September 19, 2012

IT WAS A LAZY DAY TODAY, and we slept late. When we finally got on the road, we drove into Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, another monument which is really not a monument.  President Clinton designated the two million plus acres in the “monument” as a federal monument during his presidency.  His action angered people in the area at first, prompting outcries against big government. The outcries subsided when tourism increased in the area, and new businesses and jobs were created.

Carole wanted to work on another Jr. Ranger badge at the visitors’ center about 30 miles from where we were staying. After a slight set back in our plans due to the woman in the Garmin, we finally found the proper road. During the drive, we saw a herd of wild horses about half way to our destination, the town of Escalante. 

While Carole was running around completing the requirements for another ranger badge, I found some scrap books dealing with local history. I have always liked local history and visit local historical societies everywhere we travel. To paraphrase Tip O’Neil, “All history is local.”

The first white people to come into the area were, not surprisingly, Mormons who came here in the 1880s. Establishing a number of small towns near where we were staying, they soon found that simply living in the area was a struggle. At times, there was no water available. At other times, flash floods would destroy their homes and crops. Most of the towns disappeared within a few years after they were set up. Cannonville, the town where we are staying, was partially populated by people who tore down their houses in an area prone to flash floods and rebuilt their houses here. Up until 1940, mail was delivered by burros.

Life here today is not much easier than it was over a hundred years ago. There is nothing close to industry in the area;  and the restaurants, gift shops and motels often close in the winter when the temperatures reach 20 below and the snow is several feet deep. Yet, there are still people who live in the area year round.

We talked to a number of workers and employees at the motel, and all were very personable. Although we never asked them direct questions about how they lived or why they lived here, in the course of our conversations, they answered a number of our unasked questions. They are invariably Mormons and have deep roots in the area. One guy trained to be a plumber in Salt Lake City, but the union-controlled licensing bureau refused to give him a license because there were “no union locals” where he lived. Even with a license, he would find it hard to work more than half a year in this area. I overheard another guy ask someone who must have some type of trucking business which serves the area if they needed any drivers “up there.” From the look on his face, he must have gotten an encouraging response. Kids have to travel incredible distances to go to schools where the average teacher salary is around $20,000 a year. The nearest drug store is 35 miles away, and doctors are few and far between.

Although we have enjoyed our  stay, we are ready to move on to Zion National Park.  I have to admit that there has been one disappointing aspect to our trip: I haven’t seen a single rattlesnake. Despite seeing dozens of warning signs in the Badlands, Yellowstone and Bryce Canyon, I haven’t seen one rattlesnake or even heard a hint of a rattle. I’m hoping that when we get to Arizona one will pop up. Carole is always prowling around in the weeds here looking for rocks, and she will probably luck out and find one before I do. For some bizarre reason, I have always been fascinated with snakes. Having been bit by non-venomous snakes three times when I was a kid should have ended my interest, but it hasn’t.

One of my long-time friends and law partners was always coming up with crazy ideas, but the one I remember best is the one I labeled at the time “The Great Rattlesnake Hunt.” His idea was simple. We would go to some place in Illinois where rattlesnakes were common and we would each pick one up with our hands. He assured me that it would not be dangerous because we could employ any protective measures we so chose: thick gloves, double layers of pants, etc.  Largely because I could not find any place where I could rent a suit of armor, the project never got off of the ground. I should have come up with an alternative to the suit of armor idea.