A Letter from Africa

October 13, 2010January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 2 Comments

The hospital ward at Phebe Hospital in Liberia, Africa. Netting provides protection against malaria bearing mosquitos. Air conditioning from the tropical heat is provided by fans during the six or so hours the hospital has electricity each day.

I received a letter last week from Dr. Kylkon Makwi of Suakolo, Liberia. It was an old fashion type of letter. It came in the mail and was handwritten.

When I first met Dr. Makwi, he was a 13 year old boy who went by the name of Sam Kollie. It was the summer of 1965. My former wife Jo Ann and I had just arrived in the upcountry town of Gbarnga, Liberia where we were to serve as Peace Corps teachers.

We were tired, hungry and nervous. It was the end of a long day that had started in Monrovia, Liberia’s Capitol. A week earlier we had been partying in Jo’s back yard in Auburn, California. Now we were in the heart of West Africa. The Peace Corps driver, Wellington Sirleaf, made a quick stop to introduce us to Bob Cohen, the Upcountry PC Director, and was taking us to our new house.

There was one more stop before we got there. This time it was to see Shirley Penchef, another Peace Corps Volunteer. She was waiting at her house with a young Liberian of the Kpelle tribe and a surprise.

“This is Sam,” she bubbled (Shirley always bubbled). “Sam is so excited you are here! He has been waiting weeks for you! He is going to be your houseboy!”

Jo and I were speechless. We had talked about the possibility; it was common practice among Volunteers. A young Liberian would help with chores, earn spending money and often eat with the Volunteer. Both the Liberian and the PCV gained from the experience.

We recognized the value of the arrangement but had decided that having a houseboy didn’t quite fit the Peace Corps image. Like how do you tell the folks back home you are roughing it out here in the jungle and doing good while someone cooks your dinner, washes your clothes and cuts your grass?

On the other hand, how do you tell a woman who talks in exclamation points and a 13 year old boy who is grinning from ear to ear that you don’t want what they are selling?

“Uh, gee, uh, well, why doesn’t Sam help us get settled in and then we’ll see,” we managed to stutter. It was one of the better decisions we were to make in Liberia.

You’ll find the complete story of our first day in Gbarnga under “Armies of the Night” on the sidebar. It includes drums in the night, ghosts, screaming and monster spiders… but no beer.

Sam was a bright young man. Eventually he would get a full paid scholarship to Brandeis University in Boston, pick up his MD in Monrovia and earn a Masters in Public Health at Loma Linda University in Southern California. Life would not be easy for him, however.

The story of modern Liberia is one of the great tragedies of our time. A revolution that begin with the elimination of the ruling elite quickly degraded into tribal warfare that featured modern weaponry in the hands of children and dark juju, the voodoo of West Africa. Brutality, death, disease and starvation were the results. A full generation of Liberians was either lost or forever scarred by the nightmare.

Today, Liberia is struggling to recover and Sam/Kylkon is part of the effort. He and a handful of other medical professionals are working at Phebe Hospital in Upcountry Liberia. The odds against success are staggering.

As Kylkon notes, “there is a gross shortage of health manpower and hospital supplies.” (2009 statistics from Liberia report there was one doctor per 100,000 people in Upcountry.) Even basics, such as bed linens are missing. “We are in need of patient gowns, surgeon gowns and gloves, instruments, anesthetics and therapeutic drugs.” He sometimes performs surgery wearing an apron.

Hospital facilities in Liberia were damaged during the war and are “badly in need of renovation and repair.” Electricity and water at Phebe are limited to six or so hours per day.

Phebe serves the surrounding communities such as Gbarnga, which now has a population exceeding 50,000, and border populations from neighboring countries. Few people have the money to pay for their care.

“People come by my house at all hours begging for drugs,” Kylkon reports. But there are few drugs to be had.

It is hard, almost impossible, to imagine the challenge of providing medical care under such circumstances. The tragedy of Liberia continues.

Hang in there Sam. Our thoughts and wishes are with you.

Dangerous Rapids of the Colorado River

September 26, 2010January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 5 Comments

Author’s note: This blog brings us back to our trip down the Colorado River, which we undertook in late spring. My computer crash interrupted the story. My goal over the next few weeks will be to intersperse Grand Canyon blogs along with current happenings.

