Tuweep

The inner reaches of the Grand Canyon have always fascinated me. I once hiked to the bottom from the South Rim with my grandpa, and although that was an unforgettable experience, there are thousands of people every year that explore that same trail.

I've often wondered what kind of marvels exist in the canyon, especially where humans have not yet trod. I would have to think that there are many places that have rarely, if ever, had human foot step upon it. The trail system in the park covers just a scintilla of what is actually there. I am sure that there are huge sections of land that are completely inaccessible to man, and therefore, insufficiently explored.

One of the corners of the canyon that is accessible, but lightly visited is Toroweap, or Tuweep, as the locals call it. This may be the only place in the park where you drive to a point and see the Colorado River straight below you. The look-off point doesn't draw very many people, largely because to get there, you have to drive over sixty miles on a dirt road across the very desolate Arizona Strip. This made it all the more desirable for me to go there, and I was elated recently when a friend invited me to go there.

My friend, Billy, comes from a true cowboy family. We spent the night at his folk's home in Moccasin where we ate fresh beef roast, corn from the garden, mashed potatoes and gravy, huge slices of homemade bread slathered in butter, and large glasses of milk. His family ran cattle on the Arizona Strip, a huge parcel of isolated terrain that is detached from the rest of the state by the Grand Canyon.

West of Fredonia there is a brown sign that reads Toroweap 61 and the arrow points south toward a dirt road. All the brochures and travel web sites warn you about this road. Bring a spare tire and a high-clearance vehicle, they all advise. Also, bring plenty of extra water and food in case you get stranded, and don't plan on anyone coming to your rescue, possibly for a long time. And just to scare you even more, they state that a tow in this remote area could cost up to a thousand dollars! 

The first dozen miles from the highway were very lackluster. Not even any trees. Only small scrub brush stretching for miles and miles. Red cliffs became visible in the distance as well Mount Trumbull, bulging prominently in the direction that we were driving.

Gradually, a juniper tree here and there began to sparsely dot the landscape and the road began to gently heave up and down. We spotted a couple small herds of antelope, all distant, their white rumps being the most salient, and their backs the colors of red clay.

There is a spot just off the road where there is a huge hole. Not a sink hole, but more like a crevice in the rocks and all the rocks other than where the hole exists are covered by ground dirt. The hole is very deep, but the bottom can be seen by shining a flashlight into it. At its nether parts, there are the bones of a horse. As the story goes, there was snow on the ground when the cowboy's horse didn't see the opening and fell right in.

Along the way we saw a blow snake cross the road. Other two-track roads occasionally jutted off from either side. A barren, volcanic hill loomed in the near distance.

As we approached the flanks of Mt. Trumbull, pinyon pine mingled with the juniper and a large patch of snow was visible high atop the slopes of the mountain. But soon we were past Mt. Trumbull and slowly descending into Toroweap Valley. Prickly pear cacti became more abundant, as well as the “jumping” kind that are in the shape of sausage links.

Approaching us in the distance was the chasm of the Colorado River, or the inner depths of the Grand Canyon. We could only see the upper flatland of the mesas, their steep flanks only slightly suggesting that a gorge of monstrous proportions existed there.

The final several miles were very rocky and required high-clearance. Cacti, heavy in bloom, flourished as did other flora. Puddles of water sat as ponds on the sandstone floor.

We drove to a little parking spot at the rim of the gorge. Only a twenty second walk and we were at the brink. No hand-rails and no fence. Only flat sandstone rock on the ledge and a perpendicular cliff that drops three thousand feet to the river below.

From the level where the truck was parked, there is another level that steps down about four feet and that is as far as you can go and still stay alive. This escarpment is wide enough to walk along, but I always hugged the safer side. To get a good look at the river, it is best to get onto your hands and knees and inch toward the drop-off. Even then my head gets a little bit dizzy.

The river runs from east to west and from our view high above it looks like a wide ribbon. For the most part it is serene, but in a few places the white-water is visible. The churning of Lava Flow Rapids to our west is noticeable. A faint rumbling echoes through the canyon.

We looked for rafters floating down the river but saw none. They would be mere specks, but nonetheless visible. 

Springtime was very apparent as it seemed that a small veneer of grass covered much of the ground within the gorge. On the sides of the river, larger amounts of green growth flourished.

Vegetation on the rim thrived also. Red blossoms crowned the tops of the prickly pear cactus. The shorter agave plants, as well as the taller yuccas abounded. Brigham tea, Indian paintbrush, and other flowers, both gold and scarlet in color, painted the landscape all the way to the edge of the cliff.

