…partially because members are carefully accepted into the Napier, New Zealand-based group to study and perfect Maori language and cultural skills: Where in past groups maybe one or two of the manuhiri or visitors would respond to the challenge and karanga chants, nearly all Te Panekiretanga O Te Reo Maori members joined these thrilling moments as they entered the Maori marae at the Polynesian Cultural Center:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0yukbj9sD0

If you do not see a video window above, go to:

— Video by Mike Foley, for the
Polynesian Cultural Center

Brother Holdman told us he’s in our small community doing the stained glass work on the Laie Hawaii Temple, which has been under major renovation for the past 20 months and is scheduled to be rededicated on November 21, 2010.

He explained that from childhood his severe stutter led him to express himself through art: “I believe that art is its own language,” he has said, adding he was an art major in college, and after serving a Latter-day Saint mission he prayed for inspiration about what he might do with his life. He said he received a two-word answer:

Glass art was not the answer he was expecting, but he said he followed the divine feedback into a stained glass career that has since allowed him to work on many projects, such as restoring the “tree of life” windows in the Laie Temple about four years ago, and 19 other Latter-day Saint temples — including Palmyra, New York; Winter Quarters, Nebraska; and Manhattan, New York. He said when he completes his work on the Laie Hawaii Temple, he’ll be moving on to the one in Rome, Italy.

At the end of his brief introduction, what Brother Holdman said far overshadowed the way he said it: “I have learned through experience that with a strong conviction you can overcome any affliction.”

I look forward to seeing his latest work in the Laie Temple.

See samples of Holdman’s work for yourself at:

http://beta.holdmanstudios.com/

www.youtube.com/watch?v=HWp2Q05v77E

Mt. Rushmore and surrounding region (if you don’t see a video window above,
please go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HWp2Q05v77E)

Almost every time I saw pictures or movies of Mt. Rushmore in the past, its grand-scale patriotism instilled in me a desire to see it in person . . . so, even though it made for several long driving days during our recent road trip through the western United States, we looked forward to reaching this unique national memorial in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

However, the huge thunderhead clouds, which I’ve been told can reach over 30,000 feet high, that we saw as we drove into Pueblo, Colorado, two days before should have given us a clue: It started to rain that night, and dampened our plans for the next several days.

Getting there: For example, it rained throughout our stop at the otherwise spectacular Garden of the Gods State Park in Colorado Springs, with clouds completely blocking the view of Pike’s Peak; and while the weather discouraged us from visiting nearby Manitou Cave — which was discovered by one of my paternal relatives, this Colorado state park still impressed us and is definitely worth a repeat visit.

While we were there a woman also told us she had just come from Rocky Mountain National Park, which we had included in our itinerary, where it was cold and snowing…and so we further adjusted our itinerary to include that in some future trip.

We drove to Denver through rain so heavy that, at one point, we could barely see the cars ahead of us on I-25; and while the rain let up a little, it never stopped that day. After getting lost a bunch of times in downtown Denver and its freeways, we finally drove on to Cheyenne, Wyoming, futilely hoping for a break in the weather.

The next morning we pushed on to Rushmore under a heavy overcast that soon turned into more rain — lots of it. That, plus the fact there were very few cars after we turned off on U.S. 85  — a lonely road that runs through miles and miles of high plains, through the previously unknown to us town of Lusk and even smaller rural farming and ranching communities. This led us to eventually merge with U.S. 18 to the previously unknown Pringle and finally on to our destination. By the way, one guy in Lusk told us it had been raining there for the past week without let-up, and he added they even had “the biggest hail storm” he had ever seen. Lucky us!

The only thing that broke the monotony of the drive for us was unexpectedly seeing the occasional pronghorn antelope calmly grazing or resting on the side of the highway, showing no concern for the weather and almost the same amount for the light traffic splashing by. That, plus trying to get ahead of the occasional RV or 18-wheeler we’d get behind — often for many miles before coming to the next passing lane. The back-spray, especially from the 18-wheelers, seemed particularly heavy and annoying…until, sometime after noon, we started running into long strings of U.S. Army vehicles traveling the region in convoys, usually lumbering along below the speed limit to make driving conditions even more irksome.

Despite the rain, I must say our appreciation for the drive picked up when we finally entered the Black Hills: The scenery there is spectacular. Also, miraculously, the rain stopped by the time we pulled into the small town of Custer, but — wait a minute — just kidding! By the time we came out of a convenience store it was raining again.

Two notes about the convenience store: They gave us a very good free map which was invaluable, because otherwise the region has lots of roads that can really confuse the average tourist; and almost all of the convenience stores we stopped at during our travels provide restrooms for customers.

Custer State Park: Dashing for our car through the renewed rain , we felt a strong temptation to just drive on to our hotel in Rapid City and bag it for the rest of the day. But the allure of now-nearby Mt. Rushmore pulled us on. We decided to “chance-em,” as we say in Hawaii, and first drive through Custer State Park (they charge a $12 fee per car), hoping to see some of its herd of 1,500 buffalo and that the rain would stop by the time we came out and moved on to the memorial.

It didn’t, but I will say that even the rain didn’t diminish our appreciation for the winding Custer State Park perimeter “wildlife loop,” which gave us quite a few opportunities to see a lot of the buffalo, even a small herd of feral burros, and lots more pronghorns — all close enough to enjoy right out of the car windows. We didn’t even have to get wet.

The memorial: This buoyed our spirits so much that we decided to keep touring anyhow, taking the scenic and winding “Needles” road, across the Pigtail Bridges, and through a couple of self-supporting tunnels bored through solid granite rock…all to bring us to the entrance of Mt. Rushmore National Memorial. As we had in other national parks, we expected to use our “America the Beautiful” lifetime senior citizen Eagle Passes to get in free. Surprise! It turns out there is no charge to enter the memorial, BUT there is a $10 fee to park a car ($20 for an RV) in the covered parking garage. Go figure…

We also soon found that the wind blowing through the flag-draped concourse leading to the main Mt. Rushmore viewing platform really amplified the impact of the now-icy rain. We quickly purchased two plastic ponchos from the gift shop, and dashed up to the viewing platform, but there was no way anyone wanted to linger there that afternoon…let alone wait around for the patriotic sunset program. We were disappointed, but still, the granite-mountain sculptures of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt (Teddy) and Lincoln are very impressive, and I would definitely like to go back again some day.

