In Defense of Slavomir Rawicz

Few stories have ever gripped me like that of The Long Walk by Slavomir Rawicz. This real-life saga describes Rawicz's capture by the Russians during the 1939 invasion of Poland, and follows through to imprisonment, conveyance to a gulag camp in Siberia, and his subsequent escape. Along with other men, the group walked all the way to Calcutta, India, a distance of 4,000 miles. What an amazing story! That is, until I did a little digging and learned that many believe Rawicz's story to be a hoax.
 
Oh, how I wanted to believe the story. I am a trusting person. I am convinced that we as humans can accomplish feats far beyond our imagined capacity. Although I doubt that I could execute such an endeavor, Mr. Rawicz's story inspired me to do much better.
 
The book was actually written by a ghost writer, Ronald Downing, a British journalist who was researching the abominable snowman, or Yeti. Someone told him of a Pole living in England who had seen a similar creature while walking through the Himalayas. Upon meeting Slavomir Rawicz, the journalist quickly became fascinated with the story as a whole. The two agreed that it was time for the account to be told.
 
The book is very well written, with an intriguing emphasis on detail. Whether it is being handcuffed to a heavy steel chain during a forced march through Siberia, or the sight of a Pavel Bure silver watch carried by a Mongolian nomad, Rawicz seems to have an amazing memory.
 
While crossing the Gobi Desert, two members of their party die and are buried. To survive, the remaining men catch snakes for food and suck water from a scarce section of mud. At one point, they go thirteen days with no water.—And this is where the skeptics come in.
 
They will point out that it is impossible to survive that long without quenching your thirst. And a sighting of an abominable snowman . . . . nonsense! Furthermore, they will point out that the Soviet Union listed his name as being released in 1942 and sent to Persia. And, where are the remaining four survivors who fled with him? Why haven't they stepped forward and told their story? Why hasn't he kept in contact with them?
 
These are valid concerns. A quick Google search will uncover a small “Long Walk controversy.” Both sides seem to be equally represented. People would like to know: Did Slavomir Rawicz really travel thousands of miles to escape the Soviet Gulag, or is it an epic tale that is well crafted, but a fabricated lie?
 
My first question in rebuttal is obvious: What would Mr. Rawicz have to gain by making up such a story? Some might suggest praise. But it was Ronald Downing who approached Slavomir with the proposal. Even after that he was hesitant because when the book was published (in 1956), the Soviet Union was still enthralled in Communism and he still had family that lived there.
 
Some might discredit him because of the vivid details in the account, claiming that no one could recall such facts accurately. If that charge were being made against me, they would be correct. Although, from my life experience, there are those who can, with accuracy, recall vast details from events that happened seventy years in the past. It is as if the incident happened yesterday. I believe Slavomir Rawicz is one of those people. He accused his ghost writer, Mr. Downing, of embellishing some parts. So, if you combine a vivid memory with a very good writer, you are apt to get a novel with lots of intricate details.
 
Concerning the thirteen days without water, maybe it did, or did not happen. I don't know. Perhaps this was a detail that was blurred with time, and what was “many” days morphed in “13 days.” Or, maybe the account is accurate and these men accomplished a feat which most would consider humanly impossible. I have read many accounts of people who did extraordinary things in extraordinary circumstances. Such a story is easy to dismiss when we are such a soft society. We life a life of luxury and comfort and can't fathom such a hardship, let alone surviving it.
 
The sighting of the abominable snowman, or yeti, might lead some to believe this is a work of fiction. Sightings like this are not unheard of: Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster and mermaids to name a few. I have a friend who once claimed he saw a herd of mountain goats in the Virgin River Gorge. “Impossible,” I told him. “That's at least 150 miles from their closest habitat!” But he held firmly to his claim and gave an accurate description of the goats.
 
In his book, Slavomir Rawicz describes the experience of seeing the yeti: “They were enormous and walked on their hind legs. . . . Their faces I could not see in detail, but the heads were squarish and the ears must lie close to the skull because there was no projection from the silhouette against the snow. The shoulders sloped sharply down to a powerful chest. The arms were long and the wrists reached the level of the knees. . . . It would have been easy to have seen them waddle off at a distance and dismissed them as bear or big ape of the orangutan species. . . . There was something of both the bear and the ape about their general shape but they could not be mistaken for either. The color was a rusty kind of brown. They appeared to be covered by two distinct kinds of hair—the reddish hair which gave them their characteristic color forming a tight, close fur against the body, mingling with which were long, loose, straight hairs, hanging downwards, which had a slight grayish tinge as the light caught them.”
 
