Frogs Chorus and Mule Bray at Short Creek

East of the Hurricane Fault and tucked up against the South West corner of the Vermilion cliffs that surround Zion National Park lies a quiet little community that has recently found its way into the world's spotlight. The twin cities of Hildale, Utah and Colorado City, Arizona straddle the Utah-Arizona border as a single community. Formerly known as Short Creek, it was settled in 1913 by a group of people looking for a remote place to live the religious practice of Polygamy. Historically hounded and driven, they live in a somewhat closed society. Their shyness, born of the intense scrutiny and curiosity that follows them--is a bitter irony since they shun the spotlight that pries into the practices they hold sacred.

In my Optometry practice, I have had a unique opportunity to know them personally in a way that outsiders rarely enjoy. Over the past 10 years, I have taken care of many hundreds of them, including several of those who were rounded up in the Texas raid last month. In many circles, these are fighting words, but contrary to popular opinion they are among the finest people you can find in this world. The institutional child abuse and pedophilia wildly assumed to be part of their culture is in fact isolated and rare. The FLDS children and adults I have known over the years are genuinely happy people. The children are uncommonly gracious, respectful, and inquisitive--most showing obvious signs of good parenting. They live simple, devoted lives and follow strict guidelines regarding modesty and morality that defy what the media reports as fact.

Unfortunately for them, outsiders like me who know them well are counted on fingers. As a result, the dehumanization and marginalization of the FLDS people has been far too easy. So here we sit, Americans who cherish Constitutionally guaranteed liberty, pursuit of happiness and due process, cheering Texas as they strip my neighbors of theirs because they dress like pioneers and live a hated religious lifestyle. Sadly, few dare to openly stand up for them. To my dear friends in Short Creek, I wish you God-speed.

Hildale is the gateway to this week's mule trek. I hear the top of Canaan Mountain has quakies and a beautiful small lake, so my boys and I packed up and headed that way with a verbal description from one of my next door neighbors who has been there. Sorry Elvin, but you lost me. I had to call on Lawrence Steed of Hildale who came to the rescue with Topo maps and an experienced guide. That got us to the trail head and a mind's eye view of the terrain we were facing. The only way up with horses is the Squirrel trail, we are told, and even that might be very risky. It was. When we got to the final ascent, I tied the pack mule, left my boys below, and went up to see what the top looked like by myself, then made my way back down. The boys were delighted to go back down to the grassy narrows for the overnighter we had planned.

Its a beautiful canyon. As we rode towards the head of the stream lined narrows, we began to hear a chorus of frogs. The canyon walls offered an incredible acoustic that magnified their already big voices. We struck camp in a pretty meadow with a watercress filled spring that fed the central stream and the boys spent the rest of the evening chasing frogs.

As I lay wrapped in my bedroll, looking through the narrow star-filled gap above me--my three sons worn out and dreaming, the world went away for awhile. I was in a grand tabernacle with a chorus of frogs, in sharp harmony against the constant babble of the brook. My young mule, worried about where she was tied, offered her lonely bray in rounds of four pretty evenly across the entire movement. Finally at 4 or 5 am, the last encore was over and only the brook had the energy to continue. What majesty!! The Master of all conductors has performed a brilliant piece just for me!

Next morning the boys slept in for a while before going back on the frog hunt. As we finished up somewhere around noon, it was obvious that summer has finally arrived. The canyon wasn't bad, but we knew coming out was going to be warm. No matter. One of the great secrets in Short Creek is a little pizza and icecream place called Craigos. Our family makes it a point never to travel anywhere near Short Creek on a full stomach. Jared and Lil make the best Pizza Bombs (Calzones) you will ever find. My boys probably came on this trip, mostly on the promise that we could have lunch there on the way out. There is no where to sit, but the food and cheerful help are worth far more trouble than that.

Rusty has a new sister

Out at SugarCreek Ranch in South West Missouri, Dennis and Karen Miller just sent me pics of their new addition--Rusty's half sister Kali (same Dam, different Sire). After all the reports of the tornados that tore up their part of the county yesterday--its nice to see sunshine in a picture from Missouri dated 5/12/2008. Karen reports that some of what hit Missouri yesterday came within 20 miles of them--and more are expected today. Hope they stay safe!

Congratulations!

Riders of the Purple Sage

I'm not sure I can improve upon the silence, or say it any better than these photos. The offerings of spring beg a little reverence, and command a lot of respect.

BLOOMIN' Pahcoon Springs

Mataqua is a hamlet inhabited by a couple of off-the-grid families, tucked down in Utah's SouthWest corner. During the flood in January, 2005, the Santa Clara River wiped out all the bridges and crossings that serviced Mataqua and her nearest neighbor, the town of Gunlock. During the flood's peak, the only way into either place was by helicopter. The re-routed dirt road to Mataqua now runs through a corner of the Shivwits Indian Reservation before meeting up with its original course near Pahcoon Springs.