A massive wave in Lava Rapid buries Peggy, I and Steve Vandoor. My hat represents Peggy and I. The oar, Steve. Steve's video camera is recording as we go. Photo courtesy of Don Green.

A serious discussion is taking place among our boatmen. They are nervous about the amount of water flowing through House Rock Rapid. A huge, raft-eating hole gapes at us from river left.

A hole is created by water flowing over a rock or ledge. The resulting waterfall forms the hole and sucks in water from downstream, creating a reverse wave. Once a boat gets caught, it is difficult to get out… and easy to flip.

Boatmen, passengers and gear may go for a swim. The bigger the hole; the greater the danger. The force of the water can suck you down into the murky depths. It’s possible to surface under the raft. More likely you’ll be spit out down stream.

There are other worries as well. Sleepers, rocks hidden just beneath the surface, can rip out the bottom of your craft. Cross currents may send you crashing into a wall. Your boat can become wrapped around an obstacle such as a rock or log.

To avoid these hazards, boatmen on private trips normally stop to scout the more dangerous rapids. Less threatening cousins receive a ‘read and run.’ The boatman stands up in the boat, takes a look, and goes for it. Normally a smooth, tongue like section of the river and standing rapids point the way. Success means a thrilling, bumpy, wet ride that is over in seconds with the messy side up. (The messy side is the one with boatman, passengers and gear. The option is the boat’s smooth bottom!)

The ability to ‘read a river’ is an essential boatman skill. While excellent books describe the rapids and suggest routes, changing water levels create varying situations. High water may demand running one side of the river and low water the other.

Water levels are determined by the amount of water being released from Glen Canyon Dam, which in turn is determined by electrical power needs in the Southwest. Greater power needs require more water being released to run the huge turbines that generate the electricity.

The problem with House Rock Rapid is a lack of water. While this may seem counterintuitive, less water means more rocks are exposed to create hazards. Steve, who is a prudent kind of guy for a pirate, urges Tom to wait until the release from Glen Canyon catches up with us and raises the water level.

We place a small stick in the water to measure the water and wait. Peggy and I find a shady location to update our journals. Several people head for a hike up the side canyon. Others nap. I catch several photos of people sleeping. Eventually Tom and Steve determine it is time to go.

We are on Tom’s boat. He is going first and is understandably nervous. I tighten my grip on the safety lines. The more nervous the boatmen are, the more nervous I become. The boat moves slowly at first, inching forward, the calm before the storm that seems to go on and on. Then the current grabs us. The boat leaps forward, bounces, and then hurtles down. Freezing waves crash over the bow and soak us. The roar is deafening. Peggy and I struggle desperately to hold on while Tom fights for control. He yells. The right oar has slipped out of the oarlock. The boat begins to spin. The huge hole looms beside us, threatening to drag us in. But our momentum carries us forward and Tom’s skill brings us into shore.

The few seconds it takes to come through the rapid are burned into my memory.

Even bigger rapids lie ahead. House Rock is labeled a 4-7 using the Grand Canyon rating system. Crystal and Lava, the Grandmother and Grandfather of Colorado River rapids, are labeled a 7-10 and 8-10 respectively. They are considered two of the most challenging rapids in North America.

Almost all of the rapids in the Canyon are created by flash floods coming down side canyons that deposit huge rocks in the river. Because of the floods, rapids can change over the years. For example, Crystal Rapid did not exist prior to a massive flood in 1966.

Colorado River boatmen speak with awe and a tinge of fear about Crystal and Lava. The sentiment is contagious. We approach both with trepidation. We ride through each with Steve on his catamaran raft. Crystal seems to come and go but Lava is something else, almost mythological in its ferocity.

Steve, Peggy and I in Lava on the cat. Photo courtesy of Don Green.

Vulcan’s Anvil, a large chunk of lava in the middle of the river, is a signpost announcing the presence of Lava. (We have already heard its roar.) Superstitious boatmen kiss the rock to assure a safe journey. Steve, always cautious, obediently performs the ritual. Scouting is carried out with great care; there is plenty of time to contemplate our fate.

