rock fan, and drug experimenter. Now, he was at the community college studying ceramics. When I say studying, he was actually taking it seriously.

Me, seventeen years old drop out and taking classes about mountaineering, photography, and creative writing. I’d seen him around from the window of my Volkswagen bus or when I’d post up on campus and hold court with my comrades each day in the hallway with the ragtag group of odd balls.

Big Jerry who wore a cheap dark suit and talk in naval military terms and, rented on about conspiracy theories that will leave John Birch looking like a shrinking liberal. There was the old Alaskan gold miner who kept on trying to talk me up and, they coming up spending summer mining gold with them. I knew that, that adventure just involve way too much work and not enough women.

There is Gary from Taber, Alberta who’d come down and was trying to break free of his constrictive Mormon bonds. But with Gary, came his Aunt who’s really the same age as him — an effervescent striking blonde with a super square husband. She’d hang-out with us. We avoided him and she made us look great.

I finally went up and talked to Marty and said, “Hey man, someone came up to me and thinking that I was you.” It was the best line I can think of. He came up asking if I have some weed, “Oh man! I don’t do that!”

“Who was it, man?” A shaggy blond hair and a penchant for Hawaiian shirts — he was always wearing vans and corduroy shorts. He vaguely knew who I was and somehow we’d started making art and playing music and going on adventures together.

Marty had a certain design about everything he was doing. He had gone to the high school across town with the fancier kids but he wasn’t fancy. His parents were working class and stable and square — where Marty was a free spirit. Everything he was doing seemed to be around making art. He was weird. There’s no doubt about it. He draws old with the burnt out voice of someone who’s had probably a couple too many LSD trips but came out just fine the other side of it all.

Since meeting Marty, we’re loaded up with bright tag cruise heading to Grateful Dead shows in Eugene, Oregon and, California and, Arizona; some kind of caravan with Volkswagen buses things, old vans, pick-up trucks and every which way.

Marty was relentless; never seemed to be tired, never seemed to give up, and never seemed to be too buzzed. He was always grinning, always going. Not hyper but constant movement but when he stops, he stopped and crawled up like a baby bear and slept and slept. He moves slow but always.

So, chase up after Marty in the river. He held on to both backpacks but then let go of one as I caught up to it. We held on the best we could as we jumbled down the river.

There’s no good way to get down there. The water is too deep — although, your feet want to seek the bottom. But once seek on the bottom; you’re banged by the rocks and boulders — ankles each one getting battered.

Logs coming down — we’re dodging from side to side. Sometimes your foot gets caught. Sometimes you try to huddle around the backpack. Wrap your legs around it but then, your back gets nailed. You stretched up behind it and you kept rocking your balls. There’s no proper way to do this. We drift around the corner. The river takes it bend. There’s nothing but straight walls either side of us and, then another bend coming up.

The Escalante canyons are notorious for getting lost, for getting twisted and for flashfloods. We weren’t naive. We knew all these things but I just don’t think we really paused we just didn’t pause to care.

Now we are going somewhere and somehow we’d come out the other end. We figured out the way to come home from there. Now, I wasn’t so sure we are getting out the other side.

You always heard horror stories about people getting trapped in flashfloods and here we were and somehow we’re riding it out. Somehow

As I held on to the backpack stumbling down the river, I thought about how I got to this place. This was all strange and foreign to me. This was a different kind of wilderness.

I accustomed to growing up on the West Coast of Canada. Amongst, the temperate rainforest, giant ciders, dog furs. Where every time you ever went camping, one thing you knew what happened was — it would rain. Rain would fall.

You’d likely see bears or sometimes a cougar like the night around the baiting poll trail. Where we all sat around a campfire, I noticed a cougar sitting in a place in our circle. The thick muscles were right next to me. At that point, you know there’s nothing you can do. There’s no use yelling, running, swatting, trying to fight. It will destroy you quickly and instantly if it wants to.

This is the nature I knew. Where snow is wet and easily melted for water. But somehow, I ended up in Utah — which I spare you the details of, but I found myself after living in a multi cultural Vancouver suburb, heavy metal high filled with rival gangs of seek immigrants and heavy metal Hessians called the “Whalley burnouts.”

I found myself at high school in Orem, Utah. Home of Osmonds Studios — the grinning Mormon variety entertainment act. I found myself lost and confused. The school was lily white but i played well with others’ and quickly found that for emerging young activist, it was a fertile playground.