Today was the Back Country Horsemen's SouthWest Chapter monthly ride. We parked at Pahcoon Springs and spent part of the day enjoying the desert at its finest. The view through Rusty's Buckhorn sights was a breathtaking splash of color that only nature could reproduce. The photos that follow don't do justice to what we witnessed, but I did the best I could with the camera in my right hand and a fistfull of ASS in the other:

Its a JOHN

The photos show him at 5 minutes Old. He was born about 7:55 am this morning to Can't Splash, Sunnie's Dash for Cash mare. He was on his feet immediately.






























He seems a lot more calm than Calamity--last year's Skipper W Molly.


Here he is dried off at 4 hours old.

His name: Rusty's Splashing Doc
(Update…we were so disappointed in his small stature, we changed his name to "Senator.")

Building Foundations--QVMR part 1

Queen Valley Mule Ranch lies neatly at the foot of the Superstition Wilderness just off Highway 60, East of Phoenix, Arizona. The needled skyline of the Superstitions angles upward at the Northern edge of the Sonoran Desert, her silhouette often broken by the commanding Saguaro. After a wet spring, her blossoming invites Macroscopic attention. It is a new experience for me to see the desert this way. I'm used to the wide-angle beauty of Southern Utah's table-topped mesas which demand more Telephotoscopic attention. Its part of why we came. The visual feast of cacti in bloom stimulates deep reverence for the Master Landscaper, and wells of wonder for the purpose behind it. Chantra and I pulled two mules over the 8 hour highway with great anticipation that we might learn a little about these peculiar animals from one of the sport's great legends and teachers. Steve Edwards was hosting his annual Desert Flowers mule clinic.

We dropped the trailer and mules on Friday night, then returned Saturday morning for two days of training. Steve and Susan Edwards were delightful hosts and made sure we ate well and were properly entertained. Nine of us came for the clinic--and our previous experience ranged from 40 years of riding to none. A couple of the group were starting with a clean slate.


Steve is a great teacher. When it was all finished, I looked in the rear view mirror and realized that in spite of the varied knowledge levels each student brought to the clinic, everyone seemed to leave with new skills and an excitement for the new insights they had gained. He orchestrated our learning with energy and vigor.


One theme underlined the entire clinic: building and strengthening foundations. I think some of us get this idea that we can get our animals trained and then we can relax and use them. Steve showed us how to keep our mules soft and supple with a few communication tricks that can be used on a maintenance basis . Along with the foundation work which benefited every mule and student--even the advanced ones, we learned shoeing, saddle fitting, and how to apply foundation skills to our in-saddle riding.




We enjoyed plenty of time for fun and relaxation. Saturday night's cowboy dinner was a real treat--a boiled meat and vegetable pot cooked over a fire. Then we sat around the sunset, eating to the sound of Joe Baer and Julie Sterling singing cowboy songs with quail banter in the background. As the stars came out of hiding, Chantra and I shared our essay, "Yearning to Breathe Free" which dramatizes her journey through Cambodia's Killing Fields.


On Sunday morning, we paused for Cowboy Church. Steve's preaching was informal and sincere. Everyone with wisdom to share was free to speak up, and Julie sang several moving songs of faith. Between Saturday night's fireside music and stories, and Sunday's devotional, we all shared a sense of gratitude for the majesty of life. Chantra and I certainly felt uplifted and grateful for our faith.



We spent the rest of the day working in the saddle, eventually getting out for a ride into "Steve's office" where we saw that macroscopic display of the desert in bloom and watched another sunset. After we finished our training, and got our animals loaded up to leave, it was suggested that we go to dinner together. A real nice friendship had formed and no one was quite ready to say goodbye. Its the first time in my life I've gone more than a block out of my way for a McDonalds sandwich--in fact, 50 miles out of my way, dragging a 40 foot trailer with my mules. But hearing Steve's belly laugh when he realized we made that 50 mile diversion under the false pretense of good Mexican food was worth it. And getting one last "so long" with some real friends was worth twice the price of admission. Sorry Rick and Jay missed it. That sandwich tasted real good thanks to Steve, Susan, Dale, Nancy, Julie, Karen, and Terry (hope to see you on the trail again). Happy Trails.



THE DASH FOR CASH MULE BABY IS NOW 27 DAYS OVERDUE, and momma finally looks pregnant.

The Quickening of time

Life accelerated moves along at a pace that leaves you gasping for breath--its wind hitting you in the face so forcefully, breathing comes in gulps. Months, measured by mortgages and car payments blur by like the dotted center line on life's highway. Years, punctuated by tax season, click along like telephone poles beside that same highway--each one coming before you recover from the last one.

Is time really moving faster, or are we just so busy that it seems like it? In the tradition of the prophets who speak of the latter days, time is to be quickened. I don't know if such a thing is meant to be a physical reality or just a perception, but I found the secret key to slowing time down to a manageable pace.

Just have mule babies. Watching our overdue mare (9 going on 10 days overdue) is worse than watching the grass grow. Each night, we take turns checking on her hourly.

Remember how slow time seemed to move when we were kids? My kids didn't know what that meant until now. And the best part about time slowing down...? I have more of it to get things done than normal. Soon as the baby comes and we get back on the fast train again, we'll be behind as usual.