MONKEY WOBBLE TRAVELOGUE

Maybe, just maybe, the evil critter was losing its grip.

I'd have tried to scrape him off under a highway overpass, except on the route we took, there weren't any! The point is that the ugly mood I'd been addicted to for months was sucking me dry, and when you're dessicated, what better place to go than the desert country of southwestern Utah? Yes, of course that sounds stupid, but only if you don't know about the Mormons.

That particular group has its own worries, too: a newspaper article I just read claimed that Utah teens were more likely to commit suicide than any others. Just what that says about the benefits of a rigid moral code, I'll leave for you to judge. For now the point is that the early Mormon pioneers were exceedingly good at at making the desert bloom through irrigation and an awful lot of hard work. That's why you can be driving through the driest, rockiest desert you've ever seen, drop down suddenly 2,000 feet into a canyon, and find yourself in a lush green town beside a beautiful clear-flowing river. (Well, at least where we went...)

[The ostensible purpose of the trip was to visit a certain famous Internet columnist, but I knew better. I really wanted a break, and I thought maybe while we were out there I'd find a way to bash the simian sadist with a chunk of sandstone. Failing that, I thought an angst-ridden Utah teenager might prove a juicy enough attraction for me to give the pesky primate the slip. Neither of these things happened, but as you will see, there may yet be reason for hope!]

Getting from northern New Mexico to southwestern Utah was relatively easy. We never saw a cop the whole way over and could have driven much faster than we did. If you ever take this drive, which takes you through the heart of the Navajo Nation, you'll want to remember to have snacks and drinks in the car, not to mention a full tank of gas. You'll see things you never knew existed, and one or two things that shouldn't exist at all. And I'll just go right ahead and put Page, Arizona and that godforsaken Lake Powell at the head of the Abominations Against Nature list.

Lake Powell, that bloody Lake Powell. . .go ahead and send me indignant emails, you'll never change my mind one little bit! Coming over the hill and seeing the big black smokestacks of the Navajo Generating Station perched just above the flooded canyon was a real kick in the stomach. Page, a nearby town that shouldn't be there, exists solely to service the tourists who come to the lake. These three things -- the coal-burning power plant, the lake, the town -- exist in a surreal symbiosis of ecological incorrectness that you have to see to believe. The waste and despoilation are staggering: clean desert air clouded with haze, an ancient canyon flooded for powerboaters, McDonalds on the mesa. Judging from the path the giant power lines take as they go marching off over the smoky horizon, the electricity generated by this investment in Amerika goes to supply Las Vegas, yet another place that shouldn't exist in a land without water. Everyone should know by now that damming rivers to build Anywhere U.S.A. cities in the middle of the flaming desert is a mistake, not a "miracle." Nature isn't fooled, I'm sure of that.

This is not to say that the sight of all that water in a place like that is not an amazing sight. It is, and so are the HUGE rocks poking up out of its blue surface. If you went there, saw this, and thought it was grand, consider yourself human. But just try to imagine how tall the rocks really are, down under all that water. . . Water which is surely evaporating at a tremendous rate. Water which is no longer carrying soil and nutrients downstream. Water used to cool the power plant that sends electricity to casino signs in Vegas. Water that Native Americans and Mormons would have treated with more respect, I'll wager. (But don't get me started! :-) Things being the way they were, we didn't tarry there any longer than it took to gas up and pee. One can do little else in Page, anyway, without a big-ass boat or an RV full of whores.

The xenophobic goon squads of the polygamist communities along the Utah-Arizona border let us pass without incident, probably because I'd taken the Macworld San Francisco "media pass" out of my iBook case and consequently set off no alarms. These places, incidentally, are another reason to gas up well in advance. There is absolutely nothing to entice you to slow down, stop, or spend a single dime. Not a single billboard, for example. From the looks of such settlements, anyone running out of gas would be given a plastic jug full of regular, blindfolded, and towed to the edge of town. You want me to name one of them, don't you? Well, forget it! I only live 10 hours away and the men at least probably have Internet connections. Judging from the vibes, some of these guys could probably beat you senseless, pound your carcass into a barrel, roll it off a cliff, and believe they were doing the Lord's work.

Nonetheless: the glories of nature along the way are stupendous, feeble human interventions aside, and the journey is worth the effort for that reason alone. Additionally, it is both an education and a privilege to drive through the rez, and if I could take everyone I know through there, I would. As a friend of ours observed, the U.S. government drove the Indians to what everyone thought was the worst place on the continent. Well, hoo-hah, white eyes! Arid, harsh, undeveloped, yes, but also breathtaking, magnificent, and awe-inspiring. Holy, even. It says so right on the sign: "Navajo Sacred Mountain," as if anyone needed to be told.

Eventually we made it to the famous Internet columnist's home and were instantly enfolded in her hospitality and peace. (That, and the generously provided overflowing shots of tequila.) There was an almond tree in the backyard. Across the road were apricot and cherry orchards. I had my own "guest" Internet connection! Her dogs didn't bite. What is wrong with this picture? NOTHING!

We spent an evening at the local hot springs. We saw Zion National Park (wow). And the miracles rolled on. . .a local store that sold post-hole diggers, fabrics, seed corn, gallon jugs of syrup, and 25-pound sacks of flour. A mountain named "Molly's Nipple." Even a ghost town. Woo-woo and epiphanies, too.

The return trip took less time because I had the wheel on the twisty parts and knew they were cop-free: 10-12 hours of two-lanes and we never even crossed a single Interstate highway. Is this a great country or what?! Our 9-year-old car ran like a charm. Gasoline on the Jicarilla Apache reservation cost almost a quarter less per gallon than anywhere else (and what does that tell you, hmmm?).

The cat was waiting for us when we got home (maybe the little bastard does know what a coyote is). The 8600 hadn't been stolen and the woods weren't on fire. I skipped a day and wrote this column.

I'll leave you with this misogynist wisdom from a Harley rider's shirt in Farmington: "If you're reading this, the bitch fell off." Well friends, if you're laughing when you finish reading one of these essays, the Monkey of Doom has vamoosed. I did have fun just now, so maybe there's a snort or chuckle in the peanut gallery. [Yo! Jaimo, Katy -- izzat you?] "Couldn't Have Done It Without My Mac," the sign said.

And it was true.

John H. Farr edits the news for Applelinks.com and invites your comments. The Farr Site Archives will take you to the past two years' worth of columns. John also writes his WebFaust column for MacAddict.com and a monthly op-ed page column called "El Emigrante" for Horse Fly in Taos, NM.

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November 20, 2008