The Stand-up Paddleboard

This guy named Dave is crazy!   Not only does he hope to send us all toddling for 68 miles down an overflowing river, but he has a vision of doing it in a vessel made from our own hands! And, mind you, none of us (other than him) have any experience taking on such a task. As for myself, I have never floated down a river in my life. And for the rest, most of them are just young pups, no older than sixteen.

The stand-up paddleboard is Dave's dream idea. This small craft is similar in shape to a surf board, but larger. It is designed to stand upon and to use a long paddle as an oar. Of course, Dave wouldn't take on such a venture if he didn't make the perfect product. In his mind's eye it would be made of wood, smoothed and varnished to perfection. He is no stranger to this kind of craftsmanship. In his garage hang two wooden canoes—one made by his father, and the second made with his father. The two of them took their canoes to Minnesota once where they spent several days exploring the Boundary Waters. When his father died, Dave spent countless hours building another wooden canoe, one that he would saw in half and create a top for, so as to enclose it. This would be his father's casket.

On the same stretch of river which we hope to travel, he once took his young family of four children, ages 2 to 12. The water, just as it is now, was at peak flow from spring run-off. He tells the story of getting his two-year old son and wife situated in a canoe, then turning away to do something else. A sudden gust of wind picked up and took them down river, and in a scary several minutes they thought they were doomed to separation, or worse. Miraculously, he was able to catch up and bring them back.

So, Dave is no stranger to the world of canoeing. Our trip would consist of a small fleet of canoes and kayaks, as well as the stand-up paddleboard which we had yet to make. The idea was that as a group, which included boys from our church, we would spend one night a week working on the paddleboard.

Our work began on the kitchen floor, tapping holes into a piece of paper.

We began late in November when snow still covered the ground and nights were long. We had six months to complete the task, which we felt was ample time. Dave had purchased paddleboard plans from the Chesapeake Light Craft company, deciding on the “Kaholo” model. Had we known how close we would cut it in the end, we would have picked up our pace in the beginning.

We began our work on a Wednesday evening in the kitchen of our church where we laid down a quarter-inch thick piece of plywood and tacked on a large sheet of paper with patterns of random pieces. Although the shapes didn't make sense to me at the time, they were the outlines of the bulkheads, side panels, deck strings, and tail block. We used a hammer and anything with a sharp point, such as a screw, to tap holes through the pattern and into the plywood. Then we removed the sheet and used a pencil to connect the dots. Magically, the patterns were now drawn onto the plywood. On another night we would use a jig-saw to cut them out.

Then, on a cold February night in Dave's garage, we used zip-ties to fasten the pieces together, beginning at the bow, and working toward the stern, connecting the side panels to the bulkheads. The plywood bent to conform to the shape of the bulkheads. For the first time, the stand-up paddleboard, or SUP, began to take shape. Then we inserted the deck stringers into slots over the bulkheads that formed a grid appearance and created a sturdy foundation to support the paddleboard.

Fastening the frame together with zip-ties.

As we plugged along at our project, the craziness of life kept getting in the way. Usually, Wednesday evening was our time set aside to work on the SUP, but it was often trumped by other activities in which we were obliged to participate. As a result, we fell behind in our plan of action.

Using a straight-edge saw to cut strips of cedar.

Christian and Jayden help out at the cabinet shop.

In March we went to a cabinet shop with eight sheets of cedar wood. With the help of one of the workers we started by putting each sheet through a plainer, which took off the surface and made them smoother. Then we ran the sheets through a straight-edge saw, which sliced them into quarter-inch strips. This became a tedious chore as it could only cut one strip at a time, but it sure beat doing it by hand. By the end of the evening we had several strips of cedar wood, each one-inch wide. I will admit that in my limited mind, I wasn't even sure how we would use these, or how they would work into the paddleboards.

Knowing that we were running behind-schedule, Dave spent many hours on his own building the vessels. Where we had used the zip-ties to hold the pieces together, he now used an epoxy made of resin, hardener, and wood flour to truly fasten them. Once glued together, we clipped off the zip-ties.

I was surprised to see how Dave built the deck that would cover the top of the paddleboard. Instead of simply cutting out one piece of plywood and using that as the deck, Dave took several one-inch strips of cedar, intermingled with walnut, placed them side by side, and them glued them together. After cutting it out in the shape of the deck, he reinforced it with a sheet of fiber glass. So, I learned, that the preference to use strips of wood was more for appearance than for practical purpose.

Finally looking like a SUP!

Although Dave was always the mastermind behind the project and did most of the work, the boys were very beneficial in the construction. They cut out pieces, sanded, glued, lifted, and even gave advice. The work went much quicker when they showed up and were able to help.

With only one week left until we embarked on the Green River, our efforts with the paddle board were now doubled. Dave glued the deck, fiber-glass side down, into place on the paddleboard. Working in his backyard with the SUP placed on a picnic table, we used a router to trim the edges, and we sanded the sides and deck. Any blemish, rough spot, or imperfect edge would catch Dave's eye and he would go over it again and again until it was smooth. The one thing I learned about Dave is that he's a perfectionist.

We glued cedar strips to the sides and used finishing nails to hold them in place while they dried. We then covered the entire surface (in stages) with fiber glass, which we brushed with three coats of thin epoxy-resin. Each coat required several hours to dry.

Dave uses a router to trim the edges.

Our original plan was to finish the paddleboard with plenty of time to take them on the lake to make sure they could float. We were beginning to see that we may not have that luxury. Calculating things out in his mind, Dave discovered that the SUP weighed 18 lbs. more than it was supposed to weigh. Instead of being 40 lbs., it weighed 58 lbs. He worried about this, hoping it wouldn't sink in the Green River!

We watched curiously at the CFS of the Green River, which was much higher than normal. A couple of weeks ago the discharge had been as high as 20,000 cubic feet per second, but now fluctuated between 15,000 and 16,000 CFS. A strong current would be good to carry us down the river, but it may not be so good if we were to capsize. It would also flood out many of the good camping spots along the way.

With only two days to go, we were all busy in Dave's backyard. Some of the boys used a jigsaw to cut out paddles from quarter-inch plywood. We would then cover them in fiberglass and screw them onto the end of a PVC pipe and use them as paddles. (Although this was an ingenious idea, the paddles turned out to be too flimsy and we had to scrap the idea.)