The photos in this blog capture our experience much better than words. Lava is indeed a 10 out of 10. At one point, when I am staring into the massive hole on our left, Peggy is watching Steve almost be washed out of the boat on our right: scary stuff.

On the last night of our adventure, Peggy asks Steve what his most memorable experience was. “Turning around at the end of Lava and seeing that the two of you were still on my boat,” he replies. Ditto.

Looking for Long Dead Mekemsons, Makemsons and Marshalls

September 22, 2010May 14, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 2 Comments

Several years ago I became hooked on genealogy. Growing up, my knowledge of ancestors stopped with my grandparents. It remained there until I turned 60. My older brother Marshall inspired me. Describing himself as “a homeless man with a pickup truck and a bank account,” he had wandered America searching out our Mother’s side of the family, the Marshalls.

Ancestral Makemson/Mekemson lands hide behind the mist on the Licking River in Pendleton County, Kentucky. To me, the mist serves as a metaphor for the difficulty involved in uncovering family history.

He did it the old-fashioned way (as he likes to remind me): leafing through yellow, aging documents, tramping through almost forgotten graveyards, and spending countless hours in Mormon libraries.

I was skimming through a summary of his findings when I learned that our Great, Great Grandfather, George Loomis Marshall, had abandoned his pregnant wife, family, farm and friends in Will County, Illinois to the siren call of gold in California. He struck it rich but then his luck ran out. He started home by sea and was killed for his gold.

Had my Great, Great Grandmother, Margaret Paddock, not been pregnant when he left Illinois, I wouldn’t be writing this paragraph. How could I not be intrigued? I became addicted to looking for long dead relatives.

I am not alone. Google lists 107 million sites related to genealogy and these numbers relate a fact; genealogy is no longer a hobby limited to aging elders (which I sort of resemble) rummaging around in musty courthouse basements.

Bone serves as a sight on a cannon at Fort Mifflin just outside of Philadelphia. The Battle of Fort Mifflin was one of the bloodiest battles of the Revolutionary War and bought time for George Washington to escape to Valley Forge. Four Mekemson boys fought in the battle and two heroically gave their lives.

Millions of people today are using the Internet in search of their roots. Ancestral information that once required years of research is now available at the touch of a keystroke. Large Internet databases hold hundreds of millions of genealogy records and thousands more are added daily.

What captures our imagination about genealogy? Is there something about contemplating our future that sends us scurrying for our past? Is searching for our roots a way of seeking immortality in reverse? Or are we seeking fame? Was one of our ancestors a king? Or possibly she was a pirate… Maybe our inspiration is just plain-old-fashioned curiosity.

Whatever the bait that leads us to ask our first question about Great Grandma, it’s the thrill of the hunt that keeps us searching. A blank space on an ancestral chart is a mystery begging to be solved. Hours can be devoted to finding a single answer and that answer inevitably leads to another question, and another blank space.

Over the past 2½ years as Peggy and I have crisscrossed America traveling 65,000 miles in our van Quivera, we’ve added the search for roots to our itinerary of exploring the Country and doing grandparent duty.

Much to my surprise, I have discovered that the Marshalls arrived in America in the 1630s and the Mekemsons/Makemsons in the 1750s. The story of these two families is wrapped up in the story of America.

Family tombstones are often hidden in old, overgrown graveyards and difficult to find. This one marks the grave of William Cox, one of my Mother's Great Grandfathers who is buried near the town of Grants Pass, Oregon. William was born in the 1820s in Mississippi and came across America in a covered wagon.

The Marshalls began their American sojourn as stern Puritans in the 1600s. Three hundred years later they were in on the creation of Goofy. Four, and possibly all six sons of Andrew Mekemson (my first Mekemson ancestor to arrive in America) fought in the Revolutionary War.

Two of his sons died in heroic efforts at Fort Mifflin, a battle that allowed George Washington to escape to Valley Forge and possibly save the fledgling nation.