We walked to another look-off point that gave much of the same view, but from a slightly different angle. Billy told the story of a horse that almost backed off the ledge. They were lined up for a picture and instead of stopping when they pulled the reins, the horse backed up, his hind legs slipping beyond the edge, and the horse hunching down and the cowboys pulling on the reins and the horse scraping his hooves on the rock to regain sure footing.

We drove a few miles to another area, this one called Lava Flows. This is the only place in the area where one can hike all the way to the river. But the warnings are there: Do not hike this in the summer as temperatures can get as high as 120 degrees. Do not hike unless you have plenty of water. Be aware that there is no trail, it is very steep and exposure is great. In other words, be very careful or you might die.

To our left was the very prominent, but dormant volcano called Vulcan's Throne. At one time this volcano spewed enough lava down the hillside to now make a hike to the river feasible, although still very difficult. 

We hiked down a little ways, but only on the relatively easy part. The thing that impressed me the most, however, is how the flora in the canyon seemed to change with every level that we dropped. The road from Tuweep descended about 500 feet in elevation and as we hiked, we probably dropped another 500 feet. The cacti grew more abundant, but now, large barrel cacti of several varieties mingled with the prickly pear. We also saw a plant that looked like a cousin to the yucca plant, but lighter in it's shade of green and with black tips on the blades. Honestly, it looked like a plant that belonged on a coral reef in the ocean.

The hike down was steep, but mostly it was the small, loose lava rock that made it difficult. From our spot where we turned around, only a small section of the river could be seen. Across the gorge on the south side of the canyon, a dirt road could be seen that streaked across the plateau. Looking down at the river I could see a small trail along its banks. I wondered if it was a game trail and if possibly there was a trail that connected it with the dirt road above. More than likely it was a path made by rafters who had a camp nearby.  

Snowshoeing

We have no choice but to ascend the steep slope for the first three hundred feet. I step forward with the snowshoe, letting the metal crampon beneath the shoe grip the crusty snow. Then I grab the branch of a spruce tree and pull myself upward. The scent of resin flies through the air.

But there isn't always a branch or a sapling to grab onto. And sometimes the slope appears too steep to crawl up and I worry that if I slip I will slide far down and crash into a tree. So then I step sideways and move the other direction, until I find another tree to clutch onto.

Sometimes the snowshoes will hold my weight above the surface of the snow, but sometimes, especially near the trunk of a tree where dead logs and unseen saplings grow beneath the surface of the snow, the white powder will give and my leg will puncture the snow and I will be up to my thigh in slushy, icy powder. My hand will pierce the snow also, and it is during these times that I wish that I had my gloves. But they are in my backpack, which I carry on my shoulders.

We finally arrive at the top of the hill where the slope becomes more gentle and snowshoeing isn't so bad. We rest for several minutes and let the flow of blood in our heads wind down to a slower pulse. I take a couple swigs of Powerade from my pack.

This is the first time in my life that I have put on a snowshoe. Believe it or not, I have never skied either. I just haven't done much with winter sports, period.  

My friend, Jordan, has been trying for years to have me go snowshoeing with him. He is much taller than I am, and was a heck of an athlete in his youth. He still is amazing, but like all of us, age has taken its toll.

We drove up the mountain and parked the truck just off the highway about an hour ago. At 10,000 feet in elevation, we began our hike, not knowing exactly where we would end up.

Now, we trek along the top of the hill, mostly among Engelmann Spruce. I am learning to walk with the snowshoes. Mine are more modern and made of aluminum. It isn't difficult. The flatter you can place the shoe, the more likely it will hold you up on the snow. If I accidentally step with the toe pointed downward, perhaps when the surface of the ground isn't so even, then sometimes my leg falls through the snow.

Jordan's shoes are more traditional in appearance. They have the lattice-work on bottom and look like tennis rackets. He has to stop several times to adjust the binding on the shoes.

I see a Golden Eagle soaring above the the treetops. I recognize the white spots on the eagle's belly. I am curious to find out what other animals live so high during the winter months and hope to see elk, but suspect that they have moved down lower.

This year has been very mild. Here on the top of the mountain there is probably only two feet of snow. We are now in mid-March. There should be at least five feet of snow.

We skirt the rim of the mountain. To our right, the slope moves rapidly downhill and into Deep Creek. Our expansive view allows us to see an extensive drainage system of canyons that eventually merge into the deep red gorges of Zion National Park.

