Cataract Canyon 1986

 

From the Memory File

Cataract Canyon - 1986

 

Nearly forty years ago, Jeremy and I drove from California to Moab, Utah, met our guide Bill and his new girlfriend, hopped on a raft, and set off down the mighty Colorado River through Cataract Canyon. If you have ever visited Canyonsland from above, well, you get some great views of the river below. And that's where we were.

 

We four bonded quickly and only saw a handful of others that week. I had just given Jeremy the blow job of his life along the banks of the river that first afternoon, and he had barely tucked things away before a cute blonde kid hailed us from another party's raft passing us by, just as Bill and Beverly were setting up camp. The kid smiled and waved like a crazy boy. He had a very sweet face and his bright orange life preserver did little to hide his beautiful tanned upper body.

 

"Next time, stay on the lookout up river, too," I signed. Jeremy just grinned, put his index finger to his lips and threw it toward me. It was an easy ALS sign meaning 'sure'. Sure, like that was ever going to happen. 

 

We stumbled out of the thick willows and walked towards our own little camp, asking Bill how we could help.

 

He smiled, as he probably figured out what we had gotten up to, and just told us to find a spot for our tent. 

 

Little did we know that we would pitch it over a hidden scorpion nest. And judging by just how many we counted later, it was a massive nest.

 

We discovered this an hour into our nap when I spotted one crawling across the top of Jeremy's ear. 

 

I flickered if off with my left hand while frantically spelling out SCORPION with my right. Later he taught me the sign for scorpion by placing one fist atop the other fist and wiggling one’s little finger. Made sense. And I have never forgotten it either - even if it has been forty years since the last scorpion sighting - and over thirty years since Jeremy showed me how to sign anything.

 

Meanwhile, we abandoned our sleeping bags and quickly fled outside the flaps of the tent, stripping and dancing nakedly with the heebie-jeebies. 

 

Sleeping bags and other miscellaneous items were then brought out one by one and shaken vigorously.

 

We moved our tent (which had also been thoroughly shaken and inspected for more little assassins) across the sandbar and to what appeared to be sand free of scorpions. Damper soil near the river seemed to do the trick.

 

Bill said it was a good thing neither of us had been stung as it would have been an all nighter (and another day) before we reached any sort of medical aid.

 

So much for our first day on the river.

 

But it didn't really sting.

 

We met up with a guy hiking alone later that evening and invited him to join us for dinner. Afterwards, he drained his coffee, thanked us for both the meal as well as the company, and headed off into the dark. We four were then very much alone in an amazing star-studded, sprawling wilderness - and it felt pretty damn awesome.

 

Together, the very next day, we four would survive a fierce sand, wind, and rain storm (try signing anything coherent to your lover when you can't even see as sand and rain pelt you from every direction - soggy head to bruised toes slipping and sliding down an unfamiliar path). Add being stoned to the equation since we had just passed around a finely rolled joint in the ancient cliff dwelling where we had taken lunch - the majestic San Francisco peaks glistening with snow far in the distance - and you can perhaps picture our sudden stormy predicament as Jeremy stopped, at one point, to  converse in sign with a bizarre chunk of sandstone blocking our precarious path down the mesa. He told me later that he thought it to be a saber tooth tiger come to life  - and you can further understand just how fucked up things were atop the tall plateau  - called The Doll house, due to the strange shape of craggy outcrops - an ancient burial ground, actually. It's where we currently stood as I finally convinced Jeremy that it was indeed safe to creep past the tiger.  Our camp and raft sat far below us in a place called Spanish Bottom.

 

But somehow we made it back to camp, fucked like bunnies out of pure adrenaline, and then promptly fell asleep.

 

By the time we woke, the wind and rain had passed, but our tent was barricaded in sand and most of the camp's gear was missing due to the heavy wind an hour earlier. It took another hour to track everything down. But then night fell, stars began to shine, steaks sizzled on the grill, beer flowed, the river gently sang its ancient lullaby, and all was well with the world.