William Brown Mekemson had his head chopped off by tomahawks in the Black Hawk Indian War and rolled down a hill. His great-uncle may have wandered the forests with Daniel Boone. Abe Lincoln argued both for and against Makemsons in his early years as a lawyer. The stories go on and on leading up to modern times.

One of the most rewarding elements of my investigation has been collaborating with distant cousins on research. Early on I was lucky to come in contact with three of the leading Mekemson family genealogists, Ann Nell Baughman out of Kansas and Bill and Jan Makemson out of Florida. In addition to providing valuable information and support, these folks, along with other cousins, have become valued friends.

Ann even makes clothes for Bone.

Since genealogy is about wandering through both time and space, it is a fitting subject for the Peripatetic Bone’s blog. As I come across interesting stories, I will relate them on this site. Bone is particularly enamored with exploring old graveyards. He feels a kinship with the inhabitants.

Un-cool in Paducah Kentucky

September 20, 2010January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 6 Comments

I once spent time here in the late 60s when I was working out of Atlanta as a college Peace Corps Recruiter. It was a slow week. None of the young people, it seemed, wanted to leave the area. And they certainly didn’t want to traipse off to West Africa where I had served as a Volunteer. We were on the edge of the Old South.

It felt like the edge of nowhere. I hung out at the motel and read Faulkner.

One of the Paducah murals on its Ohio River frontage. Flatboats like these are how my ancestors arrived in Kentucky during the 1790s.

Times change. The historic waterfront on the Ohio River has been filled with murals depicting the town’s colorful history and many of the old buildings have been reclaimed to their former glory. A previous slum in Lower Town has morphed into a thriving arts community. There is an excellent museum on quilting.

As for the isolation, the good folks of Paducah are now only a mouse-click away from anywhere in the world. Cell phones are ubiquitous and young people in town can whip out a text message faster than a male dog can mark his territory.

Peggy was complaining the other day about how technology dominates our lives. I think she meant my need to be on the Internet since I have never heard a squeak from her about our Verizon connection to mom, kids, grandkids and various other family members.

Actually, Peggy is as addicted to the Internet as I am. It’s just that her computer didn’t crash like mine did in Kona, Hawaii three weeks ago. I was not happy. My plan of blogging regularly disappeared like the Gecko climbing up our screen door.

I felt a tang of guilt about the blog but watching sunsets, drinking beer, swimming with sea turtles, avoiding fiery lava, and pursuing ancient Hawaiians took precedence over replacing the computer. As did being lost in dust storms at Burning Man in the remote Nevada desert the following week.

“You need to buy an Apple,” Tom Lovering admonished me at Burning Man. He took me over to Center Camp to demonstrate how wonderful his computer was while scantily clad women strolled by. “You need to buy an Apple,” my son Tony had admonished me weeks earlier in San Diego as the two-year-old Connor pounded on my leg with a truck that sang Old McDonald.

How could I resist?

I made the leap as Peggy and I dashed through Salt Lake City on our way east to celebrate Peggy’s Mom’s 90th birthday. I had been a PC man since I had purchased one 30 years earlier in Anchorage, Alaska.

“You are finally cool,” Tom Emailed me. If only I had known what it takes.

I decided to do a blog from Estes Park, Colorado because, well, a cool person would probably blog from there.

I fired up my shiny new Apple MacBook Pro. And got a zero with a line through it. Apparently I was not meant to be cool. The technician at the Apple Store in Boulder hooked up a diagnostic tool to my computer and then disappeared into his back room. He came out 30 minutes later with a new laptop.

“You’ve broken a record for our store,” he told me. “We have never seen an Apple crash its hard drive in three days.”

Native American sculpture on the lawn of the quilt museum... checking out Bone.

Thus you are hearing from the slightly un-cool Curt in Paducah, Kentucky. While I have temporarily left our trip down the Colorado River, I shall return to the subject. There are raft-eating rapids to face, oh my. But next I will blog about looking for dead people.

Boredom Is Not an Option!

August 30, 2010January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

Megan Stalheim and Don Green rafted by us demonstrating the push-pull method of rowing. Brad Lee, a dentist out of Sacramento, looks on.

The wind continues to beat against us as we make our way down the Colorado River. Only Dave’s strenuous effort at the oars keeps us from floating up stream. “Go that way,” I suggest and point down the river.

