Lake Powell Thunderstorm

I was excited to be back. It was the first time in several years. This time my family was with me, including young kids who had never experienced Lake Powell. We parked on hot pavement, high above Halls Crossing Marina. Some changed in the van while others slipped their sandals on and undressed in a wooden bathroom at the edge of the parking lot.

With swimsuits on we carefully made our way down to the water. A long yellow lizard dashed quickly across the hot sandstone ground and hid behind a boulder. The water was dark blue, just as I had remembered, perhaps even better. We found a small cove. Not the same one that had been there when I was a kid; all of them had disappeared. The water level was much lower now, causing the contour of the lake to change. My old swimming spot was now a dry, chalky-white rock, above where we now stood.

I slipped off footwear, lifted my shirt over my head, and sat glasses on a small rock. Then I stepped into the cool water, inching further in until I was up to my knees, and then my thighs. When the water began to soak into my bathing suit, I stopped, paralyzed by the sudden frigidity that seized my skin. My feet remained motionless, not daring to venture further into the cold. I ran my fingers across the surface of the water, creating figure eights at my side. Then, in one big motion, I plunged downward, immersing my shoulders, face and head. When I felt satisfied that my entire body was wet, I shot back upward, reemerging from the water, dripping incessantly. My cupped hands slowly ran backward over my hair, wringing out the water, and then I wiped my eyes dry. Now that I was wet, the temperature of the water wasn't too bad.

I pushed off from the rock below my feet and crawled across the water on my belly, arms working like a windmill, reaching into the water and propelling myself forward. I did this for several strokes, then non-nonchalantly flipped to my back and lazily paddled myself along, making large angelic sweeps with my arms.

The kids enjoyed the water also. We made them wear life jackets, even the older ones, as Lake Powell was not your average benevolent body of water. We tied a rope to a giant inflatable fish and I pulled it across the cove while one of the kids rode like a horse.

We ate sandwiches and potato salad for lunch and then it was time to take the older kids to the “deep end,” which was around the corner and inside another cove.  

Not only was the land at a steep slope, but the moss that grew on the rock below the surface was slick. The kids liked that. Once they got the courage to jump into the water, they struggled to get out. Brittany would crawl up the rock like a giant amphibian, get two hands and a knee above the water, then swoosh, she would slip back in. She giggled and laughed at this.

They would float in the deep, cold water with their life jackets on and wait for the waves from the boats to come across the bay to where they were floating. Then they would bob up and down like buoys.

We found a good diving rock that was about eight feet above the water and I let them take turns diving in. I let Jordan take off his life jacket. He jumped off the rock, feet first, plunged several feet below the surface, then reemerged, and swam playfully back to shore.

After several hours, the breeze began to pick up and storm clouds appeared in the north, across the bay above Bullfrog. We gathered everything and climbed back up to the van.  I stopped and took a picture of lightning that shot across the bay.

Part of the purpose for this small trip to Lake Powell was nostalgia. When I was younger we used to come to this same cove to swim, and we fished for striped bass from a boat. At night we caught crawdads beneath rocks and during the day we went to the store at the marina and bought self-serve ice cream cones and piled them so high that they looked like the leaning tower of Pisa! This was our final plan before we left—to find the ice cream machine!

But things didn't look like they used to. Since the water level had dropped so drastically, the whole marina had shifted to another location about a mile away. In fact, the more I thought about it, I wasn't even sure if the ice cream machine was here at Hall's Crossing, or across the bay at Bullfrog.

We drove over to the marina, but didn't see anything resembling a store, so we turned around, but not before stopping on the hill for a few minutes to attempt to get some more pictures of the lightning across the bay. By now, the wind was picking up and there was no doubt that the storm was coming. We returned nearby the parking lot where we began and I stopped at a small gas station at the entrance of town.

“Is there another store around here?” I asked a young blonde lady that was tending the building.

“Yes,” she responded in a genuine English accent.

She pointed out that it was where we had just come, down a road marked “closed,” and then across the floating walkway, thus locating it in the middle of the lake. No wonder we didn't find it, I thought.

“Does it have a self-serve ice cream machine?” I had to ask.

“Yes, it does.”

