ZION NATIONAL PARK

WEDNESDAYS WITH DR. JOE

SOUTHWEST NATIONAL PARKS #6

ZION NATIONAL PARK

 

January 18, 2012

 

For millennia, it was one of the earth’s loneliest places, known only to aboriginal Native Americans such as the Virgin Anasazi (arriving here in the 1200s), followed by the Paiutes [meaning “Utes who live by water].  A Mormon pioneer named Nephi Johnson is reputed to be the first individual of European ancestry to set eyes on the canyon, in 1858.  Isaac Behunin, another Mormon settler, in the 1860s, was so awestruck by the magnificent scenery of the canyon that he proclaimed, “This is Zion!”  Brigham Young himself packed into the canyon in 1863.  Famed explorer John Wesley Powell, hearing of the area’s wonders, trekked in sometime in 1872.

 

Even so, the canyon remained virtually unknown to the outside world until Scribner’s Magazine featured it in a 1904 article.  At that time, although there was a lot of national buzz generated by the new Fred Harvey hotel, El Tovar on the Grand Canyon’s South Rim, there was virtually nothing known about any of the many national wonders north of the Grand Canyon we take for granted a century later.

 

In 1917, National Park Acting Director, Horace Albright, accepted an invitation to visit Southern Utah, where the Virgin River carves its way through a beautiful canyon of sandstone cliffs.  It had been set aside as a National Monument in 1909—named Mukuntuweap, from a Paiute word for “canyon”—but had been virtually ignored by the federal government ever since:

 

I was surprised, excited, and thrilled.  More than that, I was just plain stunned.  I had no concept of the staggering beauty I beheld.  Local Utah people said that Yosemite was a [Mukuntuweap] without color.  But this didn’t faintly prepare me for the reality of the towering rock walls, splashed with brilliant hues of tans and reds interspersed with whites.

 

The great towers, temples, spires, and peaks appeared unearthly as they encircled the narrow, lush gorge cut by the sparkling Virgin River.

 

It was love at first sight for me.  I was so impressed . . . that I determined we should expand Mukuntuweap and have it made a national park.

 

Albright’s enthusiasm, upon his return to Washington, took him to the White House where he convinced President Woodrow Wilson to change the monument’s difficult-to-pronounce name to the name Local Mormons had long used for the canyon, “Zion.”  Within a year, Congress would follow Wilson’s lead, expand the protected area to 147 ,551 acres and elevate its status to Zion National Park (Duncan and Burns, 171).

 

But even national park status failed to significantly increase tourist traffic into the park, mainly because it was so difficult to get to.  Horace Albright and Stephen Mather, to remedy this situation, in 1922, persuaded the executives of Union Pacific Railroad to join forces with the National Park Service and construct spur lines into the park’s vicinity and create a lodge worthy of its setting.  In May of 1923, architect Gilbert Stanley Underwood was summoned to Union Pacific’s headquarters in Lincoln, Nebraska and invited to add Zion to his portfolio, along with Bryce.

 

It is interesting to note the pattern that developed over the years of Underwood’s long and distinguished architectural career with the National Park Service: the rustic lodges would be secondary to the landscape itself—lying gently on the land.  His earlier ones tended to simplicity, but as the years passed, Underwood’s vision for the lodges grew grander.

 

In Zion, Underwood constructed a two-story wood, stone, and glass edifice, anchored by four large native sandstone columns.  By 1927, he had flanked the hotel by ten duplex Deluxe Cabins; and by 1929, five fourplex Deluxe Cabins.  Those Deluxe Cabins were as beautiful and enduring as the Bryce Canyon cabins descried in our January 11 blog: characterized by native stone fireplaces, chimneys, foundations, exposed mill framing, gable roofs, and front porches.

 

At the same time, Mather and Albright helped push through an engineering marvel: the 10-mile-long Mt. Carmel-Zion Scenic highway [Highway 9]; the 1.1 mile tunnel, blasted through solid rock, took almost three years to complete.  Before the highway was opened in 1930, fewer than 4,000 visitors a year made it into the park; the year it opened, that number swelled to 55,000.