Our view from the rim over the rolling forest surrounding Deep Creek is perfect to spot elk. If I would have brought binoculars, I could spend twenty minutes glassing below and searching for a herd of bulls bedded down, basking in the sun on the southern slopes. Of course, their antlers wouldn't be too long now, as they probably just lost them last month. But they grow back quickly. We scan the area below with our naked eyes and see nothing.

We walk parallel with the rim of the slope. When we are not talking, the only sound we can hear is the crushing of snow beneath the shoes. Occasionally we hear the engine of a snowmobile far away. Below us in Deep Creek, a woodpecker hammers on a tree and unseen birds squawk back and forth from the treetops.

Tracks from several animals cut our path. We find footprints of both rabbit and coyote. At one spot we find the two tracks converge at a muddy wallow in the snow. I'm sure the coyote won that battle. We also find a small burrow beneath the bough of a pine tree where the coyote must have bedded down.

We see another set of prints that are slightly bigger and look like they might have a heel. I wish now that I were better at identifying tracks. I don't think that these are big enough to be a bear or a mountain lion, but they are certainly bigger than the coyote tracks. I remember now that I didn't bring my little pistol and certainly hope that there isn't a mountain lion in the area. Even though I have never seen a cougar in the wild, Jordan reminds me, “I'll bet that they've seen you.”

We find another set of tracks. These are definitely cat tracks, and they are light enough that they stay on top of the crust of snow, without breaking through. These are probably bobcat.

We encounter a patch on the west slope that faces Deep Creek where the snow has melted away. We remove our packs and unbind the snowshoes from our feet. It feels good to have the burden released from our shoulders and to be able to walk normal again, without the clumsy companion of the snowshoes. The breeze picks up a little stronger here on the bare slope.

From the dead branches that litter the ground, we gather twigs and break them off into sections about the length of a hand. After building a little mound about the size of an ant pile, Jordan places a trioxane bar beneath it. Then he takes a match and strikes it on the box and ignites the trioxane bar, which in turn, sets fire to the kindle of twigs. Soon, the entire mound is in flames and we find bigger branches to keep the fire going.

Jordan finds a flat-faced rock and places it next to the fire and cuts open a package of five frozen brats and lays them on the rock to thaw. When the mound of twigs has burned down to coals, we place three green limbs over the coals and lay the brats atop the limbs. There they slowly roast over the heat and begin to brown and sizzle.

For nearly two hours we warm our hands over the fire and eat bratwurst. We talk of religion, raising kids, cowboy caves, and survival in the Peruvian jungle.

Once again, we strap on the snowshoes and continue in the same direction as before. The snow is softer now and the shoes are sinking a little further into the powder. But we are still able to stay atop the snow and walking is easy.

As we walk we are alone. Occasionally we cross with snowmobile tracks, and once with those of a cross-country skier, but never do we see another person. The thought comes to me that someday I would like to snowshoe about ten miles into the middle of nowhere and there I could build a snow-fort and camp out for a few days. That would be nice.

But then I wonder if the snowshoes could support the heavier weight that would come from a backpack. Then I worry of the danger that I would be in if a storm unexpectedly moved in and dropped four feet of new snow on me while I was camped out. That would still be fun to do someday.

Instead of returning the way we came, we decide to make a loop and walk further away from the rim. The shadows from the trees are now casting longer impressions onto the snow. At one time I wished to come unexpectedly upon an animal, but now, most of our time is spent conversing back and forth, so the chances of sneaking upon a coyote or eagle is pretty slim.

Coming across and open flat, we see the pink cliffs of Bryce Canyon in the far distance. I soon realize that I am quickly becoming very tired. Not much longer and we will be returning to the truck.

At last we arrive at the final downhill of the trek. It is near the same 300 foot slope that we had to ascend earlier. This time we descend in baby steps. Jordan chooses to angle diagonally, directly toward the truck. I decide to move straight down, then cut across once I reach the bottom. This slope is steep enough that there is a small fear of avalanche.

I reach the bottom and begin cutting toward the truck, which is at least another half-mile. By now, my legs are exhausted and every step forward is laborious. I stop momentarily to notice a weather station that has been hidden among the trees.

Finally, we arrive at the truck and are happy to know that we will be home before dark. I find my Powerade that I have hidden in the snow and begin guzzling it down. It feels nice to finally sit in a soft seat without those clunky shoes strapped to my feet. But on the other hand, I kind of wish I were still out there shoeing.  