I hurried back to the van and assured the family that we were going to have ice cream after all . But things were quickly changing as we made that mile-long ride back to the marina. We looked down across the lake and the entire bay—that was once a gentle dark blue—was now pock-marked with waves of white. Boats were scrambling to find refuge and the lines of vessels parked at the marina bobbed up and down and side to side.

We parked the van within forty yards of the water and knew that we had to hurry. The storm was coming fast, with gales quickly picking up dust and trash. Our entire family raced to the water's edge and it was there that I first saw the floating walkway and its long stretch to the marina store. The floating walkway was maybe eight feet wide with wooden planks and nothing at all for a side railing. What seemed like fifty yards to the store, also seemed very daunting. The long walkway undulated with the waves of the water and twisted it like a rubber band.

I gripped Jenna's hand tightly and together we stepped onto the floating causeway and walked across about fifteen planks. My feet swayed up, then down, as if I was on a surf board, or perhaps a bucking bull. The wind's gust took shots at us, trying to blast us into the water. I balanced myself out with my arms and looked side to side, being quickly reminded that there was nothing to grab onto. The only thing flanking our position was the deep water that rumbled in turbulence. This was crazy! Jenelle and I took one look at each other and knew we had to turn back.

We hadn't made it but a few steps from the floating walkway when the rain hit. Nothing was gradual, but quick, hard pelting drops pinged nearly horizontally from the sky. The air turned a wet white and in less than two seconds we were all drenched, only able to look down and run to where we knew the van to be. I stooped down and swept Jenna's into my arms, holding her face into my shoulder. A box flew into the air and mud ran off the hillside and onto the pavement.

I unlocked the van as fast as I could and within a few panic-struck moments, we were all inside the vehicle and breathing a sigh of relief. The rain continued to erupt all around, cascading across the windshield so thickly that we couldn't see a thing.

Instant relief infused my body, grateful that we decided to turn back when we did. Had we been further along the causeway, no doubt we would have been bucked into the water like a cowboy from a bronc.

We waited for ten minutes until deciding that the storm would not subside anytime soon. I turned the ignition and switched the wipers to rapid motion and we drove up the hill away from the water.

This is not how we planned to end the day.

The road out of Halls Crossing passes a couple parking lots, another small store, and a boat launch. We didn't notice any of this with the rain pounding all around and a low cloudy mist that almost touched the ground. There is a good view of the bay before you crest the hill, but that was behind us and we didn't bother to look.

The area around Glen Canyon is rugged and barren, yet majestically beautiful. Canyons and gulleys of Navajo Sandstone intricately run together, creating a funnel effect to any burst of water found beneath its breadth.

After cresting the hill, the road drops into Castle Wash, named by the Mormon pioneers who trudged through the same place and found Anasazi Indian ruins that resembled a castle. I clutched the steering wheel as the canyon road began to snake, and a sheet of water glazed the pavement.

As the rain began to subside, another marvel emerged. Streams of water flowed over the brows of the slick-rock like lava spilling from a volcano. Water overflowed everywhere, off every cliff, sending new cascades off ledges, and creating new rivers down formerly dry canyon beds.

It was one of the most amazing sights we had ever beheld!

Even when the rain ceased to fall from the sky, it continued to tumble from the rocks. We stopped at a few places along the road to snap pictures and admire the power of nature. At Castle Ruin, the same ancient relic that the pioneers passed by one hundred and thirty years earlier, we pulled over and witnessed brown, murky water passing over the top of the alcove where the fortress lay. The ruin sat protected beneath the overhang of rock, behind a sheet of gushing water.

At the top of Clay Hill Pass, the narrow canyon widens its span and many of the raging rivers now subsided into rivulets. Red clay appeared as a bright color of ocher and the greens of rabbit and sage brush became more vibrant.

The rain had disappeared, but the strong misty smell of wet earth was everywhere. ♠

Life and Death

I wasn't sure what to expect when I hiked a couple of miles up the slopes of Harmony Mountain. Last summer the area was ravaged from fire. Thousands of acres of flora—up to the backyards of many homes—were brought to a mortal end. What would exist there now? Could new forage grow beneath the blackened branches, enough to feed any kind of animal population?

