by Jay Heavner
Tom walked up to the van as the rangers watched him suspiciously. “Is there a problem, officers?” he asked.
“This your van?” the taller of them asked.
“Yes, I bought it from a hippie couple down in San Francisco. I just got out of the Army after being in Vietnam. Thought I’d drive back to my home in West Virginia while I was still footloose-and-fancy-free and had the time.” Tom stopped. “Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, the dog seems to think you got some dope in the van,” said the shorter man, the dog’s handler.
Tom’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes grew wide. “If there’s anything like that in there, it ain’t mine, but the previous owners.”
“Can we search it?” the tall man asked.
Reluctantly, Tom agreed. He opened the door, and the dog jumped in. He was all over the microbus sniffing everywhere and finding nothing. Finally, he hopped out of the vehicle, turned again, and sniffed at a small something on the floor by the door opening. He then sat down. The two rangers looked at each other. The tall one picked up what the dog had hit on. He held the small brown and round object up for Tom to see. “This, young man,” he said flatly, “is a marijuana seed.”
There was a long pause as the rangers let this sink in on Tom.
“Well, it ain’t mine. I never mess with that stuff. Must have been the previous owners. I can show you the paperwork that proves I just bought it.”
The two rangers again were silent and looked at the fearful Tom.
“That dog has the best nose I have ever seen. Most of them would have missed this in a closed-up vehicle, but not ole Deputy Dawg,” said the handler.
The rangers were silent again and waited for a reaction from Tom.
“Like I said, it ain’t mine.”
The rangers waited for more, but Tom remained silent. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the taller one spoke. “I believe you. You just don’t look or seem the part. I’ve been around the pike a few times, and I don’t take you for the kind of person that’s a doper and a liar. The paint job on the van had me wondering, that and the California temporary tags. You may want to get it painted before long, so you don’t get any more unwanted attention from the boys in blue.”
Tom let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, guys. For a moment, I wondered if I was going to jail for that seed those hippies left in the van. Guess I need to vacuum it out thoroughly from top to bottom before I go anywhere else.”
“There won’t be any need for further cleaning. If Deputy Dawg can’t find it, it’s not there. He is the best drug dog I have ever seen. The local dopers hate him,” said the handler.
“Do you call him Deputy Dawg after the cartoon character?” asked Tom.
“Yup, it was either that or Rin Tin Tin. The boys down at the office took a vote, and Deputy Dawg won. Now, young man, you have a great time here at Zion. Sorry for the trouble and drive carefully on our mountain roads.”
“Will do, officers,” said Tom. “Thanks for the advice both on driving and the paint job. I’ll try to have a great time here in the West before I go home. I knew there’d be some surprises, but I don’t need anymore because of one seed.”
The two men chuckled. “You have a nice day, and we’ll be seeing you.” With that, they walked over to the Chevy Suburban and opened the door. Deputy Dawg jumped in the back seat and sat looking eagerly. He was still in full work mode. The men got in, and soon the vehicle disappeared down the road. Tom let out a great sigh of relief. He’d heard the whistle of the bullet again, but somehow, it had missed him once more. He could only hope his luck held out.
He continued on up the park road that followed the river to the end and parked in the near-empty lot. A sign pointed to the Virgin River trail. He followed the footpath for about a half-mile feet until he came to a large sign placed where the trail and river became one. “Warning,” it said in bold letters. “Trail is subject to flash floods. Do not enter during showers or when rain is expected. Even if it is not raining at this location, rainfall upstream can cause flooding here. Beware. Five people drowned when this happened in 1960.”
Tom had no intention of walking in the frigid water at this time of year, but it looked like an exciting excursion in the summertime. The rock walls went straight up nearly 1,000 feet. It would be an exhilarating hike at a later date if he ever returned. He enjoyed the solitude at the trail end. It was now mid-afternoon, and the sun passed behind below the high valley walls. The days were short this time of year, and darkness wasn’t far off. He turned around and was startled to see a mountain man standing behind him. He was clothed in animal skins and carried a rifle on his back along with a primitive backpack of sorts. The grizzly, bearded man looked at Tom and asked, “Sonny, can you tell me what month this is and what year?”
