Ensenada, Mexico

Jenna and I woke early to watch as the ship pulled into the harbor of Ensenada. Thick rain clouds shrouded the bay and there was no spectacular sunrise. A container ship moved torpidly through the water. Below us on a buoy a sea lion barked. As we moved closer I could see traffic moving on the frontage road. Low green hills surrounded the city. In the middle of town I could see the towers of the cathedral.

I had never been to Mexico, so even though our excursion would be short, I was excited. Our Carnival Cruise from Southern Californian to Baja allowed for an eight-hour port of call in Ensenada. I knew my wife wanted to do a zip-line tour, but I figured we would have plenty of time to catch a glimpse of Ensenada. I did my homework on Google Maps before we left and got a general idea of where to spend our time, including a visit to Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.

Our first priority was to buy a zip-line tour. We paid way too much for a bus ride to downtown, where we were herded to a building with a lady behind a window selling tours. A sheet of paper on the glass listed our possibilities. None of them listed zip-lining alone, but coupled with another tour, a visit to La Bufadora, the renowned blowhole. This was the option we chose, paying $61 U.S. Dollars for each person.

While waiting for the tour to fill, our guide moved us to an adjacent bar. The walls of the room were painted black and over the speakers blared insane music that was a combination of rap, mariachi, and sirens. We hadn't been seated for more than thirty seconds when the first vendor came to our table trying to sell homemade bracelets. We had just shrugged him off when another came, this time with “buy your name on a chain” written on his cardboard box. After him, still another.

Just after the last vendor, another man came to our table and gave us all water bottles and a bowl of chips and salsa while we waited. I thought this was very considerate of him until he said it would be $10 for the five of us. We said “no thanks” and gave the bottles back, but he let us keep the chips and salsa “on the house.”

Finally we were able to leave the bar and we sat in a small bus with a tour guide named Tango, driving through the streets of Ensenada. Tango told us stories the entire time, but I was more interested in looking out the window. Especially the further we got from the city center, the more fascinated I became with what I saw. We traveled on a battered paved road, but everything beyond was dirt. Small store shacks sat side-by-side along the highway, selling everything from tacos to hardware. Not a tourist in sight. I knew this was the real Ensenada. If the driver had dropped me off right there and let me walk back, I would have been content. But we continued on.

We left the city and drove through a verdant valley with fields and orchards on both sides. An overhead banner welcomed us to wine country. Written on the hillside using white rocks read the caption: “ORANDO SE CAMBIAN LAS COSAS          ROMANOS 10:9”

Not much further the bus pulled off the road, arriving at our destination. I won't go into much detail on our zip-lining adventure, other than to say it was fun. The seven zip-lines stretched long and took us over spectacular scenery. In addition, the course also included several wobbly bridges, most spanning over deep ravines. Even though our safety harnesses were clipped onto cables, it was very nerve-racking for me, especially watching my 12-year old daughter walk across. But we all made it safely to the end. Now it was back in the bus.

For another forty minutes we drove to La Bufadora. This time it had begun to rain and our breathing fogged the windows and I wasn't able to watch very well outside . Tango continued his humerus stories. Through the foggy glass I was able to see that we had come alongside the ocean and were now climbing a hillside above the rugged cliffs.

La Bufadora is a marine geyser located at the base of craggy cliff-side, 17 miles southwest of Ensenada. It is the result of air being trapped in a sea cave, and then exploding upwards toward the sky like the blowhole of a whale. To arrive it is necessary to walk a quarter mile along vendors of all kinds, aggressively selling their wares. It is likely that someone from every shop will approach you during your walk. Tango walked as far as the blowhole with us, then let us mosey back on our own.

Stone walls are built around the blowhole, allowing tourists to gawk at the water spewing up. I think, however, that the best view is probably down on the water. From our elevated angle it was difficult to see more than a portion of the blast.

My enjoyment came from walking through all the shops. We only had an hour until we had to be back on the bus. Every vendor approached and I ignored them all, unless I was interested. They sold backpacks, panchos, ball caps, Day of the Dead skulls, churros, tacos, t-shirts, jewelry, leather bags, marionettes etc.