You may choose to believe or not, but just because you may disbelieve doesn't mean the incident didn't happen or that the observer didn't see something that was unexplainable. And, I might add, if Slavomir Rawicz was intent on selling a fabricated story to the world, why would he throw in such an unbelievable encounter with the abominable snowman?
 
According to a BBC report in 2006, Russian documents have come forth “proving” that Rawicz had been freed from the Soviet Gulag Camp in 1942, which would have been during the same time he would have been making The Long Walk. ——I guess the debate is over. The Russians, whom everyone knows wouldn't lie, have produced evidence from their meticulous records, during a time when the masses were being rounded up in cattle cars. —— I don't think so.
 
Another allegation, apparently made soon after the initial book release, was made by a few people familiar with the Himalayas, including a Mount Everest leader, Eric Shipton. He cites inconsistencies, which make it in his eyes a hoax. Again, I will state as I have previously that time or weakness may have blurred some of the details reported by Rawicz. I also can't help but to remember a project I did in High School in which we had to analyze a map and include the general direction of a geological feature. I chose Grand Gulch and used a detailed map that my dad had. I stated that the primary canyon ran southeast to northwest. When I got my corrected paper back, my arrogant teacher (whom lived in another town because the class was broadcast over a television) wrote “unlikely” on my paper because “Grand Gulch ran northeast to southwest.” It turns out we were both right, but because my map focused in on a tighter geographical region, it only showed a portion of the canyon that ran opposite to the rest. —My point in all this is that even though a so-called expert may think he knows all about the Himalayas, no one will know it perfectly, and Slavomir Rawicz's trek may have been different than most others.
 
Lastly, I would like to mention a book written by Linda Willis, entitled Looking For Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith was an American and a member of Rawicz's group. Her research led her to believe that Slavomir Rawicz did not make The Long Walk, but perhaps another person did, and Slavomir just stole his story.
 
Enter into the mix Witold Glinski, a Pole whose story is nearly identical to that of Rawicz, minus a few embellishments. She suggests that Mr. Rawicz found his story among official papers in the Polish Embassy and used it to concoct his own story. Glinski didn't even tell his wife about the escape until 2003, just a year before Rawicz died. I find it possible that Glinski was a member of Rawicz's group, but that Rawicz changed his name to protect him. I also find it ironic that Ms. Willis finds Glinski's account believable and Rawicz's unbelievable, when the two stories are nearly identical, including the trek through the Himalayas.
 
The story of Slavomir Rawicz ends happily. After the trek he moved to England where in 1946 he married his wife, Marjorie, and had five children together. In spite of his ill-health, he was able to find employment, first as a woodworking instructor, then as a cabinet maker. He and his wife also ran a guest house in Castle Donington. After the publication of his book, he was able to buy a house that was big enough for their children and farm animals. Later he worked as a technician at Nottingham College in the arts and ceramics department. He retired from there in 1975 after suffering a heart attack. During his retirement he spent time restoring furniture and looking after their large garden.
 
Slavomir Rawicz passed away peacefully on April 5, 2004 at the age of eighty-eight. ♠ 

Slavomir Rawicz.

The Humble Potato

Many years ago, before a trip to Ireland, I asked a friend who had lived there about the cuisine. “What are some of the authentic foods?” I asked. Without hesitation, and with a smile in his voice, he replied, “The Potato.”
 
He wasn't kidding. After a long bus ride to Galway from Dublin, our first meal on the island was at a quaint gray-bricked building on Market Street called Finnegans. I ordered the Irish Stew, or simply referred to as “stew” by the locals. When my plate arrived, not only did my stew contain chunks of spud, but it came with a side of two boiled red potatoes and and a pile of mashed! This pattern continued throughout our stay on the Emerald Isle.
 
I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, it was Ireland that depended on the tuber so heavily that when the crop failed in the mid-1800's it created a famine that killed over a million people. Leading up to the “Great Hunger” was a period when Irish peasants were forced onto smaller tracts of land to allow room for grazing cattle of the British. The potato became the staple of their diet, growing well in less favorable soil. It is said that roughly 40 percent of the Irish ate no other solid food other than potatoes. When the blight first hit in 1845, it is estimated that over three million Irish were totally dependent on the potato. The result was death by starvation and disease, as well as a mass migration to other countries, including the United States.