As I set out, I didn't know what to expect. The bridge that once crossed the lush creek existed no longer, replaced by a new one with fresh planks. Everything that was once there was now gone, as if a massive blanket of brush and trees was rolled back and a new barren ground rolled out, naked for all to see.

Skeletons of trees were still in existence, their charred branches pointing skyward and occasionally at the pinnacle, a remnant cluster of pine needles, reminding the passer-by of what once was. Below this ghostly forest, however, a new generation of growth sprouted from the ground, including grasses, daisies, and thick orange flowers the size of golf balls.

Death was still all around, despite the new life. On one side of a small stream, I saw the rigid hide of a rabbit, hollow inside, but propped sidelong, as if that is how he died. I found a cluster of cow bones—definitely from more than one cow. Speculation is all I can do, but I wonder if the cattle huddled together, not knowing how to evade the smoke and heat, and eventually succumbed as a group.

The dirt was a mixture of black or brown. Skeletons of many full-sized trees still stood, as I have noted, but many more were only tiny stubs that poked just inches out of the ground. Acorn shells flourished on the earth, dropped at a former time when living trees thrived above them.

When I began ascending the slopes of the hillside, I noticed something interesting. When I first saw the pile of straw, I thought that it was hay and perhaps a camper on horseback had dumped it for his animals. But then I saw it further up the hillside, and then I noticed it everywhere. Literally, the entire hillside was covered with patch upon patch of yellow straw. Baffled at first, I assumed that it was some sort of wild grass that had died during the fire and had now dried in bushels, lying where it perished. But then I observed some on the boulders and even a clump gathered in tree branches. Then I surmised that it must have been spread by helicopter, probably to cover new seedlings.

I searched the ground for any new treasure that might now be visible, that was once covered for years and years by foliage. I've heard of forest fires unveiling arrowheads and Indian artifacts in areas where those things exist.

Perhaps a snake would slither around without covering. In all the crags that were once hidden, I now peeked inside with curiosity. What about mountain lions or bobcats sheltering in the cavities of these rocks for shade? Now all were exposed. I saw neither snake nor cougar nor bobcat.

I did see a few chipmunks and a couple of lizards. At one time a large hawk sailed and landed on the branch of a tree near where I sat, but then took off quickly when I jerked back to look at him. I spotted three does that hurried away when they heard me coming, as well as a tiny fawn with spots still on her back. I got rather close to the fawn when she sprang up and bounded down the hill.

As dusk approached, I knew I was still some distance from the truck. I came across a large fresh print in the dirt that looked to be similar to the shape of my hand, only slightly bigger, and with claws. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck bristled stiff.  Yes, I concluded, there certainly is life after death in the forest. I quickly transferred my pistol from backpack to front pocket and hurried down the hillside. ♠

Road Trip to Great Basin National Park

Memorial Day weekend can be a tricky time to travel, with floods of people anywhere you go. This year we made a wise choice and missed the crowds. We traveled northwest through some pretty isolated country, our final destination being Great Basin National Park in Nevada.

From our home in Enoch, Utah, the one-way trip is 138 miles. The largest town we passed through was Milford, population 1,360. Other than that, it is a desolate stretch of land. We saw a few small herds of antelope, sheep, and cattle; small farms in the desert, and a ghost town.

The average person could call this land boring and monotonous. "Ugly" may be the term used by the most cynical. But for me, it is fascinating! Any terrain that is this remote has got to have layers of mysteries waiting to be discovered. I ponder the stories that may never be told and geological wonders that have never been discovered. Here's a small collection of what we found.

Frisco. Just fifteen miles west of Milford on Highway 21 is the ghost town of Frisco, named because it lies at the foot of the San Francisco Mountains. At its height—around 1885—this mining town had twenty three saloons and a population of 6,000. That's really hard to believe because now, no one lives here.

We parked just off the highway and walked across strewed debris and old foundations. On the side of the hill are five beehive-shaped charcoal ovens (below) used by miners to serve the smelters. Most of the large conical ovens are well preserved.

With more time, and a big enough interest, a man could spend all day exploring Frisco. Many old mines and buildings are scattered around the area. Being on a tight schedule, we chose only visit the ovens, and then the cemetery.

