by Mike Graf
The Joint
Cave Spring Trail
Mesa Arch
Squaw Flat Campground, where we are now
Whale Rock
Believe me, the list could go on and on. And what if we went to the Maze? Or Horseshoe Canyon and the petroglyphs?
Next time?
James and I agree, there will definitely be a next time.
Signing off from southeast Utah,
Morgan Parker
The next day the family got up well before the crack of dawn. They quickly packed up and loaded everything into the car.
Mom and Dad took turns driving the two hours back to Moab.
The family found the river outfitters and checked in. Soon they were being shuttled back toward the Island in the Sky district of Canyonlands. But just before they entered the park, the driver turned off onto a dirt road that eventually led to the Green River.
At one point the road became quite steep. The driver turned toward the Parkers. “Hang on,” he announced, grinning.
They wound down a series of very tight switchbacks with abrupt drop-offs.
Morgan, James, Mom, and Dad leaned toward the middle of the truck. They held their breaths on a few turns but soon breathed easier as the pitch of the road began to ease.
A short while later they reached their destination. As they neared the water the driver announced, “Welcome to the Green River!”
A Bureau of Land Management volunteer greeted the family and helped the Parkers unload their gear and carry everything to the water.
Morgan, James, Mom, and Dad stowed everything safely into their boats and put on life jackets. Then the volunteer asked them some questions.
“How much water do you have?”
Mom pointed out their gallon containers.
“And you have a week’s worth of food?”
“Check,” Dad replied.
“Sleeping bags?”
“Right over there,” James said.
“Permits?”
“In here,” Morgan pointed to a pack.
“Warm clothes?”
“Yep.”
“Waterproof containers?”
“Yes.”
“Map and compass?”
“In those.”
“Flashlights and extra batteries?”
“In these.”
“First-aid supplies?”
“In our packs.”
“A topo map?”
“Right here,” James said, patting his pack.
Finally, the outfitters steadied the boats while Mom and James got into one and Morgan and Dad climbed into the other.
“You all know to meet at Spanish Bottom, just beyond the Confluence, in four days, right?”
“We’ll be there,” Dad assured the BLM volunteer.
And with that they were shoved into the water.
• • •
At first the Parkers let the gentle current glide them along. They gazed at the rocky, tree-lined canyon that would be their home for the journey. Morgan looked back, watching the people on shore gradually appear smaller and smaller.
A great blue heron suddenly emerged from the trees and sailed into the sky. “Look at that!” Mom exclaimed as the bird flew high above the Parkers.
After a while they all began slowly paddling. James used only his left arm, still mimicking John Wesley Powell, while trying to guide his boat along. Around noon the Parkers pulled over at the side of the river for lunch. Afterwards, Morgan and James walked toward one boat, and Mom and Dad the other.
“Is that okay?” Morgan asked while climbing in.
Mom gazed downstream and smiled. “I think so.”
On the third day on the water, in midafternoon, the rhythm of the journey took over, and James drifted into his imagination. After playing the next part of his story out in his mind, James grabbed his journal and started writing.
“Sir. I’ve already surveyed around the next few bends,” James William Parker reported to Captain Powell.
“And it’s safe for passing?”
“You bet,” Parker replied. “At least until we reach the Colorado River. Beyond that is where the going gets rough.”
“Thank you,” Powell said. “Your information has been most valuable.”
“At your service,” the younger JWP replied. “Can I tell you what we saw down there?”
“Of course,” Powell responded while gazing at the scenery.
James continued to write, pretending to tell Powell and the crew the information he and his family had discovered . . .
“It must have been quite a civilization that lived out here, sir,” Parker said.
Powell stared off toward the horizon. “What else have you noted?”
“Lots,” Parker reported. “We’ve seen several granaries now.”
James paused for a second to gather his thoughts.
“And even some more paintings etched onto the rock. Petroglyphs. Figures of animals, snakes, hands, spirals, ladders, and faces. All very interesting.”
“I see,” Powell murmured. “Anything else?”
“Well, I want to go up on that rocky tableland and take a look,” Parker suggested.
“Where to exactly?”
“The red rock up there looks level on top, and it is in that type of terrain that I think there might be more signs of ancient life.”
“I think I’ll go with you,” Powell replied.
The two spoke of their plans to the rest of the crew. “One boat should wait here. The other should go downstream to near the end of that tableland. That way we’ll have two paths back to you,” Powell instructed.
After packing a small amount of supplies, James William Parker and John Wesley Powell bushwhacked past some willow trees along the river. Then they hiked up a side canyon and made a final climb to their destination a short while later.
The red tableland above stretched out a good distance. It was mostly flat but adorned with thousands of tiny, splintered rocks.
The two explorers scoured the terrain. After looking around, Powell and Parker both walked to the edge of the plateau to see if their crew was still visible. “I wouldn’t want to get left behind up here,” Powell mentioned, feeling some sense of the ancient inhabitants.
They both gazed down and immediately spotted one of their boats far below, drifting along on the water.
Meanwhile Parker began searching for signs of human life. Then he absentmindedly bent down and scooped up a handful of the thousands of tiny pieces of stone that littered the natural rock bench.
Parker took a moment to sift through the rock debris. He noticed several of the small stones had sharp edges and splintered sections. They didn’t look natural. Parker’s heart started to pound.
“Mr. Powell,” Parker whispered, “I think we’re walking on something very precious.”
Parker showed Powell some of the small stones, pointing out the human-like cuttings on many of the pieces. “They look chipped off or fractured,” Parker reported.
Powell scooped up his own handful and sifted through them. Then, slowly, his eyes lit up. He gulped before voicing his thoughts. “These rocks were chipped off to make arrowheads!” he realized. Powell noticed all the rock debris in both directions. “We’re standing on an arrowhead-making factory! And this is what’s left of it.”
Both explorers gasped at the immenseness of their discovery. Powell picked up another pile. “Lithic debitage.”
James had the captain say the words he remembered sharing with his class during his earlier report: lithic, relating to stone or rock, and debitage, referring to sharp-edged waste material.
The two explorers voraciously inspected as much debris as they could, then pocketed a small amount to show the crew and hopefully safeguard for a future museum.
James paused from writing for a moment. He looked up and noticed a red peninsula, a tableland, paralleling the river from above.
James smiled. There’s one like the one I’m writing about, he told himse
lf. I wonder if there are artifacts up there. And what about ruins and petroglyphs?
Suddenly James got hit with a blast of water.
“Hey!” James replied. “Watch out for my story.”
Morgan splashed James again and again. “Aren’t you going to paddle?” Morgan complained playfully.
James threw his journal and pen into a waterproof plastic bag and sealed it. He splashed Morgan back, then began paddling with both arms.
The twins paddled faster until they caught up with their parents, who were surveying the cliffs above. Both Morgan and James readied themselves to splash Mom and Dad when . . .
James spontaneously called out. “Hey, I’ve got a name for that arch!”
“The one in the story?” Dad asked.
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Arrowhead Arch.”
“Why that name? Does it look like one?”
“It did, at least in my imagination,” James replied, knowing there was a lot more to it than that.
This stamp, issued in 1969, honors the one hundredth anniversary of John Wesley Powell exploring the Colorado River.