Jayden and Tason work on the ill-fated paddles.

We glued together more cedar strips, and then cut them out into the shape of a fin. The fin, after being reinforced with fiberglass, would go on the bottom of the paddleboard.

During this final week, Dave would often wake up at three in the morning to continue work on the SUP. It was to apply another coat of epoxy, or attach the deck, or any of the other works of a craftsman. In the few hours he did sleep, he would dream of the paddleboard, and dream of floating down the river. Good or bad, our river trip consumed his attention.

On our final night before launching, we remained as busy as ants. Now it was loading up food, sleeping bags, life jackets, packs, paddles, chairs, and anything else we might need for the trip. It was now or never, and do-without for four days if we forgot anything.

We borrowed a trailer and T-rack to carry the canoes, kayak and paddleboard. We spent time tying them down and throwing all our bags into the back of Dave's truck.

Inspecting the paddleboard for any imperfection.

Just to make things interesting, one of the boys, Jayden, decided to take a joyride on Dave's backyard zip-line. Without noticing the vehicle that was parked at the end of the run, Jayden slammed into the truck and put an ugly gash into the crown of his head. At first, we thought he had a concussion because he was staggering around like a drunk. We settled him down and looked with horror at the bloody hole in the back of his head. We worried he wouldn't be able to go on the trip with us. His dad came and got him and that night he had three staples placed in the crown of his head. And they gave him the green light to go!

As for the stand-up paddleboard, Dave had glued on the fin, but decided not to varnish it because it would take a couple days to cure. He did a little touch-up work on the nose, but was dismayed when it touched the lawn and blades of Kentucky bluegrass stuck to the wood. No big deal, he said. He would sand it down in the morning. Our plan was to leave at 6 am!  Does he remember that he needs to get some sleep??!!!

Using epoxy-resin to attach fiber glass to the deck.

We met at Dave's house bright and early Wednesday morning. The sun hadn't quite crept over the mountains yet. A pink hue filled the sky, and soon, a golden wave of light poured over the alfalfa fields that surround his house.

All the boys showed up on time and anxious to go. Just 230 miles to drive until we could set our eyes on the Green River.

Dave had been up early working on the stand-up paddleboard, sanding down the nose and drilling a three-quarter inch hole for the plug. It was now ready to sail. The vessel was a piece of art with the cedar and walnut strips, glossy exterior, and the wood bent with the curve of the bow that seemed as perfect as Roman sculpture. Now was time to put it to the test. ♠

Green River Trip, Day 1
Green River Trip, Day 2
Green River Trip, Day 3
Green River Trip, Day 4 

Backyard Bangkok

Our taxi driver squeezed the car through a narrow street in backyard Bangkok before coming to a stop alongside another tiny alley.

“No more go,” he announced, waving both hands. “Hotel over there.” He pointed to a back street that was scarcely wide enough to fit two bicycles side-by-side.

We paid the cabbie 300 baht (not a bad price coming from Don Mueang). I slung my pack over my shoulders as Jenelle pulled hers across the pavement. We moved cautiously into unknown territory, quickly observing the scent of grease and urine. A stray cat with wide blue eyes watched us pass by.

Our hotel was in a rough section of town, but it supposedly had a breathtaking view of the Chao Phraya River from its eighth-floor restaurant, and to boot, it was only a 10-minute walk to Chinatown.

The hotel fit well with the neighborhood. Squeezed between other drab buildings, the hotel was very inconspicuous, and would be nearly unrecognizable as a place of accommodation without the green awning draped over the front. Inside our room the walls appeared unfinished; the floor felt of concrete. Plywood was part of the decorative motif, and our shower and toilet appeared antiques.

Much to her dismay, Jenelle quickly discovered that the room had no air conditioning to combat the stifling Bangkok heat. Instead, a large ceiling fan hovered over the bed. (We developed a coping mechanism of taking cold showers, then lying wet on the bed, with the blades of the ceiling fan circling above us. Sometimes we took several cold showers a night.) As for drinkable water, the hotel left a pitcher of it next to the television with two glasses. We could refill the pitcher in the hallway.

There were no major tourist sites within our backyard neighborhood. We used it as a thoroughfare to get to other parts of town. As much as we attempted to learn the tangled web of streets, we constantly got lost. One miscalculation would send you into terra incognita.

As I mentioned earlier, our neighborhood smelled like grease. This was because they sold second-hand car parts here. Walking down the street you would find heaps of metal, including engines and mufflers that belonged to anything from cars to mopeds. It's like having the junkyard as close and convenient as the grocery store. Sometimes a couple of men would be tending the heap by sitting next to it on chairs, smoking cigarettes and talking. Any foreigner who walked past would get a look of suspicion.

The other smell—urine—we learned frequently came from night. At least twice while walking through a dark alleyway, we witnessed men urinating on the street. This would make Jenelle very uneasy and we would always detour and take a longer route to avoid them.

Just below our hotel, pretty much at the side of a parking garage, was a Chinese Taoist Temple. Outside hung red Chinese globes and inside I could hear people singing or chanting. I didn't dare go in. The temple was very simple, and if you weren't right there, you wouldn't even notice it. Nearby a small shrine displayed several figurines, as well as flowers and incense sticks. A small sign was in both Chinese and Thai.

Just a few feet away was a tiny “public” bathroom. Having a curiosity of what bathrooms look like in Thailand, I was anxious to check it out. The closer you are to the tourist centers, the more likely the bathrooms will have a Western style. This was no where near the tourist centers.

The little room was slightly bigger than a closet, with a squat-toilet on the floor. No toilet paper. Just a hose inside a basin and a plastic bowl. There was a hand-rail, just in case you needed something to hold on to. Very rudimentary indeed.

We passed a small group of children playing with a basketball. No hoop. No goal. Just a an orange rubber ball that they bounced across the pavement.

These backyard streets lacked the vendors that you might see in Chinatown or Khao San Road. The vendors were there, but in fewer numbers.