The cemetery (above left) is located due west of the ovens, and accessed by a good graveled road. I was pleased to see that the graveyard still sees visitors, as evidenced by coins, flowers, boots, and other knick-knacks left at many of the graves. Headstones are intermingled with wild grass, sagebrush, and juniper trees.

The demise of Frisco is a fascinating tale. One evening in 1885, the night shift had just emerged from the Horn Silver Mine when the foreman realized the ground was shuddering beneath him. He held off on sending the next crew down, and a few minutes later there was a “thundering roar” that shattered windows as far as Milford. All at once, the entire mine collapsed, taking with it not only dirt and ore, but also the jobs of those in town who were employed at the mine. In the years that followed, Frisco held on by a thread, but by 1920, the town became empty.

The next sixty or so miles from Frisco takes you through some pretty lonely territory, with long stretches that cross the Wah Wah and Pine Valley's (above).

As the highway climbs another crest and takes a noticed turn to the northwest, the first view of the snow-capped mountains of Great Basin National Park come into view. I was also impressed with the fields of Indian Paintbrush that grew like wheat in the valley (right).

We pulled over to a corral that was just off a dirt road and found scattered wool on the ground. It appeared that this had been a spot for sheep-shearing not too long ago.

Garrison, Utah. The first hint of any civilization in nearly seventy five miles, Garrison is a tiny town in Snake Valley. I don't know much about the history of this little place, other than it was founded in the 1850's by cattle rustlers and other outlaws. Sounds interesting to me.

Other than farms, there isn't much here. An LDS church that appears to be made with two modular homes sits in the middle of town. Behind the church is an interesting cemetery (left), with several old graves and a graveled ground. The majestic Snake Range stands as the backdrop.

Baker, Nevada. Less than a mile after leaving Garrison, we cross the state line into Nevada. Seven miles later, we are in Baker. Baker isn't much bigger than Garrison, if at all. Total population: 68.

Baker is headquarters to Great Basin National Park, and tends to have the look of a National Park border-town with hippie-like art on some of the buildings. 

We took a small drive around town, past the elementary school playground, and past the community church (above).

At the center of town, it is necessary to take a left-hand turn onto Lehman Caves Road. This is the road that will take you to the main entrance of the park. Along this stretch you will find several pieces of “art” if you pay attention to the fence posts (above). Although this is the main thoroughfare to the park (and we were there on Memorial Day!), you'll still have the road mostly to yourself. Take your time and see what you can find.

Lehman Caves. Around 1885, Absalom Lehman discovered a small opening in the hillside above his ranch, leading to a spectacular cave that would later bear his name. Although the exact story of how this rancher/miner from Pennsylvania discovered the caves may never be known, we do know that what he found is pretty amazing.

The cave is damp and cool inside, maintaining a constant temperature of fifty degrees Fahrenheit. We opted for the ninety-minute tour, which we took with fifteen other people. No gum, no food, no water bottles, no camera bags, no touching—among other rules—are strictly enforced. Cameras are allowed, and flashlights and jackets are recommended.

Our tour took us a little over half a mile past stalagmites, stalactites, helictites, shield formations and other configurations. The entire walk is conveniently placed on a cement path, along with some stairs. There are a few clear pools of water inside the cave. In the Inscription Room, several names are written across the ceiling, including one from 1903.

It is hard to fathom how the early discoverers of the cave got around without a foot path. They must have used lots of ropes and candle light.

There is evidence that Native Americans used the entrance hole as a burial spot, judging from bones found below the opening. But nothing suggests they explored the cave.

Wheeler Peak. The omnipresent Wheeler Peak seems to be visible from about anywhere in Snake Valley, and inside the park. This snow-capped crown is the second highest in all of Nevada, reaching 13,063 feet in elevation.

Although hiking this summit is on my to-do list, I knew it wasn't practical on this trip. We had little time, young kids, and the peak was still packed in snow. I had hoped to hike to Stella Lake, which sits below the peak in an Alpine setting, but the rangers told me it was under snow also.