St. Paddy's Day – Dublin

On St. Patrick's Day Eve we came across a mass of people on O'Connell Bridge in downtown Dublin. Most were schoolboys, dressed in black and white striped shirts and chanting the school anthem and fired in a frenzy. Some climbed onto lampposts and leaned from the posts with one foot, and a hand clutching on. Some waved a half black, half white flag in the air. Other passerby's had stopped also, some like us, just to see what the rage was all about.

I had to pull a schoolboy aside and inquire what was going on. Their team, Belvedere College, had just won the prestigious Leinster Senior Cup in rugby over their cross-town rivals, St. Mary's College. Belvedere College is an all-male secondary school that is equivalent to high school in the United States. This private Jesuit school produced such greats as Liam O'Flaherty and James Joyce.

Tradition decrees that the cup be walked over O'Connell Bridge from the south side (where St. Mary's College is situated), to the north side (the location of Belvedere College). We were lucky enough to be at the right place at the right time. The Leinster Senior Cup finals are held every year close to St. Patrick's Day.

Quite a crowd had gathered by now and the Garda (Irish police) were attempting to block off traffic to the bridge. The team was conveyed by bus to one side of the bridge, then let out with the trophy. Crazy schoolboys began to cheer and onlookers held their cameras up high to reach over the heads of the horde. When the team began to make their way forward, with the large silver cup in hand, their classmates rushed forward and mobbed them in celebration.

The rugby team wore black sport jackets and ties, and the boy carrying the cup was carried on shoulders. Others high-fived the crowd, and every rugby player had a permanent smile on his face. I vied for a position, along with everyone else, trying to gain any glimpse I could of the boys and their trophy.

The celebration slowly passed us and worked its way up O'Connell Street, past the statue of Jim Larkin and the Dublin Spire. There wasn't a better way to begin our St. Patrick's Day Eve than with a little serendipity.

Our subsequent wanderings took us past a street preacher on a soapbox and for a brief visit to the grounds of Trinity College. Then we happened upon the amusement rides at Merrion Square.

Hundreds of tickets littered the ground and all the rides of pleasure seemed to scream at a hundred miles an hour, their lights blaring and flashing. Every ride made me sick to my stomach just from watching. Some spun around in circles at NASCAR speeds, while others jolted the riders up and down like a hammer. Fast-pitched music boomed out of speakers. Juxtaposed behind the amusement rides was the calmness of the red-bricked Georgian buildings, with smoke wafting from the chimney stacks.

One of the rides, that spun patrons in vertical circles while twirling them like a wheel, was called American Trip. A drawing of the Hollywood Hills covered the backdrop, along with pictures of Marilyn Monroe, a football player, and Elvis.

These rides were on a street adjacent to Merrion Square. While walking through the square itself, which is a grass-filled park, we came across a large orange and pink domed tent with traditional folk music coming from inside. A few people danced on the grass outside, but the real action was in the tent.

We opened the flap and peeked inside and found three men and a lady playing instruments in front of a small crowd. I saw an accordion, xylophone, drum, and violin in action. One of the men wore a long white-sleeved shirt with a fancy scarlet vest, and a black hat. They sounded very good, and we quickly learned that they were Polish and playing music from their home country. Unfortunately, this was their last song and soon they were done for the night.

From Merrion Square we walked to Grafton Street, a quaint pedestrian road known for its high-end shopping. The sun had set by now and street lamps illuminated the walkway. Hundreds of people moved in each direction, some slowing to gawk in windows, others hand-in-hand with a lover, and some just anxious to arrive at their destination.

A lady with a fleece coat and black gloves sat next to a shoe store window and played Celtic music on her harp. Down the street we watched an Asian man in nylon warmups bounce a soccer ball on his head, his feet, and his knee, while standing, kneeling, and even lying down, looping it through his leg, and never letting it touch the ground.

Three men were blowing up skinny balloons and tying them in shapes of dogs and flowers. They seemed very friendly. While my wife was filming, one asked, in a deep Irish brogue, where we were from. After she responded to his question, he approached her camera and breathed deeply onto the lens. “Everybody in Utah,” he announced, “welcome to foggy Dublin!”

That was our Sunday in Dublin, the precursor to the biggest festival of the year in Ireland, and a day that is celebrated world-wide. As we rode the tram back to our hotel room, while watching the city lights as we crossed the River Liffey, I couldn't help but to be excited for what we would experience the next day. If our St. Paddy's Day Eve was this good, then who knew what we'd find on the festival day itself.