 

Torrential rain, mud and rock slides would greet us later in the week. We dodged amazing red colored cataracts as they blasted from the cliffs above, sought shelter in a cave to escape the elements, found a great pile of marvelous geodes – many cracked open and glistening in the last rays of daylight laying at our feet just outside the cave once the storm had passed, smoked another impressively rolled joint (Beverly had a knack), listened with rapturous attention as Bill recalled the time he was on LSD at a Grateful Dead concert and followed a fellow across the desert for miles staring at the  bouncing skull of a horse the fellow carried upon his back. Bill was a dedicated Deadhead in the off season when he wasn't leading rafting expeditions. We also learned how Beverly had actually been on an earlier rafting trip that summer with a bunch of fellow Latter Day Saints, only to ditch her boyfriend and fellow church sisters later in the season (she was a Jack Mormon it turns out) just to respond to Bill's invitation to join him on this last trip of the season - and Bill promised that his wife back in Moab would never be the wiser.

 

We consumed the last of the fresh steaks that final night on the river holed up in our comfy cave, passed around the remaining dregs of whiskey as our campfire burned low, marveled at the stars and far away planets above, recalled the exploration (with great respect and reverence) of the ancient burial grounds atop the Doll House, told more tall tales, cracked more jokes, blew soap bubbles with a bubble wand that Beverly had most thoughtfully brought along for the trip. We watched them fly high away into the night. They seemed determined to reach the Sam Francisco Peaks in nearby Arizona. So we drunkenly wished them safe travels. And as it was now dark and we could no longer see them, perhaps they made it after all.

 

We taught both Bill and Beverly some more basic sign language that evening. And all of us felt great relief when Jeremy eventually warmed up in the cave with the crackling camp fire behind him. There had been the distinct possibility of his lapsing into hypothermia earlier in the day after the temperature plunged out of the blue, rain came pouring down in buckets and the kid started to shake and grow alarmingly cold on the raft. But that was all behind us now as we shouted and signed over one another recalling the riding of some mighty fine rapids earlier on the trip.

 

And on that note we four all huddled around the dwindling fire atop our sleeping bags - Bill held Beverly close as I held Jeremy even closer; we slept like the dead that night, totally exhausted, but in a very good way.

 

Like Deadheads, Bill would probably say.

 

The sun shone brightly early the next morning as we roused ourselves, admired the geodes we have collected the afternoon prior, had our last breakfast together, piled everything onto the raft and cast off. 

 

We dove right from the raft an hour later into crystal clear blue waters, shading our eyes from the blazing sun above, and heard the sound of motor craft ahead. A speedboat towing a lone water skier flew past us.

 

We all waved at one another.

 

Civilization lay just around the last bend. 

 

When we ended the adventure at the upper most tip of Lake Powell, a small plane awaited us so that we could return to our cars back in Moab. The flight and view from above were breathtaking. We constantly pointed out landmarks that we had seen from far below.

 

There was Horseshoe Bend.

 

There was the Doll House and Spanish Bottom.

 

Jeremy swore he saw the saber tooth tiger ...

 

This is the four of us in the photo before we said our goodbyes that last day in late September, 1986.

 

I love the snapshot - I guess the pilot must have taken it for us.

 

We never saw nor heard from Bill or Beverly again. 

 

And Jeremy would depart this world nine years later. I held his hand at the end. I waited twenty minutes by his side before calling the nurse on duty. I needed that time alone with him. And I needed to know that there would be no way they could restart his weakened heart again. It had happened the week before as he did not know what a DNR meant and had thus never signed one. He should have been able to go on his own terms. He has told me that. So, I made sure it happened this time. The nurse said she totally understood as she held me in her arms and let me sob. 

 

AIDS was still a nasty predator in 1995.

 

But maybe Jeremy's rafting someplace really cool right now and on the lookout for pretty split geodes sitting right at his feet - just for the gathering. They had taken the time to fall from a greater height above so why not stop and thank them for being so considerate in their final stop along the banks of the mighty Colorado.

I don't know. 

Maybe it's a warm camp fire he's seeking instead.

Maybe it's me? 

Maybe there are no maybes or memories whatsoever. Again, I don't know how it all works. I suppose I am agnostic on the subject. Agnostic in general nowadays about everything.

 

But I do have memories for us both to last two lifetimes, and maybe then some.