So, we did the next best thing and drove ten miles up the Wheeler Peak scenic drive to a lookout point near 10,000 feet. The drive is pretty, and climbs at a steady pitch. Along the way you have great views of nearby Mount Moriah, as well as distant Notch Peak. There is also a roadside kiosk explaining the history of the failed Osceola Ditch project.

I will admit that when I came to the view point I was very disappointed.  Several tall trees grew around it (blocking the view), and it faced the wrong direction (toward the east, rather than Wheeler Peak). Therefore, the vista it provided was only mediocre.

I did what I tend to do and briskly walked a quarter of a mile further up the road toward a bend that appeared to have a promising panorama. Few cars passed me. Patches of snow clumped around the foot of the Englelman Spruce that grew from the steep slope that dropped at my immediate left. The high mountain air was welcoming and I breathed it deeply as I continued a quick jaunt.

At last, I reached the bend in the road, and as expected, the trees opened up, the valley below unfolded, and Wheeler Peak in all her majesty stood before me. Caked in white, with rugged granite ledges peeking out, I admired the splendor of the mountain.

But knowing that I had a wife and three girls waiting on me back at the car, I knew I had to leave. I steadied my camera with my right hand and trotted back down the road. ♠

1918

[My great-great grandfather, Charles Adelbert Workman, diligently kept a diary between 1894 and his death in 1923. He and his family lived in Hurricane, Utah, a young town which they helped settle. Although most of his journal entries are small in size, they help to paint an image of daily life, as well as some of the struggles in early Washington County. Of all the pages I read, there seems to be one year that stood above the rest. The following synopsis is taken solely from Grandpa Workman's journal.]

The year 1918 is both an exciting and sad year. Quickly, it is noted that there are a spike in the number of deaths, many of which the cause is unknown, but others which are classified as pneumonia. In February alone, William Stout, Florence Reeve, and Jennie Wright all die from pneumonia. It is interesting to note that of the two funerals where the location is mentioned, they are both at the home of the deceased. Mrs. Shamo's funeral is held “at their tent out in Amos' pasture.” The funeral of Anthony Jepson's little girl is held “at his residence.”

World War I is at its climax. In May, young Henry Pickett goes off to war to join the Engineers Corp. In July, Harvey Hall is drafted and expects to start training camp. Moroni Kleinman and W.R.Terrell's son are killed on the battlefront in France. Charles spends time canvassing the neighborhoods in an attempt to sell War Saving Stamps. This is a way for the citizens to contribute financially to the war, and to be paid back with interest at a future date.

The production of food is a large part of the Workman way of life. Gooseberry, currant, and rose bushes are planted in the hotbed, and strawberries west of the orchard fence. A garden is planted south of the vineyard, where peas, watermelon, and much more are sown.

They also have a lucerne (alfalfa) field that must be cared for and watered, the head gates and head ditches repaired. At harvest time it is cut, then raked and cocked. August delivers one of the heaviest thunderstorms Hurricane has seen in a long time, sending floods down the hills, drenching the fields, and destroying much of the hay, including some that was cocked and ready to be hauled.

Charles is a member of the Bishopric and devotes ample time to his church and civic responsibilities. Sundays are spent resting from everyday activities and dedicated to church meetings: Priesthood Meeting, 9 am; Sunday School, 10:30 am; Sacrament Meeting, 2 pm; Teacher's Report Meeting, 4 pm. He usually attends all meetings, with exceptions such as this one in January when he “did not attend Sacrament Meeting nor Mutual on account of the cold disagreeable weather. Besides, there is no heat in the auditorium.”

Charles and his wife, Josephine, travel to Parowan where their daughter, Flora, is married to David H. Tweedie. Another daughter, Eloise, is baptized “in the swimming pool at the Sulphur Springs.” (These are now the Pah Tempe Hot Springs located on the Virgin River between Hurricane and LaVerkin.)

May 30th is Decoration Day, which is what we now know as Memorial Day. “President (Woodrow) Wilson has proclaimed this as a national fast day and requested all the people to meet in their places of worship and in their homes and pray for the success of our armies in France as they fight for freedom.”