The potato, or Solanum tuberosum, originates from the Andes Mountains in South America. The natives grew them on terraced slopes where it wasn't uncommon for each village to have a dozen different varieties. Some of the tubers contained toxic compounds which were neutralized with clay or dirt that was made into a paste and eaten with the potato. Much as we do, the Andean people ate their potatoes roasted, mashed or boiled, but also dried, fermented or frozen.
 
The first known Europeans to come across the potato was a group led by Francisco Pizarro, who landed in Ecuador in 1532 among the Incas. Within a few decades, farmers in the Canary Islands were growing them in great enough quantities to ship to mainland Europe. During the next century, the Solanum tuberosum would find its way around the world as part of the Columbian Exchange.
 
In our modern world, the potato is the fifth most important crop, surpassed in harvest volume only by rice, sugarcane, wheat and maize. According to Charles Mann's book, 1493, “The potato can better sustain life than any other food when eaten as the sole item of diet. It has all essential nutrients except vitamins A and D, which can be supplied by milk.” This is how the Irish, whose meager diet consisted of potatoes and milk, could survive remarkably well.

Patatas a lo pobre from Granada, Spain.

Nowadays you can find tortilla de patata in Spain, borsch in Poland, and massaman curry in Thailand, all using a descendant of the South American potato. In my own culture in the American Southwest, a very revered dish is "dutch-oven 'taters." When the Mormon pioneers moved westward across the plains, they brought cast iron pots which they used to cook their food. That tradition has carried on, and now, no serious meal while camping would be complete without frying up bacon and onions, and baking slices of potato in a dutch oven over coals.
 
About fifteen years ago I visited my friend, Billy, and we were in his back yard admiring his garden. I noticed the wide furrows and plants growing from the banks of earth. “What are these?” I asked, not recognizing the leaves. “They're potato plants,” he responded. “We can dig some up and you can take 'em home.”
 
The idea of growing potatoes in a garden had never occurred to me. The following spring I bought some Red Pontiac potatoes from a catalog and cut each tuber so that each section contained at least one eye. We planted two rows that first year, and I was surprised at how easily and green the plants grew.
 
I have planted potatoes every year since then, occasionally experimenting with different varieties. It has easily become my favorite crop. It grows easily, not only the ones you plant, but also the volunteer plants that germinate from leftover spuds. When harvest time arrives, I love that there is no rush to dig them up before the first frost, but that you can leave them in the ground, protected from the cold. Storage is simple. All I do is keep them in a tote with no lid in our storage room in the basement. They stay good until spring. The quality of my own potatoes exceeds that of what is available in the store, and lasts much longer.
 
And most of all I like to cook with them. I know that potatoes are basic and cheap to buy, but when we have a whole container in the basement, we tend to use them more, and it brings down the price of our groceries. We eat them in soups, stews, or mashed, fried, baked etc.
 
Now it is harvest time again and tomorrow I have to go out with shovel-in-hand to dig up tubers. I will admit that it is a little difficult when you haven't kept up on the weeding to distinguish the potato plants from the pig weed. But I will continue digging down the line, on each side of the furrow until I reach the end. Sometimes I am disappointed when I dig and uncover just a handful of small spuds. But when luck would have it that I dig and lever the shovel and overturn a plethora of fat Red Pontiac, then I feel as if I've just won the jackpot! ♠ 

Dutch-oven potatoes.

Feeding the Enemy

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I hate hiking where there's people—especially the crowds. Sometimes it's unavoidable. I had hoped that this place also would be thin with human visitation. Even though images of it are iconic, many people are simply unaware of its remote location.

After thirty-two miles on a dirt road we finally arrived at the parking area, and to my disappointment, there were already a dozen vehicles. With no other choice but to concede, we began setting up camp.

I came with a couple buddies from work and a brother to one. Our intent was to explore a rugged land carved with canyons, once inhabited by an ancient people and later used as a hideout for outlaws.

We set up our cots, then Rob warmed up supper in a dutch oven with a small propane stove. We ate “chilighetti” under the remaining light of day.

A crisp breeze picked up and we worried about staying warm during the night. But as the stars began to fill the sky, another thing picked up also—a guitar.

The camp just behind us set up in a semicircle of tents and trailers, with the open end facing us. A large fire in the center threw flames into the air while those around drank and talked loudly. All the while, a lone player strummed his guitar and sang boisterously into the night air.

