Redondo Beach

The first time I walked onto the pier I became engulfed by the smell of sauteed garlic coming from the Chinese eateries. The pier certainly had an Asian feel to it, but there were also northern European names like Brixton and Kilkenney that gave the feeling of an English seaside town.

The pier wasn't your normal pier that only projected in a straight line onto the ocean, but was horseshoe-shaped. We walked near the bend of the horseshoe, near all the shops and the garlic smell that caught my attention. There was also the smell of the sea, especially as the wind blew from the west and off of the dark undulations of salt water that rolled below us through the wooden pilings of the pier.

As we came to the bend, a worker dressed in an orange vest talked discreetly into his walkie talkie. “He is with a woman in a striped shirt. He's at the very top of the pier. I'm not looking at him now.” This piqued my curiosity and I naturally slowed down, hoping to eavesdrop on more of the conversation, but I had to continue or it would have been obvious what I was doing.

We rounded the corner and saw the fishermen, each with their poles cast over the pier and some reeling in little fish and putting them into buckets. I couldn't discern the nationality most of them, but they all had dark skin, probably from Mexico or Asia.

I looked for a lady in a striped shirt to see if I could figure out what was going on. My family rounded the corner with me and we all sauntered at a slow pace, taking in the new experience. I looked back every thirty seconds or so, just to make sure we were all there. Jenelle and I brought all five kids and the thought of one of them getting kidnapped, just wandering away, or climbing on the fence of the pier and accidentally plunging into the frigid water was real in our minds. I turned around and waited for them to catch up and then we continued around the bend and towards the apex of the horseshoe.

That is when I passed the worker in the orange vest that I saw earlier, and this time he was pushing a cart in the direction that we were going. “Turn around,” he said. “There's a crazy man waving a gun. You don't want to take your family there. Turn around!”

Good advice, I thought, so I whispered to Jenelle what the man had said and we turned the kids around and herded them back around the bend and to the left side of the horseshoe.

It was then that we heard the shot. The sound of the blast suggested a medium-sized caliber or perhaps it was louder than I thought and the building that we hid behind muffled the majority of the blast. Many people now were running in our direction, hoping to avoid the fray. Once we were around the building we probably should have kept going, but we felt safe there and as luck would have it, the building that we hid behind was a restaurant with glass walls on every side. We looked through the building, from one side to the other, and then another thirty yards, and watched the whole episode unfold. We didn't know where we were supposed to look at first, but soon a small group of men rushed together across the wooden planks, seized a man, picked him off his feet and slammed him to the ground. We couldn't see too well, but without a doubt, the crazy man that was waving a gun was now at the mercy of some big fisher boys and on his belly.

The cops arrived shortly after that and I felt that it was now safe enough for a man to wander onto the scene. I told my family to stay put and only look through the glass walls of the restaurant. I wandered over cautiously, but bravely, and witnessed first-hand the crazy man who waved the gun. By now he was in handcuffs, but still on his belly, and on his left knee a large bloody cut emerged, probably from being slammed onto the floor. A girl was on the ground also, but soon a female cop came up to her and slowly coaxed her to the side where she could talk. She was hysterical, still moaning and wailing and very faint of strength, barely able to stand. The policemen picked her boyfriend up and marched him off while the female cop stayed with the woman.

Between Jenelle and I, we were able to fit together the pieces of the puzzle. The man was threatening suicide and when he shot the gun, he fired it into the water. His girlfriend was the first one to be tackled, but it was to protect her. They threw her down to the ground then covered her body with theirs and at that moment the man was thrown to the ground also.

We decided it was safe to continue our walk, so once again we rounded the corner of the horseshoe-shaped pier and everyone, it seemed, had returned to normal. The fishermen once again dropped their lines off the side of the railing where just a few minutes earlier the scene was nearly vacant. As we continued walking, we realized that had the man in the orange vest not turned us around, we would have been exactly where the gunman was when he fired his shot.

The sun neared the western horizon and the lights from the dance club and the restaurants now lit up. The building called Kilkenney's illuminated with a shamrock next to it and the full moon rose above the palm trees on Catalina Avenue.

By the time we reached the right side of the horseshoe, the sun was fully flared in sunset mode, throwing its rays onto the rocks of the shore that met the end of the pier and turning the spray of crashing water into a golden delight.

We completed our loop, continuing back to the cluster of shops. A man who had played his drums for money was still there, but now packing up his instruments for the night. We had enough for the evening and decided it was time to return to our hotel.

The walk was only ten minutes, and that was at the pace of little legs. Our hotel was part of the Redondo Beach experience, being so close and being the most luxurious hotel that we had ever stayed in. That, of course, wasn't difficult, being a bunch of small-town hicks that were poor and never saw a beach more than once every three years. Our hotel was a family suite, with a large main room, king-sized bed and a hide-a-bed, a coffee table, a round table, a television, fridge and microwave. The connecting room had two queen-sized beds and another television.

The big bonus for us, however, was the balcony that was big enough to walk about or sit down in chairs and enjoy a bite to eat. This balcony faced west, directly above the Pacific Coast Highway, and the view of the ocean existed beyond the beach-side buildings. Across the street were three shops painted in bright pastel colors and a residential home with a sofa on the front porch. The humid air drifted up onto the balcony, across my face and through my hair.

