Death defying feats and wild ostrich chases (DDF and WOC)

Disclaimer: the following post has a Hyperbolic Quotient of approximately 9.53 out of 10.

I

Some might say that Shakespeare is so boring that they would consider it a death defying feat to sit through a whole play at the Shakespeare Festival in Cedar City without falling asleep. This almost happened to us when we watched Macbeth on our last day of the festival before heading out to Zion. Macbeth was just anticlimactic after the giant smoked turkey legs and meat pasties we had for dinner--sold by a vendor with a phony British accent--which we gnawed at on a bench in the rain outside of the open-air theater, and after The Merchant of Venice, which we saw the night before. Merchant was very well done, a performance that in some aspects--the casket scene with the dopey Prince of Morocco and the obscenely effeminate Prince of Aragon--rivaled Michael Radford's 2004 film version with Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons, and Lynn Collins. It's just hard to take Macbeth, a very serious "psychological thriller" seriously when all the characters seem to be doing is screaming at each other and the witches look like they're doing a psychotic rendition of the Macarena.

II

Zion was the next stop. Looking back now, I'm not sure why we agreed on Zion. This vacation was supposed to be a "romantic getaway," relaxing, non strenuous. I was so caught up in getting away from my bubble of Murray that I forgot to consider that I seem to have developed a conditioned aversion to exercise. I forgot that hiking is strenuous. I forgot that hiking is not glamorous or romantic. These realizations came too late.

So there we were, hiking in Zion, sweating profusely in the heat and gathering thin films of orange dust--we later discover that this dust leaves obstinately impenetrable stains on our clothes. On day one we spotted three squirrels, 36 lizards, the antlers of two unidentifiable ruminants of the family Cervidae rustling in the brush, and two young owls perched on tree branches with an aerial view of all the sweaty hikers panting below them. Jesse actually found them because he is coordinated enough to look up without slipping or stumbling, while hiking the trail. The owls were so quiet that any unobservant spectator, i.e., me, would have missed them.

Dinner could have been a DDF, I suppose, based on the restaurant I chose for dinner. Springdale, the town just outside of the park is basically one long street flanked with gift shops, hotels, restaurants, and an apple farm. And one random stucco mansion. Jesse said he wanted to eat somewhere interesting. So I misinterpreted his claim and picked a weird place called Wild Cat Willie's with carved wooden vultures overlooking your food at the top of each booth, catfish on the special's menu, signs that said, "If anything happens to my daughter, I've got a .45 and shovel. I doubt anyone would miss you" and "No husband has ever been shot for doing the dishes," and a beer menu with fifteen options, some of which included "Dogfish Head Snowblower Ale," "Polygamy Porter," and "Fiddler's Elbow."

We just ordered pizza.

III

On day two we almost died. The infamous Angels Landing hike awaited us--five miles round-trip, a ridge that ascends 1500 feet above the valley floor below, elevation gain of 1520 feet, estimated hiking time: four hours. The tour guide on the shuttle warned that this hike is one of the most popular in the park, although not recommended for people afraid of heights--especially the last half mile, the steepest, narrowest part of the hike. I'm not sure what compels acrophobes to hike this peak. Most intrinsically motivated people just find the 360-degree views of Zion Canyon--the reward for reaching the top--exhilarating. I was motivated to risk being carried away in a stretcher, unconscious, with broken limbs, to the sound of wailing ambulance sirens by my undying love for my true and faithful companion.

The Zion Hiking Guide includes the following "Special Notes" about Angels Landing:

1) "For those bold enough to hike all the way out to the Landing, sections of chain provide a measure of security along the most exposed sections of upper trail."

This is not true. Had Jesse had both hands free during this part of the hike, he would have taken a picture of the sign that said, "DANGER! FOLLOW THE TRAIL. 1200 FOOT DROP BELOW," offset by pink construction tape--this is not the equivalent of chains.

2) "Please do not invite or feed the persistent chipmunks to avoid bites, torn clothing, and the hostile takeover of your backpack."

