(This is the last of a three-part story. The first two are in the October 1 and 15 issues of the San Juan Record.)
Bill Gibson, the crew’s official photographer, screamed, “There goes the Mexican Hat!” They all froze in their tracks, just in time to see the empty boat gracefully navigate the first...
Predictions of calamity, misfortune, and death were the order of the day on the morning of June 20, 1938.
Green River, Utah, population 500, was abuzz with activity due to a recent article in the Saturday Evening Post mentioning the sleepy whistle-stop town.
A mob of over 100 national, regional,...
Though he died five years before I was born, I remember hearing about Norman Nevills since I was a child. I heard him called The Great San Juan Adventurer. He was a river runner, a backcountry guide, a pilot, and passionate about his newfound home. Nevills was born in California in 1908, with an...
7:42 am 25 July 1970
It’s been more than 55 years since I attended a masonic funeral.
The service was simple, appropriate, and lasted less than half an hour. I don’t remember many details, only the simple urn bearing the remains of the man whose life we were honoring, but etched indelibly on the...
Everyone deserves to be remembered. Some people are unforgettable for their well-known good deeds, others for evil.
But for the humble, the quiet, or alone, unless they write their own story, their narratives are left to those who knew and loved them, be they family or friend. Most at risk of being...
Like a starving man craving prime rib, I have been dreaming of the good old days, when there was enough rain to make getting stuck in the mud at least a seasonal, if not a daily possibility; with the weather we’ve had, there’s no chance at all.
There is nothing quite like being responsible for...
When I was a Boy Scout, still wet behind my ears, I got my first look at a topographic map. I was instantly fascinated by all those brown squiggly lines indicating elevation changes on the ground.
In contrast to the brown lines, which were never straight, I saw a network of very straight red lines...
Years ago, I had the good fortune to spend a great deal of time with Monico Lopez Sr., father to Anastacio, Fidel, Monico Jr., and Sabino. Some of my best memories were made with Monico and his boys.
The Lopez family had nicknames for everyone they met. They would pick a name based on a prominent...
Today, all that is left in the single room of Kirk’s Cabin are artifacts accumulated over the past 140 years. Rusted horseshoes, fencing staples, and harness parts litter the dirt floor.
Ancient buckets and a rusted #4 steel-jaw leg-hold coyote trap hang from the walls. Together, these items...
The memories of my formative years on this spot of earth have made it the only place I can ever call home.
The rugged canyons, dressed in their colors, vivid and changeable, along with its history and people, have forever become part of who I am.
Salt Creek Canyon is close to the top of my long...