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, javelining 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.
A favourite memory is Bela Fleck joining Jerry and Dave for a Ripple encore while the sun set in the mountains – a performance which changes lives.
These photos are the artifacts from Mr. W Knapp of Provo who has keep them safe for posterity. The folks therein are from the Pacific and Inter-mountain regions of the US and Canada and often rambled in various buses and vans to concerts – usually featuring some The Grateful Dead, or some permeation thereof.
Yeah, these were good times. If you see yourself, say hallo.