Some spoke in Spanish, but most knew how to approach in English. I didn't see many price tags, and most purchases came about through haggling. The kids had fun picking out souvenirs. The prices were somewhat cheap, but nowhere near the deals I found in Southeast Asia.

I couldn't leave the area of Ensenada without having a fish taco. According to tradition, fish tacos originated in Ensenada. I found a taco stand amidst the stalls and the whole family ordered an assortment of tacos for $1.50 each. For myself I ordered 1 fish, 1 nopal and 1 alambre. The first taco came with two fat and battered chunks of fish, and nothing else. I used a condiment bar of onions, cilantro, cabbage and various salsas to decorate my fish taco. It tasted very fluffy and fresh, and yet simple. I ate the tacos at a little table behind the grill where they charred the corn tortilla. The nopal taco was a little bland, while the alambre was surprisingly delicious. It consisted of tender beef, peppers and cheese.

By now the rain had picked up and we were coming to our deadline with the tour guide. We piled into the bus with all our bags in-hand, and made the 40-minute drive back to Ensenada proper.

By the time we returned, we had less than thirty minutes before we had to catch another bus for the ship. The rain had stopped, but the ground and storefronts were all damp. By the time we got to Primera Street, one of the main tourist strips in Ensenada, the shops were still open with their merchandise hung outside. Mexican men in rough American accents approached: “Would you like to try a glass of Tequila,” or “We have the finest leather in Ensenada.” I didn't have the time or interest in either. All we had time for was a walk around the block. ♠

The Yurt

A High-mountain Trek

The mercury on the car signaled five degrees above zero when we shut off the engine. Through the snow-stacked douglas fir the sun peeked out just above the western horizon. We pulled on heavy coats, wrapped woven beanies over our ears and strapped snow shoes to our boots.

Our hike began at nearly 10,000 feet in elevation along a dirt road that was now covered in three feet of fresh powder. In a single-file line with heavy packs over our shoulders we passed the “road closed” sign, within the rut of a solitary snowmobile track. I led the migration with Dell directly behind me, followed by Quinn, Jordan, Eric, Colter, and the other adult in the group, Dave, at the tail.

Cumbersome sheaves of snow weighed down the branches of pine in a forest that spread far and wide on either side of us. To be sure, we trekked UP hill, and as we gazed through that spacious forest, we watched the sun disappear and the clouds change into hues of pink and orange, silhouetting the crooked branches of trees.

The mask I wore covered my ears and came down to cover my chin and mouth when strapped. By now the air had turned even colder and I worried that breathing it in would burn my lungs. But when I would cover my mouth, my breathing would fog my glasses and I couldn't see. It was a constant battle of deciding to stay strapped or unstrapped, to breathe or not breathe cold air, to have or have not foggy glasses.

Not long into the trek we learned that some of our boys were fighting to keep up with their heavy loads. We at the front would frequently have to stop and wait for the tail to catch up. Colter, in particular, struggled to take anything but the smallest of steps. At the one-mile mark, at a hair-pin turn in the path, it was decided to take Colter's pack from him and divide it up. Quinn took the sleeping bag, someone else a detachable fanny pack, and I was left to carry the rest of his pack, which proved to be very heavy and burdensome. This was in addition to my own heavy pack.

The shades of sunset had disappeared by now and the fog on my glasses had now frozen into a miniature sheet of ice. I was miserable. Not only did I struggle to see any portion of the path ahead, but the second pack was difficult to carry. I kept my glasses on the tip of my nose and peered over the rims to see.

Darkness nestled into the mountains and finally I was forced to strap on my head lamp, which cast a beam over the snow. For those with better vision, a half-moon shone overhead and cast eerie, but beautiful shadows over the white powder. But I focused my attention forward, putting one exhausted leg in front of the other. Once I tripped over my snow shoes the way someone would trip over shoe laces. I fell knees first into the snow.

After two and a half miles the boys spotted the yurt. It sat nearly camouflaged against the black forest with a small trickle of smoke coming from the chimney and dim light emanating from inside.