St. Patrick's Day is a curiosity in Ireland. While Boston and New York City both began their parades in the 1700's, Dublin didn't celebrate the holiday like they do now until the mid-1990's. St. Patrick's Day was originally a religious holiday in Ireland. Citizens celebrated it by attending church and perhaps serving a special dinner in the home.

When Irish began immigrating across the Atlantic, they chose to celebrate on March 17th to remember the country they came from. From those roots, the festivities grew into what they are today in much of the United States.

As for Ireland, it was the very last of the twentieth century when the holiday morphed from religious to secular. The Irish government made the move in part to showcase their culture and promote tourism. I learned from reading the local newspaper that the St. Patrick Day holiday is still debated by the Irish. I will include excerpts from the two contrasting points of views:

Against St. Patrick's Day - “St. Patrick's Day shames me. It is the only day of the year where I wish I wasn't Irish. Each time March 17 comes around I have tried to overlook my disgust at the way our national holiday is 'celebrated.'  Each year I vow not to venture onto streets festooned with litter and people that act like they are auditioning for a part in the next Night Of The Living Dead movie. It usually starts positively enough with a mass turnout for the parade – a ritualistic procession that's improved in content over the years, particularly in Dublin where the organisation has injected some international glamour into the event. But once that's out of the way, Ireland turns ugly . . . . the vomit on the streets will attest to that come tomorrow.” - John Meagher

In favour of St. Patrick's Day - “Paddy's Day . . . manages to retain an ability to express the unique genius of the Irish people . . . . Despite all the corny corporatisation of the event, and the fact that the whole thing was foisted on us by Americans, Paddy's Day remains a place to conspire against wholesomeness and sobriety. Instead of screaming 'won't somebody please think of the children,' we should get over it and realise children are a lot more resilient than we give them credit for.” - Alan O'Riordan

In spite of the debate, Jenelle and I were all for St. Paddy's Day in Dublin. On the morning of March 17^th, we arose and ate the full Irish breakfast, buffet-style. For anyone that doesn't know about the full Irish breakfast, it consists of rashers, sausages, fried tomatoes, fried mushrooms, and a fried egg. Sometimes it is served with baked beans or blood sausage, known locally as white or black pudding. Brown soda bread and marmalade also come with the meal. It is very filling and satiates well into the afternoon.

To our surprise, eating with us in the hotel cafeteria, was a marching band from Youngstown, Pennsylvania. They would be marching in the parade. These kids were in high school, and I would imagine that this would be the experience of a lifetime.

We didn't know what to expect with the parade, so we took the tram into downtown Dublin and arrived two and a half hours early. We had staked out a spot right across the street from Christ Church Cathedral and decided it was the perfect place to watch.

Yes, we had arrived with plenty of time to spare. The barricades separating the the parade route from the spectators had been set up, but only a few people were loitering around to ensure a front-row spot. We watched the Garda mingled among themselves and engaged in lighthearted chat. A potato chip truck stopped nearby and handed out bags of “crisps.”

It didn't take long, however, for the crowds to began their way to the barricades. They dressed in long green ties, tall emerald hats, and long carrot-red beards. They waved Irish flags and painted shamrocks on their faces. The atmosphere of the festival was now beginning to emerge.

All we had to do now to secure our front-row spot was wait another hour or so in the cold. And when I say cold, I mean frigid. For the first time on our little trip, we saw patches of blue sky. But those blue skies were very misleading. The night before when we watched the weather report, they showed the jet stream moving directly from the north, and from the cold Atlantic waters west of Scandinavia. We wore our green stocking caps and knit gloves to mask the arctic chill.

At last the parade began. The mayor of Dublin led the parade, riding in a chariot that looked like it was made for Cinderella. What followed for the next hour and a half was the most amazing parade that I have ever seen!

All the music was fast-beat and catchy, and the pace of the parade never stopped. The costumes were bizarre and colorful, and most lack description of what they really were – something from another planet. The parade-goers danced, interacted with the crowd, walked on stilts, and juggled fire. They dressed as aliens and insects, fairies and acrobats.

A giant St. Patrick, with a long red beard and a faulty left eye, rode a large three-wheeled motorcycle, powered by several busy feet beneath the float, Flintstones style. We had seen this same float the night before in Merrion Square.

I was impressed with the large number of marching bands. With the exception of at least one, they were all from the United States. We even saw our breakfast buddies from Youngstown, Pennsylvania. I get the impression that the Irish are proud of their American cousins.