Older brother Bob and I assembled cohorts to test the limits of free speech. At that time, Utah and Arizona were the only states which didn’t recognize Martin Luther King Day. So, taking the giant roll ends — the ends of the giant rolls of newspaper print paper taking the roll ends of newspaper print stock with painted slogans to celebrate Martin Luther King and his contributions including “Martin Luther King, Died for Your Sins.”

We came earlier and went down the lockers with tape. So, the students and faculty are like ‑ were greeted with our protest messages upon coming to school — did not sit well. But, we also sat in the vice principal’s office while he reminds us and say many of us confused by we thought that America had free speech. It made them more angry. Then, we lowered the US flag out-front and raised a giant condom saying, “Prevent A.I.D.S.” Also, not well received.

We ran another buddy for school election — Paul Moody. In the candidates’ assembly, he stripped off his overcoat revealing a Nazi uniform saying that, “he wants to become our dictator.” I stand up in the audience saying, “Hey, stop him he’s insane.” Another buddy comes out as a henchman, tackles me down. The thing degrenerates into complete chaos as we incite high jinx and confusion. But, this wasn’t interesting enough.

School was like living in an Archie comic book or living in a John Hughes’ movie. I was confused by invitations to dances spelled with alphabet cereal. Throngs of students going out together for various contrive dances ‑ with a pre-event meal at Sizzler. I have no interest in any of these.

So, I found my way with the other misfits at Utah Technical College which was trying to evolve in ‑ well was evolving into Utah Valley Community College. And, various permeations as the life of the college goes on. For me, I didn’t care if it was a refuge away from the nonsense of high school and meeting new folks for new adventures.

I quickly met some friends when signing up for mountain bike trip to Moab, Utah. Mostly everyone was — I was the youngest on the trip but quickly made friends have lasted. I quickly made friends with some older folks. To me, older folks, who are ten years older than me — who were always out on adventures throughout the far-flung corners of Utah.

Usually seeking hot springs, mountain bike rides, camp-outs, I spent the next couple of years exploring all the corners of the state and the states around — building hot springs, building pools to capture hot springs. Going on endless mountain bike journeys and learning about that the easiest place to get a beer in Utah on a Sunday is a Mexican restaurant. I had a fake ID. I was learning about Frank Zappa, the early Pink Floyd albums, John Prine, smoking weed and hot wiring pick-up trucks.

Somehow, in this case, brother Bob was back from Japan. Brother Bob is 18 months older than me. He’s a handsome lad but he is square. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke dope, doesn’t know what to do with the girls but he sure likes to hike and easy going guy — but couldn’t quite figure out what he is doing with his life. We decided we’re all going our little camping trip and a little road trip to figure it out.

I remember his crazy little Japanese dog came along with us and, we camped at Kodachrome, Basin. His dog took off. We tried to call it back and decided it was best just out there lost ‑ devoured by a coyote. Unfortunately, he was not and it came yapping his way back to us.

So, the three of us and the tiny yapping dog were cooped up in Bob’s tiny little car; as we toured around seeing snows in the area around Cedar City.

Somehow, Marty and I decided on the fly that we’re going to head on this adventure. We saw a dial line on the map. Weren’t quite sure where it went, but we saw a way that we could get back hitchhiking. Bob was shocked to confused we would hitchhike back. We are ready for anything!

We come around jostling and swirling in the water around another bend. We see our escape route. We’re on the right side of the river and the middle is where the trees and the torrents are the strongest. But up to the left, we saw a slope that steeped at first but after the first six feet, started to flatten out a little bit and, ended up in a little island — that would give us enough room to assess the damage and, get out of the water and figure out our next move.

We have to get dry as the rain was coming down hard now. Whereas, the waterfall was just starting to catch up with us. We’ve seen the black clouds chasing us all throughout the day. But there’s nothing we could do except move forward. There’s no use trying to turn back when you’re halfway deep already. All you’re doing is going against the current. We’ve chosen to try to outrun it, or out walk it, or out stroll it but we were caught. We needed to get out of the water or someone will break a leg and twisting a knee — make it a lot much harder to get out of there alright.

There’s even a tree up on this little platform which was 12 feet above the river — 12 to 18 feet above the river. So, even with a lot more rain we should be alright. We hope so, anyway. We scrambled to get across the river and climbed up on the rocks. Holding on to the rock, one of us climbed up. While I held both backpacks, Marty climbed up leaned back over the rocks, pulled the backpacks up which were now soaking wet, like pulling up a soaking wet sheet — heavy and thick but we needed that gear in there. Then, I drag myself up the rock and we stumbled, shaking and shivering.

