Morning dawns clear and cold in Kanab,
Utah. Mike’s little place is surrounded
by native junipers and sage with lots of planted pine trees and a nice view of
the Kaibab Plateau to the southeast.
I’ve had my first cup of coffee while he is still asleep. I don’t know what we will do today as there are
some limitations. Roads and trails are
wet and muddy...and we are two old men somewhat physically diminished by time. But both of us have a passion for the canyon
country, and that keeps us going,
So does our passion for film noir cinema. Last night we watched This Gun For Hire,
the 1942 classic that made Alan Ladd a star and showed the world how sexy
Veronica Lake could be. We followed that
with an odd little film called The Stranger on the Third Floor, a nearly
forgotten B-film that is often considered to be the seminal noir movie. Made on a shoestring budget in 1940, and full
of German Expressionist shadows, flashbacks and a surreal dream sequence. All of this crammed into 64 minutes!
Yesterday while driving south on Highway 89, I
stopped in Junction, Utah to photograph a number of abandoned shacks and
houses. When it came time to turn around
and get back on to the main highway, I got the van righteously stuck in a sea
of mud in front of a clean, white house just off the pavement. When I realized I could not get out of the
mire, I went to the front door of said house, knocked on it, and asked the nice
lady who answered it if I could get some help somehow. She immediately went and got her husband,
Albert.
Albert was a typical, rural elderly male,
rather heavy set and taciturn but not unfriendly. He donned jacket, boots and ball cap and
brought his big pickup truck around to the front to see what we could do. He spent the next 20 minutes or so trying to
figure out how to attach a tow chain to the mostly plastic front end of the
van. Both of us wallowed in the mud, but
he took the brunt of it. When it seemed
we had no other recourse, he suggested putting an old tire against the back of
the van and pushing it with his truck.
So off he went to fetch the tire.
I stood by with my long
hair and muddy sandals, feeling somewhat foolish that I had gotten myself into
such a dilemma but he soon returned, tire in hand, and while I propped it up
against the rear of the van, Albert got back in his truck and brought it around
and somehow pushed my vehicle the several feet it needed to gain
purchase on the pavement. It was only
afterward that we introduced ourselves to each other and I thanked him profusely,
but he was a man of few words. Nevertheless, he had
unquestioningly helped a person in need, and in so doing, restored my faith in
humanity just a bit.
I quickly got back on to the main highway and
continued driving south, stopping only twice.
Once just north of Panguitch to photograph a group of pronghorns near
the side of the road. And again in
Circleville, to take pictures of a couple of old cabins on the edge of town.
I finally got to Mike’s place about 3:30pm where I could finally chill out, have a
cold gin and tonic, and relax with an old friend.
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