Our favorite television channel was K-CAL, which had news at nine o'clock. We would watch the news while eating our dinner that we brought into the hotel room, usually something such as fried chicken from the grocery store.

Brittany loved the beach. She could have spent hours, I'm sure, standing shin-high in the water, facing the incoming waves, and and letting the white rolls crash against her legs, wetting her knees and thighs, all the kelp and loose sand brushing at her ankles, then feeling the water fall back into its depths, watching the liquid at her feet disappear, and feeling the sand being sucked across the top of her feet and that arousing perception of losing one's sense of balance, the air and the world moving one way while the ground and everything standing on it moving the opposite direction.

The face of the shore at Redondo Beach was excellent for finding items in the ocean. We found many clam shells and mussel shells and I even found a whole shell with the clam still inside. We searched around for shark teeth, especially Jordan and I. After visiting Aquarium of the Pacific earlier that day, we were satisfied that shark teeth had to be everywhere. Jordan found a large jaw of an animal with teeth still intact. I don't know if this was a shark, or an animal that was attacked and killed by a shark, or perhaps just someone's dog that drowned in the water and whose bones were just now being washed ashore. He also found a lady's shoe.

Jenelle brought some bread along to feed to the seagulls. Before we knew it, the birds were all around us. They looked like chickens scouring the sand for scratch to eat. Some of gulls were smaller, like pigeons, but others were large, their wings spanning wide, and the sunlight glowing through their plumage.

We took plenty of pictures while there: images of the kids playing in the waves, a sailboat in the harbor, the silhouette of the pier, and the long stretch of coast line and hills behind it. One of our daughters buried her sibling, all but her head, in the sand.

At various times in my life I have thought that it would be pleasant to run along the beach, just like in Chariots of Fire. Why couldn't I do it now? I took off my shoes and socks and ran up along the flat part of the shore, far enough away from the water that I wouldn't get wet. My strides were shorter than normal because with every step my feet would sink in the sand and it would take greater effort than normal to move.

The beach was quite sparse with people, allowing me to maintain a straight course without maneuvering around the crowds. The sand was mostly soft, but not fluffy-fine as are some other beaches, and as I ran, the grains of the beach pressed into the spaces between my toes and chaffed as the toes twisted and conformed to the contour of the ground I ran on.

About three minutes into my run I decided to abandon my current path and instead trudge through the swash. This felt much, much better. The wind blew against my body at a cooler temperature and the brisk waves lapped at my ankles. My footsteps imprinted deeply into the mud, but once a wave came crashing ashore, all the prints would wash away.

Some stretches of the run were gentle on my feet, but others, scattered with little rocks and seashell fragments, poked and annoyed them. After six minutes I turned around and returned along the same path that I had taken. I looked again for my footprints, but all were erased. I ran past a man laying in the sun. The spray of the ocean misted my glasses. It felt good. The waves washed up over my feet and sucked back down, pulling thousands of grains of sand along with it, giving the impression that I was running sideways on a giant conveyor belt.

We dried our feet and put our shoes back on. Now it was time to return to the pier before the sun went down. There were no gun shots this time. Just the shops, the fishermen and the smell of the deep green ocean that beat against the posts of the pier, and the scent of the garlic in the food that so infested my mind a couple nights ago.

On Jenelle's list of things to do was to stop at an oyster shop on the pier. For twelve bucks you could pick your own oyster, which the man behind the counter would open and clean. They were guaranteed to have pearls inside. Jenelle bought an oyster and so did Brittany. We huddled around a large shell in the man's hands and he was using a utensil to scrape away the insides of the valve. Then, with long tweezers, he pulled a perfect pearl from the shell. This was Jenelle's. When Brittany had her oyster opened, they were twin pearls. The man behind the counter cleaned them both off and slipped them into a small plastic bag in which we could take them home.

The rest of the evening was enjoyable, but non-eventful. We watched the sun fall toward the horizon and slip behind the clouds, but it never created a powerful sunset. It just disappeared. The sky turned to gray and the sail boats on the water turned into silhouettes.

Thursday was our final day. We spent it in other places in the area including Hollywood, Beverly Hills and Santa Monica. It was dark when we drove back to our hotel and along the way we stopped at Albertson's to buy some food for dinner.

Everyone had bought their souvenirs for the trip such as T-shirts and postcards to remind them of where we had been. I hadn't bought a thing. And that was alright with me. I was just happy to watch the kids, enjoy the smells, and take lots of pictures.

Once back at our hotel, an idea popped into my mind. We parked and I helped carry our many items up to the room, including the supper that Jenelle had just bought: Totino's pizza and canned fruit. The kids got situated around the table, next to the sofa and in front of the television.   Jenelle looked like she had things under control.

“Jenelle, do mind if I leave for a little while and go buy my souvenir?” I asked.

She was gracious and allowed me to go.

I snuck out the room and down the steps of our hotel. On the busy coastal highway I walked south toward the intersection, passing a formal Thai restaurant and a Mexican eatery. At the intersection, I crossed the road and then walked west. I hope I don' t get mugged, I thought. Lights were dim, but certainly existent. I passed an angler who was returning to his home after an evening of fishing on the pier. “Hello,” I said to him in passing. He said something back, but I wasn't sure what it was. The lighting was murky enough that I couldn't tell whether he was Mexican, Asian or something else, and I am not even sure that he could speak English.