The outsides of Zion’s shuttles display ads of a person's hand, zoomed in on the inflamed and bloody holes left by one of the "persistent chipmunks" that was apparently fed, or not fed enough, by an unsuspecting hiker. These ads did not deter me. I still wanted to feed them. Especially when they came scampering right up to my feet. If it weren't for Jesse, I could very well have been the new Zion Canyon poster child for its 2011 anti "Death by Chipmunk" campaign.

3) "Many oblivious hikers carve their name in the rock as some sort of cult-like ritual--please do not join in; fortunately, the views supersede the vandalism from this awe-inspiring perch."

I only saw one act of vandalism, of the "B + J 4EVA" variety inscribed in a heart, so maybe this request has been effective.

I would have been much better off on this hike if I hadn't entertained recurring thoughts of plummeting to a gruesome death by taking one misplaced step--thoughts of impending doom in the same vein as those I indulged at Magic Mountain a few years ago where I vividly pictured the roller coaster cars derailing at the top of the 250 foot drop on the "Goliath." These kinds of thoughts are not helpful. At one point, well before the last .5 mile stretch, I refused to take one step further. Jesse had to coax me on by promising to take me shopping afterward and suggesting that I say a prayer. Why didn't I think of that?

I would have also been much better off on this hike if the French kids (yes, kids) behind me had not been so close that they were practically shouting in my ears. Probably having a conversation about me and Jesse along the lines of "Why are these Americans so slow?! They climb like sissies!" To which I would have gladly responded, "Hey, Jacques Strappe, the Americans who climb like sissies don't have Mont Blanc in their back yard and would also like to live to see the bottom of this mountain, thank you very much, so just chill out, je vous en prie!!"

When Jesse was serving in the bishopric of a single's ward a few years ago, Bishop Johnson brought kayaks to a ward activity at the Provo River. He suggested that every couple considering marriage should test their aptitude for sympathetic emotional endurance, patience, and general mindreading skills by attempting to navigate a kayak along a swift current. We tried it. I fell out of the kayak and into the river, considered bludgeoning Jesse with my paddle, and stomped around in my soggy shoes for a few minutes once we reached land. By then it was too late for Jesse to back out because by then he was already stuck with me. My point: if you don't have a kayak, go hike Angels Landing before you get engaged.

IV

As promised, Jesse took me shopping in St. George after we had rubbed our skin raw from scrubbing the orange dust off ourselves. On the way back to the hotel, Jesse took note of a bright pink and black sign that advertised for cactus jelly. Half a mile later, we passed a sign that said "fresh ostrich eggs" and listed a phone number. "We should have bought some cactus jelly," said Jesse, because "I like to try new things." So we pulled over, turned around, and searched for the cactus jelly. When we found it, we pulled up to what looked like an abandoned house with a box reading "place money here thank you" next to a table of jelly with the consistency of liquid Kool-Aid. Yum.

We drove on to find the ostrich eggs. We saw the sign too late and had to pull over and turn around, only to find that nobody was home, according to the signs on the gate that said "be back in 15 minutes. gone for feed." So we waited, admiring the ostriches until they fell asleep. We read the other signs on the gate: "please be patient. one-man band slow, may be running 1/4 mile," and "please try twice, slowly, if calling," and "feed ostriches from your hand $2.00" (this sign was uprooted and lay on the ground with the dollar amount crossed out, because, as Jesse guessed, "Someone probably had their eyes poked out trying it, so he thought it wasn't such a good idea anymore.")

Fifteen minutes passed and no humans appeared. Apparently, we were in a town called Virgin, Utah (population: probably 10) and we didn't get cell phone reception, so we couldn't call. So we left. Jesse instructed me to hold the cell phone and alert him the moment bars appeared on the screen. Minutes later, I saw two bars pop up and we pulled over and I left a message after the answering machine's generic voice recording. I doubted we would get a call back.