Up the rock to the flat part where we flop down, pulled out the tent fly from Marty’s backpack and hung it up while rain pelted down. We shook shook and shivered from the river. We watched the river rise — it gets deeper, it gets deeper, and the trees were bigger. But we can’t go anywhere. There’s no jumping back in now.

The rain lets up. We scrambled to try to figure out some warmth. We ran a string — we ran a thin rope from the tree and prop up the other end on a piece of cast-off drift wood — anchor down with some rocks. We start to spread out, pull over our soaking wet clothes and hang them over. Start to pull the gear out of the backpack to see what was salvageable. Sleeping bags packed in stuffed bags that survived relatively all right and synthetic bags will dry out and still keep you warm (ish).

I pulled out my emergency fire starter made from a paper egg cup. After pouring saw dust into the full dozen and covering up with wax, you break off one of these and whatever you can pack around it you’ve got a good start on a fire. We gather up some twigs and some bits of dried out drift wood and cobble together a quick little fire.

As we pull off the stuff in the pack — stripped down, hovering around like cave men, trying to dry off and find something to get us warm. Fire at the camp stove and some hot water. Finally start putting our clothes on unto the rope and settling in knowing that we’re going to be all right for the night.

We got this small tent put up and the air will start to dry it out. Fortunately, we had foam mats which were the only thing that kept the backpacks afloat — spread those out right on top of the rock surface. Finding some dry clothes, run around and find a little more wood — got a little bit of the fire going and start to see what there was to eat.

We packed these packets of noodles and sauce that you’d thrown in from a packet into some boiling water and stirred up and, it will give you a quick meal. But the water, waterlogged all these into some sorts of glump. We tried to bring it back to life with some hot water but it was turn in into just a sort of a pasta, powdered cheese glump which wasn’t appetizing. We found some nuts and sat it on the campfire ‑ think of how we’re going to get out tomorrow.

As we sat around the campfire, Marty rolled up his hand rolled tobacco ‑ which had survived the water ‑ thanks to his freezer strength ziplock. I found a little nugget of hashlit in my top back at my back pack and warmed that up and sprinkled that on top of tobacco. Finally, getting comfortable ‑ chilled out, sat around the fire.

I looked at my legs, I realized that it was covered with bruises, twisted ankles, and the shins were black and blue. My knees were really starting to swell up and sore. They’re not the best at any of that times.

Marty is built like a man-sized hobbit. Years of telemark skiing and skateboarding, he was taut and solid. Looked like he’s gonna be alright. Me, on the other hand, with delicate long distance runner legs was in bad shape.

So as Marty’s rolling, he find inside of his medicine kit some muscle relaxers. “Great idea! This is really gonna help”, I tell Marty. As my knees swell up, I realized that it’s going to be a hard night getting any kind of sleep with all these aches and pains. I pubbed a couple of muscle relaxers, pain pills.

Everyone in Utah seems to know all about prescription pills. We’re always pilfering from medicine cabinets when they visit their grandparents or even go to their relative’s house. They may not love some drug in Utah but they sure love the prescription drugs.

Settling in, all I could think is, it’s going to be all right.

When I come to — everything sounds like an echo chamber. Everything hurts.

“Dave, you’re on fire man! You’re on fire!”

“What?” It takes me a moment to register that.

Yes, indeed I am on fire — crawled up near the fire. The sparks had come over and my shirt had somehow caught fire. Not only my shirt but the clothes that we’ve hanged from the rope, we’re too close to the fire and, the fire had gone out of control. As we zoned off in the comfortable bliss — of the prescription medication.

“Dave, roll around.”


“Roll over.”

I rolled around on the rock. I get the fire out. I’m not too badly burnt, just around my ribs and a few spots on my legs where embers jumped over.

“Dude, why didn’t you tell me?”

“What?” “Tell you what?”

“That I was going to…”

“I just told you, you were on fire!”

“Oh… where… how come… what… uuuh!” “Oh!”

I pull off my wet shirt — had somehow not only dried but caught fire hanging from the line. As have a pair of socks both roasting as though they’re little marshmallows. I quickly knocked them into the fire. The acrylic blend had made them melty and dangerous to touch. So, they were sacrificed. But the smell was horrible — of the melting. Also, that was one pair of socks.

Counting our losses, we put the fire back under control and climbed into the tent and slept through the night on the rocky terrain.

In the morning, we assessed the damage. Burnt clothing, battered legs, but over all it could have been worst. We decide we’re going to go fast and try to get out as quickly as possible — to get regroup. We’re low on food and don’t want to get stuck out if this swelling and injuries continue.