The group pulls in at a tiny beach in hopes our mini-hurricane will die down. It doesn’t.

Dave develops blisters and I develop guilt. A manly-man would offer to take over at the oars.

An option floats by. Dave’s niece, Megan Stalheim, is also one of our boatmen. Don Green, a retired Probate Judge out of Martinez, California, is sitting opposite her and pushing on the oars while she pulls. It inspires me. I join the push-pull brigade.

As tough as the day is, the beauty of the River and the Canyon make our efforts worthwhile. Peggy points out a strange, creature-like rock formation and we admire a family of ducks.

Little imagination is required to turn rock formations into strange faces.

Word passes back to us that Tom wants to scout Badger Rapids. In Boatman terminology this means figuring out the best way to get through without flipping. Badger isn’t a particularly big rapid for the Colorado, but it is our first. We are allowed to be nervous.

There is good news included in the message. We will stop for the night at Jackass Camp just below the rapids. We’ve only gone 8 miles, some 3 ½ miles from our original destination, but we are eager to escape the wind.

Dave is a cautious boatman. He takes his time to study Badger Rapids from shore and then stands up in his raft for a second opinion as the river sucks us in. Time runs out. Icy waves splash over the boat and soak us. Our hands grasp the safety lines with a death grip as we are tossed about like leaves in a storm drain. Mere seconds become an eternity. And then it is over.

“Quick, Curt, I need your help,” Dave shouts. We have come out of the rapids on the opposite side of the river from the camp. The powerful current is pushing us down river. If we don’t get across we will be camping by ourselves. Adrenaline pumping, I jump up and push the oars with all my strength while Dave pulls. Ever so slowly the boat makes its way to camp.

“Chirp, chirp, chirp-chirp-chirp.” It’s dark out and some damn bird is cheerfully discussing its wormy breakfast. I roll over and groan, desperately wanting to go back to sleep. We can’t, however. It’s five AM, time to rise and shine, time to pack up, time to scarf down breakfast, time to hit the river.

“It is not five AM,” Tom argues. It is five AM in California. Arizona refuses to go on Daylight Savings time. This irritates Tom. It is really six.

As we have learned, and I might add, learned well, we are not on a ‘float and bloat’ trip. Adventure awaits us. There are cliffs to climb, waterfalls to leap off, raging side streams to ford, rapids to survive, and miles of river to row. Boredom is not an option.

A family of ducks strolls up the river bank. Photo by Don Green

Wild Winds and a Mormon Massacre

August 27, 2010January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

The boats are loaded and ready to launch. Tom's wife Beth appears to be much less anxious than he is. The other passenger is Theresa Mulder.

Finally… we are ready to launch. Eighteen days and 279 miles of the Colorado River and Grand Canyon lie ahead. Ranger Peggy has checked our IDs and we are who we claim to be. The boatmen have strapped down the gear… and Tom is anxious.

The same up-canyon winds that whipped sand into our tent last night are threatening to create a Herculean task of rowing. Gusts of up to 60 MPH are predicted.

Peggy and I perform the ritual of asking a boatman if we can ride with him. It seems like a strange practice to me, designed to remind us who’s in charge. But we have entered the world where each boatman/woman is the captain of his or her ship, even if the ship is a 16 foot raft with two or three passengers.

“May I have permission to come aboard, sir?” Although it’s more like “Can we ride with you today?”

The tradition is so old that it fades into history. Democracy is not an option on a raging sea or, for that matter, in the middle of a roaring rapid. When the captain yells jump you jump.

Our boatmen are mellow people, however, good folks. There are no Captain Blighs. If they are slightly more than equal, it goes with the territory. We are committed to riding with each boatman. First up is David Stalheim.

“I’ve been applying for a permit to go on the Colorado River for 15 years,” he tells us. It makes Peggy and my successful one time, ten minute effort of obtaining a permit seem grossly unfair.

Dave Stalheim and I with that pristine, fist day on the river look. Things will go downhill.

Dave quit his job as Director of County Planning in Bellingham, Washington the day he left for this trip. He will start a new job with City Planning when he returns. He is strongly committed to sound planning and community participation. I suspect he is not popular with land developers and speculators.