But we did. "The ostrich man" called at 8AM the next morning and I couldn't tell if he was drunk, or hung over because he sounded like Lyle on Napoleon Dynamite who slurs through his lines about Shoshone arrowheads. But he was neither. We just had bad reception, even in the hotel. We said we'd be there in one hour.

When we got there the gate was still locked and no trace of human life to be found. We stood there for a while and when I was about to give up and get back in the car, Jesse found the cooler, on the other side of the fence, with a rope attached to it so that he could pull the cooler up and over, choose an egg, and pay $15 in the box that said "place money here thank you." I guess that's how they roll in Virgin, Utah, intrepid salespeople of odd novelties without fear of being ripped off by tourists.

The ostrich man (we never did get his name--didn't want to get too personal) came lumbering up the hill to say howdy with his bowl of oatmeal in hand, grizzled white hair turning yellow, 9 o'clock shadow, neon blue cut-off tank top with greasy shorts and hiking boots, socks rolled up over the top (the only thing missing was his shotgun). "You want to know the secret to saving the shell?" were the first words out of his mouth. He proceeded to tell Jesse how to poke a hole in the bottom and extract the egg without cracking the shell of the three-pound egg. We had all sorts of questions, but had to limit ourselves for the sake of courtesy, so I asked where he got his ostriches.

Ostrich Man (OM): "I got them in Ocean Side, California, brought them up here and sell a few now and then to a friend in Colorado City, where they got a zoo up there."

Me: "How long do they live?"

OM: "Oh, they'll live for 80 years and be productive for 40."

Jesse: "Are they good eating?"

OM: "I've got 33 birds and I used to butcher about 5 a year but this year I've only eaten about three because they got ornery."

Me: "What do they do in the winter?"

OM: "They just sit there with snow on their backs and wait for the storms to pass."

This made me think of ostrich-shaped snowmen that would have inspired envy in the snow art of Calvin and Hobbes, and ostriches huddled in snow banks with conical snow piles on top of their heads.

The WOC ended with some small talk about the poor cell phone reception and the OM pointing to a brand new cell phone tower that had been recently installed. Apparently it didn't work well because any time he wanted to use his cell he had to run across the street, climb the hills, and hold out his phone until he found a spot that picked up the signal. Kind of like a water diviner wandering the land for a hot spot with their sticks crossed in front of them.

V

We made it home without any other incidents. Jesse’s parents arrived a few hours later for the family reunion that was scheduled for August 4-7. The next morning we cooked half the egg and tried to make it look as normal as possible by adding mushrooms, cheese, onions, and fresh bell peppers and tomato slices from Barbara and Charles's garden in California. We tried to make breakfast look more enticing by offering fried potatoes and cantaloupe and cactus jelly toast. Charles, Jesse and I agreed not to announce that we were eating ostrich eggs until Barbara had finished. She got Jesse back by instigating a covert rubber alligator-hiding operation. She slipped me the goods and I hid them under Jesse's pillow. At 12:01 AM Jesse’s unearthly screams woke the whole house.

I think it will take about two weeks to finish the rest of the egg.

Entering Cedar Breaks hours before watching Macbeth in Cedar City.

Jesse, looking manly at the top of Cedar Breaks.

Somewhere before near Cedar Breaks. It looks a lot like Alaska, only without the mountains.

Outside of our Zion Canyon hotel, trying to look glamorous.

Overlooking Zion Canyon, trying not to look sweaty.

Jesse, exploiting his mountain goat genes.

They just sat up there, blinking their big eyes and craning their fluffy necks from side to side, exhibiting a useful defense mechanism: appear to be as boring as possible so that hikers will move on and leave you alone so you can take a nap in peace. They were so cute. I wanted one.

Two minutes into climb up Angels Landing. See those minuscule green clumps of trees eclipsed by the blinding sunlight? That's the top.

Jesse loves hiking! He's standing on one of several lookouts, or "false peaks" that we thought were the top of Angels Landing. The narrow ridge behind him is the beginning of the last .5 mile!

Sarita loves hiking too!

Ostrich #28.