We all rolled our eyes as we sat quietly in our camp chairs. “This better not last all night,” I was quick to voice my opinion. We were all running on fumes and needed a good night's rest in order to tackle a full day of hiking.

This is one reason why I don't like hiking or camping where there are people. Many of them tend to be the party type and have no consideration for others. When I'm outside, I just want it to be myself, the breeze and stars.

On the other side of camp was another group, less rambunctious, but still making a racket as they set up their tents. I remember their license plates being from Colorado and Massachusetts. I wish that such places as this (referring to the place we were about to hike) were not marketed to vast amounts of people via the internet and guidebooks. I'd like to have it all to myself!

When it came time for bed, I nestled into my sleeping bag, which I rolled out over my cot and under the wide dark sky. I folded one blanket beneath me and the other over. I wore a camouflaged head-cover that I had used hunting, that wrapped around my ears and chin. With a head-lamp, I rested on my pillow and wound down with a Louis L'Amour book.

Meanwhile, when I took the opportunity to look upward, the stars in the sky seemed to glisten a hundredfold. With no moon in sight, the creamy Milky Way spanned directly above us. I found the Big Dipper and Polaris, and realized I had been slightly off in my orientation. Small blinking lights moved far in the sky, probably either airplanes or satellites.

As I turned the pages of my book, I had hoped the group with the fire would have mellowed out. Not so. The same guy strumming the guitar hadn't stopped singing since dinnertime. They laughed and spoke loudly, as if they were the only campers here.

As for our neighbors on the other side, they weren't quite as flagrant as the others, but still made lots of noise. Two more cars joined them, and for a long time, a set of headlights shined directly on us. Sometime later, a couple of them came trudging near our camp with flashlights wagging ahead. We had to listen to them set up tents and converse until very late in the evening.

At last it was time to put down the book and make an attempt at sleep. The wind was picking up and I worried that my blanket would blow off. The temperature was supposed to get down to 40⁰F that night. The guy with the guitar continued to sing, but I did my best to let my mind relax.

After a long night mingled with sleep and wakefulness, the pre-morning sun began to light the sky in the east. When all of us finally awoke, the first topic of comment was that of our noisy neighbors. “Two of them came walking right through our camp with their flashlights!” Dave complained. 

We seemed to be the first ones awake, and I didn't hesitate to display my irritation. I didn't yell, but when I spoke, I didn't whisper either. I hoped to wake them up. If I spoke bad of them (meaning our neighbors) and they were to hear me, I wouldn't care. In fact, I wanted them to know how perturbed I was at them. What I really wanted to do was get a stick and frying pan and walk through their camp while banging the two together, yelling out, “Wakie, wakie!”

Little by little, they did wake up, although I'm sure it had nothing to do with us. Before our hike, Rob cooked us breakfast. In the same dutch oven he fried sausage and scrambled eggs. We spooned them into tortillas and drizzled hot sauce over the top. We ate to our stomach's content.

When we were done, Rob asked each of us if we had had enough. When we assured him we had, he then made a declaration: “I might go ask those guys if they want to eat the rest.” Then he pointed toward our neighbors on the side.

What was he doing? Feeding the enemy? He couldn't do that. I was still mad at them! But he did it anyway.

Using the handle of the dutch oven, he carried it in his right hand while packing the tortillas and a spatula in his left. I watched him walk over to a small log where they sat. From a distance, I could see their eyes light up and I watched Robbie hand each of them a tortilla and then he scraped a healthy spoonful from the oven.

When he returned he wore a big smile. “They all had some except the vegetarians.” Then he saw the carton on the tailgate and said, “I better go see if they want orange juice.”

The deed he did felt right. We later passed some of them on the hike and they enthusiastically thanked him again for the breakfast burritos. I learned a lesson that morning, a lesson that many have already learned. Negative feelings toward anyone is never a good thing. Sometimes all it takes to wash those feelings away and to see them as real people is an act of kindness. ♠

Rocky Mountain High

There are places in the world that I long to explore, yet one continues to climb to the summit of my mind. The Rocky Mountains of Colorado are rugged and breathtaking. To camp at the base of a lonely peak or to ascend a mighty fourteener is an experience not to be forgotten. 

