Rock Canyon

Let's see, where should I start this post? 

I grew up in Rock Canyon . . . literally.  No, we didn't live in that part of town, but my Dad was a hiker.  A serious hiker.  On his days off, all of my growing up years, he would leave early in the morning, drive to Rock Canyon and hike all day. He would come home sometime around dinner time.  I honestly don't know when his love affair with the canyon began, but he simply adored it and knew it like the back of his hand.  He knew all the secret places and trails.  He even befriended some wild creatures who lived there.  One of those was a domestic sheep that had wandered off and become wild in the canyon.  We named him "Sam the Lamb."

As soon as I was old enough to go along, Dad would take me to Rock Canyon.  He showed me "Devil's Kitchen" and helped me up through the brush on trails only he knew about.  He showed me the wild Sego Lillies and the "Indian Paintbrush."  He passed on to me his love for nature, and his belief that a person was closer to God in the mountains than any other place on earth.  He once told me that he often went there to pray.

My mother always feared for my Dad and his habit of hiking alone.  One summer day, when I was 11 years old, her fears came true.  While standing on a high peak in the mountains, Dad somehow blacked out, and fell down the mountainside in shale rock.  He drove himself home, though he never remembered that part.  He was all cut up and injured badly.  Several hours later, at UVRMC, Mom and I were told that the side of Dad's skull was crushed in. The best Neurosurgeon in the state was being life flighted from Salt Lake to try to save him.  After a long experimental surgery, and lots of recovery, Dad pulled through.  He had no brain damage, but suffered from from headaches and a noticable personality change.  To my mother's dismay, as soon as he was well enough, he went back to the canyon he loved so much.  He even went back to that spot to try to figure out what had happened to him.  He was an old Fire Fighter through and through :)

After my Dad died suddenly in 1993, I never went back to Rock Canyon.  I did not plan it that way, but somehow in my mind, he was still up there.  I couldn't face walking that canyon without being able to yell his name, as it was turning dusk, and hear his familiar and reassuring voice from up the canyon yell back to me, "I'm coming, Honey! I just went a little farther than I planned."  I had heard him yell that so many times when my Mom got worried and sent me looking for him. 

Of course, Rock Canyon has changed a lot over the years I have not been up there.  Last summer, Dakota convinced me to drive him up there and look around.  It was a tearful trip but it felt good to see the place again.  I only wanted to go up so far.

Today, we missed church, and I decided (in my Dad's memory) to take my children to praise God in nature, the way he had taught me.  We got "dollar menu" and went to Rock Canyon.  This time, I was overwhelmed with appreciation for the place, and enjoyed telling my boys the stories about going there with my Dad.  Since the trails are different now, I have to adjust to how to find places again.  We only planned on walking around a little, but couldn't get enough.  I saw my Dad in each of my boys as they collected rocks, analyzed tracks, and explored trails.  They can't wait to go back and see more, and honestly, I can't either.  Thank you, God, for a beautiful and healing day.