We’ve packed up and go to put on our boots. Marty have just bought a new pair of Italian lightweight hiking boots but their size too small for him, as it turns out. So, I agreed to buy them off from him for 50 bucks. He used Bob shoes — borrowed from before Bob went home. We go to put on our shoes and realized that the toes in the toe caps have melted out. It melted and reform into a mushy mess that you couldn’t really quite get your foot into. Resulting, me having to cut out the front toe part on my boot and have this thing like ridiculous flip-flops — reversed flip-flops or some sort of handicapped ankle brace to trod out that day.

We packed up our gear and realized that it’s going to have to go back into the water before we could go anywhere. So taking our hard fought dried out gear, we flung them down the river and both banzai jumped into the river to catch up with the bags and flipped down, until the river was wide enough to give us a bank — the canyon was wide enough to give us a bank.

Finally, back on our legs trying to wring out the backpacks and get it down to a weight where we could carry, going to send in more gear if we could but, were down to bear loads. Packs on back, we’re hiking through Aspen forest as we get into the muddy river bank stomping out.

Now, toeless boots are full of mud — we’d flumped along on some kind of drudgery march. We find the stretch of river, where it opens back up with a little bit of a peaceful view with look back where we’ve camp a couple of nights before — just a nice campsite on the side of the river. Just like what you’d want.

We sat down and Marty pulls out a can of beans and a can of Vienna sausages.

“Marty, you got food in there?” “Why didn’t we have this last night?”

“Because, I thought I’d be better today.”

It’s hard to argue with him. He’s sometimes has those moments of zen.

“You’ve been carrying this can of beans and this can of Vienna sausages the whole time?”

“Yes, emergency beans! Does anyone carry emergency beans? You never know if you’re going to get caught out no matter what the situation, if you get a can of beans you’re going to be all right. Really, even with the can itself, after you eat the beans you can use that as a pot or you can even use the lid as some kind of snare or a knife.”

“Well, if you’ve already got the can opened, you’ve already got a knife!”

“Hey, I’m Just telling you there’s a backup plan and there’s a lot you can do with the can. Aren’t you glad we have them right now? Fuck you, I say!”

We opened it up with a pocket knife, folding aside the jagged lid. Take turns scarping spoonfuls of cold beans out of the can — picking Vienna sausages out of the tiny tin. My stomach is a bit of a sensitive one. This wasn’t going to be the best but it felt good going down. I just hope it stayed there.

We continue tramping out and rather than delight — have adventure and mystery. We drudged out but knowing we’re going closer to somewhere but realizing that the end of the trail, it wasn’t a warm van or any kind of waiting vehicle, or any kind of welcome reception — still were off of far-flung state by way. Close to really nowhere, with a long journey before any of us was somewhere we could call home. We also realized between us we have about seven bucks which didn’t really help things.

So, as the canyon widens and closes and, widens and closes we have no idea what point will pop out. The map is long damaged by now and it was hardly useful in the first place. It was barely a dotted line connecting — right along the side of the river connecting to two names spots. It’s hard to keep them all straight with all the dead horse this and, this to that. It doesn’t really matter. At some point, we’d popped out somewhere else. We did! Pop out to a small parking lot with a few cars in it. A dust covered super wagon with all kinds of gear stickers and gear bags in the back for someone who’d probably headed out deep into the Escalante for a week or more.

A couple of other vehicles are piled up from day hikers but no one was around. It was getting dark. The sun was starting to set. We were tired, cold and look like demolished vagrants. A smothering of colorful camping gear — busted out, cut out and scratched and clod up — but not bad enough to need an ambulance by anyone’s means. So, we stepped out onto the highway — realizes nothing more we could do and stuck out our thumbs.

At least, we were out of the canyon.

The hitchhike home was fairly efficient. But like all hitchhikes, you meet some interesting characters. Within half an hour or so, after coming out of the canyon and the small parking lot — standing up on the side of the road — we saw maybe three cars go by before one picked us up.

It was an old dude. Apparently, a photographer, driving an early 80’s Sedan filled with junk and cigarette butts in the back. But, we didn’t care. He’s going somewhere. But like what always happens or like seems to happen, he started to get a little bit weird — a little bit creepy.

He kept on pulling over on vistas talking about the color he was going to get from the pictures but, he didn’t really seem to be a photographer. I don’t know what his game was but he got us in one of these towns that scattered around Southern Utah — a small main street, a gas station off the side of the highway, a few homes and a couple little shops and a Mexican restaurant. A Mexican restaurant and a post office is sometimes all they got. I don’t know if this one was Green River or Vernal or Fruita or which one it was, I don’t really care.

