Monuments, Mormons and Mulligans

by Bob Sparrow  

Monument Valley at sunset

Southern Utah is the United States’ only area that offers five National Parks Zion, Bryce, Arches, Canyonlands and Capitol Reef, and thus has the highest concentration of natural scenic wonders found anywhere on Earth!  Which, of course, made it much more difficult for me to find my golf ball when, for whatever reason, it ended up outside the boundaries of the golf course I was playing.  Along with Lake Powell and the Colorado River as water hazards, I’m glad I brought plenty of balls on this trip. This area also boasts four State Parks, two National Monuments, plus Monument Valley, famous for its iconic mesas and buttes often featured in Western movies . . . as well as providing scenic hiding places for my golf balls.

“Found it!!”

Yes, my travels last week took me first to the city of St. George, in southern Utah, to play golf at The Ledges, Coral Canyon, and Copper Rock, but let’s not talk about my golf game when southern Utah has so much more to offer than my ‘Aww shits’ and “Can you hand me another ball?”.  This home of the Mormons, who make up about 70% of the cities’ population, is a most unique and beautiful place.  The first Latter-day Saints (LDS/Mormon) temple, built west of the Mississippi, was not built in Salt Lake City, but in St. George in 1877. 

The city of St. George was founded in 1861, notwithstanding the fact that for some thousands of years before that, the area was inhabited by the Ute, Goshutes, Paiutes, Shoshone, and Navajo Indians.  But the city was founded as part of the Mormon ‘Cotton Mission’ under Brigham Young, which aimed to establish in Utah, a cotton-growing region in the face of the Civil War, as northerners believed that they would no longer be getting cotton from the South.  Even though cotton growing proved to be an unsuccessful venture, this area became known as Dixie.  It remained being called that until 2021, when the ‘woke folk’ decided that the name was racist. 

“Got it!!”

There is controversy about how St. George got its name, but I’m going with the story that it was named after George Smith, first cousin to Joseph Smith, founder of the LDS movement.  George settled in the area and encouraged residents to eat raw, unpeeled potatoes in order to cure scurvy – it sort of worked, as potatoes do contain some Vitamin C, but the cure probably came from the oranges they ate after they ate the potatoes to get that raw potato taste out of their mouths.   Either way, it earned George the name, ‘Potato Saint, thus Saint George.  George may not have been a real saint, but he was a real Mormon who had seven wives and 20 children.  Of course, polygamy is not legal today, but it is said that you don’t have to be Mormon to have one too many wives.

“I found your ball”

My golf game gave me plenty of opportunities to explore the flora and fauna of the surrounding area, and it is, indeed, beautiful; not my golf game, but all the places I looked for my golf ball.

The rest of this week will be spent losing golf balls in an area where I’m more familiar with losing things . . . Las Vegas.

“Fore!!!!!”         

ROAD TRIP THROUGH THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE – Part I

by Bob Sparrow

     When my daughter, Dana moved to Chicago she needed someone to drive her Toyota Corolla there from southern California.  That road trip had my name all over it, so I happily volunteered.  I kept a journal of my thoughts and observations along the way – here it is.

     It’s early, it’s dark, I’m invigorated by my planned road trip across two-thirds of America as I shower and get dressed.  Did I leave the shower on?  No, I look outside, it’s raining.  It will not dampen my enthusiasm.  I set out.  Where’s the windshield wiper lever?  More importantly where’s some coffee?  Gosh, these Corollas are small.  I fumble to find the cruise control in the dark, unsuccessfully.  OK, I’m serious now, what happened to the Starbucks on every corner?  Discover that Corollas don’t have cruise control!  Limited music on the radio at this time of the morning.  Didn’t realize we had so many Spanish-speaking stations – Mariachis at 5:00 a.m.?  My gosh what are they so happy about at this time of day?  Got coffee and finally out on the open road, sun starting to peek over the mountains.  I’m hungry.  Find an ‘Open 24 Hours’ truck stop.

     Wishing I still had that ‘TruckMasters Graduate’ ball cap as I feel like I’m not really fitting in here with my Bermuda shorts and Tommy Bahama shirt.  I sit at the counter and order my coffee black, like the rest of the truckers – I’ll put some cream and sugar in it when I’m back in the car.  I listen to the truckers’ stories and am reminded that I’m happy I have all my teeth.  Back on the road.  Soon the smell of rural American comes wafting through the car.  I see horses and cows and acres of farmland.  I see a little town ahead and slow down to read the sign . . . ‘Norco’.  I’ve traveled nine miles.  I’m thinking this could be a very long trip.

It requires significant will power to drive past Vegas; I didn’t even know there was a ‘past Vegas’ until now.  But on through to St. George, and after 700 miles, pull into Grand Junction, CO, for the night.  While it is a junction of sorts, I didn’t really find it all that grand.

The next morning’s drive was a ‘religious experience’ for me.  There are few, if any, more scenic stretches of road in America than the one from Grand Junction, through the Rockies to Denver.  The Colorado River has carved the most beautiful path through the mountains, and man has tunneled, cantilevered and laid his road next to the river.  It makes one of the most beautiful blends of nature and man’s work that I’ve seen.  I drove this road in the early morning hours, just as the sun reached the rim of the Rockies, providing a soft light to the freshly fallen snow.  It was a quiet, cold (7 degrees at its coldest), breath-taking experience.  I put in a John Denver CD, but decided that no sound was the best sound.  The winter panoramas were purely magnificent.  I pass the town of Rifle, the turn off for Aspen, Vail.    I stopped to take ‘communion’ (a cup of coffee and a doughnut) in the village of Eagle.  I parked the car, got out and just looked at the beautiful winter scape around me and listened to the quiet.  The cold air fills my lungs and while it was unbelievably invigorating it was also damn cold.  Back in the car and back on the road.  I remind myself to tell anyone that has the opportunity to make this drive, particularly on a clear winter’s day, to do it.

As I emerge from the Rockies the city of Denver unfolds below me.

(Next post: Part II – Denver to Chicago)