The Yurt

The man that drove the snowmobile and left the tracks for us to follow was the man inside the yurt. He had split small rounds of cedar and had piled them next to the wood-burning stove where a blaze now burned and glowed through the flume. He wore a yellow Patagonia parka and his breath reeked from cannabis. After giving instructions he hopped back on his snowmobile rode back down the mountain to his condo.

The yurt wasn't as big as I had imagined. Two sets of bunk-beds flanked adjacent sides, each with a single bed on top and a double on bottom. Counting out spaces, that meant that one kid would have to sleep on the floor.

Next to the stove was a small shelf with a couple pots, dish soap and spatulas. Four totes with sundry items such as frying pans, paper towels, toilet paper etc. stacked alongside the bed. Hot pads hung from a clip on the wall. A bucket next the the shelf held a hand-saw and ax.

The yurt was circular in shape with a wooden frame of 2x4's and a lattice frame work. A heavy plastic-like canvas pulled over the frame work with a hole for the chimney and a transparent “sun roof” over the middle. The floor was made of wood with a large rug covering much of the area. A shorter than normal door with a knob and latch faced south and just outside this door was another pile of wood. Not far from the yurt was a makeshift outhouse using tarps and plywood. We were instructed that the outhouse was only to be used for “#2.” Otherwise we were to use the space just beyond the toilet.

We left our snow shoes outside the entrance while we pulled off our packs inside the yurt, which created a clutter of space. Each kid was to bring his own hobo dinner, and soon we had tin foil packages on top and inside the small stove.

We were all worn and tired from the hike, and all were anxious to unroll their sleeping bags and hang out in their own territory. Colter pulled out a game out called “Fact or Crap,” and spent much time reading suspicious trivia from the cards.

Soon we could hear sizzling coming from within the foil and the aroma of potatoes, onions and bacon filled our tiny quarters. The boys ate their dinners on their laps, the foil unfolded and steam rising from their meal.

We said a prayer that night and before going to bed I shared with the boys the story of a Polish man who was sent to the Gulag camps of Siberia in 1940. He walked nearly 1,000 miles from Irkutsk to Camp 303, handcuffed to a thick chain pulled by a lorry. This was in the bleak month of January, during blizzards and sub-zero temperatures with nothing more than one pound of bread and two cups of coffee for his daily ration. I felt, perhaps, that this small gem of history would be more likely to be impressed upon their minds after having a brief, but similar situation themselves.

Nightfall

Our best estimate is that the temperature dropped to -10℉ that night.

The seven of us slept in tight quarters, close enough to hear every snore, cough, roll and shuffle. The mattress I slept on wasn't as soft as it appeared. It must have been an inch thick with a piece of plywood beneath it.

Our challenge that night was to keep the fire going. The wood stove was only large enough for a few wedges of lumber. The frigid air just outside our canvas covering prevented any cozy temperatures. Instead, we enjoyed comfortable warmth when the fire was going, yet chilly conditions when neglected. Dave woke up several times to stack the stove.

Every time someone got up to use the bathroom I could hear their footsteps on the plywood floor and the the door closing shut and the squeak of the hinges. Often when they returned I could hear them handling wood from the pile, opening the door of the cast-iron stove, and tossing the wedge into the flames. Then they returned to bed, creaking the board as they laid down. I didn't get much sleep that night.

At midnight it was my turn to go outside and urinate. I quietly attempted to slide my pants back on and tip-toed across the floor to where my boots sat by the shelf. When I stepped outside, all the night was silent. Quickly the hairs in my nose froze to a bristle. The half-moon shone down brightly, illuminating the snow-draped trees. I was happy to finally be able to see without my glasses fogging up. The only noise I heard came from a slow, but steady drip of melting snow near the chimney. A very soft glow issued from the yurt.

The rest of the night was much of the same. Pure exhaustion, but no sleep. That seems to be par for the course when I camp out. But I knew I would survive.

