The Hite Ferry had a history, short but rich. Following old Indian trails, Cass Hite came to and named Dandy Crossing in 1883. It was one of the very few possible fords of the river in the 240 miles between Moab and Lee’s Ferry. That is, it could be negotiated by team and wagon during low water (late summer, winter). But it did not become a motor vehicle crossing until 1946, when Chaffin built his ferry. The first ferry sank in 1947; Chaffin built a second, which he sold in 1956 to a man named Reed Maxfield. In 1957 Reed Maxfield had an accident and drowned in the river. His widow kept the ferry in operation until a storm in November of 1957 tore the barge loose from its mooring and sank it. By this time the ferry had become well known and its service was in some demand; the Utah State Highway Department was obliged to rebuild it. Mrs. Maxfield was hired to continue running it, which she did until Woody Edgell took over in 1959. He was the last ferryman, being finally flooded out by the impounded waters of Glen Canyon Dam in June 1964. To replace the ferry the Utah Highway Department had to build not one but three bridges: one over the mouth of the Dirty Devil, one over the Colorado at Narrow Canyon and the third over White Canyon. Because of the character of the terrain in there—hard to believe unless you see it for yourself—there is no other feasible way to get automobiles across the canyons. Thus, three big bridges, built at the cost of many million dollars, were required to perform the same service that Art Chaffin’s home-designed ferry had provided adequately for eighteen years.

Back to 1953: As we were leaving the river, Mr. Chaffin, glancing at the clouded sky, advised me to watch for flash floods in North Wash.

“North Wash?” I said. “Where’s that?”

“Where you’re going,” he said. “The only road out of here.”

We followed the right bank of the river for a couple of miles upstream, rough red cliffs shutting off the view of the mountains and high country beyond. The sky was dark. The willows on the banks were lashing back and forth under a brisk wind, and a few raindrops exploded against the windshield.

Somebody suggested camping for the night beside the river, waiting out the storm. A good idea. But there was one idiot in our party who was actually hoping to see a flash flood. And he prevailed. In the late afternoon, under a turbulent sky, we turned away from the river and drove into a deep, narrow canyon leading west and north, where the road (you might call it that) wound up and out, toward the open country twenty miles above. According to my road map. Which also said, quote, Make local inquiry before attempting travel in this area.

A good canyon. A little creek came down it, meandering between vertical walls. The road crossed that stream about ten times per mile, out of necessity. I tested the brakes occasionally. Wet drums. No brakes. But it hardly mattered, since we were ascending. The sprinkling of rain had stopped, and everyone admired the towering canyon walls, the alcoves and grottoes, the mighty boulders strewn about on the canyon floor. The air was cool and sweet, the tamarisk and redbud and box elders shivered in the breeze on their alluvial benches. Flowers bloomed, as I recall. Birds chirruped now and then, humble and discreet.