The Sands of Time

Bob and I stood there contemplating our situation. We were standing on the hot desert sandscape, scratching our perspiring heads and looking at my Toyota truck. The once shiny vehicle was mired, axle deep, in the soft, flowing blow sand of Comb Wash. As the motor idled in temporary inaction, lazy tendrils of dust threaded across the vibrating hood. It wasn't the truck's fault we found ourselves here; there was no mechanical failure or lack of horse power and torque. I could have blamed Bob, or maybe even his brother Paul for asking us to help gather GPS coordinates, but the truth is the blame was mine, and mine alone. I had been talking incessantly and not paying attention. As a result, I had driven us right into a sand trap on the thirteenth fairway.

It had all started on a perfectly magnificent evening last week. Returning to Blanding from the high summer temperatures and scouring winds of Bluff, I had slumped into a plastic lounge chair in my backyard; relaxing in the cool, lush oasis my wife has created. I was enjoying myself immensely, and hoping someone would turn on the sprinklers to help lower my core temperature. A rain shower would have been nice, even if it was artificial.

I heard the telephone ring inside the house and turned away from the noise, thinking someone else would answer it and hoping the call wasn't for me. Having teenagers has proven to be a blessing, because I seldom have to answer a phone at home. The only problem is that I must always remember to move out of the flight path when the darn thing starts ringing. I have nearly been trampled a number of times because I inattentively found myself between a telephone and three kids rampaging to take the call.

My daughter Alyssa poked her head out the back door, notifying me that the call was mine. I asked her to, "please bring me the phone." Instead, my sweet, innocent, reckless child tossed the phone in my direction and disappeared back into the house with a mischievous smile. Having to jump up and snag the phone before it smashed into the retaining wall put me in a less than amiable mood. "Hello!" I said, putting the phone to my ear. Luckily I found a more hospitable tone before I said anything else. It seems young Paul was working on his Boy Scout Eagle project, and needed some help gathering Global Position Satellite readings for historical sites around San Juan County.

I guess he figured I was antiquated enough to know where to locate Bluff's historical landmarks. Since Paul's brother, Bob, was helping keep Twin Rocks presentable this summer, Paul was hoping we could get together and reconnoiter the territory. I readily agreed to help the lad, because I wanted to support his Scouting efforts and because it would give me an excuse to get out and reconnect with Mother Earth and a few of her special places. Little did I know the contact would be so intimate.

Bob ambled into the store late Thursday afternoon, after completing his projects, and asked if we were ever going to get those readings. I looked over at Steve with the question in my eyes, " You think you can handle the trading post?" He gave me an insulted look and waved his hand in a flippant, "get out of here" manner. It works every time, question Steve's competency and he will take on any challenge. So, off we went. Our first stop was San Juan Hill, then Barton's cabin and River House Ruin.

Not long after leaving the pavement, Bob and I found ourselves in the sand trap. I was rather embarrassed to say the least. Being a native of this land of rim rock and dry washes should allow me to evade situations like this. I have been "four wheeling" since I was old enough to drive, but the shifting red sands are unforgiving to those who don't show the proper respect. The Navajo people believe they came from the earth; thus their red skin color. I had a sneaking suspicion Bob and I would soon be faux Indians, owing to red dust circulating around us.

As we fell to our bare knees, dug our sandaled toes into the fiery granules and began scooping the fine, fluid like sand away from the tires with our hands, I contemplated the meaning of the Navajo emergence. Was it an expression of birth, a rude, hard fought expulsion into consciousness or maybe a lesson in personal relationships, emphasizing the pain and frustration necessary to make the sharp, ragged point stick in your memory The Navajo people are experts in weaving common threads of human emotion and experience into an exquisitely woven textile of thoughtful understanding.

The talc-like dust enveloped us as we placed tangles of sage brush and hands full of river rock under the tires, which were grasping for traction. I could hear vehicles roar by on the highway only a half mile away I knew I could easily walk to the highway and flag down one of my many Native American friends to retrieve us from our difficulty. After all, almost everyone out here owns a four wheel drive truck. Pride, and the fear of a constant barrage of dry Navajo humor, restrained me from acting on that impulse. The cost of some favors are far too high.

It really didn't take us long to dig out . . . the first time anyway. It would have been better if I had not gunned the truck when we popped loose, because that caused us to back right up onto a sandy bank. Before you could say "fool's paradise," we were straddling a petrified sand dune, high-centered as pretty as you please. At this point I could tell my young friend was losing interest in our mission, and losing faith in me. "No worries mate," I said, "stack and jack will have us out of here in no time." I handed Bob the jack and directed him to dig out, jack up and stack rocks to relieve the stress on our vehicle. I reminded him that the Mormon pioneers had laboriously made their way across this same stretch of wash more than 100 years earlier, and had lived to tell about it; so would we. An hour later we were free.

Looking over and smiling at my less than enthusiastic young friend, I asked if he was ready to give our quest another go. He grimaced and considered the question at length before deciding we had run out of time. It seems he had an appointment to keep with the local missionaries and didn't want to keep the proselytizing pair waiting. We wheeled back into the trading post parking lot covered in red dust. Steve, Priscilla, Natalie and Jason all got a big kick out of our misfortune. We would not have told them about our ordeal, but it was rather obvious we had gotten ourselves into a mess, even to these quick studies.

As I showered that evening, the red dirt ran like a river down the drain. I even discovered a large deposit in my navel. The afternoon's adventure reminded me that southern San Juan County can be an unforgiving place. If you embrace this land, however, and rub it into your pores, it becomes part of you, literally. Understanding the hidden treasures of this land is an adventure of the body and soul.

Copyright©2004 Twin Rocks Trading Post