 

Sadly, on January 28, 1966, Underwood’s lovely lodge burned down, accidentally ignited by a crew doing repair work.  All that was left were the stone fireplace and the four pillars.  It was rebuilt in 108 days—but gone forever was the charming original.  Trying to be kind, Barnes characterizes the result as “a simple two-story utilitarian building with little appeal and none of the design and planning that went into earlier park architecture” (Barnes, 119).  Others were more frank, labeling ti a “monstrosity.”  Through the years since then, however, beginning in 1992, current ownership (XANTERRA Parks and Resorts [formerly Fred Harvey Hotels]), began a program of restoration and has tried to bring back some of the ambiance of the original.  But to anyone who has studied photographs of the original, what exists today jars and elicits a longing for what once was.

 

 

Park-wise, however, good things continue to happen.  Over 2,500,000 visitors come here every year, from all over the world. Since the valley was being destroyed by congestion, beginning in 2000, the heart and soul of Zion (the valley floor), has been closed to auto traffic during tourist season.  Instead, visitors park in Springdale and board propane-powered shuttle busses that ferry visitors into and out of the park.  The only exceptions have to do with those lucky few who have secured lodging inside the park at the lodge.  Their orange window cards enable them to drive to the lodge and park there until check-out time, when they may drive out.  Exceptions are dealt with by park police.  This has restored serenity to Zion.

 

OUR OWN JOURNEY

 

Awoke at 5:35 so as to get dressed and take in sunrise over Bryce Canyon.  We (Bob and Lucy Earp, and us) were disappointed as the overcast sky kept the sun from doing its usual colorizing.  After a delicious breakfast in the lodge dining room, we dithered as long as we could, furious at ourselves for failure to book two nights in that already cherished Duplex Cabin.  After checking out, we spent several hours driving along the rim, stopping at overlooks, then proceeding to Rainbow Overlook (the highest part of the park).  By then, the sun had broken through the clouds.

 

All too soon, we headed for the exit and then south on #89 through Glendale, Orderville, and Mount Carmel, to Mount Carmel Junction; here we turned west on #9 on the Mount Carmel-

Zion Scenic Highway.  That famed tunnel continues to amaze, even over eighty years after it was bored through solid rock.  The occasional panoramic windows provide us with glimpses of the magical world outside.

 

Once we came out into the sunlight, we were free to leatherneck—unfortunately, the Lincoln had no sunroof.  Finally, we turned in at the Zion National Park Visitor Center in Springdale.  It was a warm May day—but not nearly as warm as it gets in July (100E the daily average)!  We took full advantage of the film on the park’s history and iconic landmarks (such as the Weeping rock, Angel’s Landing, Kolob Arch, Temple of Sinawava, Great White Throne, the Organ, the Narrows, the Watchman, Towers of the Virgin, Kolob Canyon, Court of the Patriarchs, Checkerboard Mesa, etc).

 

 

Then we got back in our car, and made it past security, thanks to our orange card prominently marked (Registered Zion Lodge Guest), with dates.  We really felt privileged as we were permitted to drive in to the lodge.

 

The lodge was, as we knew it would be, a disappointment, after Bryce.  Besides, the area around it is roped off because of a habitat restoration project.  The wooden motel-like structure which housed our rooms was “same ol same ol,” typical of other forgettable lodgings we have stayed at through the years.  Dinner, we ate at the lodge’s salad bar.  After playing dominoes, we turned in.

J97 – Waterfall in one of the side canyons

 

Next morning, we awoke to a stunning blue sky day!  Breakfast was delicious.  We spent the day exploring the sites of the canyon, including side canyons, the Weeping Rock, along the Virgin River, and ending the day walking up into the Narrows where the Virgin River pours out of a slot canyon.  Along the way, we rubbed shoulders with men, women, and children, of all ages and nationalities.  Cooler than the day before, it turned out to be one of those absolutely perfect May days that come to us all too rarely in this journey called “life.”