 

In August I was able to bring my two daughters on a hike to a high-mountain lake that is 12,270 feet above sea level. The 7-mile jaunt took us past waterfalls, wildflowers and old mining structures. Although the hike brought awe to their eyes, it also brought fatigue to their feet. My 13 year-old struggled to breath at the highest elevations.

 

I include a photographic chronicle of our adventure, but deliberately omit a specific location. I'm sure the determined person can figure out where we went; however, there is no reason to advertise the location further. As it was, we passed too many people (124 to be exact) on the way down. ♠

 

The Death of Harry Hopkins

If a person had to die, this would be the place to do it. The young cowboy was probably admiring the view of South Peak, for he still had his field glasses around his neck. Perhaps he looked for deer and wild turkey below the towering ponderosa pine or amidst the scrub oak. But to be shot in the back . . .

The death of Harry Hopkins brings a sense of intrigue and mystery. Very little is known about his past, including his family or place of birth. As far as who pulled the trigger, that has never been solved either, although there are some pretty good theories.

Harry was a cook and ranch-hand for the L.C. Cattle Company in 1887. This was an interesting time on the wild frontier of what would become southeastern Utah. The Mormons, who a few years earlier had arrived in Bluff, now pushed northward to Verdure Creek, where they established a small community they called South Montezuma. The cowboys had their range spread across much of the eastern slopes of the Abajo Mountains, the Carlisles in the north and the L.C. Cattle Company in the south. As for the Utes, they had been here longer than anyone.

Cowboy story singer, Stan Bronson, put it accurately when he penned: “Cowboys and Indians and Mormons, most of those people were fine. But some of those people were up to no good, making trouble all the time.”

One such example occurred just a few years earlier when a Ute Indian fell into a quarrel with a cowboy over a horse. The cowboy shot the Indian through the mouth, but miraculously he survived. This didn't settle well with the other Utes and they started causing havoc with the cattleman, so much that they soon picked up camp and began to move out. That's when the Utes rode in with bullets whistling, stealing several of their horses, killing four mules and burning a wagon.

The L.C. Cattle Company arrived in San Juan during 1880. In 1881, the owner, Issac Lacy, was shot by one of his own employees, a former gunfighter from Tombstone. His wife took over the business and hired a foreman to handle operations. The company located their headquarters near Recapture Canyon and had a summer camp near Verdure. It was here that the young Harry Hopkins cooked for the cowboys while they were out on the range.

The cowboys camped a couple miles west of South Montezuma. Harry came from time to time for supplies. Mary Jones, a resident of the young settlement, recalled the events leading up to the murder:

“The L.C. Ranch had a summer camp on the Blue Mountain, not far from the Verdure [South Montezuma] settlement. A teenage boy by the name of Hawkins [Hopkins] took care of the camp and the horses while the men were out on the range. He came down to buy eggs, milk and butter from the Mormon women and would stay and visit until late afternoon. On one such trip the boy seemed reluctant to go back to camp. The women sensed his uneasiness and urged him to stay overnight. But he must feed the horses. The cowboys depended upon him.”

Harry returned to camp where he prepared the afternoon meal. While waiting for the riders to come back he climbed a hill and sat on a drift fence with his binoculars. No doubt he enjoyed the solitude and pungent smell of pine. Before him, beyond the forested gulf of Verdure Canyon, rose the ominous summit of South Peak.

Unknown to the young camp-hand, someone was creeping through the brush behind him. Without any apparent warning, Harry Hopkins was shot in the back, dropping him dead.

When the cowboys returned, they found dutch ovens full of food at the edge of the fire, but their cook was no where to be found. That night, a violent thunder storm rolled across the mountain.

The next day, Harry failed to make his usual appearance at South Montezuma. Mary Jones remembered: “Soon Old Wash, a Ute Indian, came by and said the boy was dead. Wash claimed that [Hopkins] had been standing on a log looking for horses through his field glasses and was struck by a bolt of lightning.”

A group of men hurried to the site, where Hickory Dennis and another cowboy, possibly Parley Butt, found the boy face-down in the mud with two bullet holes in his back. His body was too decomposed to move, so they dug a hole at the spot and rolled him in.

The incident elevated tension between the three groups. Everyone was wary of the Indians. For days on the Blue and LaSal Mountains, Indian signal fires burned, sending plumes of smoke in the air, a sure sign that they were on the warpath. The white man worried there was an Indian behind every tree.