I crossed another small street, this one with no crossing lights, but lightly traveled with traffic. Then I came to Catalina Avenue. This was the final street before the ocean. Once across, the road angled slightly inward and from this corner I could see the large neon sign, high above the ground: Redondo Beach. Below it glowed the words, The Pier. Behind the sign the very dark waters of the ocean could be faintly distinguished and all around the palm trees projected into the night.

At the pier, the life there had not disappeared, but had morphed into more of a nightlife. The Brixton nightclub seemed to be the center of activities. An entrance line formed at its doors and patrons were paying money to enter. A group of young adults congregated at a point in the middle of the pier, half of them dressed in costumes. They looked as if they were playing a game and the man in the middle was explaining the rules. As I walked in their general direction, a woman with a mask passed me and flirtatiously asked, “How are you?” I fumbled out an answer and continued walking. You probably don't realize that I have a wife and five kids back at the hotel room, do you?

Most of the food establishments were closed and I was disappointed. The glass windows were pulled down, tables put away.

That is, all but one. It was the Chinese place on the corner, the one that seemed to have the greatest aroma of garlic flowing from it. An older lady with gray-speckled hair and sloping eyes was the lone worker that evening. “May I help you?” she asked in broken English.

“What do you like best?” I asked her back, still not convinced of what I wanted to order.

She pulled out a laminated menu with pictures on it. “Oh, I like it all. Especially the seafood and chicken.”

In a way, everything on the menu looked the same, with slight variations. I found a combination that I had been eyeing earlier and pointed to it. It was a plate of jumbo shrimp, orange chicken, noodles and rice.

“I think you like that very much,” she said.

I paid her my money and watched her go back to the kitchen and begin to prepare the food. I then wandered the much emptier proximity of the pier, just observing what was around. The group of young adults was still there and I couldn't quite figure out what they were doing. They looked like college students and this is probably what they did for entertainment on the weekend.

My order was ready and the old Chinese Lady handed me a bulging Styrofoam container of steaming food. The flap on the container would latch, but couldn't seal all the way around. The warmth of the serving permeated the Styrofoam and onto my two hands that held the container preciously as I walked the dark streets back to my hotel room.

L.D.S. General Conference

You can find the pilgrimage in many religions. The Muslim will make the Hajj, a holy trip to Mecca. Perhaps the Catholic will journey on the road to Santiago de Compostela or Vatican City. For the Mormon, that journey might be to Salt Lake City to attend the semi-annual General Conference of the church.

Some will travel across the world to attend a session of General Conference. For me, although I live in Utah, I have never attended a conference in person. My oldest son will soon be leaving the nest, and I have always had the goal for us to attend as a family. We were lucky enough to obtain tickets (they are always free) and were now on track to attend the Sunday morning session.

Salt Lake Temple

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints has been holding a gathering of members for 185 years. After Brigham Young led the saints to the Salt Lake Valley, most of the conferences were held in the old Tabernacle. This oval building with a domed roof was constructed with remarkable acoustic qualities in a day when microphones and speakers didn't exist. The building served the saints well for 132 years until the church decided that they needed a building that had a larger seating capacity than 7,000.

Although the Tabernacle still stands on Temple Square, the saints now attend General Conference in the much larger Conference Center, a meeting hall that holds three-times the amount as the Tabernacle.

The church holds conference twice a year: in April and October. Each conference has five sessions: three on Saturday, including a Priesthood session, and two on Sunday.

My own family history is intertwined with the saga of General Conference. My great-great grandfather, Charles Workman, attended conference in 1912. While the same trip now would take less than five hours, the trip for Charles and his wife, Josephine, lasted two days from Hurricane in southern Utah.

Making a trip to Salt Lake for conference was a large ordeal for the Workman family. They traveled by both buggy and train. While in Salt Lake they visited family, toured church history sites, and attended every session of conference.

Below I will include a few of the entries from the diary of Charles Workman. I do this to bring to life his journey and to highlight that the objectives of General Conference in 1912 are largely the same as they are today.

28 September 1912, Saturday – (clear) Josephine and I and the baby, Eloise, started for Salt Lake City this morning (7:50 A.M.) and arrived at Kanarra about 6:30 P.M. We are traveling with John T. Hall. Mollie and her two children Thelma and Ora, and Wealthy Workman are with us. Staying with Berry Williams tonight.

29 September, Sunday – (cloudy) Left Kanarra about 7 A.M. and arrived at Lund about 4:30 P.M. Bishop Hirschi and Bishop Isom have been traveling with us in another buggy. Met Lucy Eagar on the train (Took train 9 P.M.)

30 September, Monday – (clear) Arrived at Salt Lake City 6:30 A.M. and put up at Mamie Forbes', 165 Meade St. She is Josephine's cousin. We attended the first meeting of the National Irrigation Congress 10 A.M. There was a fine musical program with speeches of welcome and responses, etc. One number was the singing of the “Irrigation Ode” by the Tabernacle Choir led by Professor McClellan. Also attended the second meeting of the Congress 2:30 P.M. and the grand parade 8 P.M. The parade was made up of bands, soldiers and floats representing the resources of the various counties in Utah.

