Rendezvous

We have a new treasure.  We visited a Mountain Man Rendezvous, seven miles north of Veyo, Utah, this weekend, and we brought home a coyote hat.  It looks just like the one worn by the tough mountain man in "True Grit," and it was made by a guy with a contract with the highway department to scoop up road kill.  "We get all sorts of furry things made from road kill to sell," the shopowner said, "but you pay more for this one one because it has all the parts--even four legs."  After we agreed to buy the hat Dave is wearing above, the shopowner generously suggested, "Here's your Christmas card picture.  Both of you, put on hats and let my husband snap the camera."  So there you are.  Road kill hats for our holiday card. 

This was a great weekend.  When we first scanned The St. George Spectrum, looking for things to do, it wasn't promising.  Dave couldn't get excited about a tour of 10 St. George gardens or about a discount on eight hours of yoga classes at Red Canyon Spa, and I was disappointed that the Martina McBride concert at Tuacahn was sold out (I'd never heard of her, quite frankly, but she was an Emmy award winner and it was the biggest thing going on in St. George this Saturday).  Digging a little deeper, we found a national Mustang car show and a crafts market at Tuacahn, a Mountain Man Rendezvous up the road past Veyo, and a specialty pie shop, as well!

I love crafts shows.  This one reflected the Southern Utah fascination with rocks and gems, Mormon needlework, and a tough rebel element I would not have expected.  We paused first at the shop of a jeweler specializing in stones quarried in the West.  "Coral Canyon? Here's a stone from just down the road," he said.  Dad and I chose a sandstone pendant with bright red and brown stripes.

The Mormon needlework included a quilt shop, a shop selling prom dresses for Barbie dolls, and a crochet shop.  The whole family relaxed in the crochet shop--Mama, Dad, two dogs, a two-year-old, and a twelve-day-old baby.  Hand-crocheted baby blankets sold for $30, as the husband explained, "My wife makes those in ten minutes flat." I couldn't resist a white baby blanket with all the letters of the alphabet crocheted across the front. Now I just have to find a baby.  I was also tempted by a hand-crocheted nativity set.  The maker explained, "You don't have to keep the little kids away from it.  They can squeeze it, bang it, drop it, drool all over it."  That definitely has advantages over Grandma Calder's Hummel nativity set.

St. George has at least a few free spirits.  One shopowner sold huge jagged knives and cleavers used for (what?) cutting up deer or people.  The shopowner wore a "Sons of Anarchy" t-shirt.  Another shop sold hoodies emblazoned with peace signs from the 60s. 

Dave and I wandered through the display of dozens of Mustangs.  We peeked into the engines of a couple of them, and noted how full of equipment the newer Mustangs were, compared with the very old ones. Even the innards of cars are getting more complicated these days.

We drove north, through Snow Canyon, and enjoyed the gorgeous red rock and bright spring flowers.

The Mountain Man Rendezvous was a delight.  We talked with the "traders" about why regular guys dress up in buckskin and fur and mosey from one weekend rendezvous to another, all over the Western states.  "We just want to get out of our city clothes and routines and live simply for a while," one trader said.  "In the evening, after the visitors go home, we sit around the campfire and sing and tell stories.  I won't lie--there's also some home brew that gets passed around."  There were teepees and rustic mountain man camps, flying the Stars and Stripes with just 13 stars.

"Is that a beaver hat?" I asked this man.  "I wish," he said.  "Real beaver hats cost $170.  Back in the early 1800s, they were made from the underfur of beavers from the West, which made a hat that was waterproof, just like a beaver." 

Guns, leggings, trade beads, furs--those were the elements for mountain man outfits, but everyone looked different, and enjoyed those differences. 

We wandered through shops selling furs, buckshot, and beads.

I bought a felt hat to keep the sun off and give me a bit of a mountain man look.

We stopped at a shop selling Hudson Bay blankets, like the one I brought home from Grandma Calder's house.  The shop owner told us about the National Primitive Rendezvous in Wyoming in July, where no one is admitted except in period dress.  I urged Dave to drive up for the weekend.

And, of course, we bought our own hat from a shop selling not only coyote hats, but drop-shouldered men's shirts and fringed leather jackets.

Next stop was Veyo for pie.  Dave had rhubarb, his favorite.  We talked about how fun it would be to show some of the grandkids Grandpa Cliff's monument at the Pine Valley Chapel, down the road, and then stop for pie on our way home.