Some of the cowboys also wished to drive away the settlers of South Montezuma. In a rage they declared: “You Mormons clear out of here in ten days or we will annihilate you!” This threat caused the Mormons to seek protection from U.S. Soldiers, who came from Fort Lewis near Durango.

As for a motive for the murder, only theories will suffice. Harry was a cook for stockman on the Disappointment Range near the Lone Cone in Colorado, where several Indians were killed by cowboys. Perhaps his killing was an act of retaliation. Another theory is that Harry was an outlaw and had been discovered by an old enemy. Or, as Albert R. Lyman theorized, the Utes were always looking for excitement and Harry was the victim of a potshot.

The cowboy cook is buried where he died, at the head of Devils Canyon. An old fence made of poles surrounds the burial plot. Inside is a head and foot stone, with the simple inscription of “H H Hopkins.”

The story of Harry Hopkins is intriguing. It is best told around the campfire, at night when the cicadas are serenading and a gentle breeze is subtly bending the tall grass. ♠

Sources 

Lacy, Steve, and Pearl Biddlecome Baker. Posey, the Last Indian War. Gibbs Smith, 2007.

Lyman, Albert R. Indians and Outlaws: Settling of the San Juan Frontier. K.R. Lyman, 1980.

Palmer, Cameron. “Eagle Project.” 2001.

Young, Norma Perkins. Anchored Lariats on the San Juan Frontier. Community Press, 1985.

My Barcelona '92

View of Barcelona from Montjuïc.

I can't imagine another combination that would ignite a passion for foreign travel like the one I experienced during my first journey abroad in August of 1992. This wasn't just a trip abroad—I was going there to live!

Upon arrival at the airport in Barcelona, excitement prevailed the second we departed the airplane. The Chinese women's volleyball team and the Italian rowing team arrived at the same time as us. It was all a fog and unexpected, but I remember them wearing their national colors and being tall. When we descended the escalators, I looked out the giant glass windows and saw palm trees. Humidity flowed across my face, and for the first time, I considered that Spain could have a tropical climate. At the bottom of the escalators, a television crew pointed their cameras straight at us. We smiled as we walked past them, noticing that they were really pointed at the Olympic team right behind us.

Oh! Did I mention that we landed in Barcelona, Spain, just three days before the Summer Olympics?

Armed guards during the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona.

I should back up and briefly explain why I had even more reason to be thrilled to be here. I am a wrestler. In Junior High, I "knew" that I would become an Olympic wrestler someday. I was that good. I had it all planned out. I also knew that I would serve a mission for my church when I turned nineteen, but if I were to delay that mission just a few months, then I could wrestle in the Olympics (in 1992). At that time, the location of the games were unknown.

Years passed, and I became aware that I was not Olympic material. During the early part of 1992 the hype of Barcelona began, and so did the anticipation of receiving my mission call. In hopeful fashion, I made a prediction of where I would be called: Barcelona, Spain. When I opened up the letter and read those exact words, elation filled my soul, and a sense of destiny came echoing within. 

Now, here I was, half a world away, in a city of nearly two million, swarming with motorcycles and mopeds. The Barcelona that I first witnessed was not the true Barcelona. The blend of faces that I saw were not the Catalan, the Castillian and a sprinkle of South American. It was also the German, the Russian, the British, the American.

Our apartment (with windows wide open) on the seventeenth story in Cornellà.

I will admit that not everything was centered around the Olympics during those three weeks. I met my new companion and we hauled my luggage onto the blue line of the subway and were whisked forty-five minutes away to Cornellà, a suburb of Barcelona. There life was normal, at a slower pace than the bigger city, and perhaps slower than normal due to the fact that half the town was gone on summer vacation.

Those days in Cornellà were filled with learning. We lived atop the highest building in town, on the 17^th story. We faced away from downtown Barcelona, but after an exceptional rainstorm, the smog cleared, and I learned that we could see the Mediterranean Sea from our window!

Our opportunities to preach the gospel proved difficult. We knocked on doors and also contacted people on the street. Occasionally, we would get invited inside an apartment. I remember my first attempt to teach. We sat in the living room of Juan, a Peruvian, and I trembled as I delivered a memorized lesson in Spanish. I don't know if he understood me, and I know that I didn't understand him.

Olympic Stadium.

Olympic diving pool overlooks the city.