Tom was surprised by the question, so the mountain man repeated it. “Why, it’s December of 1966,” Tom said.
The man seemed puzzled. “December of 1966?” Tom nodded his head. The man rubbed his heavily bearded chin with his leathery hand. “December 1966. Why, I’ve lost a whole year somewhere.” He said no more, walked away, and disappeared into a cottonwood thicket along the river.
Tom was stunned. First, there was the encounter with the lawmen and now this strange man. What else was in store for him before he had finished this adventure? He walked back to his microbus, but he never did see any more of the mountain man. As quickly and quietly as he’d come, he vanished like a ghost. Was he real or had Tom just imagined this? He tried to put those troubling thoughts behind him.
He enjoyed the drive down the road and stopped at the numerous parking spots that the Park Service had for the tourists. The valley had to be one of the most beautiful places on earth; he was certain. He hoped he could return someday, maybe with a wife and kids. This magnificent place would still be here when the time came. He hoped he would be. Life could be so short and end at any moment. How well he knew that.
Tom drove out of the park and stopped at a grocery store and a gas station in town. Food and fuel could be a long way apart in the vast American West. He found what he needed at the two stores, drove to his campsite, and fixed himself a small supper. After a much-needed and refreshing hot shower in the bathhouse, he walked back to the van and got ready for the night. It was going to be cold here in the mountains, and he was thankful for the warm sleeping bag the hippies left, and it looked in good condition, nearly new. He laid on the fold-down bed that doubled as a bench seat and stared at the microbus’s ceiling. What a day it had been! He’d nearly been busted by the cops and had a strange encounter with the mountain man, all in this beautiful valley. Wonder what tomorrow will bring? What other adventures would he have on his way home? Ten short minutes later, he was asleep dreaming dreams he would never remember in the morning. There was no way he could have imagined in his wildest dreams.
Chapter 13
“Man, it’s cold,” Tom said out loud though there was no one else to hear him in the vehicle. His breath created a fog when he exhaled. It was daylight, but it would be sometime before the sun climbed over the mountain tops and shined in the valley.
He crawled out of the sleeping bag, dressed warmly, and began to fix a quick breakfast. Cereal with powdered milk would do, but he had to have some hot coffee. He’d found little plug-in heating coil devise the hippies left that worked well but could be a fire hazard if you forgot it. One thing he knew he didn’t want was a fire in the microbus. This vehicle had to get him home and provide shelter on the way, and not burn him up like an overcooked hot dog. He’d first experience the scent of burning human flesh at the battle in Ia Drang valley, and it was something he hoped never to smell again, especially his own.
After his quick breakfast and a trip to the bathhouse, Tom was off on Utah Route 9 East. The road went up another steep-walled valley in the National Park. Rain had fallen overnight in this rocky land, and the heavy drops on the metal roof woke him up. The shower was short but intense, and he was soon back to sleep la
st night. With next to no soil to hold the moisture, streams of water flowed where usually there was none. Many waterfalls formed where if fell over the cliff edges. “Beautiful,” Tom said to the windshield. “Wish I had someone with me to enjoy this sight.” It was a treat that few people would ever see in this semi-desert part of Utah.
Near the head of the valley, the road went through a series of switchbacks to gain altitude before it entered a tunnel, but it was one like none Tom had ever seen. It had windows. The tunnel was barely inside of the mountainside, and the builders had cut holes that provided magnificent views of the valley outside.
He exited the tunnel and entered a wonderland like one he could never have imagined. The sun shined down on the land, and it looked like it had been sculptured and painted by the Master’s hand. Rock formations of every kind and every color, some with many bands of colors, delighted his eyes. It was hard to drive and look at the same time. Tom stopped near a giant rock, almost a small white mountain utterly devoid of any soil. The whole cone-shaped monolith had lines running up and down completely covering it and made it look like a giant tic-tac-toe board. Tom loved his home in the East, but it had nothing like this. He knew he’d be leaving a little bit of his heart in Utah. If the rest of the West looked like this, he’d consider living here if not for family ties back home.
