Call of the Wild

             I have a dark secret that I’m finally ready to share with all of you. I’m only telling you now because I think you deserve to know who has been writing all of the articles that you’ve been reading. This information will certainly shock even my parents, but I can’t keep it inside any longer. I was raised by wolves. “But you lived in a house with a family! I saw you interacting with your human siblings all the time!” some may say. Indeed, I had to keep up appearances…during the day anyway. When night fell, though, I would carefully creep out my window and reunite with my canine brethren. I learned how to prowl and hunt and blend in with my surroundings like a furry ninja. After moving away from the Oquirrh Mountain foothills ten years ago, I had to give up my wolfish ways and conform to civilized human society, which has been a long and hard struggle.

Lately, however, each successive time I hear a dog bark or look up at the waxing moon, the urge within me to race into the forest and disappear gains in intensity. I’ve decided to give in to my wilder side and stop denying my primal wolf instincts. It may take a while to readjust to a more survivalistic and physically demanding lifestyle, but I cannot ignore who I am any longer. I am a wolf trapped in a man’s body.

With that said, it stands to reason that I will become an unreliable human being and that I will not be able to continue writing my column about the great Utah outdoors. Given, I will probably have much better material to write about in the coming months than I have ever offered in any of my previous articles, but I will have spotty Internet access at best, plus wolves are slow to accept technology and any use of computers would warrant frowns and disapproving shakes of the head from the pack.

Thus, I bid you all adieu. It has been fun and oftentimes enlightening as I have explored my memories and made new ones in order to provide an entertaining and/or thought-provoking perspective of Utah’s expansive, natural playgrounds. As my last gift to you, I give you the rare opportunity to spot the elusive “Wolf-man,” who may be appearing at a well-stocked sheep ranch near you. May Utah’s vast landscapes always indulge your sense of wonder and continue to grant you priceless memories.

Though I choose to embrace a wolf’s way of life, I desire to keep a small shred of my humanity intact in the form of intermittent communications via blogging. As Internet access is limited and, as explained earlier, looked down upon by every wolf I know, I’m not sure how often I will be able to transmit my thoughts and experiences to you. Rest assured, though, that I will strive to do so. For access to my prose (and some poetry), past and future, feel free to visit www.gabeswritingworld.blogspot.com. In the case that you just want to ask a question or leave a comment for me, or if you need me to intercede for you concerning wolfish matters, write me at gabe.eberhard@gmail.com. Thank you all for being such great sports and for reading my random outdoors thoughts each week. Farewell!

Halloween in July

            It may not be Halloween yet, but it’s almost Pioneer Day, which in Utah is sort of like Halloween, except for adults and children in the Days of ’47 parade dress up like Mormon pioneers and throw candy at the crowd. Well, they used to throw candy. Apparently the Days of ’47 council has decided to ban candy for safety reasons. Anyway, the only reason I brought up Halloween is so I could tell a pioneer ghost story. A modern one.

            I participated in a “Pioneer Trek” about 15 years ago. All together there were about 20 adults and 70 teenagers involved in the trek. We were separated into groups of seven or eight teens with an adult “Ma” and “Pa” to lead us. Everyone dressed up in their best pioneer garb and each group had a handcart to simulate the traveling conditions of the pioneers. Over the course of four days we traversed a small section that the Mormon pioneers had trudged along somewhere in the vicinity of Fort Bridger, Wyoming.

            The second night of the trek we made camp near a small stream. As our campfire died down, my group decided to build a simple shelter out of a tarp for us to sleep under, just in case it rained that night. I placed my sleeping bag at the far end of the tarp, which also happened to make me the farthest from the fire. I took off my glasses and gladly snuggled into my sleeping bag. A full day of pulling a handcart had exhausted my body, but learning about the hardships of the early Mormons got me thinking about life in general and I stayed awake well after the others in my group had begun lightly snoring.

            About an hour went by and still I couldn’t sleep. At one point I rolled over onto my side to look at the glowing coals in the fire pit and, to my surprise, there was an adult sitting at the fire. I couldn’t make out much detail, because I wasn’t wearing my glasses, but I could tell that the person was wearing a white cowboy hat, a white jacket and white pants. And he seemed to be looking at me. I was afraid that it was another group’s “Pa,” and that I would get in trouble for being awake, so I rolled back over and pretended to be asleep.