We got dropped off — want to spend the money we had on beer. By then, it was really dark and pitched the tent behind the closed down Tasty Freeze on the little bit of grass and zonked out

The next day, we hoofed it through town down to a freeway on ramp and a highway. A couple of crazy young fellows and a soup-up Toyota pick-up truck offers a ride.

We hopped in the back of the truck and it’s cold. We pull out our sleeping bags and huddle in. We realized real quick man, this can be real dangerous. These guys were drinking beers and throwing the cans in the back — boomed it heavy duty and fast. As we get up to twisty mountain roads over the passes, they’re passing on the wrong side of the highway — going around the corners. But we huddled in and just held on until Provo.

Earthship VW Bus Rolls on …

Lowdown: Parked in the ‘back 40’ of my Grandma’s house at 456W 200S, Logan, UT . Go around the barn tothe back area to check it out. It is the big tall blue and white dome bus – well appointed with stickers.

Details: 1974 VW bus with full dome with sleeping and storage up top. Custom insulation, wood panels and bed/cupboard set-up within. 1800cc engine (rebuilt years ago – maybe 1987), Weber progressive carburetor and replaced transmission about 1992.

Story: The “Earthship” has sat since 1993 when I drove it from Vancouver and parked her before going to Japan the second time. The first 4 years were in inside storage shed. In 1996, I started it (without jumping) and drove it to where she sits. Mechanically the bus needs work but inside it dry and in goodshape. The body is mostly rust free (a few scrapes which were sprayed over a few years back). Though the hoses are cracked and tires flattened, it isn’t in much different shape from when I last drove it.

Deal: Since I have to move it out of Granny’s yard and am planning to go to law school somewhere soon, I wish to sell it as-is/where-is for $420. I will come down to haul out any personal belongings and exchange the title. Bear in mind these full dome buses are rare and in good shape have a $3-6,000 market price on eBay.

Bonus: I will leave any spare parts and a copy of the “Idiots Guide to VW” plus the official factory service manual with knowledge on everything from fuses to overhauls. There are even baskets of mountain bike parts and whatnot and a few paintings which may come along with the deal ;-)

Story: I am (admittedly) a bit blue about passing the bus along as I have a heavy emotional investment so to speak. I bought it in 1986 and rolled throughout USA, Canada and Mexico in that van. Slept hundreds of nights while going to University of Utah, dozens on Grateful Dead parking lots, fat tire festivals, held hostage at gunpoint in New Mexico, rolling from east coast metropolises to deep into canyonlands, across prairies, Baja beaches … well you get the idea. I had always planned to fix it up again and again roll on down the road but alas I must deed further adventures to a new captain.

SOLD Sorry folks, ….�

Essay: Damn the Dam – Freeing Glen Canyon and the Colorado River

Damn the Dam

By Dave Olson, 1988

Once upon a time, there was a river, a river and a canyon. Everyone who saw this river in this canyon really liked it. Some lived for it, some died for it, many fought for it, no one hated it.

Or admitted they did. All in all though, everyone agreed about its spectacularity. “Every one of these almost innumerable gorges is a world of beauty in itself…. Yet all these canyons unite to form one Grand Canyon, the most sublime spectacle on earth.” This is what John Wesley Powell said about the Colorado River and the canyons it gave life to. The canyons Friar Francisco Garces described as “…the most profound canyons which ever onward continue.” Powell and Garces knew the Colorado a long time ago; they explored area, an area that is now very different and yet changing even now.

Up until a few years back, people took care of the river, and it took care of them. A relationship that worked well until someone decided that the river could be better used running air conditioners and so they built a dam. No one noticed much then; it was back when few knew much about the wonders this area held. Anyway, there was more than enough of this hostile, rugged area to go around. Dams were built everywhere, lots of them. It was an easy fix for the energy junkies.

“Man has flung down a great barrier in the path of the turbulent Colorado,” proclaimed the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation during the 1960’s. “It has tamed the wild river-made it a servant to man’s will.” The bureau was boasting of Glen Canyon Dam, a 710- foot high monument to technological prowess, but it could have been talking about any dam in the country (Davis 26). Now, the cliffs, the canyons, the plants and birds and rocks and things, and the river is gone.

The Colorado is no longer there as it was. Such dams back up the Colorado that still flows relatively freely and make the canyon a sluiceway between dry hills (MacDougall 54).