He saw a buffalo farm near where Route 9 intersected Route 89, and there, he turned left, which took him north on Route 89. For the next forty miles, he traveled up a long valley with majestic snow-covered mountains on both sides. Then, he took a right on Route 12 and was soon at Bryce Canyon National Park. Snow covered the ground in this high altitude park. A ranger at the entrance building informed him that the road crew was busy cleaning the roads and parking lots in the park and not to expect many areas cleared because the snowfall had been heavier in the higher elevations near the main road’s end. Tom asked about the condition of other highways in the area. The ranger said he had heard Route 12 was clear all the way to Torrey, usually a two-hour drive if you didn’t stop to sightsee on the beautiful ride, which most people do.
Tom drove the hippie microbus for about ten miles before he found a plowed parking lot. The snow was deep, and the road beyond remained cover. The snow crew had just finished this lot and was heading back down the road. Guess this is all I’ll see of Bryce Canyon today. He walked through the foot deep snow to the viewing area, and he stood in wonder at the beauty of the rock formations called hoodoos that seemed to go on forever. Again, he wished he had someone with whom to share this incredible sight.
For ten minutes, he stood awestruck before the cold wind brought him back to reality. He hurried back to the vehicle nearly slipping twice and turned the heater on high, but he’d discovered the heater on this air-cooled engine produced less far less heat than he’d have liked.
The road crew was working at a fast pace clearing the next lot, but Tom realized he’d already seen all that was open today. He drove down the park road, stopped at Utah Route 12, and turned right. It only took a few short miles before he knew this drive would be as beautiful as the ranger described, if not more so. The two-hour drive took him twice as long.
At Torrey, he took a right at the T-bone intersection with Route 24, and this road was just as scenic as the last. He stopped at a poke and plumb town named Hanksville for a burger at an all-in-one general store. The man behind the counter advised him to gas-up as it was a ‘fer distance’ to the next town. He did and continued east on the same highway that went through a rolling desert with little vegetation.
He saw a new wooden sign that said “Canyonlands National Park”. While at Zion, he’d seen a poster in the visitor’s building that said, “Visit Canyonlands NP, our newest National Park,” and he thought he would. He was on no one else’s schedule but his own.
The road he turned on was frozen dirt, which made his a little wary, but the snow was plowed from it. After about ten long miles of seeing nothing but scrubby desert, not even another vehicle, he wondered if he’d made the right choice. The road squeezed between two jagged rock walls and then widened, but soon the plowed road ended. No tracks led down the ever-narrowing lane, and Tom knew he’d go no further. The wind picked up, and it was starting to snow. He turned the microbus around carefully. Getting stuck here was not an opinion. Tom needed to get out of here before the ever-changing weather did just that. Some locals at the campground had warned him they had four seasons, and they could have all four any day of the year. “Oh boy,” Tom said. “ I got to go.” He’d felt the fullness earlier, but chose to ignore it. Why hadn’t he gone at the last stop? He had to pee badly, so he quickly pulled the vehicle to a halt. Tom walked about six feet to the edge of the road and made water. The wind blew stronger, and the snow fell harder. Down the way, the thundering sounds of a murderous war battle came, and then an air blast filled with stinging, blinding dirt from a massive, fiery explosion hit him. Oh, God. It’s the North Vietnam Regulars! RUN!!
***
Where am I? Why do I hurt so? He laid on his belly. Painfully, he rolled on his side and sat up. It was dark, and several inches of new snow was on the ground. I’m cold. How long had I been here, and where is here? His head hurt, and he felt a small dried stream of blood on his forehead, and his body ached so. The snow no longer fell, and a half-moon played peekaboo with the passing clouds. Looking around, he saw he was in a steep-walled arroyo. Back home, it would have been known as a gully, and the long dry wash now held him. The walls were at least ten feet up. No way I can climb the sides. He had to find another way out.