[The next two days are spent attending meetings for the Irrigation Congress.]

3 October, Thursday – (clear) Josephine, Mamie and I went on an excursion up Emigration Canyon as guests of the Irrigation Congress Board of control of Salt Lake City. Started at 9:30 A.M. and returned about 1:15 P.M. We passed over the old “Mormon Trail” over which the Pioneers entered the Valley of the Great Salt Lake on July 24, 1847. The electric car line over which we went runs in a zig zag fashion up the side of the mountain to a height of almost a mile above Salt Lake City to a place called Point Lookout, which is about 17 miles from the city. In the company were also Bishop Samuel Isom, Mollie and Wealthy Workman, and enough other Irritation Congress Delegates and their guests to completely fill three cars. In the afternoon we visited the Deseret Museum and I attended the last session of the National Irrigation Congress.

Inside the old Tabernacle

[Friday and Saturday are spent attending General Conference. I will only include Sunday's entry because it does well enough to represent a typical conference day in 1912.]

6 October, Sunday – (clear, cold) Conference 10 A.M. President Charles W. Penrose was the first speaker. Referred to the Constitution as the fundamental law of the land. Referred to the “essentials” of salvation. Apostle Orson F. Whitney compared the life of Joseph Smith with that of Paul. Spoke of the lack of faith of the ministers of the day in what they preach and their lack of unity. 2 P.M. General testimony. Apostle David O. McKay said that it is the privilege of every L.D. Saint to know of the truth of the Gospel for himself. A testimony of the gospel is an anchor to the soul, to steady our course among strife and discord. Do not offend a friend on account of difference of political belief. Apostle Joseph F. Smith, Jr. said that no man will go astray by following the council of the leaders of the church. Apostle James E. Talmage spoke on modern revelation. True and imitation liberty. President Joseph F. Smith in his closing remarks said that the officers of the Relief Societies, Y.L.M.I.A. and Primary Associations should set a good example in the matter of dress. After the afternoon services we went to Taylorsville and are staying tonight with Rose Johnson Fox.

Charles Workman and his family spent four more days in the Salt Lake area before they boarded the train and returned to Hurricane on October 13 and “found all well.” Their total trip lasted just over two weeks. For the Workman family, it was one of the few times that they ever left southern Utah.

Our trip, in the year 2015, was much quicker and less complicated. I will say, however, that it wasn't a cake-walk. We couldn't leave Cedar City until my boy got off work at 9 pm. We traveled three hours in the dark to my brother's home in Springville where we crashed in his basement and found a few hours of sleep. We were on the road again at 6 am, this time making the one-hour trip to Salt Lake City. We parked in a wide paved lot between Temple Square and the Triad Center, just before the sun came up. The spires of the temple and the low wide dome of the tabernacle and the tall profiles of high-rise buildings were all still silhouetted against the high peaks of the Wasatch Mountains. Two seagulls played on the supple breeze. I breathed in the cool morning air which always feels different when you were away from home.

We waited in our vehicle for half an hour while Jenelle braided the girls' hair and we all ate chocolate granola bars for breakfast.

The Conference Center

We left to walk toward the Conference Center, a large white-stoned building with a spire on top, that we could see from the parking lot. Many walked with us on the sidewalk, all in their best Sunday dress. I wore a long-sleeved white shirt with a black suit left open at the chest to show my plum-colored tie. We passed a few beggars next to the sidewalk, each with a cardboard sign next to them, their hand out in cupping shape, and head down. Some would look up at the passerby's and say good morning to them.

Many people there were looking for tickets. Some held a sign to advertize their solicitation while others simply held up the same number of fingers as they needed tickets. Others just came and asked anyone who walked passed if they had any extras. I felt sorry for them. They came from places like Columbia and California and all over. If I could, I would have brought a bundle of extra tickets in one pocket and a wad of dollar bills in the other (for the beggars).

I expected to see protestors, but didn't. A large group of police officers in yellow vests congregated near the place where we crossed the street to the Conference Center.

We waited in line for only about five minutes before we were ushered inside to our seats on the highest level. As we rode the escalators to the upper level, my fourteen year-old daughter said, “Dad, this feels just like we're going to Disneyland!” I could tell that she was giddy and I was happy to know that she was enjoying herself. It was a completely new experience.

Everyone there was very friendly. I don't think it was possible to get lost. A new volunteer with a wide smile was eager to help at every turn.

Inside the Conference Center

We found our seats center to the podium and on the balcony. We were truly high and far from the rostrum where all the authorities of the church would be seated during the conference. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir with the men in their dark suits on the right, and the women in their turquoise gowns on the left, were already seated and rehearsing for their participation in the conference. A few people down near the podium walked or talked with other people and I couldn't make out the description of their faces because of the distance between us. Although I could usually discern if they had gray hair or a bald head, or if they wore glasses. We made a few educated guesses as to who they were.

At nine-thirty precisely, Music and the Spoken Word began. This weekly devotional has been performed by the Tabernacle Choir since 1929. The narrator, Lloyd Newel, gives words of inspiration that introduces the hymn played by the choir.