We took any available opportunity to take the metro back to Barcelona and partake of the excitement. We ascended Montjuïc, the crowning hill of Olympic festivities. We walked past Olympic Stadium, not going inside, but still able to see the burning caldron. On the television a few nights earlier, we had watched the opening ceremonies and witnessed an archer who flung a burning arrow from the stadium floor, high into the air, arching and dropping perfectly into the center of the caldron, igniting it and officially commencing the games. 

We also strolled passed the diving pool, uniquely outdoors and open-faced so as to look upon the entire city. After dark, a large fountain of water danced with movement and color to the song Barcelona, by Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballé. The choreographed show attracted hundreds of spectators and went off every half hour or so.

Olympic Village.

On another day, we slipped into Barcelona again, this time with the excuse that we were going to hand out pamphlets on the Rambla, the most famous pedestrian street in the city. I remember the Rambla being very busy. People were there from everywhere. Suddenly, we noticed a gathering of an unusually large group of people along a side-street. Curiously, we moved to where they were. They waited alongside a large bus with tinted windows. The bus sat outside an old hotel in the city center.

I should remind the reader, if he hasn't already remembered, that 1992 was the year of the Dream Team. Not Dream Team II or Dream Team III. The original Dream Team! Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan. That Dream Team!

As we waited with the rest of the crowd, we learned that the Dream Team was about to enter the bus and drive away for their game against Spain. We waited and waited and soon, Chuck Daily walked down the steps of the hotel and onto the bus. The bus closed its doors and slowly began to drive away. Little did we know that the team was already inside the bus, but out of view because of the tinted windows. As it drove within feet of us, I was able to peer through the windows and catch a glance of three players: Larry Bird, John Stockton, and Scotty Pippen.

My "little friends" on a street in Cornellà.

Back in Cornellà, we continued our work. Slowly, but surely, I immersed myself in Spanish culture. I learned that Spaniards buy their milk in a box and that you will find cured pig legs hanging up in every meat shop. I learned that Ranch Dressing does not exist in Spain and that paella is a wonderful rice dish with seafood and chicken and whatever else you want on it.

As we knocked doors one afternoon, we unexpectedly had a somber, almost spiritual experience. As I remember, no one in that building was answering their door, although we knew that some were home because we could hear their televisions. We began at the top (probably five or seven stories high), and worked our way down. About half way through, we heard a familiar sweet tune waft from beyond the door. It was the Star Spangled Banner. An American had won gold. I don't know who, but I know they did. We sat on a step in the hallway, and quietly listened to that beautiful song until the very last note. We were happy to be where we were, but felt a twinge of homesickness, as well as pride.

Water polo game at the '92 Olympics.

We still hadn't watched any event in person. It was our goal to say we had. And I knew what I wanted to watch: wrestling. I was determined to watch my childhood heroes, John Smith and Kenny Monday, win gold. I was also convinced that destiny was to be played out on this day, fulfilling my Junior High premonition. It is true that I was not wrestling in the Olympics myself, but watching them in person had to be the next best thing. 

It was, however, not to be. The ticket office told us they were sold out. We decided to walk toward the venue to see if any scalpers were selling. As chance would have it, we passed scalpers who offered us tickets, but they were before we got to the wrestling venue and were water polo tickets. We gave in, deciding it was better to watch water polo, than to risk finding nothing at the wrestling venue and get stuck watching nothing at all.

So we watched two water polo games: Italy vs. Cuba and Germany vs. Czechoslovakia. We enjoyed them both. I remember being impressed at how well they could tread water and laughing at the German girl who flicked her hair at the exact moment I clicked my picture of the pool.

Three weeks after arriving in the city, our Olympic experience was about to end. We returned to our apartment after a long day of work. I don't remember if we had a radio, or if one of us missionaries had taken a very good guess of when the firework display would take place. It was the night of the closing ceremony and we were determined that in someway, we were going to watch a part of it. My companion (Elder Harpham) had found a way to unlock the door that led to the roof of our seventeen-story building. We brought a few snacks with us and dressed in sweats. Once on the roof, we admired the view. Below us people walked around like ants, and Peugeots and Volvos moved around like matchbox cars. The population of Barcelona with all its suburbs is six million. We could probably see most of that spread. Like a giant abyss, the city lights abruptly ended at the edge of the sea. Our focus was Montjuïc, the sight of the Olympic Stadium and firework display. We knew it would be big. We waited and watched, hoping at any time that the show would begin. Nothing. I don't know if we were too early, or too late, but we never did experience our firework display. Disappointed, we descended the steps back to our apartment.