On our last evening in Bangkok, on the way to the hotel, we passed a lady selling pad thai from a little stand in front of her home. One plastic table with two chairs were tucked into the shop. A windowed refrigerator had a few beverages for us to choose from, as well as the ingredients she needed for the pad thai. We watched as she cut all the fresh ingredients on a wooden cutting board, then fried them inside a wok to make my meal. I ate it right there, sitting at the little plastic table. Several flies swarmed around the humid outdoor room. The dish cost me 40 baht.

That evening I stood at the balcony of our hotel that overlooks the backside of several high-rise buildings. I thought about the people who live there. Thai's are very hard workers and don't have a lot of material wealth. Their dwellings are small. I could see that from my vantage point. I watched one lady hang her laundry—one by one—on her tiny rooftop.  She probably washed them by hand.

Even though we would be flying home tomorrow, life here would keep going. A backyard that appears crazy and chaotic to me, will continue to be their ordinary way of life. ♠

Wat Tham Seua (Tiger Cave Temple)

1,272 steep and grueling steps above the valley floor sits a shiny golden Buddha that overlooks limestone cliffs and the distant Andaman Sea. These forested mountains were once inhabited by tigers and later by monks, who came here to meditate. It is one of the most sacred Buddhist sites in the area.

There are no longer tigers near the temple, but plenty of monkeys near the foot of the stairway that leads to the top of the mountain. There is no particular building that would be considered “the temple,” but rather, the whole mountain complex. The most popular trail is one that leads to the shiny Buddha at the summit, but there is also another path that is less difficult that leads to a dell encircled by limestone outcrops. Here there are several caves and cells used by monks.

Tiger Cave Temple, or Wat Tham Suea in Thai, is located 488 miles south of Bangkok in the Krabi Provence. From nearby Krabi town, which is only 5 ½ miles away, it is possible to get here using a combination of songthaew and motorcycle taxi. We choose to visit as part of a day tour, which we booked from our hotel. Our group is very small and our tour-guide gives us a couple hours to do whatever we would like. Most of us choose to climb the stairs.

Today is the hottest day of our trip so far. Thailand is sweltering year-round, and March is especially scorching. What should you bring? I would suggest comfortable walking shoes, plenty of water, and modest clothing. We purchased extra water from a small store near the temple. As with all sacred Buddhist sites, please wear clothing that will cover your knees and shoulders.

The stairs to the top are steep, and seem to become steeper the further you ascend. In some places the handrails burn my palms. Although there is no drinking water along the way, there are bathrooms half way up.

The climb to the summit is too much for Jenelle, as she is sensitive to the heat. She decides to turn around and wait for me at the bottom.

The ascent will take approximately an hour, depending on how fit you are. Near the final level, just before the summit, there is a section where everyone has taken off their shoes. I remove mine also, as is common practice to show respect at a Buddhist sanctuary.

From the top, the panorama is breathtaking. In spite of the constant Asian haze, you can see for miles in every direction. To the north and west are the iconic limestone cliffs that give so much beauty to Southern Thailand. To the south one can see Krabi town, the Andaman Sea, and several of the closer islands. On the east side are many palm plantations, and south of them, mangrove forests. Directly below us is the village, the roofs creating an irregular patchwork.

Other than the large Buddha, there are also several shrines at the top. Some are miniature figurines with offerings and incense sticks.

A large bell-shaped chedi competes with the Buddha as the most prominent object at the summit. A chedi, as it is often referred to in Thailand, is also known as a stupa. Originally, they contained the remains of the Buddha, and later they were used to house the remains of Kings, or an important monk. The shape of the chedi is patterned after ancient burial mounds. As for the one here, I don't know whether or not it contains the bones or ashes of anyone. Regardless, it is an important structure within the Thai temple complex.

Because there is no one to monitor dress, not many of the visitors are dressed properly. Most wear shorts or sleeveless shirts. One man is shirtless. A Chinese woman uses a sarong to cover her high-cut shorts. In spite of their modesty or lack of it, most show respect. Some kneel down at the Buddha and others give offerings.

The trek down the mountain is far easier than the hike up. I am pleased to find Jenelle at the bottom and she has apparently found a vendor of ice-cold fruit smoothies, or in Thailand known simply as shakes. These shakes are ubiquitous and bring much needed relief on sultry days. We don't explore any other trails because we know our tour-guide will be waiting for us.

It is refreshing to find a religious sanctuary in Southern Thailand, which is often dominated with secular beaches. Wat Tham Suea is definitely worth the stop. ♠

 

Spirit Cave

[For the first time in 32 years, I returned to Spirit Cave. It looked better-preserved than I had remembered, as there were some ruins that I had forgotten about. This time, I brought my son with me and was able to show him the actual location of some of my old adventures.

The following account took place when I was twelve years old as a boy scout. I wrote it down a few years later, so most of it should be accurate, other than some literary license to fill in the gaps. I have slightly modified my old account, but have left it mostly as-is. The story of the pipe-bomb is 100% true.]

The first week of May we headed out of town to Spirit Cave. It is a wide alcove at the mouth of a little canyon covered in juniper trees, or as we would call them, “cedar trees.” Ancient Anasazi Indian ruins are scattered along the edges.

After unpacking, we built a fire and began preparing the dutch ovens. This time we were having barbeque chicken with dutch-oven potatoes. Very tasty! Along with a Pepsi, it would satisfy any stomach.

After dinner, we stood around the fire, warming our hands, when Damon suggested, “Let's make a pipe-bomb.”

“With what?” asked Courtney.

“A pipe. What else?! I saw one up on the rim of the cave.”

“I brought some black powder in my pack,” said Kevin, who was Damon's twin brother. (I think there was a hint of conspiracy here.)

“I've got matches,” I added. Walking over to get the the matches, I overheard Brother Lyman (our Scoutmaster) tell Damon to be careful, and if he were him, he wouldn't do it.

The pipe was one inch in diameter and just over a foot long. Damon placed the pipe on the ground, while Kevin poured in powder. Courtney stuffed cheat grass into the small opening and Brook lit it with a match. We all ran and ducked for cover. Nothing happened. Brook slowly walked toward it, hesitant because of the possibility of it going off. “It's out,” he said. He lit it again and ran for cover. Again nothing. We tried three more times and finally gave up.

In the meantime, we had cleaned up dinner and rolled out our sleeping bags. The sun went down and darkness fell upon Spirit Cave. The only light came from the red glow of our fire, and if you got far enough away, there were the pin pricks of stars in the dark sky above. A sudden chill came with the new night.