 

Most visitors see only a small portion of the park, restricting their travel to the 6.2 mile road on the valley floor and possibly the Mt. Carmel-Zion Scenic Highway, and completely missing the spectacular northwestern end of the park, the Kolob Canyon area, which includes Kolob Arch, at 310 feet across possibly the largest free-standing rock arch in the world, and the steep 20-mile-long Kolob Terrace Road, out of the town of Virgin.  Neither did we make it to that part of the park; we could only sigh once again, and with Lucy, intone “A blessing for another time.”

 

SOURCES

 

Barnes, Christine, Great Lodges of the National Parks I (Bend, OR: W. W. West, Inc., 2002).

 

Colorado and Utah (Heathrow, FL: AAA Publishing, 2010).

 

Duncan, Dayton and Ken Burns, The National Parks: America’s Best Idea (New York: Alfred Knopf/Random House, 2009).

 

Leach, Nicky, Zion: Sanctuary in the Desert (Mariposa, CA: Sierra Press, 2000, 2010).

 

The Most Scenic Drives in America (Pleasantville, NY: Reader’s Digest, Inc., 1997).

 

Scott, David L. and Kay W., The Complete Guide to the National Park Lodges (Guilford, CT: Globe Pequot Press, 1998, 2009).

 

White, Mel, Complete National Parks of the United States (Washington, D.C., National Geographic Society, 2009).

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BREAKTHROUGHS

Once in a long while in this thing we call life, we experience a real breakthrough. Sort of like breaking the sound barrier—which for a very long time was deemed an impossibility. Nowadays, because of regulations that deal with the effects of sonic booms on people below, we rarely hear them. In January, during a cruise to the Southern Caribbean, in Barbados (one of four regular stops in the Americas for the legendary Concorde), I was privileged to explore one of those iconic super-airliners—and to experience a virtual flight re-enacted, complete with sonic boom.

Interestingly enough, the Concorde’s ability to fly at twice the speed of sound was touted as the reason it was such a technological breakthrough: it was expected to pave the way for ever faster passenger planes (more like rockets than traditional planes) and passenger travel into space. It was the world’s gold standard for several decades, during which only the super rich could afford to travel in those semi-rockets. Instead, it was proven too expensive to operate, and air travel reverted back to pre-Concorde flight expectations. Nevertheless, it was a major technological breakthrough, and engineers continue to build on it, and learn from it.

In my own life, I remember such a breakthrough during my college years. Because of a negative mindset, I floundered through my first two years. Reason being, I’d convinced myself I was incapable of earning anything higher than a B in college courses. As a predictable result, that assumption turned out to be a self-fulling prophecy.

Until one memorable day, in a history class taught by the well-known Dr. Walter C. Utt of Pacific Union College in California’s Napa Valley. For reasons that made no sense to me, my exam paper was returned to me marked A-. Surely, I thought, Dr. Utt must have made a mistake! Utt evidently gave me someone else’s grade (someone, unlike me, who was capable of earning A’s).

Unable to make sense out of it, I took the exam to Dr. Utt, and asked him if I’d actually earned an A-. Smilingly, he answered, “Yes, Joe, you earned that grade. Best work you’ve ever done for me.” Back in my room, I just couldn’t get this miracle out of my head, pondering it night and day. Then came the life-changing epiphany: If I’m really capable of earning A-s, if I study a little harder, why couldn’t I earn an A next time?

And so my life changed forever: Amazingly, during the nineteen years that followed, through a bachelors and masters in history from Pacific Union College, a masters in English from University of California – Sacramento, and the Ph.D. in English (History of Ideas emphasis), from Vanderbilt University, in only two or three isolated instances did I ever earn anything less than an A! The barrier had simply been mental; once I’d broken through it once, I was able to soar wherever my dreams would take me.

