I don’t remember whether or not she wore a bra. Considering her nickname, Stinky Hippie, I want to say no. But who knows. She had long dark hair and I think her first name was similar to “Candle” but I know it wasn’t “Candie.” Candie is a great stripper name but gains no respect within the hippie society.
One time she showed us pictures of her friend’s ankle after a nasty rock climbing fall. I remember trying to look away but not being able to. You could see the bones, ligaments and muscle. Apparently the foot had gotten lodged in the rocks during the fall and ripped almost all the way off. In the picture it clung to the rest of the leg by a small strip of skin.
Little Edmonton was dating the Stinky Hippie at the time. I was a virgin at the time so I was often both intrigued and embarrassed by the moaning noises that emanated from the bedroom while they were in there alone. Honestly though, they were probably just putting on a show to mess with us roommates.
At the time we were doing industrial roofing down by Four Corners. We spent half of the summer bouncing around Monticello and the rest of the time in Montezuma Creek. There’s a Taco Bell right off the highway at the base of a big red cliff. One time we were driving to the elementary school we were working on and we saw Indians from the reservation doing a dance out in the open, just a few miles away from the Taco Bell and off the side of the same highway.
The sky was totally clear that day. I mean clear—like blazing sun, fried corneas, 130-degrees on the roof clear. There were plateaus in the distance to the north and south. We were dousing our heads with our water bottles, trying desperately to ward off heat stroke, when the supervisor pointed to clouds hanging over the plateaus in the distance.
“I hope they make it this way,” he’d said before returning to work.
Like a vengeful answer to an unintentional prayer, the clouds in the north swelled and began racing toward us. We noticed clouds growing to the south as well. It was as though the plateaus themselves were giant smoke machines, cranked up to full capacity and sending billows of thick gray thunderheads toward us.
“Do you think we should get off the roof?” someone had asked nervously.
In awe we watched the clouds race at each other. I do not choose that word “race” lightly. None of us had ever seen clouds move that fast. The barreled toward each other like meteorological muscle cars in a game of chicken.
We had started gathering up our tools without as much as another word. I don’t think anyone felt like we had time to discuss what was taking place. None of us had grown up in hurricane or tornado-ridden places and had rarely seen weather change this quickly.
With morbid curiosity we stopped what we were doing when the tidal waves of cloud met immediately over our heads. They glanced off of each other and began to swirl at the point of impact.
“Shit!”
“Move your ass!”
“Son of a BITCH!”
“Get off the roof!!”
“Hustle, dude!!”
I don’t remember the exact expletives and warnings we shouted but there was plenty of yelling when a cold wind kicked up as soon as the two sides of the storm started to meld. I don’t know how hard the wind was blowing in term of gust speed, but have you ever seen those garbage can holders made out of quarter-inch metal bars and encased in a layer of concrete? The probably weigh at least 300 pounds. Well, the wind was strong enough to push those around the parking lot.
The lightning and instant thunder started booming as the first torrent of fat drops started cascading from the sky. Within seconds each of us looked the same way we did when we jumped into the San Juan River after work to cool off and rinse the Xylene out of our clothes.
When you spend time in the desert, it can get difficult to imagine drowning in the same ravines and washes you normally pick as camping spots. I don’t think any of us will ever scoff at flash flood warnings after that day. We watched a raging river appear, within seconds, and wash over the road as we drove away from the school.
The highway we’d driven dozens of times that summer without seeing more than a car or two was suddenly congested as people pulled over to honk and cheer at the Indians we’d seen dancing earlier that morning. We finally made it passed, nobody speaking but everybody thinking the words, “Rain Dance.”
The San Juan was probably two feet higher than it had been that morning. We drove across the bridge and gawked at the enormous red waterfalls cascading over the red cliffs behind the Taco Bell. I think the whole ordeal only increased our love and awe for Southern Utah.
So, when The Stinky Hippie invited us to Moab during one of our weekends, we gladly accepted. Packing little more than a pair of shorts each, we piled into her Jeep Cherokee and hit the road.
The details of that drive down are fuzzy, but if I remember correctly, Little Edmonton’s older brother (aptly named Big Edmonton for the purpose of this story) took advantage of the scenery to drop some education on us. He was/is by far the smartest guy most of us will ever know, a scientist by trade and a blazing rationalist. Big Ed never seemed to get hyped up by much of anything. His voice was calm even as he recounted stories of cannibalistic, devil worshiping Indians called Skinwalkers. He told us about his cousin’s, buddy’s uncle’s basketball coach (I don’t remember the degrees of separation so I’m erring on the side of caution) whom had been tormented during his Mormon mission by these superhuman menaces.
We sat riveted during the 4-hour drive, hearing about pale white Indians who could jump clean up onto the roof of a house, run alongside cars, turn into Coyotes, crawl along walls and bounce, flatfooted, back and forth over a missionary’s bed... all just for the hell of it.
Big Ed may have just been messing with us. I’m open to the idea but I doubt it. Who knows, maybe they were all just messing with me because I was (and am) notoriously gullible. Then again, given more than a few minutes to evaluate and digest, I usually have a pretty good bullshit detector. Big Ed never set it off once. In my recollection he was fully convinced of everything he told us.