So why do they do it? Why do they try? Electricity and water mostly. People generally need them. A lot of them. Too much? Any alternatives? Sure.

The flood gates should be opened, the river unleashed and the damage repaired. Let Nature reign again. Yee hah and Hieghty ho.


Today the Colorado has been rightly compared to hundreds of miles of plumbing system (Sunset 104).

Peer into a gauge-filled control room of one of its big dams and you’ll understand the B.L.M. official who stated, “The River’s flow can be manipulated in the same fashion as the garden hose on the tap outside your home, and is” (Fradkin 81).

The Colorado has an importance out of proportion to its absolute flow (Stenger 53). Indeed few civilizations have asked so much from a body of water. And the question for the West is: Can the Colorado continue to meet these demands (Sunset 103).

A big river, but not that big, not big enough for all it is asked to do. In the early development of the country, it didn’t play the part that rivers usually play. No one found riches on its banks, it wasn’t a trade route, it didn’t even go anywhere.

Lt. Joseph Ives said upon exploring the area in 1857, “Ours has been the first and doubtless will be the last party of whites to visit this profitless locality. It seems that the Colorado along the greater part of its lonely and majestic way shall be forever unvisited and undisturbed” (Sunset 95). Words very much lacking in accurate foresight but probably quite realistic at the time.

When San Diego flushes its toilets or Albuquerque turns up its air-conditioners the Colorado is involved. In fact it’s involved in pretty much everything that happens in the southwestern United States. It waters the crops and lawns, lights the lights, quenches the thirsts, gives places to play and everything else in between.

The Colorado River is formed at the junction of what were the Grand and the Green. The Green River is larger than the Grand, but the Grand is now the Colorado. Including this river, the whole length of the stream is about 2,000 miles (Porter 18).

The series of mountain streams, which begin primarily in Wyoming and Colorado, is transformed into the giant extension cord which is the heart of the Canyonlands.

There was a time when, in my search for essences, I concluded that the canyonland desert had no heart. I was wrong. The canyonlands did have a heart, a living heart, and that heart was Glen Canyon and the wild Colorado (Abbey 64).

The Rio Colorado-the Red River–a river ten times as silty as the Nile, and seven times that of the muddy Mississippi. Too thick to drink, too thin to plow was the old adage used with the settlers.

As it curdles its way down the two-mile elevation drop (a definite advantage in sculpting) it shapes the land into knotted, twisted, fabled canyons that are the exquisite and unique trademarks of the basin area.

Then it stops.

First with Lake Powell.

Lake Powell, formed by the Glen Canyon Dam, is not a lake. It is a reservoir, with a constantly fluctuating water level–more like a bathtub that is never drained, than a true lake. As at Hoover (or Boulder) Dam, the sole purpose of this impounded water is to drive the turbines that generate electricity at the base of the dam (Abbey 65).

Then to the Grand Canyon. Of the Grand Canyon, what can one say? This is the Colorado’s masterwork, and most attempts at description, no matter how eloquent, end up sounding futile… (Sunset 100).

As if the drowning of Glen Canyon wasn’t enough, the river backs up again at Grand Wash Cliffs to create the ditch called Lake Mead. Hoover Dam is to dams what the Grand is to canyons. Man’s monolith masterpiece compared with nature’s. Some people like dams.

They are big, they can make your head spin, they’re easy to look at from the window of your Winnebago and there is pretty brochures to go along with them. Kind of like a cemetery.

I take a dim view of dams; I find it hard to learn to love cement; I am poorly impressed by concrete aggregates and statistics in cubic tons (Abbey 64).

Along the river there exists nine dams, and another fourteen on its tributaries. That’s a lot of water and electricity. Some people want more.

More than 250 miles of white water flowing through a mile deep chasm will always be attractive to those in the business of impounding large bodies of freshwater and producing electrical energy (Carothers 75).

Three choices exist: more dams, leave it be or open the flood gates and resurrect the river.

Whatever the fare of the new dams, those that already exist will keep both engineers and environmentalists busy for the foreseeable future. The question now is not how to tame the rivers but how to keep them wild (Davis 33).


Having thus seen Glen Canyon both before and after what we may fairly call its damnation, I feel that I am personally in a position to evaluate the transformation of the region caused by construction of the dam. I have had the unique opportunity to observe firsthand some of the differences between the environment of a free river and a power-plant reservoir (Abbey 64).

There are changes, big changes. A transformation happened and created a new environment.

