When I started to retrace my steps, I paused to study each figure and the surrounding details. Most of the images were of strange, humanoid creatures. Strange because most had no legs or arms. The bodies were shaped like long, narrow bottles—kind of like gigantic test tubes—with a head perched on the top. Others had—
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now.” Grandpère spoke behind me, making me jump. I had been so engrossed in the art, I hadn’t heard him come up behind me.
I turned around. “What?”
“Are you feeling anything here, Danni?”
I considered that for a second or two, focusing inward. “A sense of awe,” I finally said. “Even reverence. It’s amazing.”
That seemed to please him. “Maybe that’s why the Ancient Ones chose this place. It’s like painting a great cathedral, or the Sistine Chapel.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s it. It’s like it’s a temple.”
He smiled, then he moved off again.
As I continued on, I was intrigued by his question. Some of the humanlike figures looked strange, almost like aliens. Or mummies. That was actually a better word. They looked like mummies wrapped for burial. That would explain why they didn’t have any arms or feet.
I was surprised to realize that even looking at a bunch of mummies, I felt uplifted and inspired. It was so different than what I had felt yesterday when we spoke of Robbers Roost.
Moving on, my eyes flicked back and forth. There were strange-looking creatures. A few of the heads had eyes and mouths, but some faces were blank. Some heads had horns; others had rabbit-like ears. I even saw one creature that looked like it had an antenna sticking out of its head. Amused, I wondered if he was some early form of an iPod or MP3 player.
Scattered among these “humans” were various animals—snakes, birds, rabbits, small dogs, and what looked like antelope or mountain sheep. I laughed out loud at one drawing of three animal figures. Two looked like antelope with stick heads and long straight horns. The other looked like a goat, or maybe a sheep. But all the bodies were large and fat, way out of proportion to their heads and horns. They looked like round barrels with stick legs. But that wasn’t what made me laugh. Directly in front of the largest of the animals was one of the “bottle men,” only he was tiny, not even half as tall as the sheep. He was holding a bow with an arrow notched in the string, pointing it directly at the sheep’s head.
“Hey, little guy,” I murmured, “if you manage to kill that thing, just how do you plan to get it home to the wife and kids?” I took out my phone and snapped a picture of him. As I did so, a thought popped into my mind: They were people, just like you. But of course they were. Why then the odd thought?
I studied the little man, wondering if this was a self-portrait. And then I understood. He was no different than my dad—out trying to put food on the table for his family. And I bet he loved his wife, and played with his kids, and maybe sang them to sleep at night. Even though these ancient ones were thought to have lived two thousand years ago, they were very much like us.
Looking around, I saw Grandpère a few dozen feet away. I cupped my hand and called softly. “Grandpère?”
He immediately came over to me. Hearing me, Ricky came over too.
“Yes?” Grandpère said. “Do you have a question?”
“I do,” I said. “Why do you think the figures look so strange?”
“Perhaps they only look strange to us.”
“I think they look like aliens from outer space,” Ricky said.
“I think they look like mummies,” I said.
Grandpère was thoughtful. “Some people believe we’ve had aliens come to earth and that ancient people thought they were gods. Do you believe that?”
We both shook our heads. “No way,” Ricky said. “Too far out.”
“So why would they paint mummies on the walls, do you think?”
I had already asked myself that question. “Maybe this was an old burial ground.”
“In a riverbed? Not likely. Think about who the mummies represent more than what they represent.”
That drew a blank from both of us.
“Let me ask you another question. Each Memorial Day we put flowers on Grandmère’s grave—why do we do that?”
“To remember her,” I said.
“And why did we put a gravestone over where she’s buried?”
“So you know where she is,” Rick said.
I looked up again, a thought stirring. “So if these are mummies, then maybe they represent their ancestors. And this is their memorial to them.”
Very serious, Grandpère turned to face us. “Danni, when Grandmère died, do you remember what you said at the viewing, as you stood by her casket and looked at her body? You were nine at the time.”
“I said, ‘This isn’t Grandmère. Where did Grandmère go?’”
“And what did I say?”
“You said she went to heaven. So she could look down on us and watch over us.”
He looked up at the wall and the figures painted there. “Maybe these people also believed that the ones they loved didn’t really die either, that only their bodies did.”
Ricky’s mouth was a big O. “They painted them up here on the wall so they could look down on them too, right?”
Grandpère smiled, clearly pleased. “We don’t know for sure, but I like that idea.”
Chapter 6
We had lunch in the shade of the cliff, near where we would rejoin the path that led back to the truck. We found a place where the sand was soft and not too rocky. We talked a little about what we had seen and the feelings we had, but mostly we were content to sit together in the profound quiet of the canyon.
When we finished eating, Dad suggested we take a quick nap before we headed back. We cleaned up any trash we had dropped and stretched out.
I woke a half an hour later when Ricky sat up and stretched. I also sat up.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No apologies,” Dad said, sitting up as well. “It’s probably time we started back.” He looked at Grandpère. “Are you ready?”
Grandpère was already sitting up, and I couldn’t see any sand on his shirt. Had he even laid down? “Would we have time for one more thing?” he asked. Then he grinned. “Well, actually, two more things?”