We were delighted to see my wife's Uncle Clay playing the organ. Not many families can claim an organist in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. In addition to accompanying the entire performance, he played a toccata on the hymn, He is Risen. The Conference Center is acoustically designed, which amplifies any good organ work from great, to magnificent. By the end of Uncle Clay's solo, the reverberation of the organ rattled every seat in the building.

At ten o'clock, the conference began, and everyone stood as President Monson walked into the room and took his seat behind the pulpit. We sat at such a distance that it was difficult to get a good look at him, but he was accompanied by two men, probably his body guards, and one helped support his feeble body at the elbow.

President Monson is who we sustain as our prophet, seer, and revelator. He has always been full of life with a comic side to his serious tone. But lately, his age and frail frame have become more apparent.

The choir sang an opening hymn and then we all bowed our heads in prayer. Then the crowd gave a gasp when it was announced that President Monson would be our first speaker.

Every eye in the room watched the Prophet and all ears gave attention. His speech proved more difficult to understand than in the past. Old age has taken its toll on his clarity of speech. He announced three new temples: Bangkok, Thailand; Haiti; and the Ivory Coast. There were other gasps, probably from those who had deep connections to those places.

Then the Prophet spoke on temples. He exhorted us to go to the temple to help bear our trials, to overcome temptation, and to find peace.

Rosemary Wixom, the Primary General President, told a story about a lady that had left the church, but returned when she was able to return to the basics. She also admonished us to not condemn others for the amount of light they may or may not have, but instead, nourish and encourage them.

We then sang a rest hymn. The entire congregation arose and sang I Know That My Redeemer Lives. What a powerful song when over 20,000 people are singing with you!

A Frenchman, Gérald Caussé, spoke to us. He told us that although he had lived in Paris for many years, his family had never been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Then he compared it to us, and how it is possible for us to take the gospel or the restoration for granted when we have been born in the church. Listening to him speak with his french accent reminded me of the international growth of the church.

Brent Nielson, of the Quorum of the Seventy, shared the story of the Prodigal Son. He compared it with his sister, Susan, who had left the church for fifteen years before coming back. He said, “ . . . we learned in our family that, after all we can do, we love that person with all of our hearts and we watch, we pray, and we wait for the Lord's hand to be revealed.”

The next speak was Jeffery R. Holland. He has always been one of my favorites because he is originally from southern Utah, and always speaks of his native Dixie with much affection. He is also a member of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles. He reminded us that Easter is the most sacred day of the year. But there cannot be a full appreciation of Easter without an understanding that Adam and Eve existed and that the fall truly happened. He stated that speaking of Adam and Eve in the modern world is not only uncommon, but unfashionable. When Elder Holland spoke, he spoke with great power and every eye was fastened to the man behind the pulpit.

The final speaker of the session was President Uchtdorf, so-called because he is in the top-tier, or first presidency of the church along with Thomas S. Monson and Henry B. Eyring. He is from Germany, but speaks English very well, with just a slight accent. He spoke to us on grace. “We cannot earn our way into heaven,” he said. He went on to teach about the Atonement and concluded by saying, “Grace is a gift of God, and our desire to be obedient to each of God's commandments is the reaching out of our mortal hand to receive this sacred gift from our Heavenly Father.”

The Tabernacle Choir sang a closing hymn, and then a prayer was offered. After the final amen, the entire congregation rose to their feet and listened to the organ play and watched the officials of the church as they walked in single-file along the rostrum where they met their spouses and walked away hand-in-hand.

The mass of devotees flooded out the Conference Center doors and we enjoyed the fresh air and sun as we stepped outside. As we crossed the road toward Temple Square, we passed a handful of protesters along the sidewalk. We paid them no attention as there were few of them and we did not want them to detract from the spirit of the meeting.

Once on Temple Square, we found my sister, Michelle, who had spread a blanket on the grass and was eating a picnic lunch with her family. We sat down on the lawn with them, which was between the Tabernacle and Assembly Hall.

I gazed up to look at the spires on the west side of the temple. Many of these same buildings and trees would have been around at the time that Charles Workman made his journey to Temple Square. Soft sound of hymns came from the hidden speakers and a subtle smell of flowers fostered a peaceful feeling. Gradually the people on the square and around the gardens would dwindle down and soon the next session of conference would begin.

People enjoy Temple Square between sessions of General Conference.  The old Tabernacle is in the background.

Eagles in the Valley

The eagle must have seen me coming from his perch high atop the telephone post. She lifted her large brown wings, spread wide, and within an instant was flying in the air with something large and red grasped within her talons. As I drove past, I turned and twisted my back to look behind me and I could see the large bird flying against the blue sky. When I saw that she had circled around and was now returning to the top of the same post, I also turned around and slowly approached the direction I came.

The temperament of the eagles were now baffling me. Just an hour earlier I had approached another bald eagle in a tree alongside the highway and it allowed me time to take many pictures from my car. Then I pulled up closer and took more photographs with my window rolled down and parked at a crooked angle to get the best view from the driver's side of the car. The bird never flushed and I finally left when I was satisfied.

But this second bird wasn't as tame. I fumbled with my camera, turning it on and placing it conveniently on my lap. The eagle had returned to her perch and the large red item now appeared to be clutched in her mouth. It was the bloody entrails of a jackrabbit. I approached a comfortable distance to the pole and drifted slowly to the side of the road where I began to raise my camera before the car was even stopped.