            Ten minutes later I checked to see if the man was still there. As I slowly rolled onto my side I stopped short when I saw the man standing two sleeping bags down from me. My heart almost stopped when I saw that he was staring in my general direction. Once again I tried to act unconscious. I was sure I was in trouble now. I should have been asleep two hours ago.

            Sleep finally overcame me, but when I woke in the morning I was bound and determined to find out who had been hanging out in my camp the night before. I inspected each adult in the whole group, but nobody was wearing anything white. No white hats, jackets, shirts, pants, belts, shoes or bandanas. Needless to say, I was slightly confused and disturbed.

            We had to cross the small stream to continue on our journey that morning. About 40 feet past the muddy flow there was a grave marker, and one of the adults explained how the pioneers buried a man there who had succumbed to an illness.

            I’ll never truly know who was visiting my camp site that night so long ago. It could have been someone in the trek group. Maybe it was the ghost of the man that had died along the trail. I like to think the latter, because it makes a better story, but either way, a man staring at you while you’re sleeping is creepy in general. Happy Pioneer Day and make sure to take your own candy to the Days of ’47 parade!

Respect the River

             My Scouting troop decided to kayak the Colorado River one year. My friend, Nate, and I were the third kayak of the group floating down the river. Neither Nate nor I had any experience kayaking, but my troop leader had wisely selected a section of the river that was relatively easy to maneuver and we picked up the basics quickly. For most of the adventure Nate sat inside the kayak like one is supposed to, whereas I sat on top of the kayak with my feet in the seat opening. It freaked me out to think that if the kayak turned over, I might have difficulty getting out.

The only part of the trip I even remember was the most dangerous: a hairpin turn against a cliff wall. There wasn’t any gradual curve to the water at all; the water on the north side of the hairpin ran straight into the rock wall, and the water on the south side flowed away from it. The first kayak neatly entered the south side before ever approaching the wall, effectively turning the kayak using the water instead of paddles. The second kayak was too far north to be able to use the south side’s current, and the two Scouts inside it were clearly headed for disaster as the kayak shot directly toward the unforgiving stone face of the cliff. At the last second the Scout in the front seat of the kayak jumped out of the opening onto the front of the kayak and stuck his arms out in front of him as a sort of bumper. There was a smacking sound as his hands met the cliff, and then he sort of just fell back into the water. I was certain that his arms were broken after the impact, but the kayak was saved. The Scout miraculously popped out of the water unscathed, climbed back in the kayak, and continued down the river.

Now it was Nate’s and my turn. We were so fascinated by the spectacle of the previous kayak that we hadn’t steered toward the south current. Paddling like mad we somehow managed to turn the boat diagonally and entered the opposite current. With our boat caught halfway between both currents and me sitting on top of the kayak, which threw off our weight and balance, it didn’t take much for the kayak to flip. The watercraft easily dumped me into the river, and when I surfaced Nate was nowhere to be seen. The kayak’s bottom was clearly visible, but Nate was obviously still buttoned into his kayak seat, because seconds passed without any sign of him. I swam as hard as I could and reached the kayak, attempting to turn it back over, but it was too unwieldy. I was about to dive under to help Nate out of the harrowing situation when his face finally appeared, gasping for air. I’m sure his heart was pounding just as hard as mine in that moment.

I may be wary of murky lake water, but I’m afraid of river water for completely different reasons. The shallowness of many rivers doesn’t allow giant water monsters to hide very well, but the lack of depth is precisely what makes the rivers frightening. Rocks and logs could be hiding mere inches under the roiling surface of a swiftly moving river and present a much more realistic menace than any 20-foot sea serpent. Dangerous currents also contribute to my overall fear of fast-flowing water. Rivers are full of unpredictable current systems, some of which can literally suck you down to the river bottom and hold you there. I’ve learned over the years that a river should be revered and respected, especially if I want to live to enjoy another tubing or rafting trip. Always take a life jacket and be physically prepared when taking on one of nature’s most merciless embodiments: the raging river.