By the turn of the century, the Bureau of Reclamation estimates that all of the available Colorado River will be in use. Certain unpredictable events–a renewed demand for oil shale, a large-scale assignment of water rights Indian Tribes would hasten that day. So might a prolonged drought…(Berkman 192).

The dams along the Colorado and tributaries provide a large portion of the power and water for about 30 million people. A growing population and yet a shrinking river. The population grows and no alternatives are looked at and conservation is minimal.

There are a lot of facts and figures, statistics and studies.

They all say that much of the area is filled with a lot of cubic acre feet of water which generates so many megawatts of power at peaking hours which are sold to utilities and public works, for rates contingent partially on the hour in relationship to the peaking hours and a certain amount of cubic feet per second of water running through how many turbines, while fluctuating the many trillion gallon lake. The reports and the situation is confusing. The numbers don’t matter though as much as the alternatives that should be investigated and evaluated with a clear, unbiased mind.

The studies also say that although a multitude of species of fish and plants and birds and animals have become extinct in this area, it doesn’t matter because they dump fish in now. Fish that are regularly ground up in turbines. They say they are working on it. The studies say that it’s not hurting the downriver much. Maybe it doesn’t matter that the beaches are washing away. Now, since dams have no environmental impact, Congress is constantly barraged with proposals for more. More dams and more turbines.

(Proposals) will be postponed until the water and energy demands of the Southwest are considered to outweigh the preservationist’s arguments for maintaining the Grand Canyon Wilderness as it now exists (Carothers 76). Sources on Capital Hill say that the proposal has no widespread support at present, but “that could change if this country ever faces another Arab oil crunch” (MacDougall 54).

Lake Mead is old, the area thrashed, all but gone. Gone but not forgotten. Put an epitaph and leave it alone. Most others are new. Kill them before they grow. Lake Foul, the National Recreation Slum, lies in between. It rapes the most pristine of all locales and thus is a particular bone of contention.

The dirty, warm river fills the reservoir and passes through the dam clear and cold. Hmmm . . . Wonder where that silt went. Give it a hundred years and wallow in it. The beaches down river, the ones replenished by the silt aren’t really there now. There is a long list of plants, fish, animals and the like which aren’t there anymore. They aren’t coming back. The amount of water is regulated by the amount of microwaves running in Beverly Hills and so the lake and river level raises and lowers in coordination with the need. This accounts for not only the fascinating “bath tub formation” but it destroys pretty much every shred of flora and fauna. That flora and fauna that won’t be coming back. Besides whitewashing the canyon walls, the dam also created a lovely layer of algae in the chilly down river. Besides the birds, plants and wildlife, gone too

are the waterfalls, the beaches, the trees, the canyons, the warm, flowing river. All under the lake. There’s statistics about all this. Terms too, technical ones and all. Lots of reports too. They don’t matter. Things are dead.

But the recreation, it provides is so fun. Millions come every year to dig the scenery, spend some time outdoors, breathe some fresh air, get liquored up and piss in the lake, give del e. webb and the rest of the nature capitalist their filthy lucre, rage in circles in their turbo-mega charged speed demon boats to enjoy nature, bar-b-que their skin, take some poloroids and throw pennies of the dam (don’t get caught though, big, big fine-jail sentence too)(should been a fine for dumping 40000000 quiliontons of cement and steel between the canyon walls).

Recreational benefits, while substantial were of secondary importance to those who build the dam (Abbey 65).

So when the floodgates are opened, and all the nature lovers leave, I suppose a lot of park rangers, busboys, liquor storeowners, tour bus drivers and river guides will be out of work. Gee, that’s too bad. Send them to Las Vegas, lots of similar jobs there. Except for river runners and guides, but soon they will be out of business anyway. It all goes back to the cubic feet per second and all those statistics, the people are there to do it, but the river can’t be run. Too much water, too little water, not enough water in some places, big waves coming down as the flow is regulated.

No one would claim that the dam should be operated according to the needs of the river runners. Nevertheless, the hundreds of thousands of people who have made the trip through the canyon have also come to care for the preservation of its environment, and their concerns will always be part of any controversy over changes in the dam (Carothers 83).

They have back-ups on the river now. Traffic jams on the god- forsaken river no one was to visit. All caused by the dam and Lake Powell.

Call me crazy, but it seems to me that J.W.Powell wouldn’t want the stinking cesspool named for him. Taking his child and making it into Frankenstein. And who did it to him?

Who is this B.L.M.?