We decided to play flashlight wars. No camp-out is complete without its share of games. For this game, we would split into two teams. One team hides, while the other team looks for them. If you shine your light on one of the opposing team members and call their name, they're out.

I was on the team that had to hide. There was no moon, so I decided to hide close-by. I laid down under a cedar tree about fifty feet from camp. I was quiet. The other kids, scampering to their hideouts, could be heard in the distance. I waited. The wind whistled and leaves swayed back and forth.

At last, the opposing team had finished counting and was now on the search. No one came close enough for me to zap them with my flashlight. So I lay still. Once they had passed me, everything was quiet again. The camp fire crackled while crickets sang. The rising smoke above the cave looked eerie.

Courtney and Erik came walking toward the fire. Brook was behind them, escorting his victims back to the base. Here was a prime opportunity to free one. It was risky, but why not? I sprinted in and touched Erik on the back of his shoulder. Got him! I now had thirty seconds to find a new hide-out. This time I went further back and hid behind a huge rock.

Once again, everything was silent. There was little action taking place by other kids and the density of the cedar forest blocked most of my view.

A pack rat ran out in front of me into a hole in the cliff--or was it? At second glance, I noticed it was not a cliff, but an Indian ruin. It sent a small chill down my spine. Obviously, these ruins were evacuated hundreds of years ago, but the possibility of skinwalkers roamed my mind. Skinwalkers were the spirits of the Indians who used to live in these ruins. True or fiction, I didn't know. But the thought of it sure was freaky at a time when I was all alone at midnight with no moon.

Movements from behind startled me. I remained still and didn't worry. Those were the sounds of the night, and any harm they would do was all in my mind.

In the distance, I could hear Damon calling, “Lacy . . . . you're the last one! You've got no chance!” I put a smile on my face and told myself, “yeah, right.”

“We got you, Lacy.” Brook's voice shocked me from behind. Tim followed closely. “We got you, John.” I stood up and surrendered.

We all gathered around the camp fire and shot the bull. “Let's try the pipe-bomb again,” Damon strongly suggested. So, we did. Brook lit it again, and quickly ran for cover. A dud.

“If it doesn't go off this time, I give up.” Brook made a final attempt to set off the bomb. He struck the match on a nearby rock. He lit the cheat grass and half-heartedly trotted back.

BOOOOM!!!!!!

“Oh, crap!” Brook yelled, while diving to the ground. A large ball of fire flashed and a bellowing echo rang from the cave. Brother Lyman sat up in his sleeping bag and muttered something toward us. I didn't hear a word he said, because my ears were ringing like a telephone.

Once I could regain my hearing, I could hear Brook exclaiming, “Oh my hell! I was only two feet away from that sucker!”

“Dang, my ears are still ringing,” Courtney shook his head.

“Is everyone alright?” Brother Lyman came over in concern. “I warned you about this. Right now, I think it's best that you all go to bed.”

“Let's head,” said Brook, leading us to our bags.

“Where's the pipe?” asked Erik.

“It doesn't matter, as long as it ain't in the back of one of your heads,” Brother Lyman replied.

We settled down into our bags and started a conversation among us, not being able to sleep.

We talked of other kids at school and told jokes. The night grew darker as the last flame died out. Only red and black embers remained.

“Does anyone have any skinwalker stories?” someone asked.

Everyone else shook their head, but I piped up, “I've got one.” I then proceeded to tell my story:

“Remember Sister Redd, who used to teach us in Primary? I heard this story directly from her mouth. Many years ago when she was newly married, she had purchased an old wooden rocking chair that sat in the corner of the living room in her trailer. It looked as normal as the rest of her furniture. Late one night she awoke to get a drink of water. She passed through the living room to go to the kitchen, and traveled through the dark until she reached the sink, where she turned on the light. She got her drink of water, drank it, and dumped the rest out. As she heard the last of her water disappear down the drain, a blurred object in the living room caught her attention. An old Indian woman—very old it looked to her, maybe 105—was sitting in the rocking chair, knitting. The Indian woman was wearing a traditional Navajo dress. She stared at the woman for two minutes. Then she walked to the living room to turn on the light. She was gone.

“Sister Redd went back to bed, but couldn't sleep. The next day she went to the previous owners and told them her story. They said that ten years ago an old Navajo lady died in that very same rocking chair.”

“But I thought that skinwalkers were supposed to be evil spirits,” said Erik confused. “That old squaw may have scared Sister Redd, but her spirit wasn't evil.”

“Technically, from what I've learned, a skinwalker is a witch that has the ability to transform into a half human, half animal being. This witch may curse you in some way, either during birth, or after. He may curse you with blindness, deformations, cancer, or heart problems. Sometimes to curse you, he will shoot a bead made of bone in you. The only way to break the curse is to have the bead sucked out and shoot it into the skinwalker and kill him. At least, that's what I've read. But I understand what you're saying, Erik. Most of the stories I hear seem to use the term skinwalker to refer to an Indian ghost.”

Eventually the discussion ceased. Each kid lay in his sleeping bag pondering the subject of skinwalkers. Was the story they had heard really true? Or was it a far-fetched and out-stretched tale? It was hard to see the reality of it, but there was a side to each of us that wanted to believe it. We thought and visualized the subject until we got very sleepy. Then our thoughts turned to dreams. The dead of night moved in. Nothing around moved. Everything slept.

Before I awoke, breakfast was ready. It was last night's dutch-oven potatoes with eggs mixed in, along with bacon and sausage on the side. It looked to me like Courtney and Kevin were the early-birds who got up to make it. We all stood around the fire, holding our paper plates full of food.

The sky was blue, except for a white streak left behind from a high-flying jet. The Anasazi ruins were still there, and so were the cedar trees. I watched a rabbit scamper off into the bushes. Then I noticed a huge sparrow land on th . . . . BOOOOM!!!!  It sounded as if the whole world had blown up! I was so startled that all my sausages rolled off my plate. My ears rang. We all looked at Damon, who was standing against the rock wall, chuckling. While we ate, he had filled a sawed-off Mountain Dew can with black powder and lit it off! Obviously, he hadn't learned a lesson from last night.

