It was late summer, the 23rd of August to be exact, and though Tess had of recent begun to feel her age she was still looking forward to one more outing at Lake Powel before winter set in. Her one and only child Matte Harper, was a chemical engineer for a large petroleum company with its base of operations in Phoenix. He had grown up on that lake and loved taking his own family there whenever he could schedule time away from his demanding career. Matte’s wife Angie and their two sons, Chad who was twelve and Jordan now fifteen, loved to water ski, swim and fish, and so were often affectionately called polliwogs by Grandma Tess for their love of the water. Matte never made plans for a lake trip that didn’t include his mother who loved to skim along the surface of the clear blue water and feel the breeze on her face; and besides, her good company and interesting chatter, she also brought along many of his favorite camp-out foods he remembered from childhood; that of course still included smores, to be melted over the open camp fire. It’s funny how some small delights tag along behind us through childhood into our adult lives and never lose their appeal, and in fact become a part of our traditions. So it was that plans were made, that in three days time the family would be assembled once more for their last lake trip of the season.
Tess was up early the morning of their departure, moving around her spacious, sunny kitchen where she organized her grub box for the trip, while sipping on a mug of steaming coffee and wondering where she had laid the can opener. Her part of the campout supplies were nearly ready as indicated by the check list she now reviewed and marked off with her pencil. Just as she reached for a bag of utensils to put in alongside the cooking pots, her phone rang. Her grandson Chad was on the line to alert her of their eminent arrival and to ask if he could borrow her old Pentex camera for the trip. He wanted to produce a chronicle of their travels and illustrate it with photographs, but his camera was broken. Tess reassured him her camera was available and that she might even have a couple of rolls of film left to help with his project. Signing off, she went to her hall closet and pulled out an old, worn camera bag and located the film. Reaching into its side pocket to find her attachments, her finger fumbled on to a small weathered envelope containing a few old black and white photos. As she gazed at the pictures, a wide grin stretched over her mouth as a giggle escaped her lips. She couldn’t really remember the last time she had taken any photos or why she had these pictures pulled aside and placed in her bag, but what fun they were to look at now. There she was in 1947, leaning up against an old Plymouth coupe in a pair of Bermuda shorts, hiking boots and pith helmet, safari hat. She stood with one arm casually thrown around her husband Max, who sat in a camp chair beside her, his own hat cocked in a rakish style like Indiana Jones. He smiled with his pipe dipping the corner of his mouth. They had just come from an archeological dig out in Vernal, Utah sponsored by the University of Utah, where Max had been the student coordinator for the project. Max and Tess were seniors at the university, when they met, fell in love and later married. Max, having an affinity for rocks since childhood, had as a normal course been led to the study of archeology, where he would spend the rest of his working years, searching out the creative mysteries of the millennia, trapped in the soil, rocks and sediment of this earthly constellation we call home. In the next photo she saw artifacts spread out on a large canvas with Max squatting in the middle, holding what looked to be the substantial remains of a piece of decorative pottery, no doubt made by the Anasazi Indians dating back to between 5500 BC. and 700 BC; defined by its natural markings and black and white banding. Tess remembered how thrilled she and Max had been at its discovery, it being a remnant of the oldest known, ancient Indian civilizations that had lived in this region of the country. Adding to their pleasure was the size and scale of the piece that from its base was two thirds complete and in a reasonably good state of preservation; what a treasure. The remains of the find included broken pieces of water jugs, bits of clay pipe and six light spears, two with their flint arrowheads intact. The third remaining photo showed a large pitched tent filled with cots and camping gear, its entire front screened flap unzipped and rolled up to give free access. Alongside the tent was a makeshift trestle table where several tanned and smiling college students posed for their picture to be taken. Some stood nearby holding picks, shovels and brooms, props that defined their tasks each day. Those were such great times Tess reminisced. When she and Max had been young and energetic, always looking around the corner for the next new adventure. There he was, her own dear Max, seated among his minions ever so charming and dapper; the man she had truly loved and adored. At the age of sixty eight, he had a sudden heart attack in a far off remote area of Death Valley, where he was surveying and taking soil samples for a paper he was writing. It had come on quickly and passed in a moment before his companions knew he was in any distress. Tess had been without Max for several years now but still warmed to the memory of his boyish exuberance for life and the work he loved. As Tess fingered through the photos one last time, she heard the kitchen door open and close and Matte’s familiar voice echoing through the house. As she placed the pictures back in their envelope, she tucked them into her front shirt pocket, then reached for her camera bag and swung it over her shoulder. Making her way up the back hall she grabbed an extra jacket from its peg, remembering that nights on the lake could be cool even in August.