The Bureau of Reclamation is comfortably obscure, nestled in the Department of the Interior, insulated from too much Congressional scrutiny by the fact that it earned a good reputation in its early years of reclaiming arid lands, and protected too…From this political fastness, however, the B of R has bodied forth public works projects that have irreparably damaged the West’s environment, systematically ignored Indians’ rights to water, spent million’s of taxpayer’s on unneeded irrigation, hurt agriculture nationwide, and subsidized a few wealthy farmers to the tune of millions of dollars. From its most famous project, Hoover Dam, to its most ambitious proposal, a billion dollar Central Arizona Project that will serve no purpose, the Bureau has run from boondoggle to boondoggle, chanting the tired litany of “improving nature” (Berkman 1).

Whew… Well ’tis nice to see that the government is involved. Right? And they have control over my land, your land, no ones

land. OH, WHAT TO DO

Alternatives, there are plenty. Enough to satisfy the revolting excess and greed of electricity pits like Las Vegas? Solar, Cogeneration (poop burning) are the best. More efficiency in others would work as well. And not to get too crazy, a change in lifestyle, ideals, sensibilities and needs of the country would work quite nicely.

It will take a while, but long before it becomes a solid mass of mud Lake Powell (jewel of the Colorado) will enjoy a passing fame as the biggest sewage lagoon in the American Southwest (Abbey 69).

Or we could have a gigantic cement and steel monument with a golden, living river flowing underneath that future generations will look at, nod their heads and laugh at our folly. Ha, ha, ha.

Some People say we need the power, the water, the plan won’t work. Other people try to blow it up or otherwise rid the world of this large brick which would destroy us. They call these people radicals and crazy. Most don’t know and don’t care. They should.

“… we can shut down the Glen Canyon power plant, open the diversion tunnels, and drain the reservoir. This will no doubt expose a drear and hideous scene: immense mud flats and whole plateaus of sodden garbage strewn with dead trees, sunken boats, the skeletons of cattle and long-forgotten hatchery-bass fishermen. But to those who find the prospect too appalling I say, give Nature a

little time. In five years, at most ten, the sun and wind and storms will cleanse and sterilize the repellant mess. The inevitable floods will soon remove all that does not belong within the canyons…Within a generation-thirty years- I predict the river and canyons will bear a decent resemblance to their former selves. Within the lifetime of our children Glen Canyon and the living river, heart of the canyonlands, will be restored to us. The wilderness will again belong to the people (Abbey 69).

I can hardly wait. Yee hah and Hieghty ho!


Abbey, Edward. “Even the Bad Guys Wear White Hats. Cowboys, Ranchers, and the Ruin of the West,” Harper’s (January 1986): 51-55.

Abbey, Edward. Slickrock, The Canyon Country of Southeast Utah. San Francisco.New York:Sierra Club, 1971.

Berkman, Richard L. and W. Kip Viscusi, DAMMING THE WEST, Study Group Report on the Bureau of Reclamation. New York:Grossman Publishers, 1973.

Carothers, Steven W. and Robert Dolan. “Dam Changes on the Colorado River,” Natural History (January 1982): 75-83.

Davis, Tony. “Managing to Keep Rivers Wild,” Technology Review (May/June 1986): 26-33.

Fradkin, Philip L. A River No More, The Colorado River and the West. New York:Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1981.

Hopkins, Virginia. The Colorado River, Portraits of America. Secaucus, New Jersey:Chartwell Books, Inc.., 1985.

Lavender, David. “First Conquest of the Colorado, The Powell Expeditions,” National Parks (May/June 1986): 16-21.

MacDougall, William. “Will Grand Canyon Turn Into a Lake of Mud?” U.S. News & World Report (September 1981): 51-54.

“Our Mighty and Troubled Colorado,” Sunset, The Magazine of Western Living (May 1983): 95-106.

Powell, John Wesley-Eliot Porter. Down the Colorado, John Wesley Powell, Diary of the First Trip Through the Grand Canyon 1869. New York:E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., 1969.

Roberts, John. “The Dam is Killing the Grand Canyon,” National Parks (July/August 1981): 19-25.

Stegner, Wallace. Beyond the Hundredth Meridian, John Wesley Powell and the Second Opening of the West. Lincoln, Nebraska: University of Nebraska Press, 1982.

Watkins, T. H. and Contributors, THE GRAND COLORADO, The Story of a River and Its Canyons. Los Angeles: American West Publishing Company, 1969.


Dave Olson P.O. Box 7612 Olympia, WA 98507 www.uncleweed.net

 1988-89, written in SLC & Moab, UT