Another note to first-time visitors to the area: Keystone is the closest lodging area to the memorial, but  we didn’t realize that when we booked our accommodations online; so, as the temperatures continued to drop and we admitted our Hawaii blood was just too thin to continue touring that day, we still had to drive about 30 more miles to Rapid City, thinking we would go back to Mt. Rushmore the next morning if the weather cleared.

On to Devil’s Tower: Unfortunately, the rain persisted the next morning, and after a woman at breakfast told us their experience the day before at nearby Theodore Roosevelt National Park was muddy and miserable, we adjusted our itinerary once again, turning west and heading for Devil’s Tower National Monument. I had inexplicably wanted to see the 1,200-foot tower ever since watching Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind, a little like the character played by Richard Dreyfuss. Besides, as we drove west the rain stopped, the drive through the Black Hills was beautiful — including the 30-mile detour off the main highway to the monument, and the road even ran through the town of Sturgis, famous for its annual motorcycle rally in July.

We really enjoyed Devil’s Tower, where we smugly presented and they cheerfully accepted our lifetime passes. Besides the tower which loomed overhead, almost the first thing one sees just inside the entrance is a sizeable prairie dog colony where the hundreds and hundreds of the little rodents are just so cute. A short drive brought us to the visitors center parking lot near the base of the tower, which was filled with cars from all over the U.S. mainland and Canada, according to the wide range of license plates we saw, plus the usual assortment of motorcycles. A short uphill walk on a paved path T’s into another path a little over a mile long that circles the base of the tower. Two points I found interesting there: A sign asks visitors not to disturb the “prayer offerings” that some Native Americans tie into the low-hanging branches of the surrounding trees; and there were no rock climbers out — or I should say up — the day we were there, something about a moratorium in June.

But perhaps one of my most favorite parts of our visit to Devil’s Tower took place just outside the monument’s entrance, at the Longhorn Café which serves an absolutely delicious buffalo burger and perfect french fries. I think Richard Dreyfuss missed that part of the experience.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=GcZr15dhhq0

A selection of pictures from Arches National Park near Moab, Utah (go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GcZr15dhhq0 if you do not see a video window above)

The incredible natural beauty of Arches National Park — which I previously visited only once before in the mid-1970s on a photo expedition to Monument Valley — speaks for itself, but in our case, the adventure and unexpected delight of getting there enhanced the experience:

Those making a circuit in the Grand/Zion/Bryce Canyons-area who take the time to go to Arches usually drive north on U.S. 89 through the small Mormon towns of Panguitch, Circleville and so forth until cutting I-70 and turning east, eventually turning south on U.S. 191 which passes the entrance to Arches and enters Moab a few miles beyond. That route is much faster. In fact, when our daughter, Sina, and family returned home from Arches, she back-tracked onto I-70 and got home to Las Vegas in about six hours.

Beyond its natural wonder, one of the things that makes Arches so appealing is it’s accessibility: You can practically drive up to most of the sights…or for the hardier there’s lots of hiking, and even rock climbing. For example, our gang took the half-mile hike to the lookout point for Delicate Arch, which has become an icon not only for Arches but the entire state of Utah.

I might be wrong, but I also seem to recall back in the day you could mountain bike in the park; that’s no longer true (except on paved roads), but off-road biking is still a major draw in other non-park areas around Moab.

The Biblically-named Moab, yet another town in this region with historic Mormon ties, became the “uranium capital of the world” when a rich deposit was discovered nearby in the 1950s. Today the town of about 5,000 people is a mostly a popular tourist attraction for those visiting Arches, Canyonlands National Park, or enjoying the mountain biking and off-roading.

We drove from Bryce Canyon over the incredible alternative Utah Highway 12. There’s more than enough natural attractions along this highly acclaimed Scenic Byway to justify adding several more days to a road trip in the region. For example: the stunning Red Canyon, which nearly everyone passes through on the way to Bryce, is actually on Highway 12. Beyond Bryce to the east, this special road also passes near Kodachrome Basin State Park and the entrance to the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument (four-wheel drive recommended for that),  Escalante Petrified Forest State Park, Anasazi State Park and Capital Reef National Park…plus its own string of historic Mormon towns such as Tropic, Cannonville and Boulder, among others. Our schedule didn’t permit us to do justice to any of these places, which is a good reason for going back some day…but we did enjoy some things:

For example, we took the nine-mile detour off Highway 12 and were surprised at the number of RVs and people camping in the small Kodachrome Basin State Park (pictured above). Kodachrome™, for those not familiar with the term, was the branded trade name of a highly-regarded color reversal film (whose processed pictures were often called “slides” or “transparencies”) made by Eastman Kodak between 1935-2009. By the way, there is a $6 entrance fee for each of the Utah state parks.

There are so many compelling scenic turn-offs along the two-lane highway that it’s hard to keep track of them, but the Point Powell  (pictured above) lookout at 7,600 feet elevation is one that sticks in our memory:

The 10,188-foot Point Powell of the Table Cliffs Plateau is named after Major John Wesley Powell who in 1869 became the first European-American to ride the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Powell, who would later serve as the second director of the U.S. Geological Survey, returned to the area in the early 1870s to fill in the “unknown country” in “the last blank spot” on the map of the continental United States at the time. Highway 12 follows the route of the second Powell expedition from Henrieville to Head of the Rocks, east of Escalante.