The happy campers left Tess’s home in Red Mesa by 6:00am, traveling west on highway 160 past Monument Valley, then picking up Highway 98 skirting the Hopi Indian Reservation heading northwest to Page. Upon arriving at Page, everyone was ravenous and excited to visit their favorite Mexican restaurant Casa Lo-Bo. After a casual refreshing lunch, they wandered out side. From their perch on a high ridge where the restaurant stood one could see for miles. The travelers stretched and reached for sunglasses while taking in the view. Jordon mentioned that if the Grand Canyon were to ever flood it would look just like Lake Powell, with its steep colorful ledges and sky blue water. All agreed with nodding heads, then Grandma Tess, ever a treasure trove of trivia informed the group that it was in 1956 that congress authorized the building of Glen Canyon Dam to back up the waters of the Colorado, Escalante, San Juan and the Dirty Devil rivers to create their beloved Lake Powell and that it took seventeen years to fill it to its present pool of 3,700 feet above sea level. Chad poked his brother Jordon and said, “No wonder it took us so long to refill our swimming pool last spring when we had to drain it for repairs.” With concurring smiles and laughter, they all piled back into Matte’s SUV looking forward to the moment they would launch out on to the cool, deep water under the bright warm summer sky.
Chad was fiddling with Tess’s camera and discussing his project with her as they pulled into Wahweap Marina where Matte kept his large, pontoon boat. Glad to be at their destination, everyone scrambled to grab their provisions and make way to the boat. After an intense hour of securing their goods, checking the emergency gear and fueling up, they parted the waters of the marina and headed up the lakes main channel at full throttle. They planned to spend their first night at the lake on a small island out of Wahweap near Navajo Canyon. In order to have camp set up before dusk they would need to move along. It was a perfect day, the weather was beautiful and as they raced along the surface of the gleaming water, everyone felt the exhilaration of being out in the fresh air in the middle of such breath taking scenery. Chad snapped some pictures of them stowing in at the Marina and now made notes in a log book and took more pictures as they cut through the water. Bright, orange, sand stone ledges were reflected in the brilliant, clear water; the ridge line creating a horizon dividing the infinite blue sky above from the deep water below. Tess took the binoculars and spotted an eagle perched on a craggy outcropping of rock and pointed it out to the boys. Soon they heard the eagles call and another majestic bird appeared, swooping down, gliding along the steep ledges. As Angie stepped to the helm and handed Matte a cup of coffee, she placed her arms around his waist and leaning in on his shoulder ask
ing, “Does it get better than this?” With a warm smile and a kiss to her forehead he replied, “No, it doesn’t”.
Their home for the night loomed up out of the water just ahead, the pinnacle of a single monolith, jutting straight up from what was once the canyon floor now made island by the surrounding waters, a partly submerged mesa only accessible to man by the flow around it. As they put in to tie up, the campers noted how the sun was waning and a quick supper would need to be prepared while the guys pitched the tent and hauled in the bed rolls. Later, seated comfortably around a camp fire, their tummies full of savory beef stew and biscuits they sipped at mugs of spiced tea and marveled at the giant, full moon and plethora of stars and constellations that littered the night sky. Bats began to dart out of holes grooved in the side walls of stone to begin their nocturnal feasting. Buzz-bombing the campfire, they screeched, flapping their webbed wings, then flew off into the silent night. Jordon teased his mom by hoping he could catch one in his fishing net and slip it into her bed roll for a surprise, which she assured him would only lead her to drown him at first light. Matte grinned at Jordon and told him a man who is forewarned is forearmed and they all laughed. While conversing around the flickering fire, Tess withdrew from her shirt pocket the small worn envelope she had found earlier in the day with her camera equipment. She passed the photos around explaining the images with the details of her life at that time. The two boys loved the old car and Angie commented on how young and spunky she and Max looked in those days. Matte loved seeing old pictures of his father, with whom he had enjoyed a close relationship. Tagging along behind him as a young boy, Matte was full of wonder as his father unveiled the splendors of nature to him and a love for God’s great creative work. It filled him with a sense of pleasure. Chad asked about the bowl that granddad held up in his hands and Tess explained about the ancient Anasazi Indians who produced this unique type of black and white pottery and the Pueblo people who were their late ancestors. She described this particular excavation trip was intended to yield fossils fragments and dinosaur bones and what an added bonus it had been to find these other items. As the fire drew to its dying embers, Chad stared at the picture of his granddad and the ancient bowl. He wondered who had made it and used it, and what life was like for that person who lived tucked away in the remote ledges of time.
