Category Archives: History of Us
EE & I in the freakin' ugly blanket on the Reservation.
Today is Emily Elmer’s Birthday (who is no longer Emily Elmer, but Emily Bowers instead).
And so I thought it would be good to write a story about living on the Indian Reservation.
While we lived on the Res. it behooved us to make friends with some of the local kids. Great kids that the world was trying hard to forget, they were amazing at inventing their own fun.
And so one night one of the boys we befriended decided a soccer game in the desert would be appropriate.
A tennis ball and an old sheet was all he needed. He stripped the sheet and wrapped and wrapped and wrapped that thing until a ball roughly the size of a soccer ball was made.
Then with four old tires and a five gallon can of gasoline, we headed out in the pick up truck to the darkest part of the desert.
We poured gasoline into the inside rims of the tires, set up on opposite sides of a makeshift field. Then the ball was soaked. Last item needed – a match. And the desert lit up like Disneyland . . .
The ball was a little heavy, and the boys got a little to into the fun, and kicked the ball without regard – it would go flying like a comet and everyone around would duck. But the night was spent laughing and ducking and chasing that flaming soccer ball across the dark sands.
When it finally died out, and the gas was gone, we turned our play to desert around. The giant dunes begging us to leave our footprints in them.
Up the dune we climbed, down the dune we slid. It was so cold in the desert at night, and there were at least a billion stars out, like I’ve never seen before or since.
I still have burn marks on my shoes that I wore during our game of flaming soccer, an eternal reminder of the fun and folly of youth.
Hazen & Janet, 2004
This story is dedicated to Carrie, because she wanted me to write this one.
When I was probably about thirteen or so, we decided to have a grand adventure. Don’t ask me exactly who all “we” were – I remember my cousin Hazen was there because he whined about the experience all the rest of our growing up (Hazen, bless his heart, was notoriously wimpy when it came to grand adventures) (Sorry, Hazen, but it’s true).
So, there was me, and Hazen, and my sister Carrie because she told me so, although why I would have dragged her along is beyond me . . . she must have only been about seven or eight at the time. I must have been in a very good mood to let such a little thing tag along.
Other fellow adventureres? If I had to guess I would say probably Larry and my cousin Everett, and hmm, maybe Leslee?
So it was a hot, boring day. I remember sitting in the humid air of the pool house, lamenting the sterile conditions of an indoor swimming pool. Somehow either Larry or I knew about some “hidden lakes” – not first hand knowledge mind you, but legends, like secrets, told among fellow adventurers. The story was if you just followed the creek far enough . . .
And so we set off in our swim suits and flip flops – down the hill to where the creek crossed under the road, and then down to the creek bottom, rocky and cold. We went up the creek, against the current – the only way we ever went, though I’m not sure why.
Trouble was, we’d played at that waterway for as long as forever. We’d walked up the bed as far as children are ever willing to walk of their own accord; and we’d never seen any lakes.
But today we were determined. Even if it meant we’d walk all the way to the head waters.
And so we spent the afternoon shin deep in mountain runoff, meandering our way through the cottonwoods, the afternoon light dappled through their canopy. After a long while we passed the “farthest point” we had been too. Still, the heat of the day encouraged us to push on.
But after a certain point we became bored of our game, and wanted only to go home.
And that is always the worst part – the part where you realize that you just want to go home, but you have still that entire way to return!
Thinking we must not be too very far from home, and knowing that the creek wove in and out of familiar roads, we thought our quickest exit would simply be to climb the bank and berm and find the nearest road.
And so up the creekside we went, only to find a neatly trimmed hedge, clearly marking someone’s property. The hedge was only four feet high or so, no trouble to a capable kid. So we crossed right over to find:
A hidden lake sparkling in the afternoon sun! Like a dream there was a willow, her branches weeping into the water, ducks floated over the murky green, and across the way was a charming (humongous) house.
Still tired and hot from the afternoon, even the excitement of our discovery couldn’t sway us to stay. Perhaps the people in the house would know the quickest way home . . . perhaps they would even give us a ride.
We walked around the lake and to the side of the house, approaching the garage and front – when suddenly we heard the menacing clamor and bark of two very large dogs approaching. And then, around the corner of the house they shot – two doberman pinchers making their way, full speed straight at us.
“Run!” is all I remember yelling. And then it was every man for himself, as we all darted and dove, and ran in mad dash for cover. Hazen ran straight for the house, and actually took sanctuary inside. Larry and I made it back to the creek, although we were separated. Carrie, the true hero of the day, ran into the woods and fell down a four foot embankment where one of the dogs overtook her. But, as was reported later, the dog had no interest in eating her, but licking her instead.
Later, after we had our wits about us, Larry and I decided we must return to gather everyone up (at least what remained . . .) and so we timidly retraced our steps, looking for the others. We found everyone, Carrie very last. And then an old man in a golf cart appeared and asked what the heck we were doing. We explained ourselves, and he bemused that we were lucky the dogs didn’t find us. He loaded us up in his cart and shuttled us down his long, long drive to the road – the very back end of Walker Lane. Though we knew where we were in relation to home, it was going to be a long, long walk.