[As a side-note, I asked a local about the tradition we have in the States where we get to pinch somebody if they're not wearing green. They replied that they had never heard of this tradition, and I got the impression that they thought it was a little silly.]

A bagpipe band, dressed in kilts, played “The Final Countdown” by Europe. A girl's school from Hiroshima, Japan danced. Giant balloons in the shape of owls and dragons, floated and bobbed over the crowd, touching off screams when they hovered too close.

By the time the parade was over, we were thoroughly impressed and excited for the rest of the day. I will admit that we had no concrete plans. My only strategy was to roam around the streets, and surely something would come along.

Our first move was to find a bite to eat. I envisioned coming across a grassy park, much like I find in my own hometown, where booths would be set up, selling all the local Irish food: stew, shepherd's pie, coddle, and maybe even corned beef and cabbage (although I knew it was an American invention). We couldn't find anything. Only lots of people roaming the streets, acting like hooligan's.

Maybe we were in the wrong part of town, but we weren't even finding but a few pubs. And the pubs we did find looked either too crowded or too overpriced. I cringe to say where we ate lunch that day . . . at Quiznos. Yes, we traveled all the way across the Atlantic for St. Paddy's day to eat a sandwich at the Powerscourt shopping center in Dublin. It was the first time I had ever eaten at a Quiznos, despite the fact that there is one in my hometown!

The next five hours seem like a blur when I think back on them. Nothing very memorable happened. We returned to Grafton Street. No buskers this time. Only wall-to-wall people. We tried sneaking into Burger King to use the restroom, but were denied.

Someone referred us to side-street off O'Connell. By the time we walked there, the vendors were cleaning up. At this point, our St. Paddy's day had shifted from excellent, to very anticlimactic. Perhaps John Meagher was correct in his analysis of the holiday.

We had just passed the line of statues on O'Connell Street and the trees of Parnell Square. Dusk was setting in, and silhouetted against a dimming sky, an old church with a very tall steeple caught our attention. (We later learned that this was the Abbey Presbyterian Church, and it was nearly 150 years old.) It sat on the corner and we walked to get a closer look. Then Jenelle noticed the poster: St. Patrick's Day Ceili at Abbey Church. We stood there contemplating the sign, obviously stumped by the word ceili, trying to figure out what it meant, when a young lady passing by invited us in. “Would you like to come in and watch the dancing? It is free. You should come in!”

We passed through a wooden door and descended narrow steps to the basement of this old stone church. A very sweet old man and his wife were teaching a room-full of kids some traditional Irish dancing. A band played an accordion, guitar, fiddle, and flute. Balloons and streamers festooned the room. A table in the corner served refreshments.

Although we were the obvious intruders, the people there treated us very kindly and didn't mind our observing. The old man with silvered hair looked dignified in his tweed jacket and striped tie. He held the microphone close to his lips, and step by step taught the kids how to move around the floor.

“Ladies cross . . . now gents cross. Now in, two, three; in, two, three; back, two, three; back, two, three. Take your partner and swing them 'round.”

As he taught, his wife, dressed in black pants and a knit sweater, with a perfectly permed head of hair, watched studiously at the students and corrected any mistake they may have made.

After several minutes of instruction, the band began to play, and at once, the room became a festive dance hall. Dancers skipped and pranced around, taking their partners by the hand and hopping to the beat. All the kids grinned and laughed as they danced. Many knew the jig well and moved their feet with great skill. Others were just happy to be there and rolled with the flow.

We left the basement of that church, feeling satisfied that we had salvaged any disappointment that we had experienced on St. Patrick's Day. By the time we had returned to O'Connell Street, the night had completely set in.

We had one more stop that to make. I had to buy a t-shirt to prove that I was in Dublin on St. Paddy's Day. We found a gift shop that seemed to have all that I needed. We also bought a copy of the Irish Independent. On the cover was a large photo of a Belvedere rugby player raising the Leinster Cup.

Oughterard, Ireland

This is nuts! We are standing in the recess of a building, watching rain pound down onto the street. We have our umbrellas, but this downpour would still make any venture into the outside world miserable.

We stepped off the bus at 10:40 after a seventeen mile ride from Galway, in western Ireland. Things weren't looking good during the ride over. Wet drops continually pattered on the large glass of the bus, constantly wiped away by the rifle-sized wipers. Swish, shwash, shwish, shwash . . . And the houses and the fields that we watched pass by through the window were all bogged down with puddles and mud. What did we expect? This was, after all, the Emerald Isle, and there is no other way that it could reach such verdant colors without a lot of rain.