Anxious to move on to Arches, I confess that because the normal hike would take several hours we didn’t enter Escalante Petrified Forest State Park…beyond the “petrified cove” (pictured above), a little display area near the park entrance; but for some reason, I’ve always been fascinated with the notion that trees can be turned into petrified wood over geologic time.

There’s so much more scenic wonder along Highway 12, such as kajillions of beautiful wildflowers, at least when we went in early June. Then there’s the occasional thing that just made us wonder, such as a lone rider on a heavily-laden bicycle pedaling up a steep grade: Was he lonely, or having his own brand of special experience? In any case, his experience was definitely different from the many motorcycle riders on robust touring bikes and “hogs” who were also trekking along Highway 12 — some of them pulling little trailers and warmly dressed in leathers, despite the desert heat.

The expanse of red-rock beauty between Escalante and Boulder simply defies description. In a word, it’s amazing. Part of the stretch, known as the “million dollar road,” was built by the Depression-fighting Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, but it wasn’t paved until 1971 — finally providing year-round access to that area.

“The Hogback” is another fascinating feature I wanted to photograph, but at the time I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road: After passing Calf Creek Recreation Area, Highway 12 proceeds along a very narrow ridge with almost no shoulders and steep drop-offs — a thousand feet or more? — on both sides. “Scary,” my wife said. Indeed, the ridge is definitely not a spot for faint-hearted drivers, and I also wouldn’t want to cross The Hogback at night or in any kind of stormy conditions…but the views for the passengers are incredible.

Then, surprisingly, the drive from Boulder to the end of Highway 12 at the Torrey junction climbs through quaking aspen and pine forests to almost the 10,000-foot pass over Boulder Mountain. The view back over the country we traversed (pictured above) was spectacular — with Navajo Mountain peaking through the haze over 50 miles away. However, the strong wind was cold, even in June, and the elevation kept us sea-level people (the mean elevation of Laie is two feet) gasping every once in a while. A sign at the turn-off indicated this section of the highway wasn’t paved until 1985, and it took seven years to complete the project. Prior to that people had to drive an extra 200 miles through Panguitch to get to Torrey and beyond.

Highway 24 beyond Torrey follows the Fremont River through part of Capital Reef National Park — yet another beautiful place in this exceptional canyonlands country. The river provides the means for sustaining the beautiful little farms and orchards along the way, which undoubtedly prompted the name of the little Mormon town of Fruita, which also features a historical one-room schoolhouse, maybe 10′ X 10′ in size. The name, Fruita, reminds me that there’s another little town in this area called Loa — a Hawaiian word brought back by the Mormon missionaries who served in the Sandwich Islands to help them remember the tropical islands that are in such contrast to the desert home they settled.

]]> http://nanilaie.info/?feed=rss2&p=542 0 http://nanilaie.info/?p=540 http://nanilaie.info/?p=540#comments Mon, 19 Jul 2010 05:25:06 +0000 Mikaele http://nanilaie.info/?p=540 During our June 2010 road trip on the U.S. mainland, my wife and I visited with our friend and fellow Laie 4th Ward member, Sister Napua Baker, who is currently serving as a senior missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at the main Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah.

Sister Baker told us she has been given a special assignment that is particularly appropriate and pleasing to her, but let her tell it in her own words:

When I first came here in October 2009, nine months ago, I was in training but I didn’t know what I was going to do. There was a Sister Barbara Robertson from the Big Island, and when I visited with her, she was working on Hawaiian royalty, which was great. Then she showed me that no one was working on the Kalaupapa records, and when I looked at that, the tears started coming down my face: I was born and raised on Molokai, and I remember Kalaupapa, and how those who had leprosy were brought in. Of course, that was in the 1950s.

I can’t be happier with my responsibility — to prepare the Kalaupapa records so that they can be accessible to families for temple work. When I first started, they didn’t know how many records they had.

Then Brother and Sister Arima came to visit, and they were looking for
[Sister] Gladys Kalama, my former roommate who has since gone home. They asked me, “What are you doing?” And I told them I had just barely started. They said, “Do you know that we worked on the Kalaupapa records for two years?”

President Hawkins, who was the mission president [in Hawaii], called me and told me he had assigned them to do the records from Kalaupapa, and they had worked on them until their mission ended. I said, where are the records? “We just kept them in a safe in Honolulu, because we didn’t know what to do with them,” he said.

I went in and got Barbara, and told her, these people had worked on the Kalaupapa records; and so we coordinated with them, and now we have over 20,000 names — those who died there of leprosy, and family members. They had gathered the information, and now we’re cleaning that up so those names can be accessible online [through FamilySearch.org].

I see these names as I’m going down these records that include the records of the LDS Church: I saw Joseph F. Smith’s name. I saw David Hannemann’s name. He was a missionary on Molokai [about 1950]. He went down to Kalaupapa along with Stanley Smoot. I’m looking at who conducted the meetings, including Jack Sing — the branch president, and the mission president. My heart just melted to see the names of these faithful people, in spite of the challenges. They were so spiritually determined, that there’s no question these people are waiting.

I can’t think of a better assignment for me, even though I’m sitting at a computer all day. If you had told me that I was going to spend my mission sitting at a computer, I think I would have said I’m more of a people-person; but I love it. My heart and soul is in it.

I’m grateful to be doing this, and I’m thinking: This is what the Lord wants me to be doing, first and foremost. After this, I’m going to do another mission; and if I don’t finish this project in another year from now, I’m going to extend my mission. I’ll stay here until I’m finished.

It’s always been my dream to come on a mission, in spite of health challenges, and I can’t explain how much I love it. It’s even beyond what I expected, and my heart is so full because whatever your mission is, there’s a purpose; and when you understand that purpose, and have a testimony of it, it becomes a tremendous blessing and joy in your life.

Sister Baker explained that her first “companion,” Sister Gladys Kalama, extended her mission twice. She added that they lived in a nice two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment on the seventh floor of a building just a block or two away — where she still stays, “with a beautiful view just five minutes away, and I don’t need a car. The temple’s right across the street, and I go to church at the missionary branch in the [nearby] Joseph Smith building. I love it.”