“Of course,” Dad replied.
As Grandpère leaned forward, I was amazed at his energy and determination. If he was tired from a short night in a sleeping bag and three and a half miles of hiking, it didn’t show.
“I’d like to share another story with you, if I may.” He reached up and stroked his beard, as was his habit when he was thinking deeply. “This story happened in Bluejohn Canyon, which is only a few miles up canyon from where we are right now. It is the story of a man named Aron Ralston.”
I didn’t recognize the name, and moved closer to Grandpère.
“Aron Ralston was an avid outdoorsman, mountain climber, and mountain biker. Late in April, 2003, Aron came to Utah to do some mountain biking and desert rock climbing. The place he chose was Bluejohn Canyon, a very narrow slot canyon with several vertical drops.
“Sometimes we grow overconfident in our own abilities—especially when we are experienced and think we are wise—and we forget to use common sense. That’s what Aron did. He came alone. He brought only sufficient supplies for one day. And . . .” He paused, then finished softly. “And he did not tell anyone where he was going.
“He parked his truck at the Horseshoe Canyon trailhead—just as we did—and biked to the top of Bluejohn Canyon. His plan was to rappel down the canyon, hike back out to his truck, then drive around to the top of Bluejohn and retrieve his bike. Because he planned to be back that same night, he wore only a T-shirt, shorts, and hiking shoes. He had no jacket or extra clothing. In his backpack were two burritos, less than a quart of water, a small first-aid kit, a video and digital camera, and some rock climbing gear.”
Though I wondered why Grandpère had chosen this place and time to tell us this story, I was quickly becoming engrossed in his words.
“At first all went well, and Aron was exhilarated by the challenging climb. But about sixty feet from the bottom, he had to descend a narrow vertical shaft. As he worked his way down, he came to a place where rocks from above blocked the way. Known as chock blocks, one large one was nearly round and was tightly wedged between the narrow canyon walls. The only way to continue was to go over it.”
“I remember this story,” Dad murmured.
Grandpère nodded in acknowledgment and went on. “Using his climbing gear, he got on top of the rock, but as he was going down the other side, the boulder suddenly shifted under his weight, dropping another foot or two. As he threw out his right hand to catch himself, the boulder crashed down on his forearm and hand, not only crushing them instantly, but pinning him between the rock and the canyon wall.”
You know how sometimes when someone shows you a cut, or when someone tells you about a bad injury they had, you feel this sudden spurt of adrenaline and you feel sick to your stomach? Well, that was what I felt at that moment. I had to look away.
Grandpère continued in a low voice. “The pain was horrific, of course, and he nearly fainted from the shock. However, he managed to assess his situation and tried to free himself. He tried moving the boulder with his body. It wouldn’t budge. He used his small pocketknife to try to chip the stone away from his hand. The rock was too hard. He used his climbing ropes to try to move the stone even a little. It still wouldn’t budge.”
“Did he die there?” I asked, the queasiness in my stomach growing more pronounced.
Grandpère shook his head. “With deepening despair, he realized just how grim his situation was, and how foolish he had been to come without being better prepared, and especially without telling anyone where he was going. Bluejohn Canyon was so remote and such a difficult hike, he knew the chances of someone coming along and finding him were slim to none. And he knew there would be no search party, because no one knew where he was. And thus started what became a six-day ordeal.”
“Six days?” I cried. The thought made my stomach churn.
“Oui.” Grandpère looked up canyon, as if he was seeing all of this in his mind. “As the ordeal continued, his situation deteriorated quickly. He ran out of food and water. He began to have hallucinations. The pain would come and go in terrible waves. He was hot by day and cold by night.
“I would have been praying nonstop,” Ricky whispered.
“He did some of that too,” Grandpère said, nodding. “By the fifth day, accepting the inevitable, Aron videotaped a farewell message to his family, hoping someday someone would find him and the camera. Then he scratched his name, birth date, and the next day’s date—the day he assumed he would die—in the softer rock of the canyon wall. He also scratched in RIP—rest in peace—like they put on gravestones.”
Moments before, I had wanted Grandpère to stop, but now I was hanging on his every word. I had to know how the story ended.
“When he awakened on the morning of the sixth day, Aron prepared himself to die, almost welcoming the prospect because it would end his ordeal.” Grandpère’s head came up, and his eyes moved around our little circle. “Then something quite remarkable happened. Aron would later call it an epiphany, a vision of sorts. He saw a man he knew was himself walking down the canyon, then stepping into a sunlit living room. A three-year-old boy in a red polo shirt came running toward him. Somehow he knew that this was his son. When he bent down to scoop him up, he saw that the man’s right arm had a prosthetic hand. He lifted the boy with his left hand and swung him up on his shoulder. They were laughing together, and the man danced and twirled the boy around, steadying him with his good arm and stump.
“In an instant, the vision was gone. But Aron knew this was not just more delirium, and that knowledge gave him the courage to act. He had to live. If that vision was going to become a reality, then he had to survive. And he decided that the only way to free himself would be to amputate his lower arm and hand.”