We drove to Springdale, near Zions Park, to try a new restaurant.  We window-shopped at the rock stores, looking for the perfect slab of raw amethysts, some geodes, or dinosaur teeth.  We then ate salmon and trout at the Spotted Dog, as we looked out the window, past an orchid plant, to red rock cliffs.  The Italian lemon cream torte was delicious. 

This was a special weekend in another way.  It was the third anniversary of the deaths of Grandpa Cliff and Grandma Rose.  On our way home, we stopped at Wasatch cemetery and placed flowers on their graves.

Doing Vegas with Bernie and Elinor

"I reminded Sandy that Camille was her first friend," Elinor Engelhard told me as we chatted together about old times.  "Maybe they don't remember each other, but they were still first friends."  Dave and I settled into the couches of the Las Vegas Hotel (formerly the Hilton) on April 21, 2012, for two hours of non-stop "catching up" with our old friends, Bernie and Elinor Engelhard.  The four of us searched our brains, but we were simply unable to remember when we had last seen each other.  It was another Vegas weekend, with dinner at The Red Door and a performance of Blue Man Group.  But when?  Five years?  Seven?  Not ten. 

We feel like we've been friends forever, and always will be.  Dave took over Bernie's spot as social worker at Davis Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson, Arizona, in 1973, when Lisa was 1 1/2 and Camille was just two months old.  Sandy was born in June and Camille in July, 1973.  The two of them crawled together in their terry cloth sleepers and toddled together with their first steps as the Engelhards and Spendloves hung out at Bernie and Elinor's rodeo parties and our home-cooked dinners.  We even went camping together on Mt. Graham, where Bernie rigged me up an outdoor shower because I couldn't face a night without a warm bath.  Elinor and I watched over Camille and Sandy, in the play pen, as Lisa rode around in the dirt on her plastic dog with wheels.

Elinor and Bernie are fun, gracious people who are upbeat, involved with their community, and love to explore the world.  Last month, Bernie emailed us that he was attending a psychology seminar in Vegas with his good friend, Tony, and invited us to join them.  As we talked, during our afternoon together, Bernie threw out a few restaurant suggestions and Elinor and I both voted for Emeril's, managed by (or at least named for) a celebrity chef from New Orleans.  The food was great, including lobster bisque, shrimp etoufee, and lime mousse with mandarin orange sauce. 

We then attended David Copperfield's magic show.  The most memorable trick was David seating 13 members of the audience in a wire cage at the front of the stage, swathing it with curtains and posting audience guards on all sides, then somehow transporting those 13 people to the back of the auditorium!

Sunday morning, before breakfast, Dave and I wandered the hotel, laughing about all of the kitsch in the stores--mugs, bags, t-shirts and books, all emblazoned with Las Vegas logos.  We were amazed at all the tight-fitting miniskirts at the magic show last night, and we ogled equally scandalous, transparent dresses in the boutique windows.  They were the types of dresses that would result in our granddaughter Sophia asking, "Do I wear anything under that?"

We spent another two hours at breakfast, savoring good conversation along with our oatmeal and eggs.  Then, it was time for last hugs and goodbyes, and an invitation for us to join Bernie and Elinor for camping in Colorado this summer.  We also hugged Tony, whom we had grown to like and admire.  He is a Viet Nam vet who is now a psychologist and leads groups of vets back to Viet Nam and Iraq to treat their post traumatic stress disorder.  He also owns a beautiful new vacation home near Pine Top, Arizona.  We explored Pine Top at a recent Spendlove family reunion.  We had lots to talk about together.

On our way home, the "back way," we drove through Alamo, NV, the Flindt family seat.  It now has an airport! 

We drove on for another 60+ miles, until I cried out to Dave to slam on the brakes and let me get a picture of this sign. If I ever start my own legal practice, my quarters may look just like these! Across the street was a colossal junk heap. 

One other picturesque stop was on the border of Nevada and Utah.  We had just passed a wind farm. Many trucks, each bearing one of the huge, high tech propelers, were parked together at a truck stop.  Inside, good old boys in baseball caps and Stetsons were watching sports on two overhead TVs, as slot machines glowed behind them.  It was a perfect contrast of new and old ways.

Dave grew up in the desert, and I inherited my love of it--my parents' hometowns of  Vernal, Utah, and Pima, Arizona, are dry, sparse towns.  We relished our drive home through low desert vistas and the high mountain desert of Mt. Wheeler.