She took off again. This time, the long limp intestine fell from her mouth and draped itself over the telephone wire. The bald eagle flew far away this time and I watched as her large brown body shrank into a miniature speck. I could still see her wings flap up and down until finally I could perceive no such detail.

I pulled out my binoculars and dialed the focal ring until the bird came into clear vision. She was there alright. Her white head showed majestically, even at this great distance, as she rested on her new telephone post. No one would bother her there as it was well off the highway. With her keen vision, I'm sure that she watched my every move and was waiting for me to leave. Even though I didn't get the picture I wanted, it was still exciting to watch an eagle in action.

I live in a valley in the Great Basin. Every year, about 50 to 60 bald eagles fly to our area to live during the winter. They fly from regions as far north as Canada.

There was a time about twelve years ago when I would drive around the valley looking for eagles. Since then, the rat-race of life has caused me to abandon this hobby. And since that time, a lot of new homes have been built in the valley and I worried that perhaps the eagles were no longer coming here. I hadn't seen one in years, and I knew that the old road where I once went was now a subdivision.

A conversation with a friend made me rethink the idea of searching for eagles. On his days-off, he would drive down the highway beyond my house and toward the lowest part of the valley to a place called Rush Lake. He said that he usually saw one or two bald eagles there and once he even saw a brood of them scattered throughout a group of cottonwood trees.

So, the quest began. On each of my days-off, I selected a different section of the valley and trolled around in search of eagles. Within five minutes on my first morning, I was rewarded with a bald eagle perched near the top of a tree at the end of a dead-end graveled lane. He watched me from a safe distance as I stepped from my car and got a leaner on a fence post.

Birds are tough animals to get good pictures – especially for an amateur like me with nothing fancy for a camera. Although eagles are much larger than other birds, they are still small compared to other animals. Couple that with the safe distance that they usually keep, and getting a good, crisp photo is hard to come by.

After seeing my first eagle, I continued my drive along many of the back-roads, some which I had never traveled before. I saw abandoned cabins, knarled old trees, pigeons, sparrows, crows, and ravens.

I found a second bald eagle, but it was further away than the first. It perched in an old cottonwood, about three-quarters up the tree. A tag-along crow sat upon the branch just above it.

For the next two months, this would be my routine. Once a week, on my day-off, I would drive in a general direction in the valley during the morning. I would also bring my camera with me to work, in case I saw something on my way home. But I learned that mornings were much more fruitful. I also began to learn which areas of the valley had the eagles, and which didn't.  My heightened alertness allowed me to spot other birds also.

One evening as I drove home, the sun drew near the western horizon and cast an intense golden hue on the fields and the fences and the barns. Atop a telephone post I spotted a red-tailed hawk, the plumage on her shoulders a dark brown, and a near rectangular crimson tail draped below. She watched me closely with her wide golden eyes, turning her head occasionally to look the other way.

After several minutes, she spread her wings and her crimson tail now spread like a fan and I saw the white speckled feathers that had been hidden on her underside. She took off quickly into the air and quickly became a silhouette against the setting sun.

Red-Tailed Hawk

What magical times these moments were! Although I drove around intending to search for these birds, every time I would find one, it was in an unexpected location and I felt a reverence in just being in the same vicinity as such majestic birds. They say a Golden Eagle can spot a jackrabbit up to five miles away! When they dive through the air, swooping down on their prey, they can move up to 175 miles per hour!

I didn't know exactly when the winter ended for the Bald Eagles, and I was worried that they would soon return to their breeding grounds in Canada. The month of February was coming to an end and my plans of roaming the valley were reaching their terminus.

My daughter, Kaitlyn, had passed her written test for Hunter's Saftey, and was now required to take the field test at the shooting range. We drove west of town to the backside of Three Peaks and turned off the pavement and crossed the railroad tracks. The sun lifted gently over Cedar Mountain and cast an early morning glow onto the sagebrush. To the left of the road stood a large decrepit tree, standing tall and alone. Perched on the tallest branch of the tree, a bald eagle.

We stopped for a moment and watched in awe as the bird watched us, her shoulders high, and the feathers on her white head ruffling in the breeze. Although I brought my camera, we had no time to stay and had to travel on.

After two hours of Annie Oakley shooting by Kaitlyn, we once again passed the decrepit tree. No bald eagle. I was very disappointed, but not surprised.

Instead of turning toward town, I turned right and drove in the direction of the Antelope Springs. We weren't far into the drive when Kaitlyn spotted the bald eagle over a carcass with a flock of crows. I hoped that they would be preoccupied with their breakfast to allow me to take pictures, but they quickly flew off to the west.

Golden Eagle

When taking pictures of wildlife, it can be a delicate balance between getting close enough, and not so close that you scare away your quarry. You don't want to harass the subject, but often I worry that I am doing just that. An ideal situation would be to let them come to you, but that doesn't happen very often.

So, I go after them. We turned west onto a dirt road. I wasn't expecting to see the eagle again. But there she was, perched proudly atop a perfectly rounded juniper tree. Once again, she didn't give me the opportunity to get my camera out, and she flushed. She returned to the east, but I couldn't tell exactly where she went.