For the next few days, operating from their base camp on the island, the family launched out on their boat to ride the gleaming still waters. They traveled up into remote eddies, that pierced the windswept sand stone ledges where they climbed up nearby rocks and dove off the lower cliffs, splashing and frolicking in the cool, deep water. Jordan, who loved to snorkel, adjusted his breathing tube and face mask as he jumped in and paddled several yards from the anchored pontoon; smoothly swimming along the surface until he spotted a school of fish. Then, hanging quietly in the water, suspended in a dead man’s float, the fish came up to look in his face mask. They nibbled at his fingers and toes as they swam between his motionless limbs investigating this newcomer to their native waters. Through his mask, Jordan could see straight down for almost fifty feet through the shafts of light that broke the surface until shadows shrouded the cavernous bottom below. Grandma Tess began to make a list of the birds she sighted, drawing small doodled sketches by some just for fun. In the open channel leading up the Escalante River, they spent a lazy afternoon picnicking and fishing for their supper. By the time they headed back to their encampment in late afternoon, their ice chest was full of beautiful rainbow trout found to be plentiful in these waters. By the end of their fourth day it was time to revisit the marina for more fuel and some fresh provisions. This time they visited the Pawnee Marina, a more remote outpost near Goats Bluff on the western shore of Lake Powell.
As they pulled in to tie up near the main store, Matte decided Chad would go with the women to help them with their supplies and Jordan would assist him with the fuel and water needs. As Tess, Angie and Chad made their way down the wharf toward the store, Chad noticed a few Indians going into the shop and an old one sitting outside its door on a small worn chair sleeping in the sun. With a face like a road map, lines ran all over his brown crinkled flesh and arched from the corners of his eyes like small waterfalls, making their way over his high cheek bones and into the sunken hallows on either side of his large boney nose. On his head sat an old black felt hat with a rawhide headband that held a white feather, its tip dipped in black. This ancient father was what some would call older than dirt and twice as dusty, as he sat there perfectly still in his faded blue jeans, worn cotton shirt and pointed toed cowboy boots that had seen too many miles already. He held the look of a character from a western dime novel. Chad tried not to stare as he entered the store but was so taken with the man’s appearance that he stumbled while stepping over the threshold. In a flash, the old man leapt from his chair and grabbed Chad’s arm to break his fall. Startled by this action, Chad sucked in his breath and looked alarmed as he righted himself. Chad was further surprised when he looked up into the old man’s face and noticed his milky white and brown eyes that no doubt compromised his vision, yet seemingly sharpened his other senses. Just as this happened, Tess turned around and saw the old Indian holding Chad’s arm. She walked to the door to see what was going on. The old fellow released Chad and asked him if he was alright, grinning a broad toothless smile. Tess and Chad said yes and thanked the man as he went on to explain that his name was Jesse Billagoaty and that his son George owned this store and had hired him to be his watch dog. All three laughed, while Tess complimented him on a job well done.
For the next two hours the family shopped and took time to have a cold lunch of sandwiches, potato salad and dill pickles found at a snack counter in the back of the store. Ice cold lemonade came from a large canister called PINK GULLY WASHER. All imbibed and asked for more. As they finished up and readied for the boat, Chad wandered back outside where he engaged Mr. Billagoaty in conversation. Chad had pulled up a large stump of wood and sat next to Jesse asking him all sorts of questions about himself like; how old he was, what kind of Indian tribe he came from and where he lived. Jesse was of a mind to converse and obliged his young friend with some colorful facts about his life, then had a few questions of his own. By the time the family came out of the store with their packages in hand, Chad and Jesse had become fast friends.
