Solitary Man "Uh....Honey, I think we need to go a little more to the right", I said, as I looked down at the modern marvel in my hands. It had been an hour since we left the Blazer at the edge of the precipice, and a trip two months in the planning.   I've always wondered what the fifth dimension of life is like. Time, as I've been told, is the fourth dimension. Einstein tells us that there are many more though. Sometimes I believe emotions live in their own dimensions. Like those moments when you're alone, and you swear you catch something moving in the corner of your eye, only to look up and nothing be there, feelings have their own plane to exist, though never so far away as to not be seen in our mind's eye. Emotions press upon your psyche. Whether they are intuition, or they are the result of it, is debatable. But they steer you through life, sometimes warning of you of what's to come, sometimes of what already is.  Moqui Canyon is sliver of cracked earth in the southeastern section of Utah. The canyon runs approximately northeast to southwest into the desert bathtub of Glen Canyon National Recreation Area. The Bureau of Land Management owns the lower half of the canyon. Private citizens own the rest. Sandstone makes up the majority of the walls, and over eons of time, the winding creek in its belly has carved innumerable niches in the walls, making life for many early Americans less hostile. What is left of their stay in that canyon can still be seen. From paintings on canyon walls to their houses, a walk down the canyon will make time stand still.   In the spring of 2002, we made a trip into that canyon with a few friends, following nothing more than a two page entry given in a guidebook called Hiking Ruins Seldom Seen and a chapter in David Robert's book In Search of the Old Ones. The guidebook led us into the canyon to see a petroglyph panel. But, we being the intrepid hikers we are, decided to keep going down the canyon.   "If there are petroglyphs, then there is probably more within a relatively short distance," we told ourselves. Several hours later and a couple miles down canyon, we decided that there wasn't anything else we were every going to see. We set up camp in a place across the creek from side canyon, we would later find out, was called Camp Canyon. Twenty-four hours later we were back in a motel room relishing the time we had spent in the canyon, but feeling like something was missing.   About a year later I picked up In Search of the Old Ones, intending to read the whole book again. But, on a whim, I leafed through the whole book and realized, to my amazement, there was a bibliography in the back. I had known that David Roberts had used papers, bound together in a book, from the University of Utah study in the 1960's, but now I was able to actually get the ISBN number for these studies!   Immediatley, a search on the internet told me that the book wasn't in print anymore. Moreover, every out-of-print book dealer I searched led to a dead end. Nothing on the world-wide-web would help in finding these papers. Off to the library I went, hoping, if at the very least, the University of Utah would still have a copy that they would loan. Two weeks later I had a copy of the 1962 Universtiy of Utah survey of Moqui Canyon sitting on my desk. The book was an eye opener on how little we studied the canyon we were in the belly of. A fold out map revealed that no less than 50 areas along the path we hiked had remnants of previous occupants. Our desire to return quickly was rekindled.  Fast forward to spring of 2005. Other priortities kept us away from Southeastern Utah until our Spring Break for the year. By that time every nook and cranny had been mapped by computer software I had purchased. I had the latitiude and longitude of all points of interest mapped. We had a GPS to show us where we needed to go in order to see these wonders, along with unimaginable amounts of paper maps to match to our GPS. Every marker on the map was labeled, allowing us to know what would be there before we arrived.  Spring Break rolled around when it always does. Bags were packed. And, as normal, I came down with the best case of the flu I've had in years. With nose running, we set out for Utah, by way of New Mexico, all the while, me telling myself that I'd get over it soon.   It's strange how your state of mind affects the physical world. As we climbed the ladder rungs of towns on U.S. Highway 287 towards northern New Mexico, my body told me I wasn't getting better. Hiking while you're in good health is physically taxing most days. Hiking while you're ill, is almost unbearable. My mind told me how horrible the experience was going to be, which, in turn, made my body feel worse. The vicious cycle continued for the trip into New Mexico.   Arriving in the Moreno Valley, located in the northern half of the state, is always a homecoming of sorts, an alternate home, living in the shadow of the state's highest mountain at 13, 120 feet, Wheeler Peak. By this time, my throat felt like it was half its original size and on fire, along with a open water faucet protruding from my face. Generally, this moment is a happy occasion. Driving into the valley always gives me sense of space, reminding me that the world does not consist only of cow manure and rednecks. The mountains sit like sentinals, guarding a world that had existed for eons before humans time, and will exist for eons after our kind is gone. We slept the night in the relative comfort of our home away from home. Morning came, and the depression of sorting and packing two backpacks, while nursing a killer cold, fully decended. I kept telling myself that once we were in the slickrock, my spirits would rise and I'd forget about my troubles. They always had before. I hoped. Bags packed, we were on our way. Through the towns of Taos, Tres Piedras, Chama, across the Jicarilla Apache Reservation, the town of Farmington, across the corners of Arizona and Colorado, we finally reached our destination of Blanding, Utah. Having been to the town before, I knew what to expect. But, the reality is always a shock. Founding in 1905 by the Latter Day Saints, a town has never been more aptly named. With one drive along the main drag, it's evident the belief that nothing in life is for the pure satisfaction of living. If something in life is not absolutely necessary for living, then Blanding probably won't offer it. The only flashy spot on the highway within city limits was our accomodations at the Comfort Inn. It always seems a bit hypocritical on the town's part to allow any Comfort. A trip to the grocery store searching for a swimming suit ended with the cashier giving us the "Satan, get thee away from me" look, and telling us that we'd have to go to Colorado to find them. Upon arrival, we had spent 25 of the last 36 hours riding in an automobile. Illness and automobiles are never a good combination, and by this time even a trip to the hot tub wasn't going to make me feel better. The next morning, we loaded our belongings and set out for the last push to the canyon rim. The fifth dimension was gradually creeping into my conscienceness. For the previous month I had been watching the mercury, for afar, using the internet, not rise to comfortable levels. In our previous trip, the thermometer would begin its day around the freezing mark, but, immediately after sunrise, would rise dramatically, and welcome you into its open arms of warmth, rising well into a comfortable, even hot , temperature. On the way out of Blanding, the fifth dimension took note, that the La-Sal mountains to the north were still completely covered with snow, not like the previous trip, and the sky was overcast, which would never allow any warmth into our day. Also, a stiff north wind was biting at our skin, threatening to blow us into Arizona. This wasn't ordinary. For the first time in years, a feeling of true loneliness crept into my being, which was crazy since Meredith was sitting in the seat next to me. An overwhelming sadness was creeping into my feelings, which, combined with a normally beautiful landscape that now seemed bleak, began to drag me down. For the first time in my life I found myself having to supress tears without knowing why they were coming. "Just go home as fast as you can", the fifth dimension said. "This is wrong." It's very hard to explain why a major trip, of which the planning and money spent so far was enormous, should be cancelled. Especially when the only reason beingmy psychic antennae was picking up signals from another dimension. Moqui Canyon sits approximately seven miles north of UT 276, reached by a road maneuvering across mostly slickrock, and terminating at the sheer cliff that marks the canyon's south edge. The weather had been rainy very recently, another departure from our first trip, and most low spots in the slickrock were full of water. I pulled the Blazer up to edge at 12:30 P.M., and stepped out into a clear sky, with an air temperature of 55 degrees and a stiff north wind. If you believe in someone from above looking down on you or predestination, then you will use the following events as proof. We had decide, unlike earlier times, that

