The Celebration
Page, Arizona sits on a bluff overlooking what once was the Colorado River. Anywhere else in the world, Page would be a normal rural town, with a modern high school, tree-lined streets with modest homes (rather an over-abundance of large boats), a cafe where the locals hang out and swap lies, a small museum, a post office. Kids and dogs roam the streets, proper folks dress up to go to church on Sundays, the bars are noisy on Saturday nights. The Good Life in America.
But this normal rural town is a pustule on the face of the desert, a town that exists only because of the damn dam and the stagnant waters of the reservoir backed up and Fouling the most beautiful place on Earth. We drove by the John Wesley Powell Memorial Museum and entered the Tourist Zone, a place of sterile motels, plastic fast food product dispensaries, the finest products of modern consumer America. As we contoured down the face of the bluff, we passed the ultimate symbol of
American culture, the last bastion of civilization in the face of the howling wilderness, appropriately placed in American Feng Shui
alignment, facing the abomination of the damn dam, the clown face of American culture, McDonald's.
We drove our little rental car (35% made in America) down the slope and across the flat, trying not to look at The Dam, but inevitably our eyes were drawn to its unavoidable presence. The curve of its concrete walls and the lacing of the girders on its necklace bridge may be pleasing to the eyes of the engineer, but to two rabid ecoagitators, it is a curse on the Earth and the waters thereupon.
As we approached the bridge a flashing sign (powered by a fossil fueled generator) warned us that pedestrian traffic on the bridge was forbidden by the authorities on the occasion of this March 14th assembly. To underscore and enforce this central edict, two semi-riot-clad representatives of the Arizona State Constabulary lounged insouciantly against the metal fencing, chatting no doubt about days of pleasure on the putrid waters of Res Foul. A single Arizona State Trooper official vehicle, occupied by two bored Arizona State Trooper officials, guarded the entrance to the site of the alternate "Friends of Lake Powell" rally, as SUVs, overpowered 4 by 4s, ego-trucks pulling boat trailers, kids on BMX bikes raised a plume of desert dust driving to their assignation at the rim of their favorite sewage lagoon.
We passed through the metal gate of the bridge, aiming for the low rounded Visitor Center at the far end of the damn dam, our self-assigned goal for the day, a celebration of the end of 40 years of political madness expressed in concrete and steel. We were greeted by the presence of a dozen or more official police vehicles of various stripes, Arizona State Troopers, Coconino County Sheriff, National Park Service. Undoubtedly the FBI, CIA, NSA and even the Mossad and MI5 were present as well, just keeping order, making sure that we who "lusted to blow up the dam" were made welcome and had a safe and pleasant recreational experience.
At the obligatory roadblock, we were questioned by a tall, darkly bespectacled United States Park Service official, as to our intentions in "his" park.
"Are you going to the protest?" he queried imperiously.
Jean leaned across me, pleasantly, and answered, "No, we're going to the celebration."
Momentarily losing his official equanimity, he peered through his shades and retorted, "What are you celebrating?" Ignoring this objective observation from our protector we drove ahead into the parking lot, ignored the official, orange barrel-lined protest zone, and parked in the cool shade of what once was an intact bluff overlooking the Colorado River, now carved half away to provide rest and relief to the metal steeds of the visiting public.
Dismounting from our trusty conveyance, we surveyed the scene before us: a group of pleasantly diverse human beings milling about on the warming asphalt of the Glen Canyon Dam(n) Visitor Center parking lot. A pair of older model pickups were backed up to each other, coupled as dogs in coitus with a plywood platform. One of the trucks was dark blue, rather bent in the front with most of the grille missing and sporting a jaunty pink plastic flower in its hood.
Hand in hand, Jean and Michael walked down the slope to join the gathered crowd of celebrants, to join our energy with those who gathered here to defend the defenseless, to join the Earth.
But this normal rural town is a pustule on the face of the desert, a town that exists only because of the damn dam and the stagnant waters of the reservoir backed up and Fouling the most beautiful place on Earth. We drove by the John Wesley Powell Memorial Museum and entered the Tourist Zone, a place of sterile motels, plastic fast food product dispensaries, the finest products of modern consumer America. As we contoured down the face of the bluff, we passed the ultimate symbol of
American culture, the last bastion of civilization in the face of the howling wilderness, appropriately placed in American Feng Shui
alignment, facing the abomination of the damn dam, the clown face of American culture, McDonald's.
We drove our little rental car (35% made in America) down the slope and across the flat, trying not to look at The Dam, but inevitably our eyes were drawn to its unavoidable presence. The curve of its concrete walls and the lacing of the girders on its necklace bridge may be pleasing to the eyes of the engineer, but to two rabid ecoagitators, it is a curse on the Earth and the waters thereupon.
As we approached the bridge a flashing sign (powered by a fossil fueled generator) warned us that pedestrian traffic on the bridge was forbidden by the authorities on the occasion of this March 14th assembly. To underscore and enforce this central edict, two semi-riot-clad representatives of the Arizona State Constabulary lounged insouciantly against the metal fencing, chatting no doubt about days of pleasure on the putrid waters of Res Foul. A single Arizona State Trooper official vehicle, occupied by two bored Arizona State Trooper officials, guarded the entrance to the site of the alternate "Friends of Lake Powell" rally, as SUVs, overpowered 4 by 4s, ego-trucks pulling boat trailers, kids on BMX bikes raised a plume of desert dust driving to their assignation at the rim of their favorite sewage lagoon.
We passed through the metal gate of the bridge, aiming for the low rounded Visitor Center at the far end of the damn dam, our self-assigned goal for the day, a celebration of the end of 40 years of political madness expressed in concrete and steel. We were greeted by the presence of a dozen or more official police vehicles of various stripes, Arizona State Troopers, Coconino County Sheriff, National Park Service. Undoubtedly the FBI, CIA, NSA and even the Mossad and MI5 were present as well, just keeping order, making sure that we who "lusted to blow up the dam" were made welcome and had a safe and pleasant recreational experience.
At the obligatory roadblock, we were questioned by a tall, darkly bespectacled United States Park Service official, as to our intentions in "his" park.
"Are you going to the protest?" he queried imperiously.
Jean leaned across me, pleasantly, and answered, "No, we're going to the celebration."
Momentarily losing his official equanimity, he peered through his shades and retorted, "What are you celebrating?" Ignoring this objective observation from our protector we drove ahead into the parking lot, ignored the official, orange barrel-lined protest zone, and parked in the cool shade of what once was an intact bluff overlooking the Colorado River, now carved half away to provide rest and relief to the metal steeds of the visiting public.
Dismounting from our trusty conveyance, we surveyed the scene before us: a group of pleasantly diverse human beings milling about on the warming asphalt of the Glen Canyon Dam(n) Visitor Center parking lot. A pair of older model pickups were backed up to each other, coupled as dogs in coitus with a plywood platform. One of the trucks was dark blue, rather bent in the front with most of the grille missing and sporting a jaunty pink plastic flower in its hood.
Hand in hand, Jean and Michael walked down the slope to join the gathered crowd of celebrants, to join our energy with those who gathered here to defend the defenseless, to join the Earth.