Sister Baker also said family members visit her occasionally — “my brother Mel and his wife have been here twice already” — and she did not mind the winter weather: “It energized me, and so far summer has been very pleasant.”

She explained she starts every morning, Monday through Friday, at 7:30 with a prayer meeting or a devotional once a week, “and by 8 o’clock we’re at our assignments. That’s when the library opens. I finish at 4 o’clock, but other missionaries come in later, because the library’s open until 9 p.m. For lunch I usually go back to my apartment, but once a week I usually eat at the large cafeteria underneath the Church Office Building. That’s where most people go.”

Before we concluded our visit with Sister Baker, she asked to share one more message:

“Many times we think of missionaries as young single people — especially young men and some young women going out to serve; but today, the need for senior missionary couples and single sisters is great. Right now we have about 400 missionaries in the Family History Center, but we can have up to 800, so we’re praying for more. The need for senior missionaries is far greater than I ever imagined. I didn’t realize that when I first came, but I’ve learned it since I’ve been here.”

Sister Baker in the Polynesian section of the Latter-day Saint
Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah

www.youtube.com/watch?v=iE6o9xKChmE

(If you do not see a YouTube video window above, go to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iE6o9xKChmE)

Bryce Canyon National Park in southern Utah is a great place to visit — or revisit, in our case: I first went there as a kid with my parents in the 1950s. Then, when Sally and I were on our honeymoon 40 years ago, we stopped there briefly to give the island girl her first hands-on experience with snow; and later we took some of our kids there . . . so going back recently felt very familiar.

First, some ancient history: My dad loved to travel, and practically every summer my parents, older sister and older brother and I would go somewhere on vacation. Some years we’d go quite far: Once, for example, we went to Banff National Park, Vancouver and Victoria in Canada. Other years when my dad didn’t have as much time or resources, we’d stay closer to home.

Because my newlywed parents had loved living in Los Angeles back in the day, where my mom’s siblings also lived and mine were born, that was a frequent destination. Sometimes we’d all go in the family car, and I can still recall in those days there was no speed limit outside of cities in Nevada, drivers would carry canvas water bags slung over their front bumpers in case radiators overheated, and some people would wait until nighttime before driving across the Mojave Desert.

I can also remember riding the Union Pacific’s City of Los Angeles railroad liner from Salt Lake City to Los Angeles in, I think, 1956. My uncle, Wayland Hand — a professor of American folklore at UCLA, met us at the train station near downtown L.A. and shepherded us around, including a daytrip out to the one-year-old Disneyland in Anaheim…which otherwise, still had plenty of orange trees and strawberry patches.

Another time — I think my dad and brother had gone on his Matchless motorcycle to visit family in Nebraska, my mom, sister and I took a Greyhound bus and stayed with my Aunt “Ted” (Theodora Hand Smith), a Registered Nurse who lived in a small trailer house a few blocks from the Santa Monica pier. This was in the days when customers had to pay a nickel or a dime to unlock toilet stalls at the rest stops. In addition to playing on Muscle Beach, we also took a day-trip on the ferry to Catalina.

So, one of those childhood summers when a Kennecott Copper Mine strike seriously impacted my dad’s work, we decided to vacation at Bryce Canyon — normally an easy day’s drive from Salt Lake City. But we got a late start, and ended up camping in a field in Manti, with the lighted Manti Temple appearing as a beacon on a hill out of the darkness.

Bryce Canyon, simply unforgettable: The next day we experienced our first good impression of our destination in the aptly named, deep-hued Red Rock Canyon, which is located a few miles before the entrance to Bryce. We stopped to pose for a black-and-white picture by one of the impressive tunnels carved through the rocks. Unfortunately, my mom put her purse on a fender of our ’52 Pontiac, and forgot to retrieve it before we drove on. [Our daughter, Sina, and grandson, Jordan, are pictured at right near the same spot.]

By the time she remembered and we returned, we couldn’t find it, which put a damper on some aspects of the trip. (Although weeks later a kind lady from Texas who did sent it to her in the mail.)

The colors and shapes of Bryce were vivid then…and now — particularly the hoodoos, of which I’ll comment on below. Over 1.3 million people a year are still drawn to this beautiful site each year— many of them from Europe, many of them on bus tours that include all the major canyonland national parks in the region.

One of the most obvious changes before peering into the painted canyon is Bryce Canyon City, which has grown up around the old Ruby’s Inn and now includes all kinds of amenities, including the requisite RV park, lots of gift shops, a cowboy dinner theater, even a cemetery and a teepee campground — all apparently owned by the Syrret family, who somewhat similar to Jacob’s Lake Inn near the North Rim of Grand Canyon started Ruby’s Inn several generations ago. Contrary to what most might think, the Ruby in this case was not a woman but the nickname of Reuben Syrret, one of the founders.

While we have previously stayed at Ruby’s Inn, this time we were graciously ensconced across the road in the very upscale, year-old Bryce Canyon Grand Hotel, which features a very fine buffet breakfast as part of the package.

The great natural beauty of Bryce lies a few miles down the road…and, once again, there are simply not enough adjectives to describe the colorful majesty of this natural wonder. What’s particularly nice about Bryce is its easy access: One can practically drive right to the edge of the canyon, and then walk along the rim for miles, with the views changing at every turn.

How hoodoos: Sean Duffy, a 25-year National Park Service ranger who’s been at Bryce for the past three summers, stood at the rim and explained that the name hoodoo, generically given to the many stone spires in the canyon, “is similar to the Caribbean word voodoo, and it’s completely appropriate because a [Native American] Paiute story says that these were once people who were changed into stone by coyotes. Hoodoo, like its cousin voodoo, means to change or to cast a spell.”