We push-off from shore, excited and nervous. The wind strikes immediately, like it was waiting in ambush. “Are we moving at all?” Dave asks plaintively.

An old rock road makes its way tortuously down from the canyon rim on river left. (Left and right are determined by direction of travel.) They are important for giving directions as in “There is a raft ripping rock on river right!” Since boatmen often row with their backs facing downriver, they appreciate such information.

The old road is how people once made their way to Lee’s Ferry, which was one of the few ways to cross the Colorado River between1858 and 1929. The Ferry was named after the infamous Mormon, John Doyle Lee, who was executed by firing squad for his role in the Mountain Meadow Massacre.

The old road to Lee's Ferry.

The massacre took place near St. George, Utah in 1857, where a wagon train of immigrants from Missouri and Arkansas, the Fancher-Baker Party, were murdered by Mormons and Paiute Indians. Lee apparently persuaded the immigrants the Mormons would provide safe passage through the Indians if they would disarm. The Mormons then shot the disarmed men while their Indian allies killed the women and children.

For a while Lee hid out while running the Ferry which was given his name.

And for a while, I believed that Lee had killed some of my ancestors. My grandmother was a Fancher and her family came west right about the time of the massacre. Since the babies with the wagon train weren’t killed, my brother’s genealogical research suggested we might be descendants.

Turns out, it wasn’t so. Still, there may have been some distant cousins among those massacred. More research is needed.

After fighting the wind for what seems like hours, we finally come to the Navajo Bridge which replaced Lee’s Ferry in 1929. We are already miles behind our planned itinerary.

Lee's Ferry was replaced by the Navajo Bridge in 1929, the first bridge shown above. It has now become a walking bridge with the one behind carrying vehicle traffic.

The River Rules… in fine print

August 25, 2010April 6, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 2 Comments

Our intrepid adventurers just before launch on the Colorado River. Ranger Peggy is on the far right.

“Shall we gather by the River,” the Baptists used to sing. With us, it’s not an option. Ranger Peggy of the Grand Canyon National Park Service is giving a sermon on the Do’s and Don’ts of boating on the Colorado River. Our participation is mandatory.

I first met her when we were rigging our boats. She stopped by to check our equipment. Life vests had been dutifully piled up; stoves and bar-b-que were unpacked. Even a groover, which I will describe later, stood at attention. You don’t mess with Ranger Peggy.

She knew Tom from other river trips and was amused by his hair-do. He introduced me as the permit holder. “Tom’s in charge,” I noted. The smile dropped from her face. “You are responsible,” she said icily. “I’ll try to keep Tom under control,” I replied meekly. Yeah, fat chance that.

Bells, whistles and alarms started going off in my head. Dang, why hadn’t I read the fine print?

Tom lectures us on river safety before Ranger Peggy begins her spiel. What’s the first rule: Hang onto the boat. What’s the second rule? “Hang onto the boat,” we chant in unison. And so it goes. Tom saw his wife, Beth, go flying by him last year as he bounced through a rapid. He caught up with her down river.

If the raft flips, what do you do? Hang onto the boat! “Easier said than done,” I think. Of course we will be wearing our life vests. In fact there is a serious fine if a Park Ranger catches any of us on the river without one. As the permit holder, I pay. More fine print, so to speak.

“Your head is the best tool you have in an emergency,” Ranger Peggy lectures. Right. When the river grabs you, sucks you under the water, and beats you against a rock, stay cool.

For all of the concern about safety on the river, the Park Service seems more concerned about our behavior on shore.

Over 20,000 people float down the river annually. And 20,000 people can do a lot of damage to the sensitive desert environment. Campsites are few and far between and major ones may have to accommodate several thousand people over the year.

Picture this: 20,000 people pooping and peeing in your back yard without bathroom facilities. It ain’t pretty. So we pack out the poop. And we pee in the river…

Packing out poop makes sense. But peeing in the river, no way! I’ve led wilderness trips for 36 years and for 36 years I’ve preached a thousand times you never, never pee in the water. Bathroom chores are carried out at least 100 yards away from water and preferably farther.

