John and Annie

Although I cannot imagine why, last week, day and night, night and day, John Denver’s song entitled Back Home Again continued to circulate through my consciousness, especially the part about the storm. You know, “There’s a storm across the valley, the clouds are rolling in.”

Barry Denver and Orphan Steve

With that song running constantly in my mind, last Wednesday I traveled to St. George for a meeting the following morning. Life at Twin Rocks Trading Post has been challenging lately, so I decided to leave earlier than planned. Since I had extra driving time, I slowed the car from its usual frantic pace and focused more attention on the extraordinarily scenic land formations, canyons and mesas of the greater Colorado Plateau.

As the sun meandered slowly toward the western horizon, I approached Page, Arizona, a small community perched on buff colored cliffs overlooking Lake Powell, the second largest man-made lake in the United States. Even though I have seen and boated this twisting, snaking reservoir hundreds of times, I am always amazed by the disconnect between the vast stream of water flowing through its gorge and the parched sandstone desert extending hundreds of miles in every direction.

As I approached the town, off to my right were the towering smoke stacks of Navajo Generating Station, a 2,250 megawatt coal-fired power plant located on the Navajo reservation. On my left was Antelope Canyon, the most visited and most photographed slot canyon in the American Southwest, contrasting natural beauty and necessary evil.

What caught my attention that particular evening, however, was not the slotted drainage, the crystal water body or even the murky gray emissions that smudged the sky. Instead, a dark and foreboding cluster of clouds that embraced the landscape several miles south and west of the asphalt path I navigated captivated me. The extensive darkness streaked towards the desert in what must have been a heavy stream of nourishing rain. Surely the cactus, sage, yucca and other thirsty vegetation inhabiting that particular geographic location were relieved, and gratified.

As the clouds spent themselves and began drifting apart, the late afternoon sun flooded through, dappling the prehistoric reefs with clean, clear, golden rays. Someone once told me sunshine like this was called “God light”. With that thought in mind, my spirits lifted and I imagined I could hear Little Orphan Annie singing in the distance, belting out her trademark song: “The sun’ll come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun”. Good-bye John, hello Annie, the dawn is breaking at Twin Rocks Trading Post.

With warm regards,

Barry, Steve, Priscilla and Danny; The Team

 

Barry Simpson likes

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