As the fire died down, I volunteered to go out and collect more fuel. The only wood to burn was dead cedar branches that had fallen to the ground. I walked a good distance away from the fire and began gathering small sticks and a couple big ones. The heap was carried in my arms while my eyes could barely peer over the stack. I couldn't see the ground at all until the top branch fell off the pile. And when it fell, they all fell. I looked in amazement at an object nearly fifteen yards from my feet. Was it? Could it be? I wasn't sure, but it had to be. It was the pipe-bomb! And it had melted into a V-shape. Instantly I was thankful that none of us were hit by this flying object when I realized it was 100 yards away from the camp fire!

“Guys!” I yelled. “I found it, I found it!” I sprinted back to camp, with the evidence in my hands. My breathing rate was almost as fast as I was talking when I showed it to the boys.

“That could have killed one of us,” someone intelligently pointed out. We all stared in amazement at the melted V-shape of the once erect pipe.

We had an hour and a half left to do whatever we wanted before we left. I hiked a few hundred yards away and clamored onto a huge boulder where I sat. It was a good enough view where I could observe the entire place.

The temperature felt good unless the sun was behind a cloud. Then the wind turned chilly, creating goose bumps over my arms. Once the sun returned, the breeze was warm again and the boulder on which I sat felt nice and warm.

I was surprised when I saw a doe and fawn hop off into the trees. With all the commotion we had made, I thought they would have been spooked off long ago.

In my sight were the ruins built by the Anasazi. Their mysterious disappearance has inspired writers and raised man's curiosity for years.

These bygone people once inhabited this very land. Their name comes the Navajo, meaning “ancient one,” or more precisely, “enemy ancestor.” They were farmers, growing mostly corn, beans, and squash. They also built stone shelters, usually against the side of a cliff-wall to protect themselves from wind and their enemies. These houses were built of rectangular-shaped stones, piled several feet high. The over-hang of the cliff could protect against the elements, but they also used timber to create a thatched roof. Apparently they had to use ladders to get to some of these structures. There are some ruins that look impossible to be reached because they are so high upon steep, slick, and impossible-to-climb cliffs.

Not only were they master builders, but beautiful artists also. They produced huge quantities of pottery with artistic designs covering them, including artistic textures. Some of their weapons such as spears, knives, and arrowheads have been found scattered along the ground.

Although they seemed to have been a progressing tribe, something happened that caused them to vanish. No one knows exactly why, but many have their theory's. Some say a huge drought came and forced them to leave. Others speculate that hostile enemies chased them out. Some agree on both, but say they all fled into a sacred kiva to escape the evils of this world. There, they entered into a different realm, co-existing and sharing the same earth as us.

There hasn't been a single trace of where they might have went, although some think that they moved south and are the ancestors of the Pueblo Indians. Numerous questions have been left to ask. Why did they leave behind all their pots, baskets, and weapons? Things look as if they left in haste.

Only from what has survived the last seven hundred years can archeologists use to study the Anasazi's past. The stone houses still remain, but they have been crumbling for centuries. Broken pottery is scattered around the ground, proving, once assembled, that the Anasazi were great artists and potters. Grinding stones, mostly used to grind corn, can often be found. Hieroglyphics cover many of the cliff walls, showing some of their stories and beliefs.

As I looked at these ancient ruins that were built in and around Spirit Cave, my mind tried to comprehend the history behind it. The ruins had been abandoned for hundreds of years, or had they? Perhaps their spirits still lived here. That's sure how it felt the night before. Somehow the darkness has an effect on the mind that brings unsettling thoughts. ♠

Rattlesnakes

We had driven for miles over rough roads across the desert to inspect the archaic inscriptions that were scattered among the black rocks. I brought my two daughters, ages 11 and 13, who wore tennis shoes and were eager to explore along the long jagged cliffs. It had rained just minutes earlier, giving a pungent smell to the air and a dampness to the dirt.

Jenna and I climbed over the rocks and had already found several glyphs. Some appeared to be random squiggly lines, while others were recognizable as animals or men. Depictions of humans bore horns on their heads, which from what I understand, represent power, not the devil.

Suddenly, Jenna announced that she had to use the bathroom and she darted down the rocks toward our vehicle. As I stood on a large slab that was precariously balanced over a small ledge, I heard her yell out, “Dad, I found a snake!”

I expected it to be a blow snake, or some harmless breed of serpent. But when I made it to Jenna's side, I examined the design and color of the snake's skin and knew at once this was a rattlesnake. The small reptile appeared to be “teenager” in size and sat motionless in a coil with his head resting on his body. The infamous “rattle” was out of sight for the moment. Entwined in a near perfect coil, Jenna mistook the serpent for a cow pie at first.

There are some people who claim they see rattlesnakes all the time, but I am not one of those people. I could probably count on two hands how many rattlesnakes I have seen in my lifetime. I recall finding one at a family reunion on the mountain and my dad promptly killing it with a shotgun.

I have never killed one personally, but will admit that I have a secret desire to photograph one. And not just any photo will do. I want the snake coiled up, with the rattle and head both showing. It must be crisp. I've taken one other picture of a rattlesnake and it didn't quite meet all the requirements.

So now I was standing two feet away from a creature with lethal venom, next to my daughter, and my biggest thought was to get a picture! Of course, I made sure that Jenna was at least four feet back. And by now, Savanah was there too.

“I think he's sleeping,” Jenna said. Indeed, the creature didn't move. I was half-tempted to find a stick and see if he was even alive. I decided against that, but instead stood two feet back and leaned as far forward as I could over the coiled snake to get an areal photograph. This worked for a few shots, but suddenly the serpent awoke, and his once hidden rattle whipped out and stood erect, and vigorously vibrated. We all stepped back as our heart rates doubled. The rattlesnake uncoiled and writhed for a moment before slithering to a nearby bush where he entwined once again.

I couldn't just leave the situation. I hadn't taken the perfect picture yet. Now the creature hid beneath the bush, and although we could see it, there were branches and a pesky little plant that blocked part of the view. And he wasn't showing his rattle anymore. I will admit that I made a couple controversial moves and shook of the bush and tossed a twig or two toward him. I considered goading with a stick, but decided I wasn't that desperate.