Once off the bus, we made a brisk getaway to the tourist office, our umbrellas over and in front of our heads, to the point that we could barely see. You see, Oughterard was not our first choice for a day-trip from Galway. No, our plan was to travel to Clifden, a quaint little village on the Atlantic Coast. That is the place that I researched. But once we arrived in the Galway and I got looking at the bus schedules, I learned that public transportation in Ireland wasn't quite as efficient as it was in other places in Europe. In short, we decided that a visit to the completely unknown village of Oughterard was the best use of our time. It was a roll of the dice. Either way, our objective was to experience an authentic Irish village.

“How may I help you?” asked the lady in the tourist office. She spoke in a contagious Irish accent and quickly gave us a rundown on what the little town of 2,000 people had to offer. She gave us a complimentary map and pointed out where a candle-making factory was located. West of town, along the main road there was a waterfall.

We couldn't help but notice the life-size cardboard cut-out of John Wayne in the room. In 1951, he starred in the locally filmed movie “The Quiet Man” with Maureen O'Hara. After nearly sixty years, the Duke is still an icon here.

We left the tourist office and passed some time inside a local grocery store, hoping the rain would end. Then we found this little shelter next to someone's doorway, which is where we stand now. We are right on Main Street - tiny, two lanes and laid back. A miniature car moves past and water spews from its tires. Like any Irish town, the buildings all connect together; some gray, yellow, lavender, or white. Smoke wafts from the smokestacks of the chimneys.

After ten minutes, the dial on the rain is turned down and we decide that this is our chance. With umbrellas over-head, we venture into the open. We walk west, not sure exactly where we are going.

Before long, we approach a church. It immediately captures my attention. The lady at the tourist office said nothing about this building, but I can see that it is the quintessential Parrish church in Ireland. To be exact, it is the Kilkummin Parrish Church. The exterior walls are made of gray stone and the arched windows are pointed with lattice motifs. The bright blue door matches my jacket.

Nobody is on the grounds and the door is locked. Suddenly we realize that the rain has stopped completely and we put away our umbrellas. The church itself is simplistically beautiful, but what catches my attention the most is the graveyard that is within the fence of the church. This is one aspect of Irish churches that fascinates me. It is as if the juxtaposition of the church and the graveyard create a more sacred atmosphere. We walk along the rain-soaked churchyard and admire the headstones. Some are block stones, others crosses. Yet, it is the Celtic Cross that I admire most - a large cross with a ring around the intersection, a truly iconic figure throughout Ireland.

After the church, we continue our stroll, walking west along Clifden Road. A bridge crosses the Owenriff River and soon we find that we are no longer in the center of town. The houses are no longer stacked side-by-side with virtually no room between them. Now they become further apart, with miniature manicured lawns in front. Giant green shrubbery grows along the road-side.

Along the road there is a modest, little park along-side the Owenriff River. A picnic table sits atop the grassy river-side, and a stone bridge crosses the swiftly-running river. The river is probably small by Irish standards, but good-sized compared with streams in Utah. The water appears clear and cold, with black sand beneath the current. Green comes from everywhere: thick blades of grass, leaf-laden branches, and moss growing up the trunk of the trees. A web of roots seem to protrude everywhere along the ground.

Jenelle and I walk along a skinny sidewalk until we arrive at a narrow alley-way on our left. The lady at the tourist office explained that this would lead to the waterfall. A five-foot high rock fence on both sides, just wide enough for me to touch each wall when I spread my arms, creates this path that leads directly between two houses. Even though the rock wall separates us from a neighboring back yard, I feel like I am trespassing. Making the walk a little more intriguing is that there are large, moss-covered, gnarled trees right in the middle of the path. The rock walls are covered with splashes of moss also.

The walk, however, is anti-climatic. We reach the waterfall and it is no Havasupai Falls, but rather a patch of quickly descending white-water. Oh, well. The adventure is in the journey.

We return the way we came. The streets are still wet. I notice a banner hangs from wires, spanning from one side of the street to the other, with large green letters reading, “St. Patrick's Day Parade Oughterard at 1 pm.” That is in just four more days. We will be in Dublin.

We return toward the center of town, coming to the bridge that crosses the river, but instead of crossing the bridge, we stay on the left bank and find a small path that follows the river, now with no other roads nearby. A gray-stone fence is on our left and the Owenriff River, as clear and clean as a river can be, is on our right.