The first time I line up with the guys I can barely dribble out of dismay. (And no, it isn’t just old age.)

The rules go on and on. Mainly they have to do with leaving a pristine campsite and washing our hands. Normally, I am not a rules type of guy but most of what Ranger Peggy is preaching makes sense. Sixteen people with diarrhea is, um, shitty.

And I enjoy the fact our campsites are surprisingly clean. The least we can do is leave them in the same condition we find them, if not better. The rules work.

Eating Dust

August 20, 2010December 2, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 2 Comments

Two acres of paved boat ramp greet us when we arrive at Lee’s Fairy. The transport van disgorges us as the gear truck makes a quick turn and backs down the ramp. Another private party is busy rigging boats.

The dreaded pirate Steve threatens Bone with a knife and demands to know where he has buried his treasure.

From off to the right a long-haired 50-something man emerges. I think 60’s hippie or possibly the model for a Harlequin Romance cover. The pirate flag on his boat suggests otherwise. A ‘roll your own’ cigarette dangles from his lips. It’s Steve Van Dore, the last member of our group and a boatman out of Colorado. No one in our group has met him but he comes highly recommended.

“Please let this be the truck driver,” Steve later admits is his first thought when he meets our green and purple haired trip leader, Tom Lovering.

He also confides that Tom hadn’t told him we were a smoke-free group. “On the other hand,” Steve confesses, “I didn’t tell him I am on probation.” Somehow this balances out in Steve’s mind. There is no time to become acquainted; we have work to do.

The truck we just loaded demands unloading. Everybody does everything. There are no assignments. Peggy and I become stevedores, dock workers. Piles of beer and soda and wine and food and personal gear and ammo cans and hefty ice chests quickly accumulate around the truck.

There is no shade and the desert sun beats down ferociously. It is sucked up by the black asphalt and thrown back at us. We slather on sun block and gulp down water.

The rafts are unloaded last. Pro gives a quick lesson on rigging and then escapes. We have bought their minimum support package to keep costs down and Tom has done a good job. Our outlay for the 18 day adventure is approximately $1,000 per person. The cost for a similar commercial outing can edge up to $7,000 and beyond!

Rigging our five rafts is technical but relatively easy, assuming of course one is mechanically oriented. I make no such claims. Steve’s Cat (catamaran) is already set up and in the water, its pirate flag flapping in the breeze. Our other four boats are self-bailing Sotar Rafts with aluminum frames. Tom owns his own, a blue 14 footer named Peanut. The three we have rented from Pro are yellow, 16 feet long and nameless.

If the technical aspects about rafts and raft rigging make you drool, check the excellent PRO and Sotar websites: http://www.proriver.com http://www.sotar.com .

Tom is the last to rig his boat and it is approaching dusk. I hike down the river to find a campsite for our group while the rest boat down. Peggy and I are totally exhausted. We struggle to set up our new tent in 30 MPH winds. A van is coming to pick us up for dinner and we are late, again. The walls of the restaurant are covered with photos of rafts and rafters being trashed by rapids.

The wind storm has changed to a dust storm as we crawl into out tents. It covers everything and gets into my eyes, ears, nose and mouth. I pull out a handkerchief to cover my face. I am far too tired to make notes for Bone’s blog. I finally fall asleep with the wind ripping at our tent.

There Is No Turning Back… Running the Colorado River

August 18, 2010December 2, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

And why would a guy allow his toenails to be painted? Read on…

I didn’t sleep well. I never do the night before a big event, even when I know what to expect. This time I am clueless.

I also have an early morning assignment: fill a humongous chest with ice. It’s a precious commodity, worth its weight in cold on an 18 day river trip through the desert. Since the ice store is located on the other side of Flagstaff, the chore will add an hour to our morning. It’s time we don’t have; we’re already behind. (I never catch up.)

Peggy and I down a hurried bran muffin and gulp a cup of watery motel coffee. I am tempted to go out to the van and make the real stuff but we have chores to complete. It is time to make the leap from life on the road to life on the river. Lap tops, cell phones, good clothes and the other accoutrements of modern civilization are stuffed into bags and dumped into the van.