We got into Moab and, as far as I remember, immediately set to rafting the Colorado River. I can’t tell you how many days/nights we stayed down there or how we spent them in detail. I do remember tying the raft to my lifejacket, diving in during the unbearably mellow sections of the trip, and earning the nickname “River Steed” while towing the boat. I also remember Little Ed taking advantage of my precarious position, tethered to the boat, by whipping me with willow reeds.
“Onward River Steed!!” he would shout. I’m guessing it worked and I pulled harder.
I also remember cliffjumping from an insanely beautiful spot on the outskirts of town. On the way in there was the most beautiful piece of graffiti I’ve ever seen during my days in Utah. It showed a menacing block if city buildings, skewed and evil looking. The word “Death” was written in their midst. I’ve always agreed with that sentiment—not just because of my claustrophobia among tall buildings.
We were winding down to a campsite along a steep road of narrow switchbacks. It was getting dark. The beam of the headlights reached another sharp curve and then stretched out endlessly into the empty air in front of us as we made the turn. Our collective breath caught as the blue-tinged glow washed over a coyote, seated in the center of the road. The normally skittish creature disobeyed its natural characteristics by not darting into the obscurity. Instead, it remained in place, staring at us as we wound around it.
“Creepy.” Little Ed said.
We all muttered in agreement.
We found the campsite shortly after reaching the bottom of the canyon. To our surprise, the Cherokee was the only car in the parking lot. We pulled up far enough to read the sign and map in the headlights. This particular campground featured seven different sites. We were stationed at its only entrance.
After a bit of contemplation we settled on campsite 7 because it was the last on the map. If other campers arrived we didn’t want them to be trekking past us after we’d settled in.
We hauled our minimal gear past six empty sites. As we walked we peered into the six fire pits. None of them had been used. The entire campground looked as though it had been deserted, unused, or recently cleaned.
I think all of our nerves were still shaken at that point, but we walked in silence, not giving voice to any of our fears. The flashlight looked like a glowing sword in the night as our shoes kicked up the fine, dry dust.
The lucky number 7 campsite was nestled at the base of a mesquite tree. We spread our sleeping bags under it, a few yards away from a thicket of scrub oak. I built a small fire but we were quick to get into our sleeping bags to rest for the next day.
As I write this, I’m realizing that all of this took place almost 8 years ago. Some of the images are seared into my memory and I know I won’t forget them. To be honest, however, some of the events may have been flipped in my mind—not to say they didn’t happen, but I can’t claim 100% accuracy regarding the order of events. For example, I don’t remember if the chanting or lightning happened first. Don’t worry; I’ll get to it…
That thicket of scrub oak really stands out in my mind. It was between us and the rock wall of the canyon. I remember hearing the snapping of twigs coming from it while I built the fire. We hurled chunks of sandstone into it a few times, hoping to scare out the rabbit or whatever else was hiding in it. I even collected and kept a small stack of stones next to my sleeping bag once I was ready to lie down. When your ears collect the sound of a snapping twig, your mind immediately goes to work… especially when you can’t visually confirm how the snapping took place. Your mind first registers the sound with surprise, and then, like dominoes, the questions begin to flip over in your head:
How loud was that?
Was the sound enhanced by the echo of the canyon?
How thick would the twig need to be to make that much noise?
How heavy would the paw, foot, scaled appendage, etc. need to be to snap that twig?
What type of creature could I expect living in a place like this?
If I shout and throw rocks at it, will it run away?
If I shout and throw rocks at it, will it make me feel better?
At what age is it no longer allowable to be afraid of the dark?
Don’t think about the coyote. Don’t think about the coyote. Don’t think about the coyote.
“WHAT THE F-- DID YOU SEE THAT??!!”
That was what I’m sure a few of us screamed when we saw it. It was the first and, I’m sure, ONLY time any of us will ever see lightning like that.
I know you can’t close your eyes while reading, but maybe take a moment to do so after this next paragraph.
You are on your back. You can feel the soft sand give under your weight as you shift to get more comfortable. In your vision, the sneer of a narrow canyon runs left to right. If you look up you can see the wall behind you. If you look down you can see the opposite wall just past your feet. The red on the rocks gives way to purple in the starlight. You look up at the thin strip of star-speckled sky. Imagine you are holding a volleyball. You close one eye and reach out as far as you can with the ball. With this perspective, the ball is easily large enough to get lodged between the canyon walls. Now, imagine a bolt of lightning shoots HORIZONTALLY along the mouth of the canyon. It is so thick that it easily fills one third or even one half of your view, perhaps the size of baseball.
You cringe and hold your breath, waiting for the boom of thunder you’re sure will rattle loose the fillings in your teeth. It never comes. Once again your brain starts flipping through the index of knowledge in search of an answer.
What kind of lightning shoots sideways and causes no thunder?
Nothing.
I think at that point somebody suggested packing it up. We should have listened.