After several minutes of waiting, we decided to move on and continue looking for petroglyphs. It wasn't twenty seconds later when Jenna shouted out, “There's another one!” Just twenty feet away from the first, spiraled up and basking in the sun, a large rattlesnake watched as three humans gathered around him. He was at least twice as big as the first and it didn't take long before he slid beneath a nearby rock, but still in plain view beneath the shadow of the overhang.

His rattle made the noise of death and appeared to vibrate at a hundred miles an hour. As he coiled up, his tail passed directly in front of his face while his long black tongue flicked in and out. His head, neck, and upper section lifted from the rest of the body, as if poised to strike at any moment. I quickly tried to remember the rules of how far a snake could strike, not sure if it was the full length, or half. Either way, I kept my distance.

I was able to snap some pictures that I felt should be satisfactory. But every few seconds I would gaze behind me to be sure there wasn't another serpent at my feet. Jenna tried to film with her phone, but admitted that she was still shaking. She was standing in an ant pile and didn't even know it.

After ten more minutes, we once again decided that our stalking of the snakes must be abandoned. We let the nervous creature be to himself and the rest of us humans decided to continue on. Jenna, after being the one to discover both snakes, opted to spend the rest of her time inside the vehicle where she was safe from any venomous bite.

Savanah and I continued to inspect the rocks for ancient inscriptions, but I admit that we spent more time looking at the ground than at the rocks. To put it mildly, I was paranoid. And then, to confirm all my paranoia, I spotted another rattlesnake just in front of us! He was as big as the first, and coiled up on the dirt, next to a cluster of cheat grass. I quickly grabbed Savanah's arm and yanked her back! This wily serpent didn't get any of our attention. No pictures. No gawking. We just moved out of the way and walked around it!

We stayed for an additional hour without seeing another snake. We found some intriguing petroglyphs, including some from the U.S. Cavalry in 1868. But most of the glyphs were much older and chiseled out by the Native tribes who lived here over a thousand years ago.

I wonder if the snakes are connected with these ancient people, somehow watching over and protecting their sacred site.

We finally called it quits and began driving the rough dirt road back toward our home. We hadn't gone far when I saw that we passed another snake. This one was elongated, no doubt attempting to cross the road. As I stopped the vehicle, we all raced behind to catch a glimpse of what it was. Sure enough, it was a rattler. This one was much smaller, which would make him more venomous. We watched for a fleeting few seconds as the young serpent wagged his rattle and slithered into obscurity through the grass that grew on the side of the road. ♠

Day of Sant Jordi

Deep within Spain's autonomous region of Catalunya lies the charming town of Girona.  The cathedral rises from the skyline, projecting from within the old Roman walls.  Lazy waters of the river Onyar subtly flow past pastel painted houses through the center of town and below the Pont de les Peixateries Velles.  Every 23rd day of April, the Rambla de la Llibertat becomes a spectacle of vendors selling roses and books to lovers and non-lovers alike.  They come to celebrate the day of their patron, Sant Jordi.

Spain is one of the most festive-laden countries in the world, rumored to have a holiday in one of its towns on every day of the year.  While living there during the early 90's, I became acquainted with Holy Week, the Fallas of Valencia, Carnival, The Day of San Juan, Three Kings Day, and numerous other celebrations.  Each one brought an exhilarating satisfaction of being able to experience such an event on foreign soil.

Girona is the only place where I experienced the Day of Sant Jordi.  I can still remember the streets full of people and tables set up with displays of roses and books.  Everything seemed to be festooned with red and yellow, the traditional colors of Catalunya.  It is on this day that the men buy a rose for the ladies, and the ladies buy a book for the men.  The holiday is very much akin to Valentines Day, but with a twist.

El Dia de Sant Jordi, or sometimes called the Day of the Roses, has its roots in a legend that goes back hundreds of years.  Although versions may vary, it is said that long ago, a dragon was attacking the kingdom.  In order to appease, two lambs a day were offered to the ferocious beast.  When animals became scarce, it was decided to draw lots among the people, and to feed the hungry dragon one person a day.  When the lot fell upon the princess, she was taken to the entrance of the dragon's cave where she encountered a knight named Jordi (George).  The knight slew the dragon, thus saving the princess and the kingdom.  As blood issued from the dragon, it transformed into a delicate rose, which the gentleman gave to the princess.

Hence originates the tradition of men giving a rose to the ladies.  As for the custom of gifting books, that didn't begin until 1923, probably to commemorate Miguel de Cervantes and William Shakespeare, who both died on April 23, 1616.

This is a really old photo of the Rambla de la Llibertat on the Day of Sant Jordi, 1994.

As for me, one reason that I took a liking to the Day of Sant Jordi is that it falls on my birthday.  And although I didn't have a significant other during my stay in Girona of 1994, I decided then and there that I would bring the tradition home with me to the States, and buy a rose for my future wife on that day.

I have lived up to my commitment.  For the last 21 years—on my birthday—I have bought a rose for my wonderful wife, Jenelle.  Several years ago I decided to expand the custom to include my four daughters.  I enjoy including them because, being kids, they don't receive flowers too often.   There is a glow of appreciation on their faces.  I think they look forward to it every year.

Now it is again that time of year to gift a rose to those I love.  Jenelle isn't home yet, so I leave hers on the pillow.  My two youngest are excited to see their roses, and Jenna, with a big smile on her face says, "Thank you, Dad!"  Savanah runs up and gives me a big hug.  Kaitlyn is in the shower, so I quietly set hers on her bed.

Brittany's rose is always the toughest one to deliver.  I get back in my truck, make the drive through our hometown, past kids playing in the park and green fields of alfalfa.  Having arrived at my destination, I carry the red rose across the grass and past the other memorials.  Gently, I tuck it behind a pot of flowers and next to a plastic angel that sits at the base of her headstone. ♠

 

The Death of Eri Lacy

Eri & Millie Lacy. The little boy is probably their son, Robert.

Young Earl came bounding down the hillside pumped on adrenaline. Most eleven-year-old boys wouldn't measure up to the task, but Earl was a Lacy, and by definition, that made him tough as nails.