Daylight, at last

Shortly after rising I stepped out the door of the yurt with my first daylight look at our surroundings. The deep blue sky contrasted with the bright white snow that draped everything with a heavy blanket. As far as I knew, we were the only people for several miles. If it weren't for the boys chattering away inside the yurt, there would have been a grand feeling of solitude and isolation.

I always wonder how many animals are in the high forest during a bitter winter. I know the deer and elk migrate to lower elevations, but what about the squirrels and birds? Where do they go? Up to this point I hadn't seen any animal tracks, nor had I heard chirping.

Dave and I pulled out a pot and frying pan and began cooking sausage, ham and pancakes on a propane grill. We forgot to bring oil, so the pancakes became somewhat scrambled.

After cleaning up we attempted to melt two pots of snow to add to our water supply. I filled my water bottle and took a drink, hoping it would taste as fresh as a high mountain spring. To my disappointment it tasted bearable, but like dirty snow. At least, I told myself, I have a bottle of Powerade sitting on the passenger's seat when I get back to the vehicle.

Our stay in the yurt was short-lived. After cleaning up we strapped on our snow shoes and began the 2.5 mile walk back to our starting point. I will admit that I enjoyed the walk down much more than the walk up. For starters, I could see.

The bright sun melted the snow from the tips of the tall pine trees. As we walked, that melting line slowly worked its way down. Once I heard brave birds playing in the branches. I even saw a set of animal tracks in the distance, but couldn't tell from what they came. Four miles as the crow flies was a gigantic mountain peak, bald and round in appearance, thick in snow. I knew this peak to rise to an elevation just under 12,000 feet high.

We took a small detour to a small lake that I had found during the summer. During that time it is quite colorful, with moss and reeds growing in abundance. Now, however, one can hardly tell it is a lake. The entire body of water was frozen over and two feet of snow covered the surface. Had I not known better, I would have guessed it was another small valley or open meadow.

After two hours of trudging over deep powder, we finally arrived at the vehicle. Everyone was anxious to unlatch the snow shoes and once again walk on pavement. Dave unlocked the doors and with a rabid thirst I grabbed for my bottle of Powerade . . . only to learn it was frozen solid! ♠

Highway 257

The route between Southwest Utah and the Wasatch Front is usually traveled via Interstate 15. It wasn't until I talked with Pete Dotson that I knew there was an alternative.

Pete was a burly man with a thick brown, but graying beard, who wore bibbed overalls and long sleeves everywhere he went. He swore he would travel to Salt Lake no other way. “Just too many people,” he would say.

The route that Pete spoke of takes the backroads through the West Desert of Utah. Depending on your point of view, it can be either drab and boring, or mysterious and intriguing.

Along this route is a 67-mile stretch between the rural towns of Milford and Deseret. Utah Highway 257, as it is officially known, offers an empty landscape to the casual observer. It is common to pass fewer then ten cars on a single drive—and the biggest hazard is hitting either an antelope or cow. But to those who dig deeper, Highway 257 offers a rich blend of history and geological wonders.

Over the years I have taken Pete's advice and have found many occasions to take this lonely backroad. Although I have only scratched the surface, each time comes with new discoveries.

Remains of Fort Deseret along Highway 257

Just 4.5 miles south of the northern terminus of Highway 257 lies the crumbled remains of Fort Deseret. Thick adobe walls made of mud and straw, and supported by wooden frames and posts, still stand just off the road. A collapsing bastion exists on the northeast corner, as well as “peep holes” in the walls. The east wall is the best preserved, and in the middle is a “gate” supported by a wooden frame that the visitor can pass through to explore inside the fort. Although the interior is filled with rabbit brush and lacks most of the back walls, it is enough to give you a feel of what it must have looked like when first erected.

The town of Deseret was created in 1859 by Mormon settlers on the lower reaches of the Sevier River. The growth of new settlements began to create a strain between the Mormons and Indians, as the natives began to see much of their wildlife habitat turned into farms, thus diminishing their food supply. They also suffered from smallpox and measles, which they blamed on the white man. After initially seeing the Mormons as friends, they now began to view them as intruders.