Duffy added that “three ingredients” created Bryce Canyon: “You need different kinds of layers of rocks — sandstone and limestone, that make up the hoodoos; and very soft mudstones and shales mixed up between them. You also need an earthquake; we’re right at the edge of a fault. And the last ingredient: You have to be at the right elevation. We have 200 freeze-thaw days a year here, so moisture gets into the cracks created by the earthquakes, and when it freezes it expands, and slowly breaks and cracks the rocks apart.”

“When you look down to the lower amphitheater, you won’t see that many hoodoos down there, because it’s warmer there most of the time. When you look at the same layer of rock across the valley, which is elevated over 10,000 feet, it’s frozen most of the time; so we’re in the middle here, in what I like to call the ‘goldilocks’ zone. It’s that combination that creates all these fun shapes.”

Pronghorns galore: After following the rim trail and exulting over the wonders of the canyon, we headed out later that afternoon in hopes of seeing deer. During our most recent, previous visit to Bryce Canyon we saw dozens of mule deer come at of the pine trees near dusk and calmly graze in the surrounding meadows.

Strangely, we only saw three deer this time. Also earlier in the day one of my most prized memories of Bryce Canyon was watching the antics of hundreds of “chipmunks,” which I believe are actually some kind of ground squirrel. They’re still here, but are now only seen occasionally, one or two at a time. The National Park Service has posted signs everywhere saying people who feed these cute little creatures can be fined up to $100. The law is apparently necessary so chipmunks won’t become dependent on tourist junk food instead of foraging for the regular fare they need to store in their burrows to get them through the brutal winters.

So, while somewhat disappointed with the turnout of chipmunks and deer, what are popularly called pronghorn antelope — although I now know these creatures are actually not antelope — more than made up the balance of wildlife wonders for us. They were everywhere, and so complacent in the proximity of tourists that everyone was getting good, close-up pictures, at least I did. As in other national parks, seeing lines of cars stopped by the side of the road was a tip-off that antelopes were grazing. They added a whole new dimension to our enjoyment.

Some of the many pronghorn antelope we saw at Bryce Canyon
and other locations in Colorado, Wyoming and Montana.

Hope to come again: When we continued our journey the next morning, I couldn’t help but think that Bryce Canyon is a very special place, and coming back here again felt so good that I hope to come again some day. If you’ve been before, you’re probably like me; and if you’ve never been, you must see it someday. The pictures only do it partial justice.

— Story and photos by Mike Foley

Rich, pictured at left, holds up a blanket he bought several years ago from a near-80-year-old Navaho woman who asked him not to sell it until her second granddaughter graduates from high school in a year or two while wearing it.

The Navaho word hohzha is often translated as “beauty…but probably a better translation is harmony,” Rich said, noting that Native American Navaho prize harmony with their Southwestern surroundings and cosmology. For example, he said, “traditional Navaho are very custom-bound. They never use wood from a lightning-struck tree, and it’s really critical to show proper respect to water, coyotes and snakes. Not everybody believes, but it’s surprising how it affects every aspect of Navaho life today.”

Traditional Navahos, he continued, use over 100 healing ceremonies, also called “ways” or “sings,” to restore harmony, because “they believe spiritual disharmony will have physical manifestations. Some of these sings involve “dry paintings,” also sometimes called “sand paintings,” even though Navaho shamans “use much more than sand to open the door to harmony.” Then, after the ceremonies, the “painting” materials are scattered.

Using samples from his own collection and the gift shop at Jacob Lake Inn, Rich told how starting with the Spanish sheep, the Navahos began developing a distinctive weaving style that uses a vertical loom with a single, continuous warp thread — compared with most other styles which use a horizontal loom. Rich explained this means a Navaho weaver must have the finished design completely in mind before starting to weaver, otherwise the whole thing must be undone to make revisions.

With the establishments of the Navaho Reservation and trading posts, some of the licensed traders began insisting that Navaho weavers use distinctive colors. For example, Rich said that in 1878 Don Lorenzo Hubbell — probably the most famous of the traders — “started the idea that Navaho rugs needed red with black, white and gray patterns. Hubbell shipped wagonloads of these to the Fred Harvey Trading Company in Gallup, New Mexico,” where they sold briskly and were even listed in catalogs. “Other trading posts started developing their own styles,” Rich added.

“When the railroad reached Gallup in 1889, products began arriving from around the world, including ready-made threads and $3 woolen blankets from Pendleton, Oregon. Navaho weaving took another: Hand-spun weaving has practically disappeared since then,” said Rich, adding that the traditional designs and color schemes have also changed dramatically.

“In 1967 Philomena Yazee came up with a pastel vegetable dye and a diamond pattern…that quickly sold, because it was beautiful,” he continued. “That’s when things started to change. Weavers started adding some innovations.” Those included:

• Mixing design elements from various parts of the reservation, whereas Navaho rug designs were previously associated with a particular location.
• Churro wool started coming back about 1970; it turns out not all of the Spanish-descended sheep were destroyed during the 1860 wars.
• Artistry began ascending over craft.
• Weavers also started a pictorial style — painting directly onto the rugs.

However, Rich said these innovations have also coincided with a decreasing number of artists. He estimates about 10 percent of the remaining artists drop out or die off each year.

“Everyone involved with Navaho weaving is very concerned with its future,” said Rich. He added that the best thing he can do is encourage the remaining weavers by providing a market for their creations. “I buy practically everything I see,” he said, telling us about a woman and a son — about five percent of the weavers are male — who came into Jacob Lake, each with a Navaho rug to sell.

Frankly, Rich said, the boy’s rug wasn’t very good, and he was initially inclined to pay only $30 for it, but he knew this would discourage the boy. He asked the mother how much he would need to keep weaving, and they agreed on a price of $100.

Today in the Jacob Lake Inn gift shop some of the most impressive Navaho rugs carry price tags that end in three zeros; and some of the real Navaho rug treasures can cost many times more. For example, Rich said the Navaho blanked given to Kit Carson in the 1860s is worth more than $3 million today.