We found a spot on the dirt road to turn around. We were ready to give up and call it a day. Our drive brought us back to the pavement and we drove as if returning home.

But, the day was not over. The eagle had returned to the carcass. I held my camera in my right hand while I steered with the left and slowly pulled to the shoulder of the road. Of course, she quickly took off.

Although frustrated with the missed opportunities for photographs, I was pleased with the experience. Watching an eagle fly through the sagebrush and land on trees and carcasses was much more intriguing than watching them on telephone poles. 

When I came to the junction with the graveled road, I pulled onto it one last time to check the decrepit tree. From a safe distance, I pulled our vehicle to the side of the road and shut off the ignition.

There she was. The bald eagle perched on the back side of the tree this time. A branch inconveniently blocked an otherwise perfect view of the bird. On the near side of the tree perched a juvenile eagle.  The younger bald eagles don't have the white head yet, and they look similar to a golden eagle.  My guess is that this bird was the off-spring of the other.

Both of them stood still, not seeming to be bothered that we were there. I didn't bother taking pictures of the bald eagle. I had many others, and with the branch in the way, this one would be no better. She seem contented in the wind. This was her home during the winter and I wondered if she came to the same place every year.

Finally, she flushed, but she didn't leave for another area like they usually did. Instead, she flew high above the tree and began soaring in large circles over-head. I saw the large span of her brown wings and the white tip of her head and the white of her tail-feathers. As she circled higher and higher, the outline of her body became smaller and smaller against the perfect blueness of the February sky. The glow of the sun seemed to show a slight transparency of her body, giving away the lightness of her frame.

I decided to drive closer to the tree and take my chance on photographing the juvenile eagle. I snapped a few shots from the drivers-side window. The bird perched at the crook between two branches and the color of her feathers almost camouflaged her with the pebble-colored texture of the bark.

Juvenile Eagle 

I then screwed my camera onto a mono-pod and stepped outside the vehicle. I tip-toed down the embankment of the road and across a ground of sticks and leaves to a good clump of sagebrush. I knew that the eagle knew that I was there, but I still felt it wise to conceal myself partially behind the brush.

The eagle didn't fly away, but only moved her head from side to side. This was the closest that I had ever been to an eagle in the wild, now standing approximately at a forty-five degree angle below her. I took my feel of pictures and finally decided to let her alone.

I returned to my vehicle and drove toward town, leaving behind the decrepit tree. The soaring bald eagle was now out of sight and I knew that soon she would be flying to her home in Canada. What kind of things would she see on that fly home!

Gold Butte Road

Gold Butte Road begins nine miles west of Bunkerville, Nevada. Eventually it wends its way to an old mining community of the same name. The townsite is now a ghost town, which is not surprising in a place such as this. Those who settled there must have been hardy individuals, as would anyone who lives in an area as rugged as the Mojave Desert.

The first several miles along Gold Butte Road follow the Virgin River. About a mile-and-a-half into the drive, I see a large ply-wood sign painted yellow, with the inscription, “Bundy Melons” brushed across the front and an American flag waving off to the side. It's too bad that we're here in February because a juicy watermelon would taste really good. The climate seems perfect for raising melons.

The sign, however, reminds me of something else. We are in Bundyland! The melon patch, which is well-known locally, is owned by none other than Cliven and Carol Bundy. Their grand-kids help with the family business. Now days, Cliven is more famous for his stand-off with the Federal Government over the grazing rights of his cattle. The battle made big national news. Even though I can't pinpoint the exact location, I remember from the television clips that the scuffle took place somewhere close to here.

The drive along the riparian area of the river is green with several large ranches. A stop along the top of a butte reveals the the twisty and sinuous nature of the Virgin River. From here it travels south toward Lake Mead. No major roads follow the river here, which is a sign that this area is very remote and desolate.

The route that we travel would be considered a very unmaintained paved road. Along some sections, the surface is gentle and pleasant. Most of it, however, is missing the smooth layers and is very bumpy. Some of the lower sections along the river are covered in sand.

After several miles, the road leaves the company of the river and bends inland toward the desert. Moving away from the river and reaching slightly higher elevations, it is fascinating to watch the flora of the Mojave Desert in action. Creosote bushes are everywhere. This scrubby little tree wont win any beauty pageants, but it still amazes me how it can flourish in such a hot and arid place like the Mojave.

Next, I notice the cholla cactus creeping into the scene. Then come the tall California barrel cactus that sometimes have a red or pink tint to them. Finally, there are the Joshua trees. These are my favorite. These Gumby-like trees fill the landscape like a field full of scarecrows. Instead of leaves, the branches of these trees have sharp projections like the yucca plant. Right now they are beginning to bloom.

Juanita Springs

Roughly five miles from the point where the road leaves the Virgin River, a surprising oasis comes into view. This section is fenced off as private property, and is known locally as Juanita Springs. The palm trees and other lush vegetation that grow here stand out from the creosote bushes and cholla cactus. I don't see any water that gushes from beneath the earth, but the underground aquifer must be close enough to the surface to enhance the plant growth. An oasis is quite a site to see in this arid country. As the road climbs a hill, with the oasis on the right-hand side, there is a lone palm tree to the left. A mailbox sits in front of the premise, suggesting that someone still lives here. 