A second crucial breakthrough took place in stages, each essential in my own life trajectory, for if I failed to conquer that giant called procrastination, little could be expected of me. First came the Eight Magic Words, “If not now—when? If not me—whom?” articulated by the Rabbi Hillel (a contemporary of Christ). Before every opportunity, challenge, invitation, request, etc., is dealt with, first pose these two questions before I either pass or act on them. Second, Kalidasa’s “Salutation to the Dawn,” written over a millennium and a half ago by India’s greatest writer. In this poem, Kalidasa postulated that every day is a miniature lifetime, with a beginning, middle, and end; and only when we so treat each day can we stop frittering away our life energy in our yesterdays, bemoaning the mistakes we made in the past, and worrying about our futures. By concentrating all our energy into our todays, Kalidasa pointed out that we’d thereby cease to waste our times in two dimensions of time we can do nothing about. Third, Helen Mallicoat’s timeless “I Am” poem, in which God declares He is not “I was,” nor is He “I Will Be,” but rather He is “I Am”—only in the “I Am” present may we find Him. Fourth, Life’s Three Eternal Questions: “Who Am I? Where Did I Come From? Where Am I Going?” Only as we continually pose these to ourselves can we avoid veering out of our desired trajectory.

These four anti-procrastination tools did not come to me all at once, but rather over a third of a century. Without them, neither my advanced degrees nor our 74 books would have ever come to be at all.

A third equally significant breakthrough in my life occurred about five or six years ago. Significant because in life we may coast to a certain extent while we are young and have vast stores of vital energy in us; but, inevitably, we can only coast so far and so long before we begin paying the price. In my case, the problem had to do with my addiction to workaholicism. Always I’d assumed that exercise was merely an option rather than a necessity in life. It took me two near-death experiences to wean me away from that error in judgment. And a catalyst: a major health study that resulted in a conclusion I’d never heard of before: that there are no plateaus in life: each of us is either becoming stronger than we were or weaker than we were, every day. Indeed, that our bodies reinvent themselves every 100 days, at any age! It was that “any age” that merged (in my mind) this study with the true life experiences of specific contemporary Americans such as California’s Hulda Crooks and Mavis Lindgren who, late in life, decided to run: Mavis Lindgren in races and Hulda Crooks in running up mountains such as Mt. Whitney and Mt. Fuji, each running circles around those a quarter their age. Over time, they actually became stronger in their 70s and 80s and raced on beyond that.

I was then in what would have become a free-fall health-wise, exercising only sporadically. But I wanted to remain healthful and creative and alive, it was just that until that “100-day study,” I’d never found a tool that was strong enough to reverse my decline. Looking at myself sans rose-tinted glasses, I concluded that I was doomed unless I awoke out of my deadly inertia and vigorously—rain or shine, cold or hot—exercised for 30 – 60 minutes every day of my life! For if I failed to do so, missing days here and there, I’d be lost, for inevitably I’d slip right back into inertia. For close to five years now, I haven’t missed a day, and I feel better than I have in years, and have more energy.

Which brings me to a lateral related breakthrough five nights ago ( the night preceding the Super Moon on March 19—not to be that near or bright for another eighteen years). The moon was gloriously close and brighter than I could ever remember it. I retired at 10:30 p.m. and awoke at 12:30 a.m. by the moon’s radiance. Got up at 1:00 a.m. Concluding that a reason for waking so soon was my failure to get enough vigorous exercise in shoveling four inches of snow off our upper deck, I decided to do stairs (I usually do around 2,100, half up at a semi-run—that 2,100 turning out to be a wall I seemingly could not break through). Keep in mind that we live at close to 10,000 feet elevation so our hearts have to really work to keep us functioning at full torque. However, on this particular night, for some inexplicable reason, I had so much energy I felt I’d never get back to sleep unless I put more pressure on myself; so, for the first time ever, I exercised 5-pound barbells during about a third of the stairs, doing so on the upward segments. Even so, though I broke a sweat sooner, I just didn’t get tired. Not even when I hit the proverbial 2,100-step mental wall: I just smashed through, not stopping until 2,800 steps (a quarter more than ever before); even then, I could easily have topped 3,000!

Which taught me a lesson: even in my 70s, it was possible to keep growing stronger and stronger.

Thank God for breakthroughs!

Do let me know your thoughts, reactions, and responses to this blog.

POINT LOBOS, HEART-STOPPING BEAUTY

Every last one of our Bucket Lists ought to contain this line: See Point Lobos before I die.

And for those who have once experienced it: See it again!

As for me—it has been way too long since I’d last immersed myself into this sensual experience on the Carmel Coast of California.  A month ago, we returned to it. 