A sudden tragedy comes to the Workman family on September 22 when their son, Eldon, is electrocuted to death while replacing fuse plugs on a pole. Charles and Eldon worked side-by-side during much of his life and were very close. “It was certainly a sad blow to us,” Charles records in his journal, “to see the lifeless body of our dear boy who only a few minutes before had left us full of life and hope. We thought of the many plans he had made for the future, how he had expressed to us so many times his desire to be of use in the world, to help his fellow man, to preach the gospel to the nations, to join the army to help fight for the freedoms of the world, to attend college to prepare to be most useful in society.”

Spanish Influenza is sweeping the nation, and beginning in October, a quarantine is placed on the town of Hurricane. Public schools are closed and public gatherings not allowed. It appears that no traveler is allowed in town, as the duty falls upon Charles to help guard the way into Hurricane. In November it is reported that a dozen cases of influenza have been reported, but they all seem to be getting better. The quarantine remains until December.

The entry on October 27 reads: “Time is set back one hour today to comply with act of Congress.” This is the first year that Daylight Savings was implemented in the United States.

Newspapers on November 12 announce the end of the war. As Charles writes in his diary: “The greatest war has terminated in the greatest V I C T O R Y. The armistice, which amounted to unconditional surrender by Germany was signed about 6 A.M. yesterday (French Time) by the official German delegation. Fighting stopped at 11 A.M. Thus ends one of the greatest wars that was ever fought on earth.”

As the year comes to an end in the month of December, Horatio Picket, who is the father of Charles' wife, Josephine, dies from influenza, followed by pneumonia. He was residing in St. George at the time of his death.

The very next day, December 22, this is the entry in Charles' journal: “President Heber J. Grant (Prophet of the Mormon Church) has designated today as a special day for fasting and prayer for the relief of the people from the scourge of influenza that is sweeping over the earth. It is one of the most dreadful diseases that the world has ever known. Hundreds of thousands of deaths from it have occurred and almost all parts of the civilized world have suffered from its ravages.”

Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad

One of the fond memories I have with my grandpa Lacy is riding the Narrow Gauge Railroad from Durango. Although it was over thirty years ago, some of the memories have remained with me.

It was wintertime and north of Durango we saw a herd of elk that must have been two hundred in number. They grazed at a distance, in the flat of the valley. It was early when we began the ride and I remember thinking that it must have been cold for the elk and that hoarfrost must have grown on their fur.

Once the train left the sparsely scattered houses and any hint of civilization, we entered higher timber with ponderosa pine trees and then we rode through a slit in the rock and came to a narrow gorge. The train hugged the edge of the cliff and it was a long ways down, but it was the most beautiful sight I had ever beheld. At the bottom of this massive gorge, swishing down-river with visible whitewater currents, was the Animas River. I remember the turquoise-blue color of the river, and that it was more vibrant than any river I had ever seen.

Although it was winter, we sat in the open-air coach for part of the ride, feeling the crisp wind on our face and occasionally getting a burning cinder that floated past. We were with my brother, Walt, and younger cousins, Karson and Lehi. They were young and I wondered if they took in anything they saw.

At Cascade Canyon we turned around and made the trip back to Durango. That is as far as the train goes during the winter.

As an adult, I've ridden the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad three times. Each opportunity was unique in its own way. My favorite time of year was June, when the Animas River is at a turbulent rage from melting mountain snow. If you take the train to its terminus, you will end up in Silverton, elevation 9,318 feet.

Here are a few pictures of what you might expect along the way.

Trains leave every morning from Durango, Colorado's historic downtown. Not only do passengers line up for the train, but tourists also come to watch it depart.

The railroad reached Durango in 1881, and just eleven months later, in 1882, the spur to Silverton was complete.  In the early days it was used to haul silver and gold from the San Juan Mountains, but these days it carries tourists and backpackers.

The Durango to Silverton line is one of the few places in the United States that has seen continuous use of the steam locomotive. This series was built in 1925 by the Baldwin Locomotive Works. 

And we're off!

The route follows the Animas River for 45 miles to the old mining town of Silverton.

The San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado are some of the highest and most rugged of any mountains in North America. Dozens of peaks soar above thirteen thousand feet in elevation, and a handful topple the fourteen thousand mark. These mountains are very rich in minerals, drawing miners and prospectors alike.