In 1865, a Ute leader by the name of Black Hawk led a group of discontented Indians on a series of raids to secure food for their people. The raids began in Sanpete Valley in Central Utah and spread throughout the state to Deseret where the Pahvant Indians stole cattle.

As a precautionary move, Brigham Young ordered that the men from Deseret form a militia and that a fort be erected. It took just 18 days for 98 men to build the fort. The structure was 550 feet square, with corner bastions ten feet high and walls three feet thick on the bottom, tapering to a foot and a half at the top.

Although Fort Deseret was never used to protect the people, it served as a deterrent. On several occasions it was used as a corral to protect the cattle from Indians.

Left: The Great Stone Face.  Right: Painting of Joseph Smith by David White Rogers.

Less than two miles south of Fort Deseret is a graveled road that leads toward the west for over five miles and then curls around an outcropping of black rock. This site must have had significance to Native Americans of olden times as there are many petroglyphs on the rocks, including what appears to be an eye at the top of the hill. But for Mormon settlers, this was the location of The Great Stone Face.

Atop the same rocky hill is a natural stone structure that looks very much in profile as Mormon founder and Prophet, Joseph Smith. By now it had been well over a decade since the Mormon leader had been murdered in Nauvoo, Illinois. The Saints had moved and settled in the west, and as they began to explore the region around Sevier Lake, they were excited to find a stack of lava rock in the likeness of the Prophet.

Of course, the rock may also have had significance with the Paiutes, as they may have seen the likeness of a chief of a god. With the abundance of petroglyphs, there is no doubt that this site held a level of importance.

It is also interesting to note that just a few years earlier, in 1850, Nathaniel Hawthorne published a short story entitled “The Great Stone Face,” referring to a similar stone structure. In the story, a local Native American folklore states that this stone profile would resemble someone who is “the greatest and noblest personage of his time.” This is certainly how the Saints viewed Joseph Smith, and I wonder if Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story played a role in the naming of the rock.

North face of Pahvant Butte.

The pathway of Highway 257 is roughly paralleled by the old route used by the Dominguez-Escalante Expedition of 1776. As they searched for a course to Monterey, California, they pushed forward from Santa Fe, traveling northward through southwest Colorado and into present-day Utah. From the Wasatch Front they curled southward into what is now the desert of Millard County.

On October 2, the group camped south and a little ways east of Deseret near a prominent hill they would call El Cerrillo. Years later this knoll became known as Pahvant Butte, an iconic mound in the middle of a desolate valley, seen from miles away on all sides. The company had difficulty pushing directly southward as they ran into the shallow lakes and marshes of Clear Lake.

Upon arriving, they recorded in their journal:

“In the afternoon we pursued our journey to the south-southeast because the marshes and lakes were not letting us go south, which was the direct route to the pass through which we were to leave the plain. After going three leagues we halted near a small bluff which stands on it. Wherefore we named the stopping point, where there were marshes with much pasturage but with brackish water, El Cerrillo. Today three leagues.”

Shallow waters of Clear Lake.

The butte was named after the Pahvant Indians, a band of Southern Paiutes, with whom the company had an encounter earlier that day. The waters of Clear Lake are home to a wide variety of fowl. A good graveled road leaves the highway and travels on a causeway over the shallow waters.

At one time there was a town built nearby with the name of Clear Lake. Unlike most of the other communities, it was settled by non-Mormons, many of them from the Midwest. Ten families lived in the town and most farmed. A canal was built from the lake to the new settlement. Nowadays there are no vestiges of the former inhabitants other than some inconspicuous piles of concrete.

The Dominguez-Escalante group moved on the following day:

“On the 3rd we left El Cerrillo, made several detours because we were surrounded by marshes, and decided to cut across by going over the east river mentioned, which appears to sink into them and the plain's other lakes—and which abounds in fish. The ford was sticky and miry, and in it the mount which Andrés the interpreter was riding fell and pitched into the water, dealing him a hard blow on one cheek.”

Union Pacific Railroad.

Pronghorn are often seen along Highway 257.