We didn't allow the let-down from one evening destroy our memory of the rest of the three weeks. Like I wrote earlier, this is how I began my first “trip abroad.” I loved it! My passion for travel began during those days, and evolved into what it is now. Even though I have traveled to other cities with just as much charisma as Barcelona, I still hold this Mediterranean jewel my most beloved. ♠

P-Day excursion in Barcelona, with the Palau Nacional as background.

Green River, Day Four—To Mineral Bottom

Last night was the worst sleep I've had in a long time! For starters, the ground was harder than it looked, with an inconspicuous hump beneath my back. Then, during the night, it was either like a sweat lodge inside my sleeping bag, or a mosquito fest if I was poking out. Even if I went a few minutes without any pesky bugs, without fail, one would soon be buzzing at my ear or sucking blood from my arm.

Somehow I survived, and this morning we all awoke at our usual time, just as it was light enough to see. (No one brought any kind of chronometer on this trip, so telling time was always a guess.)

We ate oatmeal and bagels, which is the same breakfast we have eaten all week. Then we rolled up our bags and packed away the food to load on the boats for our final sojourn along the river.

I think that most of the group was anxious to get home, so no one (except me) wanted to stop anywhere. My one wish was to visit the other inscription from 1836 of the French trapper, Denis Julian, located in Hell Roaring Canyon, which was near the end of our route.

Finally on the stand-up (or sit-down) paddleboard.

Today was my day on the stand-up paddleboard. It was my first time on it, and I liked it from the beginning. It floated lightly on the river, barely piercing the water more than a few inches. The lack of friction helped it glide easily. Rather than stand up, I sat down and used it like a kayak.

At early morning, the sun still bent low in the sky. The ocher hue of the cliffs reflected in the water. I would paddle for a while, then stop for a moment and let the current slowly carry me while I searched as far as I could along the cliffs for anything compelling. I found a few arches and interesting pinnacles.

We passed Two-mile Canyon where I had walked yesterday, then Horseshoe Canyon, which was much wider and open than I had expected. We had settled into two groups, with one canoe and the raft well behind us.

Sometimes while on the SUP, I would drag a paddle so that it turned the board, leaving me to spin in a slow circle. This gave me a panoramic view from behind.

Other times I just laid down on the board and closed my eyes. I bobbed gently like on a water bed. I could hear the subtle wake behind me, and birds chirping in the willows. If I didn't have to keep looking up to see where I was drifting, I could have fallen asleep.

As for the Denis Julian inscription, I was disappointed. Dave wasn't able to spot the right canyon and we floated past it, completely unaware. I guess I'll have to return another day.

Dave and Christian in placid water.

Coming around a bend, we spotted the small launching site of Mineral Bottom. For the last time we paddled our vessels to the bank of the river and pulled them ashore. A short time later, the rest of the group caught up. Now came the busy time of loading things back onto the truck.

Today we traveled 10 miles, bringing our total trip mileage to 68.

While we were busy strapping the canoes to the T-rack, we heard a heavy clap in the air, and then a loud voice, either hollering in panic or excitement. I walked up the small slope to see what it was and saw what looked like a para-glider in the air. Then, just a few seconds later, I hear another yell, and then near the top of a tall cliff, I heard another heavy clap and watched a parachute come out. These were base-jumpers! They swirled around in the air for less than a minute, then landed in the same graveled parking lot where we stood. Looking at the top of the 1,000 foot cliff, we could see other people. Two more jumped down within the next two minutes.

Sinuous and steep is the road coming from Mineral Bottom.

The road out of Mineral Bottom is steep and sinuous. It is picturesque to the photographer, but wary to those scared of heights. There are no guard rails and many places that are wide enough for only one car. Just for the fun of it I chose to run up from Mineral Bottom. It was well worth it. I got passed by three cars, who kicked up small amounts of dust.

One of our dilemmas of shuffling the vehicles is that we knew that Dave's truck only had six seat belts for our seven people. I volunteered to ride in the back of the truck until we got back to my vehicle in Green River.

Once I completed my trot up the hill, I climbed into the bed of the truck and laid back on bags, with a rolled up foam pad to rest my head. I had a cool breeze blow across, and best of all, no mosquitoes! This was the most comfortable bed I had had in four days. ♠


The Standup Paddleboard
Green River Trip, Day 1
Green River Trip, Day 2
Green River Trip, Day 3