After traversing another small hill and entering another drainage area, we are rewarded with a distant glimpse of Lake Mead. A dirt road forks to the right and leads toward the water. Even though the shore is about twelve miles away, the combination of water and desert always fascinate me.

It is here that the Joshua trees are very prevalent. Juxtaposed with the barrel cactus, this Mojave landscape is blossoming like the rose. The barren mountains and the tooth-like Virgin Peak pose majestically as a backdrop.

We come to tall cluster of Navajo Sandstone. This is the perfect place to let the dogs out and eat some lunch. The kids immediately flee to the rocks and begin climbing all around the boulders. This cluster of rocks is interesting because it creates an island in the middle of the desert, about the area of a baseball field, and several stories high.

My two youngest, Jenna and Savanah, find the ideal venue to eat lunch: a large alcove that provides shade from the beating sun with a sandstone floor that furnishes a spot to sit and eat.

Our two schnauzers are having fun walking through the rocks and bushes and sniffing things out. Moqui is the mother and she is gray with silver streaks. Her black-furred little puppy, Lovey, is only a few months old and finding this experience as a novel idea. She nibbles at a small ball of cactus and quickly learns that it's a little pokey. Jenelle puts out a Tupperware of dog food and water next to the Trailblazer.

Next thing I know, Jordan is at the highest pinnacle of this rock formation yelling out, “Hey Mom! Look at me!” – He sure knows how to quickly find the top of anything. He's standing way too close to the edge and waving his arms. The drop-off right there is far enough that it would probably kill him if he fell.

I wander through the rocks, intending to explore, but then I see Kaitlyn following Jordan up to the very top. She is fourteen and very much a Tomboy. A very steep crevice leads to the top and Kaitlyn is almost there, attempting the trek in her cowboy boots. That worries me since I know that sometimes the tread on cowboys boots isn't so good.

As the protective father, I follow Kaitlyn to the top. The climb is very tricky. Small hollow rings in the sandstone become ideal hand-grips. I manage to find narrow niches to place my feet, and within a few minutes I am at the top.

I will admit that one of my objectives in climbing to the top to join my kids is to make sure they're safe. “Get away from the edge!” I repeat over and over. I confess that I am terrified of heights. I wish that Jordan suffered from at least a smidgen of acrophobia, but he is dauntless when near death's edge. I snap a couple of pictures to prove we were at the top, then I order the kids to climb back down. (The decent always looks steeper and scarier than the climb up.) I am grateful that we all make it down with no broken bones.

Nearby is an unmarked road that leads away in a perpendicular direction. We all load into the vehicle and drive along this rocky pathway, maneuvering around large rocks and taking it slow. We arrive at a place to park where we climb out of the vehicle and begin to walk along a trail that winds through sandstone boulders and Joshua trees.

The trail leads to a rock-face with a short three-foot gap in the rock. Above the gap on the rock wall are Indian petroglyphs of a cornstalk and some zigzagged lines. I crouch down to my knees and crawl through the window and enter into similar world of sandstone hilltops and rocky ledges. I look high and to my left and I see that Jordan has found the highest pinnacle again. He sits there, nonchalantly as if he was just magically poofed there.

The girls immediately find a group of faint petroglyphs of three big-horned sheep on a varnished rock. They admire the rock art for only moments before racing off to find another adventure. Then they find a small, but deep collection-pool of dark, murky water. They kneel down at the water's edge, press their faces down to the surface, and search for pollywogs.

I move in a different direction. Within minutes I find a large rock-face with well over a hundred glyphs etched onto the surface. This isn't the only place that I find petroglyphs. They seem to be everywhere! There are more around the corner, some high on the cliff-face, and others in the next canyon over . This must have been a major crossroads.

I look at the petroglyphs and wonder of their meaning. I see zigzags, footprints, multi-layered circles, sheep, scary-looking stick men, rainbows, combs, and corn. One glyph that catches my attention, that I don't recall seeing at other sites, is a simple cone with a loop on top. There are many ways you could describe it: a magnifying glass with a short stubby handle, an ice cream cone, a lollipop, or a stumpy spoon. But what could it be to the Paiutes who probably drew them? Perhaps a basket, although some are placed upside down. It could be a moccasin. One of the glyphs has a knob on top and is connected to a three-ringed chain. Could it represent a ceremonial pendant that was worn on a necklace, or a concho belt? In two other places I see the three-ringed chains by themselves. I see the “basket-looking” glyph multiple times and in various locations. It has to have some significance and can't be just random doodling.

Reluctantly, I know that it is time to collect the kids and the wife and the dogs and return the way we came. The shadows cast from the Joshua trees are now growing in size and I know that we have a good little drive ahead of us. Although I have found several different panels, I would want at least a full day to search every nook and cranny here and find all the glyphs I missed.

On the way out, we walk up a perfect crevice in the cliff and reach the upper level of the rocks and toward the gap that punctures through the rock-face. It is here that I make one last search for a petroglyph that I couldn't find earlier.

Then I see it. Exactly above my head about three feet, but directly below the pinnacle where Jordan climbed to earlier, there is stick-man, arms out wide and legs bent upward, and turned side-ward as if falling swiftly to the ground. Looking back up at the steepness of the cliff, I have no doubt that the Indian who chiseled this picture into the rock was recording history.