Rich and his daughter demonstrate some of the differences
in modern Navaho rugs

Asked how you tell a good Navaho rug, Rich replied, “When you open it up and everybody goes ‘wow.’ More and more in the future we’re going to have to think of Navaho weaving as an art form.”

“In the end, it comes down to creating something beautiful, which means hozho — something harmonious.”

— Story and photos by Mike Foley

www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-R1TzA9hdw

(If you do not see a video window above, go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-R1TzA9hdw)

On the north rim of Grand Canyon

My wife and I, along with several family members, recently drove from Las Vegas to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon in northern Arizona. For me, it was the first time in over 45 years I have been there, and in some ways it was a bit of a pilgrimage.

But first, please note the canyon itself quickly bankrupts any decent writer of adjectives: It is spectacular, awesome, inspiring . . . on and on. Those of you who have been there know what I’m talking about. The rest of you simply have to see it for yourself, then struggle to share its majesty with others.

Getting there: From Vegas, we drove on Interstate-15 through another magnificent canyon, albeit one that’s much smaller — the Virgin River Gorge — en route to St. George, Utah. If you never make it to the Grand Canyon, the Virgin River Gorge gives all passengers a worthy introduction to the erosive power of tectonic shifts and flowing water over geologic eons on clearly visible, brilliantly colored strata [with a side-bar thanks to my geology 101 prof of so many years ago].

We stopped briefly at Costco in St. George to stock up our cooler — and watch as well the large numbers of senior retirees who were eating lunch there, plus a couple of FLDS women in their distinctive wardrobe from nearby Colorado City. St. George is normally just as hot as Las Vegas, so we didn’t mind heading up the I-15 a few minutes later, taking Exit 16 to Hurricane, which local folks pronounce something like HER-uh-kin. The junction there with UT-59 became the first of many two-lane highways throughout the Southwest that pass along the most beautiful red-rock country in the world… Or perhaps, because we live in a place famed for its own natural beauty, it’s just that the starkly compelling canyonlands are so different from our own familiar surroundings that they seem so appealing.

Long ago I made the decision that Hawaii would be my home, but having grown up in Salt Lake City and spent time as a boy in southern Utah’s canyonlands [while there is a Canyonlands National Park in southern Utah, my use of the lowercase 'c' here indicates the natural wonders of the entire region], the multi-hued mesas and rock formations strike a familiar chord of wonder (as in wonderful) in my heart.

Another side-note here: While we have our own slow drivers on Oahu’s winding Kamehameha Highway, I had pretty much forgotten how much humbug it is to get behind slow-moving trucks and RVs [recreational vehicles], some nearly as big as their 18-wheeler cousins. Sometimes it can take miles before being able to pass.

Soon enough, however, we passed through the little town of Fredonia, Arizona, and started our climb up the Kaibab Plateau — the name a Southern Paiute word aptly meaning “mountain lying down.” Pretty little wildflowers lined the road, with juniper pines at the lower level, giving way to ponderosa or lodgepole pines and quaking aspen at the higher elevations.

A little over half-way up we stopped at an overlook, where Sally purchased some handicrafts from a Navaho woman, and I became much more aware of another aspect of canyonlands that, frankly, I had forgotten: I found myself occasionally gasping for air, as the elevation at the top ranges up to 9,000 feet above sea level…while the mean elevation of my adopted home town of Laie, Oahu, is the single-digit 2. I’m not sure how long these respiratory shortcomings last, but as I write this a week after our North Rim adventure, I’m still in high-country ranging from 4,000–9,000 feet…and still gasping occasionally.

Jacob Lake: We decided to stay at Jacob Lake Inn, a colorful compound that’s 7,925 feet above sea level and still about 55 miles away from the North Rim, For us, it was a good decision: We booked a quaint little cabin that slept our party of five. Pine trees came right up to the back wall, and from a little deck we watched four buzzards come and go from one of them not 50 yards away. There were also squirrels, darting finches, and crows. In fact, I got a chuckle out of two finches chasing away one of the crows, cawing in protest but fleeing nonetheless.

The Kaibab Forest right outside our cabin

On the other side of the Inn property, the U.S. Forest Service has established a National Natural squirrel reserve. It seems a little surreal, until you see one of the seemingly tame creatures scurrying around.

As evening descends and traffic on US-89 drops to almost nothing, the wind shushes through the pines. In a word, it is western beautiful; but it’s also important to remember at such an elevation that it can be quite cool at night, even in June, and down-right snowy in the winter months.

Jacob Lake Inn’s dining room has a well-deserved reputation: The food is excellent, and our group thoroughly enjoyed breakfast. So did a couple of the ubiquitous bikers who were waiting for the restaurant to open that morning:

Sam and Lance are gold mining engineers from Elko, Nevada (although Sam’s on leave from his work in Africa), on a 10-day cruise through the region to Taos, New Mexico, on their Kawasaki KLR650 dual-sport bikes.

“It’s a good break from Tanzania,” said Sam. “It was over 100 [degrees] yesterday over in Zion [National Park], and then we got up over here yesterday afternoon, and the temperature was in the 70s.”

Lance, a semi-retired mechanical engineer, spends “as much time as possible exploring. I’ve been down in this canyonlands area quite a few times. It’s wonderful for a bike. There’s not too much traffic, and good camping places.”

Lance also explained when hundred-degree temperatures hit bikers, “you’ve got to protect yourself from dehydration. I throw on lots of sunscreen, and I take a hand towel with a couple of snaps in it: I soak it in water and wrap it around my neck. It does an amazingly good job: You don’t really stay cool, but you feel cool.”

He added that they usually stop every couple of hours, or every 200–250 miles for gas. “This whole area is a real oasis,” he said. “It’s well worth coming here.”