As we headed south from Monterey, I thought back to my last visit to this magical place.  The Pacific had been raging that cold, clammy, foggy, rainy day—so much so that I could not see Point Lobos, only hear the booming surf from my cozy little perch high above in another Bucket List destination: Highlands Inn.  The equally fabled Amalfi Coast has its Hotel le Sirenuse and Palazzo Sasso—the Highlands Inn rules supreme over the Carmel Coast. The great fireplace is the place to be near in stormy weather—but to really hear the surf, you need to experience it from one of the inn’s glorified bedroom huts.

But this time, though clouds threatened to close in, we knew we’d actually see Point Lobos.  Also its spectacular northern prelude.

Many years had passed since we’d slowed down the pace of our lives long enough to take that legendary self-standing destination that calls itself a drive: Seventeen Mile Drive.  But alas!  The days were long gone when one could revel in it on the cheap.  Now you pay the requisite $9.50 baksheesh just to drive onto it—but it is well worth it!  The deep blue Pacific can be seen from almost every turn, as is the fabulously expensive to play on Pebble Beach Golf Course.  Afterwards, the road snakes its way through the cypress world of the Italianate cliff-side palaces of some of the world’s wealthiest people.  A number of stunning vistas of the rugged coast cause people to stop for photo shoots along the way.

Carmel itself is part and parcel of this almost overpowering affluence.  For us, as glamorous as this Xanadu is, it was still a relief to escape it and head south a couple of miles to Point Lobos.

After paying the entrance fee, we drove through the cypresses to what America’s most beautiful coast once was before the super rich parceled so much of it out for themselves.  Fortunately, Point Lobos, the crown jewel of California’s state park system, has mercifully escaped the fiscal axe during the Golden State’s current budgetary crisis.  A citizen’s watchguard group, the Point Lobos Association, helps to preserve it for us.  Many other state parks have not been so fortunate.

David Starr Jordan famously declared that “Point Lobos is the most picturesque spot on the entire Pacific Ocean.”  Awed tourists ever since have agreed with him.  But mighty commercial forces later moved in on it—only the Panic of 1893 gave it a reprieve.  A full-scale war then raged for 40 long years.  Finally, thanks to the vision of A. M. Allan, funds from the Save-the-Redwoods League, and a public determined to save it at all costs, in 1933, Point Lobos State Reserve came into existence (554 acres plus 775 submerged acres).

After parking, we wended our way through the iconic cypresses to our long dreamed-of-destination.  And then: the reality that never fails to exceed expectations!  Mere words are totally inadequate to capture the sensory overload.  We passed people of all ages, from all over the world.  Even some with walkers and in wheelchairs.  One local young couple told me they come often— “it’s always different, and we can never capture it all.”  How I envied them!

Though the emerald aquamarine breakers smashing into the great cliffs would alone make the experience of watching the scene unforgettable, it is the juxtaposition of the cypress trees that elevates the totality into the realm of the mythical.

* * *

And just to share the experience with others (on the back covers of our books and on the website), Connie took the photo of yours truly that will now replace the earlier one taken on La Selva Beach some 50 miles north.

SEA AND SAND, LEAVING OUR HEARTS ON LA SELVA BEACH

One mile of beachfront.  How many high school graduates can claim such a thing? Yet ‘tis true: Connie and I were both lucky enough to graduate from a parochial high school, Monterey Bay Academy, that owns one mile of beachfront on one of America’s most beautiful—and expensive—stretches of real estate.

Not that we valued it much half a century ago: “So the place has a beach—ho hum.”  Of course teenagers, in any age, have little concept of value, for perceived value is a by-product of time and the battering of the years.

Connie and I have just returned from another alumni weekend.  They say that wherever it is you grow up becomes part of your DNA: if it be mountains, always mountains will call to you; if it be plains, always plains will call to you; if it be the desert, always deserts will call to you; and if it be a coast—always the sea will summon you home.

A fifth generation Californian on both sides of my family, I cannot be very long absent from it without saying to Connie (also California-born), “Honey, I need an ocean-fix—I’m hungry for the sea.”  And we go.  In this case, make that “went.”  And we stayed at one of our favorite cliff-dwellings: Santa Cruz’s Sea and Sand Inn, so that every night we could listen to the waves thunder up the beach, accompanied by the inimitable croaking bark of seals. 

