1 Starting Out

[This is a small, low-res, work in progress. We plan to do some narration and more editing after that. The finished product will be saved to DVD for finer viewing. If you wish to receive a copy when it's ready, let me know.]

We didn't know what to expect. The pioneer account of the Hole-in-the-Rock trek was excruciating. A daily fight with the elements and the geography for man and beast. The winter of 1879-80 turned out to be history-making in terms of harsh weather. What were they thinking?

We planned a "spring" trip to avoid winter's worst bite, but there was some snow in the forecast. March in Utah is a little different than what we're used to. The locals we talked to were excited for us, although none had cleared their schedules to join us. Most thought it was still a pretty hard trip. We had read and gleaned as much information as we could from books and family and we were apprehensive and excited at the same time. Of course, we knew it would pale to giving birth in a snow storm in the middle of winter in the middle of nowhere.

We drove at lightning speed, compared to the pioneers, to our designated turn-off. The only problem was that we couldn't find it. We were so excited and anxious that we kept trying to turn before we got there. We had been told it was by the airport and between such and such mileposts. When the milepost came and went and no airport, we got very nervous. We hadn't even gotten off the highway yet. How silly we felt when it was right there in plain view less than a mile down the road.

Almost immediately the road got rough in a surprising way. It didn't look terribly rough but it felt bumpy. The county had "graded" the slick rock, so it had an evenness to the grooves. They were not smooth to drive over. By the time we came to the first intersection, we were all glad to pile out for a brief respite from the bumpies. We busied ourselves with pictures and geography and maps.

We had to stop again at Spanish Fort and take in the view of Lake Canyon, a beautiful oasis in the middle of an orange desert. We had lunch down in the bottom, underneath the cottonwood trees. We found a large log for a table and stood around debating the species of the trees and other plants foreign to us.

We followed the sandy canyon for what seemed like a long way when we were expecting a lot of slick rock. Sometimes the walls of the canyon were straight and beautifully water-stained. A lot of them had graffiti carvings, mostly recent.

Abruptly the sandy road ended and the slick rock road began. Our first slick rock driving. Paul went first and only lost his maps. His load wobbled from side to side considerably but, other than the maps, he never lost anything. Joy, JoAnn and I always got out when the going looked rough.

JoAnn was never without her belt of goodies: camera, water bottle, GPS and I'm not sure what else. She was well-stocked.

We were amazed at how easy the modern rubber tires ascended the slick rock. (Why was it called slick rock anyway? Oh, yeah. When they named it, they were using steel-rimmed wagon wheels and steel-shod horses.) The jeep had especially good traction. I decided it had suction cups on the tires. Turns out its axles lock together when it feels a wheel slipping, so the wheels never slip. Great idea.

Kent was our expert 4-wheeler, having spent much of his college years toodling around in the mountains outside of Provo in his '41 Dodge Powerwagon. He was the smoothest driver, knowing just how to handle the gas for the best traction and to pick the best route through the bumps. He usually pulled up the rear of our caravan, plodding along like an old work horse, unconcerned and slightly annoyed by the younger set's apprehension over every little nasty bump in the road.