The path meets up with Glann Road where we see a large field with a stone fence, and two horses feeding on grass. These horses appear to be shorter than a normal horse. I immediately wonder if they are Connemara Ponies. I have no way to tell, and have no                                                                           reason to speculate this other than the truth that we                                                                                 are in Connemara.

One of them breaks from feeding and steadily walks toward us, offering herself for us to pet. Jenelle strokes the gray forehead and cheeks. Her neck has a hint of brown and the mane looks like the hair of a fifty year old man, who once had beautiful dark hair, but is beginning to gray. We take turns with the animal, then let her return to feed.

We continue on our journey, not knowing exactly what to expect next, but knowing the general direction that we want to go. A narrow, unpaved lane turns off of Camp Street, and we follow it past fences crawling with vines and small pastures with cattle and a horse. We arrive again at the Owenriff River, although now it is not running swiftly and is much wider than it was before. The map identifies this place as the boathouse. Several small skiffs of multiple colors are docked at the shore. All are worn and many are half-filled with water, showing that it has rained several times since last used. Canvas tarps are wrapped around to protect some of the motors, and oars are strapped across the seat. Old tires are positioned between the boats to keep them from bumping each other.   

The reason for the river becoming wider at this point is because the Owenriff River is approaching Lough Corrib, or Corrib Lake as we Americans would say. We leave the boathouse and head in the direction of the lake. We turn onto another narrow road. They are all narrow here. Small enough for one vehicle. We are on Pier Road. We walk along, admiring the verdant pastures and green shrubbery that appear to grow everywhere. Daffodils are in bloom now. Occasionally we spot a country home with a narrow dirt drive leading to it, usually placed back, away from the road, nestled within a grove of trees. The lane we follow is very quiet, and there are no vehicles to drive by and molest us.

We travel the road as far as it will take us and arrive at the pier, a small cement walkway that creeps into the waters of the lake. Lough Corrib is the second largest lake in Ireland and supposedly is an anglers paradise, full of brown trout, salmon, pike and perch. It drains through the River Corrib to the sea near Galway, approximately twenty miles away.

We aren't here to fish, however. Only to swing our feet off the edge of the pier and perhaps dip our fingers into its frigid waters. The lake is large, and we are only able to see a few hills off in the distance.

We leave the lake and turn onto another narrow lane, this one gravel, with large trees creating a canopy over the road. The web of branches on our right and left block any view of what lies beyond. The graveled lane gives way to a two-track road with grass growing between the two ruts. Bog Road is the name of this passageway, and rightfully so as we our view now opens up to acres of bog-land, yellow and orange in color. We still catch glimpses of the lake and the little dirt lane that we walk on has caught puddles of rain water from the last several days.

We come along a pile of peat, surely that had been dug from the mire of the bogs, and stacked along the side of the road in rectangular-shaped bricks. I had heard of peat in Ireland and how they use it to burn in their stoves and heat their homes. The peat is dark in color and has the same appearance as steer manure, without the smell.

Not too far beyond the peat stacks, the land opens up and on our left is a modern cemetery. We don't have a whole lot of time before we need to catch the bus, but we use what time that we can afford to wander through its lanes. Names like O'Connor, Clancy, and Maloney abound throughout, on old headstones, new headstones, plain, and elaborate. Some inscriptions are in English and others in Irish. With particular interest to me are the Celtic Crosses. It is a symbol that has persisted through the centuries, existing on the most modern memorials.

We arrive at the main road that leads into town, having completely circumvented the entire northern half of the village. A narrow sidewalk next to Clifden Road is the pathway we walk on now, passing fields and empty pastures, and then arriving to the larger clusters of buildings, the white and lavender-colored houses connected together with sharply pointed roofs and chimney stacks coming out of each section. We also pass a traditionally thatched cottage.

We come to the bus stop and realize that we still have twenty minutes until the bus comes. Nearby there is a pastry shop that is almost vacant of people and pastries. We                                                                        both find something from the scarce selection and satiate                                                                            our tummy's while sitting at a table.

Not a bad day considering that we were worried that it wouldn't stop raining. We didn't even get a chance to explore all we wanted. A couple of miles east of town is Aughnanure Castle. As we travel toward Galway in the bus, we look for the castle, but can't find it. It must be positioned further off the road.

We watch the countryside and listen to the radio from within the bus. There is a major security breach at Heathrow Airport. A man with a rucksack walked onto the runway.