The North Rim: Having arrived at the Jacob Lake junction with US 89A, the turn-off still stretches approximately 45 miles before reaching the North Rim. Of course, we went through the usual National Park Service admission booth, but there took advantage of one of the truly great bargains for senior citizens (62-and-up) — a $10 lifetime America the Beautiful pass good for almost all national parks and related places in the U.S. For example, we used the card efficiently at Bryce Canyon National Park and Devil’s Tower National Monument; we just had to present a picture ID with the pass.

Otherwise, admission rates vary by location, and run as high as $25 a car in some national parks. We were to later find an annoying wrinkle on this arrangement at Mt. Rushmore National Memorial, where nobody needs a pass but a vendor charges you a $10 parking fee per car. Oh well… I will add that there is actually a covered parking garage at Mt. Rushmore. And, of course, the national pass doesn’t work at state parks, some of which charge their own admission fees.

The drive to the rim is simply beautiful and, closer to dusk or dawn, people are likely to see deer and pronghorn antelope in the many roadside meadows. Technically, pronghorns are not antelopes, but that’s what we always called them. We also saw a few miles of blackened ponderosa pines and aspens spiking into the sky, their branches and leaves burned away in some previous forest fire; but the abundance of many more miles of natural beauty quickly lifted our spirits again.

It wasn’t until we had almost arrived at the Grand Canyon Lodge that we got our first glimpse of the red-rock walls peeking through the trees. We quickly found a parking spot — one of the advantages of the North Rim, where far fewer people visit than on the South Rim side. A rim trail runs for miles and provides spectacular views at every turn.

We chose the short half-mile turnoff to Bright Angel Point, dropping down the canyon wall a few hundred feet on a paved path along the spine of a promontory. There are few safety barriers, giving most parents with small kids conniptions… but the view at the end was truly magnificent, and worth the effort (I’ve already mentioned the gasping; it took me a bit of that to get back up to the rim).

The pilgrimage: Bright Angel Point was the perfect place for me to tell my grandson, Jordan Cordes, about my experience almost 50 years ago when three friends from Bonneville Ward and I drove down from Salt Lake City one afternoon. I’m not sure why they took me, as I was two years younger than them — a big gap at that age — but they were great young men who each on to become a medical doctor.

By the time we finally reached the totally dark Kaibab forest, we pulled off the road and slept in our sleeping bags. The next morning we drove on to the North Rim, where we met a few friends who were working at the lodge. They directed us to the Bright Angel trail — the same one used by the famous mule tour — where we proceeded to hike along the switchbacks more than 4,000 feet to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. It was hot and dusty, and the mules had the right-of-way when we encountered them.

The good news is Bright Angel Springs, which pour sweet-water out of the canyon wall near the bottom and form a stream along the rest of the trail for the next 15 miles to the Phantom Ranch guest accommodations and the Colorado River. We needed that stream badly, as the temperatures that day reportedly hit almost 120 degrees on the canyon floor.

Although we again camped in a sandy area by the Colorado River, the guest accommodations at Phantom Ranch in those days included a swimming pool fed by Bright Angel Creek, but by the time we hopped in our muscles had cooled, and at least one of us got a major case of cramps in the cool water.

The next morning we got up early and did it in reverse, the last 5,000 feet up the wall of the canyon, of course, being the hardest.

Many people will tell you they’ve hiked to the bottom of Grand Canyon, but most of them do it from the South Rim, where the beginning elevation at about 6,000 feet is 2,000 lower than the North Rim; also, the six-mile trail to the river is less demanding and not even half the length of its Bright Angel counterpart.

Hiking there those two days, all those years ago, was an unforgettable experience for me…as was returning to the North Rim in June 2010 for the first time since that youthful adventure.

Aloha from the North Rim, Grand Canyon

I wish I could have walked back up from the Bright Angel overlook as strongly as I did from the bottom of the canyon years ago; but I’m thrilled to be back in this absolutely beautiful country — so different from my adopted home for the past 45 years.

— Story and photos by Mike Foley

I first became aware of cockroaches when I was in elementary school in Salt Lake City, Utah, and we learned to do the Mexican hat dance to the music of La Cucaracha for a May Day program. Since then,  and even though I now know they are found in many places throughout the world, I don’t remember actually seeing one until I moved to warm, tropical Samoa as a Mormon missionary in 1965.

SIDEBAR: The Samoan word for cockroach is mogamoga, while the word for Mormon is Mamona; and since colloquial Samoan often switches the sounds associated with the letters ‘n’ and ‘g’ — or mona vs. moga can be pronounced the same way – cheeky people would sometimes derisively call us mamoga.

I saw way too many mogamoga back in the day, but since moving from Samoa to perennially semi-tropical Hawaii, I’ve also spent too much effort trying to keep away from the creepy crawlers. For some enigmatic reason, I thought some of you might be interested in a few of my more insightful cockroach tales, and perhaps even add a few of your own in the comments window below:

• Cockroaches come out any time, anywhere, but they particularly like the dark . . . so there’s nothing quite like coming into a room at night, turning on the lights, and seeing all the critters scurry.

• By far the most creepy cockroach experience I ever had occurred one night in a small Samoan fale (house) in Fitiuta, Manu’a: My missionary companion and I were praying one night with Ieti and Lolini Te’o . . . when it seemed like hundreds and hundreds of cockroaches chose just that moment to swarm on the floor right in front of us. That’s right, cockroaches occasionally swarm, and I can tell you that to see a seething ball of them about 10-inches in diameter was totally gross. Supposedly we had our eyes closed, but we could hear them skittering across the mats, so soon enough we all saw what was happening. If I recall correctly, Ieti threw a rubber slipper (se’evae toso and they dispersed as quickly as they swarmed. Aue!

• There are these big three-inchers that can FLY! and ever since the 60s in Hawaii we’ve called them B-52s, after the huge Air Force bomber planes. Their extra mobility lends a whole new dimension to cockroach revulsion: For example, one day when we were living in the Kapahulu section of Honolulu (on the slopes of Diamond Head and close to Waikiki), one flew right into my wife’s hair . . . and she FREAKED! while it struggled to get away, its spiny legs getting hung up in the strands.