Continuing further south, the highway parallels the Union Pacific Railroad. The track runs to Milford and eventually Lund, which used to be a major transportation depot. Today the carriages are filled entirely with freight rather than people.

Anyone traveling the lonely stretch of road must not only watch for wandering cattle, but also for skittish antelope. More than once I have come frightening close to striking a darting pronghorn.

Located to the east of the highway are the barren Cricket Mountains. There are many dirt roads that take off in that direction and skirt the hillsides.

Dried hardpan of Sevier Lake in distance.

West of this mountain range, constituting a large swath from north to south are the dried remains of Sevier Lake. From a distance the ivory-colored hard-pan is reminiscent of the Bonneville Salt Flats. At the extreme northern end the Sevier River flows into the lake. I don't know if the lake was full when the Mormon Pioneers arrived in 1847, but since that time the river has been used quite extensively for irrigation, sucking volume from this long meandering waterway.

Another much smaller riverbed follows a portion of the highway. The Beaver River comes from the south and southeast, a collection of melted snow and springs from the Tushar Mountains. At its largest it is a freshwater torrent as wide as a two-laned road. As far as I can tell, the farms near the towns of Beaver and Milford suck the river completely dry by the time it reaches Highway 257.

It appears that Mother Nature depleted a portion of the Beaver River in 1776. The D&E group still found a trickle of water: “. . . we came to an arroyo which seemed to have much water, but we found only some waterholes where the horse herd might be able to drink. Nevertheless, we stopped here because there was good pasturage. All over the arroyo there was a kind of white scum, dry and thin, which looked from afar like linen spread out, for which reason we named it Arroyo de Tejedor.”

As they traveled further south, the flow of the Beaver River picked up as they found beautiful meadows and good pasturage for their horses. I would dare say that those beautiful meadows no longer exist.

Ruined structure at Black Rock.

As Father Escalante and his party moved forward, they crossed a nearly inconspicuous boundary they called South Pass, entering into what is now the Escalante Desert. Nearby are a group of ruined structures belonging to the abandoned settlement of Black Rock.

Established as a ranch in 1876, Black Rock eventually acquired a store and Post Office. When it became a depot on the Los Angeles and Salt Lake Railroad, thousands of pounds of wool were shipped from the small settlement. A small pumice quarry north of town employed many people. A schoolhouse was built and operated for 40 years.

The railroad began to consolidate operations during the 1930's, causing the town of Black Rock to wane. Only the foundations of the former buildings exist. There is, however, a modern ranch on the premise, and it appears that the local springs have been used to water fields and livestock.

I found faint petroglyphs on rocky ridge above the springs, indicating that people have used this place for hundreds of years. The tawny hills and barren valley are testimony to the isolated and dry terrain. In a land like this, any place that can sustain life is a gem.

Antelope Springs is a surprising oasis in the Escalante Desert.

Several miles west of Black Rock is another oasis in the desert. Antelope Springs was a stage stop in the 1860's. It is hard to believe now, but there was once a hotel, saloon, livery stable and barn on the premises. The springs are still there, although I was unable to find any signs of the old buildings. The springs have created a small pond, as well as a large marshy area, well suited for fowl.

From my readings, I can't find any evidence that the D&E expedition came across the springs at Black Rock or Antelope Springs. Instead, they camped near a hill called Red Rock Knoll, some two miles west of Black Rock. The company was in dire straits at this time. Their Indian guide had deserted them, leaving no one who knew the territory. They were tormented with an early winter storm that blanked the hills and valley, and stranded them for two days with no firewood.

The Beaver Bottoms.

When they finally continued, they trekked south and entered into what is called Beaver Bottoms, a point in the valley that tends to collect a lot of stagnating water. Their journal records the tribulation:

“We traveled only three leagues and a half with great difficulty, because it was so soft and miry everywhere that many pack animals and mounts, and even those that were loose, either fell down or became stuck altogether.”