Solitary Man

"Uh....Honey, I think we need to go a little more to the right", I said, as I looked down at the modern marvel in my hands. It had been an hour since we left the Blazer at the edge of the precipice, and a trip two months in the planning.

I've always wondered what the fifth dimension of life is like. Time, as I've been told, is the fourth dimension. Einstein tells us that there are many more though. Sometimes I believe emotions live in their own dimensions. Like those moments when you're alone, and you swear you catch something moving in the corner of your eye, only to look up and nothing be there, feelings have their own plane to exist, though never so far away as to not be seen in our mind's eye. Emotions press upon your psyche. Whether they are intuition, or they are the result of it, is debatable. But they steer you through life, sometimes warning of you of what's to come, sometimes of what already is.

Moqui Canyon is sliver of cracked earth in the southeastern section of Utah. The canyon runs approximately northeast to southwest into the desert bathtub of Glen Canyon National Recreation Area. The Bureau of Land Management owns the lower half of the canyon. Private citizens own the rest. Sandstone makes up the majority of the walls, and over eons of time, the winding creek in its belly has carved innumerable niches in the walls, making life for many early Americans less hostile. What is left of their stay in that canyon can still be seen. From paintings on canyon walls to their houses, a walk down the canyon will make time stand still.

In the spring of 2002, we made a trip into that canyon with a few friends, following nothing more than a two page entry given in a guidebook called Hiking Ruins Seldom Seen and a chapter in David Robert's book In Search of the Old Ones. The guidebook led us into the canyon to see a petroglyph panel. But, we being the intrepid hikers we are, decided to keep going down the canyon.

"If there are petroglyphs, then there is probably more within a relatively short distance," we told ourselves. Several hours later and a couple miles down canyon, we decided that there wasn't anything else we were every going to see. We set up camp in a place across the creek from side canyon, we would later find out, was called Camp Canyon. Twenty-four hours later we were back in a motel room relishing the time we had spent in the canyon, but feeling like something was missing.

About a year later I picked up In Search of the Old Ones, intending to read the whole book again. But, on a whim, I leafed through the whole book and realized, to my amazement, there was a bibliography in the back. I had known that David Roberts had used papers, bound together in a book, from the University of Utah study in the 1960's, but now I was able to actually get the ISBN number for these studies!