• Another night in the same house — which, in retrospect, was relatively infested — I could hear the chittenous sounds of a B-52 flying around in the kitchen. Turned out there were two of them, having fun, going round and around. As I was smacking at them with my “rubbah slippa,” as we say in Hawaii, one flew right into my cheek: Eeeuuuw! So creepy — and itchy.

• The roaches really seemed to love this one kitchen chair in that house, which I knew was always good for catching a couple at night when I flipped on the lights: It took me quite a while to figure out that they were living inside the cardboard covering under the seat, which I totally blasted with bug spray from then on.

Similarly, roaches love to lay their eggs on the bottom of drawers and/or other hard-to-reach places. In fact, it was always a little discouraging to find one of the old cracked-open egg containers ‘cuz that meant another 30-or-more critters were now wandering around our house.

• Another time I was trying to smash one with my slipper — they can be very fast and sense the air pressure build up as a pounding approaches, when I missed . . . but my hand kept going, and I sprained my wrist: I think I told everyone the next day why I was wearing a wrist brace that I hurt it playing tennis, or something a little more dignified than the cockroach won.

• Speaking of itchy, it turns out that cockroaches can be a major source of allergies: For one thing, their doo-doo eventually turns into dust that can be inhaled, which in turn exacerbates allergy symptoms and even asthma.

Then, of course, they eat anything and everything, and walk everywhere you can imagine, especially if it’s moist, dark and dirty . . . so they’re also tracking around a lot of extra mess. For example, one of the things they love to eat is the glue in books and envelopes, so we’ve found one’s got to be real careful in opening a box of old texts and stuff like that.

• Our Kapahulu neighborhood, in general, was broadly infested: For example, the roaches seemed to love the mango trees there. On a warm night you could see them strolling along the sidewalks, and often crawling all over our cars. Dozens of them seemed to particularly like crawling on top of our humble Toyota station wagon. Ah, those were the days.

• Of course, eventually the critters would work their way inside cars — especially if you would eat in them — and who didn’t. So, we actually ended up putting “roach motels” in our car, as did many other people:

For the uninitiated, those are cardboard traps with a small, porous bag of cockroach goodies glued in the middle of the very sticky bottom. Apparently the smell — which reminded me of rotten fish guts, but you had to put your nose somewhat close to catch the bouquet, so they were almost worse than cockroaches — lured the roaches to “check in,” and the glue kept them from “checking out,” as one marketing campaign for the product went at the time. One of the Freddy Kruger movies used this bit rather graphically, but I digress. I will admit it was particularly gross to pick up a roach motel the next morning that had attracted a “full house,” so to speak.

• One familiar place that had quite a cockroach problem in those days was the Polynesian Cultural Center’s Waikiki sales and marketing office, where I worked, which back then was located in the Bank of Hawaii building on Kalakaua Avenue in the heart of Waikiki. That place was so infested: When I would go back to work at night sometimes (remember, I lived in nearby Kapahulu), I always had to wait a few moments after turning on the lights so they would all run and hide . . . and then carry a can of kill-spray for when they got brave again, despite the light.

• Often, of course, they would come out in the daylight. For example, one day I was talking to two gentlemen from Brazil about possibly doing a promo tour to Rio . . . when I noticed a half-incher crawling over the one guy’s shoulder. I was mortified, and wasn’t quite clear on whether to reach over and brush it away, or warn him. Fortunately, the roach reversed itself, and I don’t think the guy ever knew.

• Or there was the time a bunch of the PCC sales and marketing people went to a Thai restaurant on Kuhio Avenue in Waikiki, and one Tongan guy reached the bottom of his food, there was a half-incher drowned in the sauce. OOPS! Of course, we all laughed, but wondered if he was the only one who had something extra hiding in his kaukau.

• Another time I had gone to Kauai to write a freelance story, and did a drive-through in my rental car for lunch. When I opened the bag of food, about a half-dozen hungry roaches that thought it was Big Mac time for them, too, aggressively crawled out from their hiding places. Eeeeuuuuw!

Well, I could go on but, frankly, I’m making myself a little squeamish . . . and even though cockroaches have supposedly been around since the age of dinosaurs, and are reputed to be able to withstand atomic blasts, please know that we continuously put up the good fight against them — cleaning, cleaning, and more cleaning, as well as sealing stuff in containers they can’t get into gives us a little sense of security. Also, we found when we fumigated our house a few years ago (for termites, which with their annual swarms this time of year are another story in Hawaii) seemed to wipe them out for the longest time.

But they’re creeping back . . . and in the meantime, we always keep a slipper handy!

[Please submit your own cockroach stories.]

www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZgnMcApeSY

Over the 40-plus years I’ve been associated on-and-off with the Polynesian Cultural Center in Laie, Hawaii, others and I have said many times that a remarkable amount of such traditional cultural practices take place here, or can take place, that is way beyond the understanding of the average tourist who spends an afternoon and evening.

They have a good time, too, but I’m talking about deeply significant ceremonies and events that people from the Center and surrounding communities have put on over the years — both on the grounds and other places — such as respectfully greeting the King of Tonga and other royals from there, staging a royal kava ceremony for the head of state of Samoa, properly welcoming the prime minister of Fiji, greeting traveling Maori groups from New Zealand on our marae, presenting island gifts to presidents of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and filling requests to share appropriate Polynesian protocol for various ceremonies including the inauguration of the governor of Hawaii. These are just a few of many such instances.

In terms of Polynesian ceremony, this Fijian one only lasted a few minutes…whereas I’ve been to functions at the PCC and in the South Pacific that went on for hours, indeed even for days in some cases. Depending on the situation, these were sometimes set off with kava ceremonies, speeches, feasting and lavish gift giving.

In this case, the Kahuku High program soon went on, but I’m grateful for my own measure of understanding into the significance of such things…and the years I’ve been here to enjoy and appreciate them.

— Video and photo by Mike Foley