The rugged slope bent steeply toward Plateau Creek, which was now beginning to disappear into the obscurity of darkness. Earl climbed over boulders, pushed through scrub oak, and slid down ravines to make it to the bottom. He carried a Winchester 30-30 rifle, but soon chucked it aside to lessen the burden. As night set in, the January air turned even colder.

At last he arrived at the bottom and emerged from the growth of scrub that grew along the slopes of the hill, panting like a wild dog, blonde hair disheveled, with scrapes and cuts over his clothes and body.  At the top of his worn-out lungs he exclaimed:

“Grandpa is dead! Grandpa is dead!”

Millie Lacy with her two sons, Howard and Earl in 1941.

Eri Lacy—my great-great grandfather—died on January 12, 1941 from a heart attack. High on the bluff, he had been packing a deer over his shoulders, down to the cabin where he lived at the confluence of Plateau Creek and the Colorado River. His grandson, Earl Lacy (Junior), was with him, and carried the rifle with which Eri had just shot the deer. Although the deer was shot out of season, and would be considered “poached” by today's standards, Eri was doing what people did back then to feed their families.

When the news of Eri's death arrived at the cabin, everyone stirred into action. Junior's dad, Earl Sr., had been drinking with a friend from the Garfield Mine, Walter Scott, and the two were quickly roused from their slumber. Junior's younger brother, Claude, was fetching water from a nearby spring and hauling jugs back to the cabin.

Immediately, young Earl led his father and mother up the steep escarpment to look for Grandpa Eri. Claude was ordered to stay behind, and Walter Scott went into town to get help. They carried a coal oil lamp and pushed their way through the ever growing darkness. At the age of thirty-six, Earl Lacy Sr. was still a very strong man, having been a professional wrestler in his early days. Adrenaline helped push him up the hill, as Eri was his father. Earl's wife, Garnette, who was very fond of Eri, followed the man and boy up the slope.

The rugged hike to Grandpa's body was dangerous at any time, and even more so in the dark. The tall ridge raises above the confluence of the Colorado River and Plateau Creek in western Colorado. The footing in some places can be treacherous, and often, the drop-offs fatal. I'm sure this was a route that Earl and Junior traveled often. At the upper end of the hill is a ravine that leads to the top of the plateau, sure to be a prime spot for hunting deer. 

Carving in a rock, indicating the death location of Eri Lacy.

Nearly a mile from their little cabin along the banks of Plateau Creek, the beam of the lantern cast its light on the body of Grandpa Eri. There is no account that I could find that describes the emotion of this event. I'm sure that Earl searched for a pulse, and perhaps shed some tears. We do know, however, that Earl found a large rock and wedged it into the crotch of a tree to mark the spot. Then he lifted his father onto his shoulders, perhaps in a fireman's carry, and began his way back down.

Even for a powerful man like Earl, the hike down was no easy feat—especially while carrying a grown man. Winter temperatures set in, making for a brisk night. Not only did he have to contend with the steep slope, but also with loose dirt, cactus, rocks, branches, patches of snow, and slick mud. The lantern cast needful light upon the path in front of them, but also created distortions with shadows, and failed to illuminate very far ahead. At one point, Earl slipped down a small embankment and hurt his back, an injury that bothered him the rest of his life.

About half way down, the group met with Walter Scott, who had brought Earl's brothers, Howard and Bob with him. They brought headlamps from the mine and helped carry Eri down the hill to the cabin where they could load him into the car and take him into town. He was only sixty-three years old when he passed away.

Eri and Millie Lacy on their wedding day in 1898.

Eri Lacy was born on March 7, 1875 in Burrton, Kansas to James Addison and Catherine Hatton Lacy. His mother was said to be full-blooded American Indian. Eri was the seventh of nine children. On March 16, 1898, he was married to Myrtle Millie Ansel in Newton, Kansas. Five children were born to this union: Howard William, Arthur Earl, Mary Marie, Pearl Kathryn, and Robert Raymond.

Eri and Millie lived in many places throughout Kansas and eastern Colorado. We know that he had his own Wild West Show where he also worked as the “pick-up” man for those who rode the horses⸺he was the one who helped them off their horse. When he lived in Syracuse, Kansas, he worked for the state highway, driving a team of mules to a road grader.

Around 1937 they moved to western Colorado where they lived in a cabin north of Palisade. They were the first of the Lacy family to move there—many others soon to follow suit. While in Palisade, Eri enjoyed playing poker at the local bar.

Of her grandfather, who died three years before her birth, Alice Barker spoke highly of him: “My mother, who was his daughter-in-law, said he was probably the finest man she ever knew, which is saying a lot, coming from a daughter-in-law. She just thought he was fantastic. He was crazy about Myrt (his granddaughter) because she was named after his wife. He called her his little Myrtie Ann and had a little rocking chair built like his, to sit beside his, so they could rock together. I wish I had known more about him because it sounds like he was really a nice guy.”

Millie Lacy at the grave of her husband, Eri, at the cemetery in Palisade, Colorado.  (1941)

Seventy-four years later, several descendants of Eri Lacy gathered at the bottom of the hill, near the creek from where their ancestor died. This location has been somewhat of a pilgrimage for us, although I worry that the tradition is dying out with the newer generations. For me, this was my third time to make the ascent, the first as a child with my grandpa Lacy, and the second in 2000 with my dad's cousin, Brett, and his kids, Dustin, Tanner, and Nate, and my brother, Walt.

This latest hike, however, was a little different. It had been many years since any of us had hiked to the location, and we were hoping, although not completely confident, that we would find it. To boot, we brought with us a group of 24 people, including 15 kids, all of them great-great-great grandchildren of Eri Lacy. And it was deep July, heading in to August, and the big ball of sun was already weighing heavily upon us by the time we began.

Abandoned structure near Plateau Creek, near where Eri Lacy lived in 1941.

The junction with Plateau Creek is reached by driving seven miles northeast of Palisade on I-70, and taking the Collbran exit. Immediately on the right-side, after rounding a long corner, is a turnout spot.  This is where we parked. An old stone building sits in decay at the parking spot and I wonder if this was one of the structures owned by the Lacy's in 1941. Any other sign of their being here, such as the service station, has long been torn down and removed. 

View of Colorado River and the Grand Valley Diversion Dam.