Inside the coach passengers feel at ease sitting next to the window, gawking at the scenery. Windows are usually down and occasionally a burning cinder flies inside.

About an hour into the ride, and during the climb between Hermosa and Rockwood, the train passes beautiful Shalona Lake.

One of the most photogenic spots is where the train enters a slot in the mountain and emerges high atop the gorge of Animas Canyon, with the river far below. When everyone rushes to one side to take a picture, you worry that the train will tip over and topple off the edge!

From time to time, the conductor will blow steam over the river and create these eye-catching rainbows.

In early summer, when water levels are high, rafters can be spotted rolling on whitewater.

Just past Tank Creek is the Tall Timber Resort.  Anytime the train passes, you're sure to find a show-off going down the zip-line.

Needleton is one of the few stops along the route. A bridge that spans the river connects with other trails, including the path to Chicago Basin, a popular spot for peakbaggers. Here, a lone prospector plans to try his luck panning for gold.

Needleton was a station on the old Denver and Rio Grande Western railroad, with a post office between the years 1882 and 1919. Today there are just a few relics that remain.  

Just beyond the Needleton flag stop, there are two water tanks.  This wooden water tank seems to be more for appearance. . .

. . . while this one serves a more practical purpose.  Here the train stops to fill up with the water that will help run the steam engine.

It is silver that gave its name to the area. Since 1860, the San Juan Mountains have been a destination for those hoping to strike it rich. Hidden on steep mountain slopes and behind thick timber are abandoned silver mines such as this one.

Also hidden, but sometimes peeking out, are beautiful waterfalls cascading down the hillsides. Several streams feed into the river, most of them having to wend their way through tortuous landscape to get there.

The Animas River is cold and clear. I had no hesitation stooping down and taking a long drink from its rushing waters, or filling up my canteen.

Riding through some of Colorado's most scenic country, it would only be natural that you would find the Colorado Columbine.

You never know who you might find loitering along the track.

Before the days of the railroad, the ore was hauled out on burros and mules, each being able to carry 150 and 300 lbs., respectively. A packer normally led the mules tied together by ropes, and just herded the burros like sheep, along a variety of pack trails throughout the mining district. It was a daunting task considering the amount of animals and men needed to do the job, and the terrain of the mountains.

An old bridge crosses the river alongside the new bridge, just south of Elk Creek and Elk Park Siding.

The narrowness of the mountain canyons open up and the valley of Silverton comes into view.

The arrival of the railroad to Silverton in the summer of 1882 was a blessing. Ore could now be shipped to the smelters in Pueblo, Colorado at a rate of only twelve dollars per ton. The new, cheaper transportation proved to be a boon to Silverton, drawing both miners and businessmen alike, and dubbing it “the new Leadville.”

The train stops in Silverton (elevation 9,318 ft.) for a couple of hours and we take in a meal at Grumpy's Saloon. Without the tourists that come in on the train, Silverton is a sleepy town of 531 people; but a few times a day, it sees a significant influx.

Our saloon is complete with mounted deer heads on the wall, and a tireless girl at the piano.

Anytime during the day, especially along the upper elevations near Silverton, be prepared for a sudden burst of rain. This storm drenched the street just outside our saloon, but only lasted about ten minutes.

The mining district suffered some major setbacks, including the silver crash of 1893, and the Spanish Influenza that killed 10% of Silverton's population in 1918. Eventually, the train shifted from hauling ore, to hauling tourists.

After a little over two hours in Silverton, it is time head back to the train. People tromp over muddy ground to the train yard.

The three and a half hour ride back to Durango seems to take a bit longer.  We are tired and have just seen the same scenery. Now we struggle to stay awake. But there are moments when one can't help but to pop their head out the window and get that perfect picture. ♠

Blessed When Afar

Panic began to set in as I poked through my money belt for a second time: passport, debit card, drivers license, a few hundred baht, keys to our locks.

We stood at the ATM on an unknown street in Bangkok on our very first day in Thailand and felt like throwing up. I had lost our credit card!

That evening when we returned to our hotel, I immediately began rummaging through everything I had—on the nightstand a handful of loose change, my journal, and granola bar wrappers. I checked my pants pockets from last night and pulled them inside-out. We looked in the bathroom and under the bed and all over the floor.