Alumni weekend just gave us an excuse for going.  Those classmates of long ago—it hurts to see them; but it hurts more not to.  Every year that passes, there are more who’ll never come again.  And those who are still with us walk slower than they used to.  But Time can sometimes be kind, gifting alumni with a second set of lens: they see through the wrinkles and stooped shoulders to the still vibrant spirit within.  To them, by some inexplicable miracle, the campus hunk is the campus hunk still, the campus clown is funnier than ever, and the campus dreamgirl is the campus dreamgirl still.

I can never be more than minutes on the MBA campus without responding to tidal suction: I have to wend my way down to the beach, ditch my shoes, roll up my pantlegs, and immerse myself in my personal paradise-regained.  And there, as always, time telescopes for me, the past seamlessly merging with the present.

We also go back to our alma mater because of music.  And this year’s music could happen but once, for Arladell Nelson-Speyer was “coming home” after a twelve-year hiatus.  Arladell, who’d directed the academy’s legendary touring choral group, the Oceanaires, for thirty long years (half the entire history of the school).  Arladell, who’d during those twelve intervening years endured enough heartbreak for three lifetimes—and our own hearts vicariously broke for her.  Since we couldn’t take away her anguish, we settled for second best: being there for her.

So—shades of Mr. Holland’s Opus (a 1965 Disney tearjerker chronicling the thirty-year career of a beloved mentor and teacher of music)—out went a call: “Oceanaires—all Oceanaires—come home!”  And they came, from all over the nation.  About a quarter of the thousand or so Oceanaires who have ever been—answered that call.  On that memorable Saturday afternoon, they packed the stage.  Connie (one of those precious few original Oceanaires) joined them, standing side by side with Muffy Lindgren Ramsland, another member of a trio that performed for all four years in academy.

Arladell had practiced with them, and wielded the whip as in days gone by; so they were ready to sing their hearts out.  The sound was the same, yet richer because of their cumulative size; the bass section sending chills up our spines with a deep rumble never evidenced when they were young.

Oh we never wanted it to end!  For it was life—all of our lives—that we were hearing and seeing.  Since the old familiar songs appeared in our printed programs: “The Morning Trumpet,” “E’en So Lord Jesus, Quickly Come,” “I Will Give You Thanks, Oh Lord,” “Children of the Heavenly Father,” “Soon-ah Will Be Done,” “Honor and Glory,” and “I want to Walk as a Child of the Light,” each of us (listeners as well as singers) inwardly checked them off on our personal bucket lists.  And we mourned because the last number was that much closer.

But all too soon, it had to end: It was time for the Oceanaires’ signature piece, “Ride the Chariot in the Mornin’, Lord.”  As it progressed to its inevitable conclusion, I wept—we all wept—instinctively recognizing that we’d never experience the likes of it again, for no recording could possibly ever recapture that magical moment.  So we stood, clapping and cheering and weeping until our hands were sore and our voices were hoarse.  Connie later testified that the emotional overload among the singers was even greater—if that could even be possible—than ours. For older singers, that is: none of the 2010 Oceanaires could possibly understand the thoughts swirling in the minds of those whose life journey was nearing its terminus.

* * * * *

Monterey Bay Academy.  I’m reminded of a remark attributed to Daniel Webster, who when asked where he graduated from, responded with, “Oh, sir, it is but a small school—but there are those of us who love it.”  Just so, our beloved academy.  One of the unsung, virtually unknown little coeducational Christian academies, where boys and girls still come from all over the world, where close to 70% work part of their way, where 90% go on to college—and the friendships born in dormitories here last for life.  Indeed, no other friendships ever formed in later years can possibly compare to these, forged in life’s morning years on La Selva Beach.

So, if you have a son, daughter, niece, nephew, or grandchild you covet such a launching pad for, as this, delay not a moment, but e-mail the Principal, Tim Kubrock, and enroll that lucky teenager immediately at Monterey Bay Academy.