Instead, we stayed put. We were slightly reassured by the voices echoing into the canyon. We assumed that more campers had arrived. Their words were not discernable, partly because the sound was reaching us after multiple “bank shots” from the canyon walls but mostly because they were not spoken in English. We’d met a woman from Germany just hours earlier so the concept of a multilingual campground did not throw up any red flags. Still, we strained our ears to see if we could at least figure out what language it was. No luck.
“Are they singing?” Big Ed asked.
“No,” said The Stinky Hippie. “I don’t think so.”
We tried to go back to sleep. I was having a hard time descending completely into the warm bath of slumber, but the hours I’d spent towing the boat were pulling me pretty hard.
I felt something on my chest. My mind instantly flashed to the cabin in Montana. My dad had built it with a buddy from medical school. Our families would go up there for a few weeks during the summer. Initially, we went to help strip the trees and build it. Later, to lounge on its porch and get away from the city. In fact, we got so far from the city that the night sky was not marred by any sort of city glow. Seeing the stars that clearly means also becoming intimate with nature. In my case, that meant sleeping on the ground floor of the cabin and having mice run back and forth over my sleeping bag during the night.
I could feel the weight of it on my chest. Still half asleep, I reached up to pluck it off. Expecting my fingers to find soft mammal fur I was jerked instantly awake when they made contact with something very different.
It twitched when I touched it. Its body was covered in joints and a course hair. Again, my mind selected mental images from my memory rolodex. I saw talk show hosts shrieking and being tormented by animal “experts” who laughed and said, “Don’t worry! This kind doesn’t bite!” I saw a coiled whip flicked nonchalantly by Indiana Jones. I saw an equally less-than-brilliant criminal scream in horror after receiving a similar surprise on the face in “Home Alone” from the younger, saner, Macaulay Culkin.
Unable to decide how best to grab the tarantula, I simply snatched it in my palm and threw it as fast and hard as I could. It was so big, I still remember the audible “thud” it made hitting the sand.
I could still hear the faint murmur of voices. But this time, the echoes were wrong. They were hitting my right ear. In my lying position, the opening of the canyon was on my left. I was pretty certain the canyon closed up completely a few hundred yards to my right, hence the seventh and final campground.
I drew slow deep breaths. Sound waves do funny things and, as far as I knew, tarantulas aren’t any more poisonous than the mice at the cabin. I told myself to stop being such a baby.
“Snap!”
I spun and started hurling my rocks into the thicket.
Nothing.
I dropped heavily back down onto my sleeping bag. “Relax. Stop being such a baby.”
I continued that mantra until I was asleep again. Then, I felt something on my chest again. I shouted some unintelligible obscenity and smacked it off with the back of my hand. I tried to hit it hard enough to brush it far away and kill it at the same time.
“What the hell?!” the Stinky Hippie said.
It had been her hand. Apparently, she’d rolled the wrong direction and placed a hand on my chest instead of Little Ed’s.
“Are you guys awake?” Big Ed said. His voice was more strained and weak than I’d ever heard it.
“Yeah,” we each said.
“Can we leave?” he asked. He sounded like he had been crying.
We packed in a hurry. Nobody spoke. We didn’t put out our smoldering fire or double check to make sure we’d gathered everything. We just left. We could barely keep from running to the Jeep.
Just as during our entrance, we shone the flashlight on each fire pit on our way out. Nobody had been here. There were no other campers. The Jeep was still the only vehicle in the parking area. We’d all heard the voices, nobody doubted that. I can’t speak for anyone else, but knowing that whoever those voices belonged to had come into that canyon on foot instantly wrapped me in gooseflesh.
That sensation was not about to subside anytime soon.
Under the dome light of the Jeep I could see that Big Ed looked pale. He really might have been crying.
We drove away in silence. We were probably halfway back up the switchbacks before Little Ed finally asked the question we’d all be thinking. Turning to Big Ed he asked, “What the hell happened?”
Big Ed seemed reluctant to speak. He spun in his seat to peer again out the back window, as if to verify that we were not being followed.
“There were two of them,” he said, shakily.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Just standing over me,” he said, his eyes to the floor. “I woke up because I could hear them like… chanting, or singing or something. I didn’t dare move. I opened my eyes just a tiny bit – just enough to see the two silhouettes. They were just standing next to me, looking down at me… chanting.”
“You’re shitting us,” Little Ed said in a voice completely void of humor.
“I wish,” Big Ed said with a shudder. “They were going to kill me. I was sure of it. All of us. I just pulled the blanket over my face and waited. Then when I heard Dan I decided to look again, thinking they’d gotten him first, and they were gone. I really didn’t think we’d make it out of there.”
He turned again to look out the back window.
We made it back into town and pulled into a church parking lot to spend the morning. We bathed in the sprinklers as best we could and the Moab trip was over.
About a month ago I was in Moab with my wife and daughters and we pulled up to the same campsite. 8 years later the sight of the sign still gave me the chills. Hell, even driving the switchbacks made my skin crawl. Had it been a dream? Was it simply the result of overactive imaginations run wild? I can’t really say. What I do know is that, for me personally, the memory of that trip will always carry with it an eerie aftertaste.