The sun hung low in the sky as the Harpers moved up the main channel of Lake Powell then on to the tributary leading to their camp. Chad kept the family entertained during the journey with facts about his new friend. Jesse Billagoaty revealed he was ninety six years old and a member of the Navajo Indian Nation. He was born in 1915 on the land grant reservation in southern Utah just across the Utah, Arizona border. He grew up in a region called Comb Ridge, where his family subsisted on a bit of land they farmed and sheep his dad raised to sell and traded. As a boy, Jesse loved to run and play out in the sage brush that covered the rolling hills surrounding his home. He learned to snare rabbits, gather wild bird eggs and chew on Pear Cactus, that when the needles were shaved off, release a tangy natural juice. His favorite food was Ho-Cakes that his mother fried over an open fire in a cast iron skillet, made from corn meal, with fresh onion, and green pepper added in season. Jesse told Chad that at his age he was put out to tend his father’s sheep, gather fire wood for his mothers cook stove, and to keep the weeds from overtaking their small garden. In the winter of his twelfth year he had learned to read, being taught by Christian missionaries who had come to the reservation to spread the white man’s gospel, handing out Bibles to all who would listen. In the comfort and knowledge of a great creative spirit, was found a common theme used to reach the people in his village, many who did come to faith over time. Chad said he told Jesse about his granddad and the Indian bowl he had found. Jesse confirmed, based on its description, that it had no doubt come from the ancient ones and that his own mother had been skilled at braiding rugs and weaving, their patterns and techniques passed down from generation to
generation. The family showed real interest in Chad’s story and later that night by the camp fire light, he wrote about this wonderful chance meeting in his journal, happy that Jesse allowed his picture to be taken at their parting, should their paths never cross again.
Their time at the lake finally spent, had been refreshing and wonderful, all they had hoped for. Now as the Harpers’ broke camp and stowed their gear on the pontoon, Jordan policed the area, checking for any leftover trash while Chad dispersed the camp fire site and buried the ashes. Pushing off their moorings they pulled up the lines one last time and headed for Wahweap, then to the road that would lead home. They made their final passage across the Lake reflecting on what a great trip it had been, the natural beauty of the area and the many things they had seen and done. Chad read parts of his journal out loud to include some antics that had happened around the campfire. They talked about the nights they had told stories, sung songs and laughed at each other while eating Smores. How they loved that sticky marshmallow and chocolate smeared and licked from their chins, when they all agreed once again; It don’t get better than this! Once back in the SUV and heading up the grade leading to Page, they decided by unanimous vote to take a small detour down highway 89 and over to Marble Canyon past Navajo Bridge. The family hadn’t been that way in a few years and Tess told them some interesting facts about the area and the Pueblo Indians that had been traced to the Paria Plateau, a geographic location rich in Indian artifacts and history. When they entered the area they found a lodge, and four small shops connected by a boardwalk. The shops were laden with wonderful handmade Indian blankets, rugs, baskets, pottery and more. Across the road and set back in a stand of Russian olive trees was an adobe building housing a rock shop, set against a high vertical cliff now left in shadow as the afternoon sun marched across the sky. In the shade of its porch was a sagging wooden bench where a man sat smoking his pipe, stroked a large, lazy, fat cat. While the family explored the outpost, Tess decided to venture across the road to look at the rocks. As she made for the porch she glanced at the man and his cat and couldn’t believe what she saw; there was Jessie Billagoaty staring forward out of his milky, brown, sightless eyes. Now detecting her footsteps, he turned his head in her direction, raised his eyebrows and smiled. Tess called out Jessie’s name and reminded him of their meeting a few days past at the Pawnee Marina and the young lad he had kept from a fall. Jessie bobbed his head and laughed with the recollection. Tess shook her head and smiled as she asked Jessie how it was that he was now miles away from the lake and here at the Rock Shop at Paria Plateau. Jessie told Tess that his nephew, Little John ran the Rock Shop and they both said in unison; and “He hired me to be his watch dog!” Both laughed at the old man’s joke.
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