With some effort, he stood upright. Oh, my his aching body. Tom stumbled at first, but with each step, he became steadier. He walked for what he guessed was 1,000 feet, in the twisting trench to where he found a small trickle of water entering the wash down a small ditch. Tom cupped his hand and got some water to drink. He was thirsty, and the cold water felt good going down his parched throat. Probably got coyote pee or crap in it. He’d rather risk worms and parasites than dying of thirst. His thirst now quenched, he looked up the ditch in the dim moonlight, and it appeared climbable. It was slippery, but he managed to get out of the arroyo. He found himself in a flat, scrubby area, but he had no idea where he was. Hills rose to both sides. I’m lost. What options do I have?
The hill to his right looked less steep and higher. Perhaps from there, he could tell where he was and, with luck, find some shelter. The hill was farther off than it appeared, but after walking for at least twenty minutes, he arrived at the base of the rise. In the dark, he made out an animal trace that ascended the hill. It had a few steep places that challenged Tom’s weary body. He looked around from his elevated position but could see only more scrubby rolling desert that seemed to go on forever. Huge sandstone rocks rose from the hill. Tom continued to climb. He came around a bend, and sitting on a rock outcropping no more than ten feet away from Tom, was a mountain lion. Startled, he backed away from the big growling cat that had its ears back and teeth showing. The cat followed him as he continued to back away. Tom never took his eyes off of the cat. Tom felt something hard and solid at his back. In his attempt to escape, he’d backed himself into a rocky corner. He was trapped. The big cat continued to approach ever growing closer and still looking like the predator the creature was. It stopped within six feet of the terrified man and continued to growl menacingly.
“Here, Kitty, Kitty,” came a voice from somewhere. Tom questioned if he was hallucinating. This night had been unreal.
“Here, Kitty, Kitty,” the voice repeated. The big cat quit snarling and looked around. Out of the darkness, a grizzly, roughly dressed man appeared. He looked at Tom, and his smile revealed missing teeth.
“Is my kitty frightening you? She’s nothing but a big pussy cat, aren’t you, Susie?” The big cat quit her growling and snarling. She walked over to the raggedy man, and lovingly rubbed his leg. He dropped his hand to her head and gently began stroking it. He looked at Tom and spoke, “She’s a good kitty. You ne
edn’t worry about her now. She knows you’re not a threat to me. She’s been the best friend this old man has ever had. Now, young man, do you want to stay out here in the cold and freeze to death or come to the warmth of my cabin? It’s up to you. The animals will take care of disposing of your body if you choose not to. What do you say?”
Tom was short on options. Somehow, he found his voice, “Okay.”
The big cat led the trio up the path in the pale moonlight. By Tom’s reckoning, they’d walked about a country half-mile between various large rock formations and evergreen trees, probably some species of juniper. They rounded a blind bend, and Tom caught a whiff of smoke. “Almost there,” he heard the man say.
Tom thought he saw a small light near the bottom of the cliff they were approaching. Yes, he was sure of it. He could see a dugout cabin that stood no more than three feet high and maybe twelve feet by twelve feet square. It would be tight for the three of them, but at least they’d be out of the cold and wind. The man walked to the cabin and stepped down a couple of crude steps to the weathered wooden door. He opened it a little and said, “Ready, Kitty?” The big cat snarled, walked away from the cabin, squatted down, and began to pee. “Oh yeah, forgot about that.” When the big she-cat finished, she went to the cabin and walked in like she owned the place.
“How about you? You got to go, too?”
"Tom nodded and walked away from the cabin. The old man went into the structure.
Strange. That old guy must have a good bladder. Men his age usually got to go all the time. Tom took care of his business and entered the cabin. The big cat was in one corner of the cabin laying down in what seemed to be her personal space. The old man ran the wick up in a dim lantern, and light filled the room. It was spartan at best, but much better than being outside. A small homemade stove provided heat, and a teapot that had a little steam coming out of it sat on the flat top. The man was short, about five feet five inches, and had a long scar running down his left cheek. “The name’s Gerald. You already met my cat Susie, also known as Kitty. We’d like you to be our guest tonight at our humble abode.”