Plus I have to paint my toenails. It’s a virgin experience. Grand Canyon boatmen are a superstitious bunch. Many believe their boats will flip if a person is on board with naked toes. And it’s true; boats have flipped under such circumstances. It makes no difference if the opposite also happens.

Tom lectures me, “I will not let you on my boat unless your toenails are painted.” He’s serious. Peggy dutifully applies blue polish on four of my toes. Does this mean we will only half flip?

PRO, the company that is outfitting us with three of our five rafts and miscellaneous equipment, is supposed to arrive at 11 to load our gear and transport us to Lee’s Ferry. “They are coming an hour early,” Tom reports. It’s panic time. Their big truck arrives promptly at 10:55. Maybe the staff gave us the earlier time to assure we would be ready.

Whatever. We are ready to load and loading is what we do. It’s a group effort; everyone pitches in.

There is an unwritten Commandment on private river trips: Thou Shall Do Your Share. No one is paid to pamper us. Not helping will lead to bad things, like banishment from the tribe. Sweat is pouring off of me by the time the truck is loaded. It promises to be a long, hot day.

The transport van arrives and we pile on. The adventure has begun; there is no turning back.

We head out Highway 89 retracing our route down from visiting Utah’s incredible National Parks a week earlier. A quick stop at Safeway provides deli sandwiches for lunch. Mine is ham and cheddar. We will graze on the go. Our KOA, Fat Man’s trail, and the San Francisco Peaks pass by on the left. Soon we are in Navajo country. The road to the Grand Canyon, Cameron and the Little Colorado River join the list of things passed. At Bitter Springs we jog left on Alt 89 and start our descent to Lees Ferry, the beginning point of all Grand Canyon river trips.

Mad Bombers, Homeland Security and a Poopy Cat

August 16, 2010January 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 5 Comments

Great adventures start with the mundane. For example, did you cancel the paper? Common sense (and probably your mother) admonish that devious burglars have nothing better to do than to cruise the streets looking for rolled newspapers in front of your home.

Effie the Cat wears reindeer horns and a red bow. She is not happy. Check out the claws digging into our Berber rug.

Of even more importance, what about the cat? Back when Peggy and I led a normal life we had a cat named Effie. Vacations meant I would carefully measure out twice as much food and water as she could possibly eat or drink and four times the kitty litter she might use. The likelihood of her pooping all over the house was much greater that the likelihood of her starving. As a reward for my thoughtfulness, she would shed enough fur in our absence to fill a dump truck.

Now we are travelling full time, these issues have faded away. Instead we have food to worry about. Lots of it. Tom Lovering, the trip leader, his wife Beth and their friend Jamie Wilson arrived in Flagstaff three days in advance of our Colorado River trip. Their car was packed to the brim with empty ammo cans and other water tight boxes waiting to be filled with food and the miscellaneous paraphernalia of river trips.

The Department of Homeland Security delayed their journey at Hoover Dam. The Agency is paranoid about mad bombers. Its normally low sense of humor dropped to zero when the agents saw all the ammo cans. The whole car had to be unpacked.

Tom is even more paranoid about food than DHS is about terrorists. He’s an old restaurateur who had spent months planning the menu. Each dish has been tested several times and quantities have been measured down to the teaspoon. Recipes are spelled out in minute detail. We will eat gourmet on the trip… or die. The options are clear.

Beth, Peggy and I are dispatched to Sam’s Club with marching orders. We fill seven large shopping carts with food. Think of it this way. There are 16 people going on an 18 day trip and eating three meals a day. This equals 864 individual meals.

When we arrive back at the motel, Tom and Jamie have set up a staging area. Food needs to be organized by meal and day and then stuffed in the appropriate containers. We have yet to shop for perishables and more food is coming from Sacramento. Our room, we discover, is to be the recipient of all food. There is barely room to sleep. I begin to think fondly of Effie the Cat.

The next day is more relaxed. Other trip members begin to arrive and Peggy and I assume air port shuttle duty. Tom takes time for a makeover into something resembling an English Punk Rocker from the 70s with green and purple hair. Homeland Security was right to be suspicious.