Immediatley, a search on the internet told me that the book wasn't in print anymore. Moreover, every out-of-print book dealer I searched led to a dead end. Nothing on the world-wide-web would help in finding these papers. Off to the library I went, hoping, if at the very least, the University of Utah would still have a copy that they would loan. Two weeks later I had a copy of the 1962 Universtiy of Utah survey of Moqui Canyon sitting on my desk. The book was an eye opener on how little we studied the canyon we were in the belly of. A fold out map revealed that no less than 50 areas along the path we hiked had remnants of previous occupants. Our desire to return quickly was rekindled.

Fast forward to spring of 2005. Other priortities kept us away from Southeastern Utah until our Spring Break for the year. By that time every nook and cranny had been mapped by computer software I had purchased. I had the latitiude and longitude of all points of interest mapped. We had a GPS to show us where we needed to go in order to see these wonders, along with unimaginable amounts of paper maps to match to our GPS. Every marker on the map was labeled, allowing us to know what would be there before we arrived.

Spring Break rolled around when it always does. Bags were packed. And, as normal, I came down with the best case of the flu I've had in years. With nose running, we set out for Utah, by way of New Mexico, all the while, me telling myself that I'd get over it soon.

It's strange how your state of mind affects the physical world. As we climbed the ladder rungs of towns on U.S. Highway 287 towards northern New Mexico, my body told me I wasn't getting better. Hiking while you're in good health is physically taxing most days. Hiking while you're ill, is almost unbearable. My mind told me how horrible the experience was going to be, which, in turn, made my body feel worse. The vicious cycle continued for the trip into New Mexico.

Arriving in the Moreno Valley, located in the northern half of the state, is always a homecoming of sorts, an alternate home, living in the shadow of the state's highest mountain at 13, 120 feet, Wheeler Peak. By this time, my throat felt like it was half its original size and on fire, along with a open water faucet protruding from my face. Generally, this moment is a happy occasion. Driving into the valley always gives me sense of space, reminding me that the world does not consist only of cow manure and rednecks. The mountains sit like sentinals, guarding a world that had existed for eons before humans time, and will exist for eons after our kind is gone.

We slept the night in the relative comfort of our home away from home. Morning came, and the depression of sorting and packing two backpacks, while nursing a killer cold, fully decended.

I kept telling myself that once we were in the slickrock, my spirits would rise and I'd forget about my troubles. They always had before. I hoped.

Bags packed, we were on our way. Through the towns of Taos, Tres Piedras, Chama, across the Jicarilla Apache Reservation, the town of Farmington, across the corners of Arizona and Colorado, we finally reached our destination of Blanding, Utah.

Having been to the town before, I knew what to expect. But, the reality is always a shock.

Founding in 1905 by the Latter Day Saints, a town has never been more aptly named. With one drive along the main drag, it's evident the belief that nothing in life is for the pure satisfaction of living. If something in life is not absolutely necessary for living, then Blanding probably won't offer it. The only flashy spot on the highway within city limits was our accomodations at the Comfort Inn. It always seems a bit hypocritical on the town's part to allow any Comfort.

A trip to the grocery store searching for a swimming suit ended with the cashier giving us the "Satan, get thee away from me" look, and telling us that we'd have to go to Colorado to find them.

Upon arrival, we had spent 25 of the last 36 hours riding in an automobile. Illness and automobiles are never a good combination, and by this time even a trip to the hot tub wasn't going to make me feel better.

The next morning, we loaded our belongings and set out for the last push to the canyon rim.

The fifth dimension was gradually creeping into my conscienceness.

For the previous month I had been watching the mercury, for afar, using the internet, not rise to comfortable levels. In our previous trip, the thermometer would begin its day around the freezing mark, but, immediately after sunrise, would rise dramatically, and welcome you into its open arms of warmth, rising well into a comfortable, even hot , temperature.

On the way out of Blanding, the fifth dimension took note, that the La-Sal mountains to the north were still completely covered with snow, not like the previous trip, and the sky was overcast, which would never allow any warmth into our day. Also, a stiff north wind was biting at our skin, threatening to blow us into Arizona.

This wasn't ordinary. For the first time in years, a feeling of true loneliness crept into my being, which was crazy since Meredith was sitting in the seat next to me. An overwhelming sadness was creeping into my feelings, which, combined with a normally beautiful landscape that now seemed bleak, began to drag me down. For the first time in my life I found myself having to supress tears without knowing why they were coming.

"Just go home as fast as you can", the fifth dimension said. "This is wrong."

It's very hard to explain why a major trip, of which the planning and money spent so far was enormous, should be cancelled. Especially when the only reason beingmy psychic antennae was picking up signals from another dimension.

Moqui Canyon sits approximately seven miles north of UT 276, reached by a road maneuvering across mostly slickrock, and terminating at the sheer cliff that marks the canyon's south edge.

The weather had been rainy very recently, another departure from our first trip, and most low spots in the slickrock were full of water. I pulled the Blazer up to edge at 12:30 P.M., and stepped out into a clear sky, with an air temperature of 55 degrees and a stiff north wind.

If you believe in someone from above looking down on you or predestination, then you will use the following events as proof.

We had decide, unlike earlier times, that