“No!”
I wasn’t sure if it was me who cried out or Ricky.
“If he didn’t, he would die,” Grandpère said. “And then came another revelation. In his mind, he suddenly saw what he had to do to cut through the bones of his arm. Remember, he had only a dull pocketknife. He saw that if he twisted his body in a certain way it would create enough torque to cleanly snap first one bone, then the other. Which he did. Desperately fighting to stay conscious through the waves of agony, he then amputated his arm just above the wrist and freed himself.”
“I remember when the story made the news,” Dad said after a minute or two, his voice hushed. “I didn’t realize it took place so close to where we were.”
“Don’t stop, Grandpère,” I cried. “Did he make it?”
He nodded. “Actually, the end of our story occurred not far from where we are sitting right now.” Grandpère took a quick breath. “Once he was free, Aron administered first-aid to his arm, then managed to rappel down the remaining sixty-foot drop using only one hand—an incredible feat considering his physical state. Then he started hiking the eight miles out to his truck. He was weak, exhausted, dehydrated, and in shock, but he hiked with surprising energy and vigor.
“A short time after passing through the Grand Gallery, he saw a family from Holland ahead of him, hiking back toward the trailhead. He called to them and asked for their help. That quickly led to his rescue.”
With a twinkle in his eye, he looked at the three of us. “Any other questions?”
“What about the little boy?” I cried.
“Ah, yes. What about the little boy?” He leaned back. “A few years later, Aron married, and he and his wife now have a little boy with blonde hair, whose name is Leo. Aron, who was an engineer by profession, helped design a prosthetic hand for himself. It is a hand which he can also use when he’s mountain climbing, which he still does on a regular basis.”
“Wow!” Ricky breathed. “That’s incredible.”
“So,” Grandpère said after a few moments, “are there lessons we learn from this story?”
“Yes,” Ricky and I said together.
“What?”
We looked at each other, and I motioned for him to go first.
“Don’t go out alone without telling someone where you are?”
“Yes. How many times do you think Aron wished he could have made that decision over?”
“Hundreds,” I said.
“Indeed. What else?”
He looked at me, but I knew he was looking for more than the obvious, and I could tell Ricky had another answer. So again I deferred.
“Like you said,” Ricky started, “even if we’re really good at something, we can get overconfident and do dumb things.”
That was true, and I realized that was a tendency I had to watch in myself. I prided myself on being independent, and I insisted on doing things my way, even if Dad or Mom warned me I might get into difficulty. But something else was stirring in my mind. And it had to do with Leo, Aron’s little boy.
I raised a hand. Grandpère nodded at me. “I think Aron learned that there are things which were even more important than dying.”
“Go on.”
“Why not show him getting rescued, or in the hospital afterward? That would have given him hope. Or why not just show him how to break his bones so he would know how to cut off his arm? Why show him his little boy first?”
No one spoke. I wasn’t ready to answer. I was still working through the implications of my question in my mind. Then Dad cleared his throat, and Grandpère nodded in his direction.
“Aron had lost the will to live. He had given up, remember? But seeing his future son restored his will to live. It was that vision that gave him the courage to break his arm and then amputate it.”
“Exactement!” Grandpère exclaimed softly, using the French without realizing it. “Afte
r hearing Aron’s story, someone wrote of his experience: ‘There is no force on earth more powerful than the will to live.’ When he heard that, Aron added five more words: ‘Except the will to love.’ He also said on many occasions that he believed there are higher powers around us that we do not recognize, and that sometimes we are able to call upon them for help.”
As I watched Grandpère, I marveled. I thought we had come out here just to camp and have a good time. Now I saw that Grandpère had a few other things in mind. I wondered how long had he been planning to share this story with me on my thirteenth birthday. And why? Knowing Grandpère, he’d leave it up to me to figure it out. So I asked him a simpler question.
“What is his book called? I want to read it when we get home.”
“Between a Rock and a Hard Place,” Grandpère replied. “I recently bought my own copy. You are welcome to read that.”
We all sat in silence, deeply moved by the power of the human spirit.
Then Grandpère stood up. “One more thing,” he said with an apologetic smile, “and then we can go.”
Chapter 7
Grandpère knelt beside his backpack and unzipped one of the pockets. When he stood again, he was holding a small, flat package wrapped in lavender paper with a crushed purple bow. “Carruthers Monique McAllister, would you come forward, please?”
Surprised, since he had already given me the journal, I did so. He turned me around so I was facing Dad and Ricky. “When I turned thirteen, my father, Pierre LaRoche—your great-grandfather—took me on a special camping trip too. There, deep in the forests of Maine, he gave me a present. And he told me that on his thirteenth birthday his grandmother had taken him into the mountains and given him that same present—a present she had received from her father and mother.”
“Really?”
“We know for sure this item has been in our family at least a hundred and fifty years, and we think much longer than that. My great-great-grandmother on my mother’s side, Angelique Chevalier, wrote about the day she received this gift from her mother on her thirteenth birthday. That was in 1871. She said it looked old at the time, but unfortunately, she wasn’t able to learn more about this gift from her parents.”