Then I retraced my steps at the airport last night. It was late. The plane landed at 1:40 am and we were both tired when we threw packs over our shoulders and walked for what felt like miles through the terminal of a foreign airport and went through immigration.

I knew I needed Thai baht if we were to pay for a taxi ride to our hotel. I fumbled the credit card from my money belt, which was hid beneath the waist of my pants. I had to pull the belt up to my stomach and unzip the pouch and finger through the pockets to find the right card.

At the first kiosk they told me I had to go to the “machine” that was further ahead. I kept the card in-hand and found the machine and withdrew 2,000 baht.

I know I had the credit card at that moment and that is the very last time that I can say with certitude that it was with me. I don't remember if I tried returning it to the money belt, or put it in my pocket, or just held it in my hand until I sat down and had a moment to put myself back together. I remember waiting on a bench at the front of the airport for Jenelle while she was in the bathroom. Maybe I dropped it on the floor, or perhaps it slipped from my hands when I intended to replace it to the belt.

Once Jenelle got back from the bathroom to tend the bags, I took my turn. You take care of business and you unbuckle your pants and maybe it was there that the card dropped. But anytime I leave a place, it is always my habit to look behind me as I walk away. I'm sure it was no different then.

On our way to call a taxi, our burden was heavy. We both carried a backpack on our shoulders and I carried my camera also, strapped in a case that slung cross-ways over my body. We ordered a taxi from a booth near the exit of the airport and they handed us a paper receipt. Just something else to hold in our hands. It is no wonder that I would have lost a credit card as there were so many different distractions calling our attention.

Of course, it could have been lost in the taxi. It was dark when we sat down in the back seat, relieved to finally be on our way to the hotel. The driver spoke almost no English, but the ladies at the booth had already given him the address of our lodging.

He looked like an honest man and if we had dropped it on the floor of his cab, I don't think he would have used it. But you never know. Jenelle and I enjoyed the twenty minute ride, cruising along a nearly vacant freeway, watching signs pass by in Thai script, completely oblivious that we had just lost our credit card.

After learning our sudden misfortune, a dismal gloom hung over us. As far as we knew, a stranger from Singapore had been racking up the purchases as quickly as possible during the last twenty hours. Not only did we not know the password for our Citicard account, but we only had one phone, and without a tourist SIM card. Without that, we couldn't even make a phone call. We carried an extra credit card and one debit card. Two weeks left in Thailand was a long time and the thrill of our trip was squashed on day one!

Luckily, Jenelle finally figured out the Citicard password, and we gave a sigh of relief when we learned that there had been no new purchases. Perhaps the thief was a little slow at shopping. We still had to cancel the card. We couldn't do it online, and then we worried of losing our debit card. Then we'd really have nothing. We'd be begging in the streets!

Each day as we walked the streets and came by a 7-eleven, we would walk inside and ask for a SIM card. And each time they would look around and come up with nothing.

But also each day, we would check the account, and still, no one had made a purchase. As time went on, we began to breathe easier and feel more confident that our card had fallen into the hands of an honest person.

Now as I write two months later, I am pleased to say that no one took advantage of our credit card. It is a huge relief and I am grateful that there are honest people in the world.

Not all are so lucky. A friend of mine has a son who is living in Cameroon. He lost his debit card and someone drained the account, making purchases in Vietnam and Houstan, Texas.

Just last week I went to the store to buy food for my wife's birthday dinner. I picked out a large round seedless watermelon that would have been a treat during the off-season of April. Instead of bringing it into the house, I left it in the back of my truck while we left in another vehicle to a church party.

I returned home that evening after the sun had set, and spent my time in the kitchen working on dinner. As I turned off the stove and set the table, I pulled out a knife and cutting board, then eagerly ran outside to grab the watermelon. It was gone! Stolen!

I was quite perturbed that in my own apparently safe neighborhood, I had something swiped from the back of my truck. My mind quickly turned to a group of teenage boys that tend to wander after dark and cause trouble.

At least it was only a watermelon. I would much rather have that, than a compromised credit card. ♠