The mire still flanks Highway 257 north of Milford. Just east of here, spreading across the valley like a forest of white giants, is a wind farm. Personally, I'm not a big fan (no pun intended) of new turbines sprouting up in divers places, but it sure grabs the attention of those driving by. In a way it beholds its own beauty. I guess I'm a little old fashioned and prefer to see the land as it was in 1776—or a thousand years earlier.

Another ten miles of driving will bring you to the southern terminus of Highway 257 and the small town of Milford. There's a lot of discoveries yet to be make along this 67-mile stretch of apparent barren highway. I think Pete Dotson knew what he was talking about. ♠

Wind farm near Milford.

Wes Oshley

[It has been almost two years since Wes passed to the other side. I miss randomly running into him on the streets of Cedar City. The following was written on February 24, 2013. Although blunt and harsh at times, it accurately represents the Wes Oshley I knew.]

The first time I ever met Wes was walking down Center Street in Cedar City when a tall, lanky Navajo came up to me and said, “You must be a Lacy.” I was stunned. How did he know? I had never met the guy in my life. So I asked him how he knew and he proceed to waddle down the sidewalk with his arms hanging down like a monkey. “By the way you walk,” he said.
 
I sure hope he was embellishing that strut, because I don't think that we Lacys look like that. But he had guessed who I was by my movements. He went on to praise my grandpa, whom he knew while living in Blanding. Ever since that day, he says the same thing: “Tell your Grandpa hi for me.” He always wants to know how old Claude is doing.
 
You never forget Wes. Not only is he tall and lanky, but his teeth are always just above my eye level and he must be wearing coffee-stained dentures, because I watch them shift around every time he speaks. His father was Navajo Oshley, a sheepherder that lived to be over a hundred years old and was an icon when I was growing up in San Juan County. Wes is an intriguing person, a person that I still have yet to scratch the surface.
 
When I walked out of Lins yesterday, Wes was there and immediately we walked across the parking lot together. He embraced me with his right arm, something he hadn't done before.
 
“I am just getting back on my feet, brother. I've been gone for eight months. I am just getting back. In the last eight months I buried my three sisters.” As he said this, you could feel the emotion well up within him. I hugged him tighter as we continued to walk. He continued to tell me the story of how he had spent that time in Blanding and he briefly mentioned how each had passed away. The third one caught my attention, as she had frozen to death in her trailer. Her name was Joan Bilsie, but the family preferred to bury her with her traditional name of Oshley. 

That brought up a question I always had. “Where was she buried? In the cemetery or somewhere else where the Navajo bury their dead?” I hadn't ever seen a lot of Native Americans buried in the white-man cemetery and I know that historically they find a crevice or some place in the ground and bury them with a saddle or some of their earthly possessions—or at least that is how I understood it. 

“No,” he responded, “she is buried in the cemetery.” Now the tone of his voice turned angry and passionate. “I don't want her buried where Dr. Redd can come back and get her. Hell no! I would have killed the guy if he didn't do it first. That man had three little babies in his house.” —Here he was referring to Anasazi mummies, I believe. “That is something that is very personal to me. You don't mess with my ancestors. You do not touch the dead!” This was a passionate subject that I had heard from him before. I completely agree with him, but it always makes me feel uneasy because I knew Dr. Redd and his family, and I like them very much.
 
Sometime after this point, I felt like I had to share with him the news that my own daughter had passed away just two months earlier. Once again, his heart was filled with emotion and tears came to his eyes. He hugged me with both arms this time and plead, “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry! No one should ever have to bury their child.” I assured him that when this happened that I had thought of him, because I knew that about a year and a half ago, he buried his own son.
 
“But they always come back,” he acknowledged, knowing the pain of death, but also knowing that there are divine crossings. He then told me a story about one cold evening when he was under a vehicle trying to fix the transmission, or some other problem, and he needed a certain tool that his grandson, who was helping him, could not find. “Go look in the the tool bag over there,” Wes suggested. When his grandson unzipped the bag, there on top, was the glove of his son Waylon, the one who had died. And in the palm of the glove was the exact tool they were looking for.
 