I returned to the Three Lakes (for later we found that there were three lakes, each one feeding into the next) only a handful of times over the coming years (always avoiding the house with the dogs). After that first visit we always came and went via the creek, and I don’t remember how to get there on the road. But I have this strange and ghostly memory of being there with Ashley, my best friend from Waterford. She lived at the top of Walker Lane, and the three lakes must have been in her ward boundaries. I shall have to ask her what she knows about them – where they are, who lives on them, and the sort of things grown ups like to know.
In writing this I think I shall also add “Walk the creek” to my list of things to do next summer. It would be great fun to revisit the setting of not only this, but many other childhood adventures.
I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”
I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.
Anna, Emily Heisler, Me & Ejo at Thanksgiving Point, summer 2010
When I was about fourteen my cousin, Anna and I decided to go on an evening ride. Our plan was to head up Corner Canyon.
When I was growing up, the entire South Mountain was owned by one family. There were dirt trails where kids rode their horses or bikes, and one shabby coral with sad little ponies that inexperienced riders could “rent” for a ride. Other than that, a lot of scrub oak and wild grass was all that covered the mountain.
But the generation that owned it had finally passed away, and the next generation, eager I suppose to cash in on all that property, had sold it to private developers. The mountain was now being torn up for what would someday be what South Draper is today.
My mom dropped us off at the horses, promising to come back later that evening to pick us up. (My mom was awesome at carting kids around to their various adventures.) We were alone at the horses, not a soul in sight, when we realized one of our saddles was missing its cinch.
I guess we could have ridden bare back, but for some reason or another unremembered by me now, I didn’t think that was a good idea. We searched the tack room up and down, and finally “borrowed” one off another saddle.
Next we couldn’t find one of the bridles. We searched everywhere, even looking for another one to borrow, but couldn’t find one. Finally Athena came, and she had a spare bridle she loaned to us.
Finally we were tacked up and ready to go – but the sun was sinking low in the sky now.
Perfect, I thought – we’ll just head up Eagle’s Ridge to watch the sunset, and then head home.
We made it up to Eagles Ridge just fine, watched the beautiful late summer sun sink below the horizon, turning the sky ablaze with the warm orange of summer afterglow.
We headed back down the mountain for home when we crossed a stretch of earth 300 yards long or so, newly packed, pressed, ready for road top to be poured.
And how could we not race along it?
Imagining ourselves jockeys in the Derby, we ran our horses along the stretch of even plowed earth – a rare joy on the trail. Running, or even cantering a horse was not common practice outside the safety of a corral or arena growing up. What if the horse stumbled – or, more likely, ran away with you?
(Not to say I wasn’t run away with on more than one occasion. But usually I tried to avoid it.)
I still remember the light, dimming each minute, but still warm, as we raced along the road; feeling Sunny lower as she moved from a gallop to a dead run, and feeling her enjoy the freedom of her head as I clung to her neck and let her go.
And then we suddenly realized:
It was getting dark. Fast.
And we still had most of the mountain to get down.
We turned our horses down the trail, determined not to be distracted again, and headed for home.
But it was too late. In a few minutes it was black as pitch, the trees silver and ghostly as the moon climbed up the sky behind us.
I told Anna we had to sing – and sing loud. She gave me a sideways look as she knew, as well as I did, that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But singing was imperative to us getting home safely I explained. You see, there were deer all over that mountain, earlier in our ride we had passed a several different groupings, and each time I held Sunny tight on the reins as we passed.
Sunny was young, still green – still bone headed. I knew if we came across some deer in the dark – if we startled them – they in turn would startle Sunny. And then came the whole getting run away with part.
Which I usually tried to avoid . . . especially in the dark.
And so we needed to sing to tell the deer we were coming. I hoped the noise would get them to move out of our way as we approached,. Unfortunately, not musically inclined, the only songs I knew by memory were either camp songs or the Hymns I sung ever week for forever.
And so, ‘The Spirit of God’ it was.
We sang every song we could think of, and then sang them again as we picked our way down the mountain. At some point we lost the trail, and came to a ravine I was not willing to try to pass in the dark. We went back up the mountain to come back down the other side.
Calvin on Sunny, May 2011. She's a sweet old mare now.
Finally we made it down to the lights of lazy draper. And then we heard our names being called . . . over a bull horn.
We called out and a spot light was turned to us. We knew we were toast.
My mom, Wendy, and a police officer – the lone and lame response to a call in to search & rescue, greeted us at the trail head.
After a very stern lecture from Wendy about the danger to the horses, we had the joy of riding through the sleepy town with a cop car, lit up like a Christmas tree, following just behind us. After untacking and putting the horses away, another stern lecture from the police officer of the stupidity of our lives – or maybe just decisions.
It was nearly midnight when we climbed back into my mom’s car for home.
“Want to stop somewhere and get an ice cream cone?” my mom asked.
*After thinking about it as I wrote this story, it occurred to me that I probably wanted both Anna and I with full saddles and bridles because 1) Anna wasn’t a super experienced rider, and probably needed the tack for the trail and 2) I was riding Sunny, who ran away with me or threw me more times than I can count. A saddle always helps for that sort of thing.
I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”
I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.