With Camelbaks and water bottles, our little horde began the trek up the side of the hill, the steepest part of the entire hike. According to the stories, the path that we took was the exact route taken by Earl, Garnette, and little Junior as they walked with lantern in-hand to retrieve Eri. The route taken by Junior right after Eri died, and while carrying the gun, was straight down the hill and more direct, but steeper and more dangerous.

At the crest of the hill there is a fine view of the Colorado River and the Grand Valley Diversion Dam in De Beque Canyon. Plateau Creek runs into the river near the interchange of the freeway.

Once all the straggling munchkins caught up with the front, we took a small water break and my dad told the full story of Eri's death. Although he wasn't born when his grandfather passed away, the story has been passed down.

From the crest (there is no path), the hike makes a u-turn to the south, but continues upward for a little while longer to create some distance from the precipitous cliffs now on our left. Once on top, the hill either slopes to the Colorado River side, or to the Plateau Creek side, and it is necessary to stay below the ridge on the Plateau Creek side. 

Descendants of Eri Lacy take a breather while hiking to the location of his death.

 

Plateau Creek snakes alongside the highway, as seen from the hike up the hill.

There are some good view-points of the creek and the road that straddles its side, known as the Grand Mesa Scenic Byway. It was at one of these stopping places that we began to learn that we might run into problems. Water bottles now began to deplete, and complaints of the heat from the kids murmured through the ranks. As for where we were going, that was becoming less obvious all the time. The terrain turned rugged and the side-canyon where we would have to go looked to be too wild for kids.

And as for finding “the spot,” we were only hoping to find it. None of us had been there in years. Walt and I had been much younger at the time, and my dad, now sixty-five years old, was exhausted with all the kids. As for myself, I relied on my “Google intuition” that I hoped would lead me directly there.

Our July heat was very different from the January chill that Earl and Garnette felt as they climbed the hill in the dark. I'm sure they carried no water, nor stopped to enjoy the views along the way, nor to eat a granola bar. I have to admire Earl Jr. for leading them to “the spot” in relative darkness. The trees and the rocks and the slopes begin to blend together when you're not familiar with them. This leads me to believe that for the Lacys of 1941, this was their stomping ground where they played, climbed, and hunted. That would also explain how Junior managed to run straight down the hill without getting ledged up.

Amidst the pleas to turn around and return to the vehicles, Walt and I persuaded our group of kin to stay with us for just fifteen more minutes. “If we don't find anything by then,” we told them, “you can go back.”

During the next quarter-hour, my hopes began to diminish that I would be able to show my kids where Eri Lacy died. We approached the mouth of the little canyon where we knew we must enter, but the terrain continued to push back with steep embankments, thorny bushes, and bouldering rocks. I knew that the mothers carrying toddlers on their backs would never want to venture further, and all but the hardiest of kids would refuse.

At last, we gave everyone the choice to continue on, or retreat. With most water bottles now empty, every person, except Walt and I, chose to return. We sent them on their way, but promised to join them shortly. This put pressure on us to hurry and find the location, so as to not leave them waiting too long.

The hike makes a turn into this side-canyon.

The side-canyon that pours from the plateau is where Eri died, but the question remained as to how far up the canyon we needed to go. From our hillside perch, we had to descend around the bend of the hill over very tricky earth. Without the kids to slow us down, we could now move at a quicker pace.

Sometime after the death of Eri, one his sons, probably Claude, returned to the spot and carved in a rock: “ERI LACY DIED JAN. 12, 1941.” This he did next to the tree in which he had wedged the rock. I remember when I had visited the site many years ago that the rock had then moved several feet above the ground, raising with the tree as it grew. These two landmarks, the rock and the carving, marked the spot that we searched for.

Once in the side-canyon, Walt and I split up and each scoured the area along the drainage in places where we thought it might be. My first two spots proved to be wrong.  As I began to move up-canyon, I heard Walt yell out that he had found it.

I hurried toward his voice and found him standing in the middle of the canyon bed, next to a large boulder that carried a faint inscription on it. None of the letters were as pronounced as I had remembered—the day and year had almost disappeared. To the left of the carving was another inscription, this one less deep and hurried that read: “Claude, Walt, and Karson Lacy.”

Walt pointed out to me that the tree that held the rock had blown over and was now lying next to the boulder. The rock that Earl Lacy placed inside the crotch was still there. 

The large boulder on the left is the rock that Earl Lacy carved to indicate that Eri Lacy died here.  The fallen tree is the one with the stone placed in the branches. 

 

Looking up-canyon.

I couldn't help but to wonder how long this little memorial would last. The inscription had faded since I had last seen it, and the tree had blown over. In another seventy-four years, would every sign of Eri's death be obliterated?

We spent another twenty minutes loitering around the site, searching for other relics. I would have liked to hike further up the canyon and onto the plateau to see if I could find where Eri might have killed his deer.

At length, Walt and I strapped our light loads onto our backs and began working our way back down. We knew we had it easy because our steps had the advantage of full sunlight and we were not carrying dead-weight over our shoulders. When we arrived at the bottom, we found that one vehicle had been left for the two of us to take back to the hotel. We unstrapped our gear and then I walked across the road and dipped my entire head into Plateau Creek, swishing it around for a few seconds, then dabbing it off with an old shirt. We stepped in the vehicle, cranked up the air, and drove to Palisade. 

Claude Lacy and family at site of Eri Lacy's death in 1992.

Postscript. The rifle that Earl Jr. tossed as he ran down the hill was a Winchester 30-30. It was found a year and a half later by Eri's son, Howard Lacy. They were hoping that if they found the gun that it would still be usable, as times back then were difficult. Their hopes were in vain, however, and the rifle proved to be rusty and of no use.

Eri's wife, Millie, continued to live in Palisade after her husband's death. Her grand-kids knew her as “Little Grandma Lacy.” Sixteen years later on February 12, 1957, she was killed in an automobile accident in Deschutes County, Oregon while traveling with her grandson. She is buried alongside her husband—just across the fence from a corn field—at the cemetery in Palisade. ♠

The pink line represents the approximate hiking route to site where Eri Lacy died.

Sources

Barker, Alice Lacy. Interview by John Lacy, March 30, 2009.

Lacy, Claude. Conversation with John Lacy, June 27, 2000.

Lacy, Claude. Interview by John Lacy, August 16, 2005.