“They always come back,” he said again. ♠

Beaches and Islands of Southern Thailand

The beaches of Southern Thailand are some of the most beautiful in the world.  Lush limestone cliffs are surrounded by a turquoise sea.  Emerald bays are dotted with longtail boats.  Our visit brought us to the Province of Krabi where our explorations led us through the warm waters of the Andaman Sea.

From our base in Krabi town we usually hired a boatsman to take us to our destination of the day.  Many of the beaches on the mainland are only accessible by boat.

The Railay Peninsula is a 45-minute boat ride from Krabi town.  Even though it is connected to the mainland, it might as well be an island, as it is cut off from the rest of Thailand by a large limestone massif. There is no vehicular traffic on the peninsula.  Pedestrian paths connect the three major beaches. 

Ao Phra Nang is the prettiest beach we visited, but also the most crowded.  Longtail boats line up along the waterside waiting for customers.  Hundreds of sun-worshipers pad the sand.

A tall limestone outcrop overhangs a shallow cove.  The beach is perfect to swim in.  There are very few waves and the sea is comfortably warm.

It is interesting to walk along the beach and observe the variety of swimmers and sun-bathers, ranging from the near-naked European to the modestly-dressed (in long shirt, long pants, and hijab) Muslim.

Phranang Cave, named after the Goddess of Love, is a shrine located on the beach.  For generations, local people, fisherman, and navigators have left offerings to the Goddess (or Princess), that she might protect their livelihood and fulfill their wishes.  In addition to flowers and incense, votees often leave a lingam gift, which is a phallus carved in wood.  It is believed that this will bring fertility.

Long-tailed macaques thrive on the peninsula.  We found these cute scavengers on the pathway between Ao Phra Nang and East Railay. 

Just a ten minute walk from Ao Phra Nang, East Railay is less exotic than the other beaches.  It is often the docking point for boats coming from Krabi town.  When we passed through at low-tide, the shore was a muddy mess. 

Just a few minutes along a shady path of palms will bring you to West Railay, which some consider the most beautiful beach on the peninsula.

Although there are many resorts and bungalows surrounding this beach, most of them are not visible through the thick tropical forest.  There are a handful of small shops along a sandy boardwalk.

A line of longtail boats await the traveler, as it is the only way to leave the peninsula.

Ao Nang is just a ten minute boat ride from West Railay.  Although considered not as impressive as its neighbors to the south, Ao Nang Beach is very picturesque.

Of all the beaches heretofore mentioned, Ao Nang has the widest offering of restaurants and souvenir shops.  We even found a massage parlor that aims to get rid of your sunburn (which we desperately needed)!

Like all the other beaches, longtail boats line up to be used at a moments notice.

A common means to arrive or leave Ao Nang is by songthaew, a pickup truck with benches in the bed that will hold about eight or ten people. 

The waters beyond Ao Nang are dotted with islands.  Some have room for tiny beaches, while others are nothing but a limestone column protruding from the sea.

Finding a tour of the islands is easy.  Any hotel or travel office with have a plethora of choices. We shared a boat with several other tourists like ourselves. 

Our package included snorkeling, which was a first for me.  Jenelle got stung by a jelly fish.

Tup Island fascinated me as we circled around it.  It is two tiny knobs connected by a sliver of a beach.

Chicken Island, or Ko Po Da Nok, is probably the most recognizable of the land masses in this area.

No vessel would be complete without a little Thai pride.

The majestic Ko Ma Tang Ming.

Our tour brought us back to Ao Phra Nang, which was our favorite beach.  The sun moved quickly toward the horizon, creating a majestic sunset that transformed the limestone karsts into silhouettes. 

It was one of the most magical evenings of my entire life.  Most of the tourists on the beach sat down toward the sea and watched in awe.

This would be our last visit to the sea on this trip.  Jenelle and I reminisced on the day and relished our final evening.

At last, the sun went down and darkness moved in.  We got back on the boat and moved through the warm south Asian air, watching the distant lights on the shore.  Jenelle and I sat on the helm and felt the sea breeze through the dark of night.  

We disembarked one last time and all gathered around to watch an islander throw flames. ♠