The Hundredth Meridianrnhy Chilton Williamson, Jr.rnResistancernOn my knees in the bright pebbly watersrnof Hermit Creek, I looked up from therncotton shirt I was wringing out to the buffcoloredrnrim of the Kaibab Plateau, overrn4,000 vertical feet overhead.rn”Ifs a long way down from up there,” Irntold Tom Sheeley, who had just arrivedrnalong the trail from camp at the pool.rn”We have a mile and a half to go still tornthe river, remember.”rn”And a longer way yet back up,” Irnadded. For individuals as well as civilizations,rnthere’s a penalt}’ inevitably to bernpaid for yielding too much ground.rn”Where’s Tib?” “Tib” was Tim Smith,rnbvit after months of hay feber we allrnfound it easier and finally more natural tornsav “Tib,” as Tom came out “Tob” andrnChip, “Chib.”rn”He’s off reading somewhere.” Tom,rnwho carried a can of lee House beer inrnhis hand, produced a second one fromrntiie pocket of his nylon shorts. “Care forrna lunch cylinder?”rnThe case of beer, backpacked downrnthe previous month bv Tom and Timrnand cached beneath a snaky-looking rockrnpile, was a luxury.rn”God yes!”rnI hung my shirt, underwear, and socksrnto dr- from an acacia branch overhangingrnthe pool while the two of us lolled inrnthe fresh waterspout cascading betweenrnlimestone boulders, drinking beer andrnwatching a pair of ravens fly reconnaissancern50 feet above the canyon floor.rn”Beaudy-kih” Tom pronounced fromrnunder the waterfall.rn”It’s Perfect,” I agreed, aware of thernsun hot on my trailing white legs givenrnlift b)’ the rushing water, while minnowsrnnibbled at my toes.rnHis gray beard emerged out of the fallsrnas he swallowed off the beer and tossedrnthe empt- onto the bank beside his shortsrnand hiking shoes.rn”Never despair,” Tom said. “To despairrnis to turn vour back on God.”rn”I knov’ that. It’s tough not to at times,rnthough.”rnTogether, we waded from the pool andrnstood, first on one leg and then the other,rnpulling on our clothes.rn”‘My proud young friend, come herernright now, / Before Sarastro you willrnbow,'” Tom sang, from The Magic Flute.rn”Steak Diane for dinner tonight,” he finishedrnin his normal voice.rnWe were set up at the old HermitrnCamp, used to accommodate tourists untilrn1931 when the Park Service quit maintainingrnthe Hermit Trail. Today therncamp amounts to three or four barernplaces among the cacti, one of themrn(ours) overhung by a rock ledge offeringrnshade during the heat of the day, and anrnopen-air toilet. For company we had arnparty of women from Nebraska camped arnhundred yards off on their way over tornBoucher Rapids —among them a darkhaired,rnstrong-looking girl with sunburnedrnarms and cornflower eyes thatrnstruck at you from under the brim of herrnLadv Cornhusker cap. This was therncampsite where Barbara Sheeley hadrnbeen stung twice on the hand by a scorpionrnseveral years ago, but on this trip ourrnconcern was for deermice, some 40 percentrnof which are carriers of hantavirus,rnthe bubonic plague of the Southwest.rnOn account of the nnce, we kept ourrnfood stashed in the Army rocketboxesrnprovided bv the Park Service.rnTim came in with his book, and we allrnhad another beer. Then he and Tomrnfired up the gas stoves, and we preparedrnthe evening meal, beginning with thernthick steaks from Tom’s butcher inrnFlagstaff. Seated on a low rock ledge wernate dinner from our laps, staring out underrnthe oerhang at the terraced wildernessrnof rock rising to the sky and fallingrngently backward beneath round whiternclouds already edged with gold. Fromrnbehind the screen of acacia trees, girlishrnlaughter sounded sweetiy.rn”You remember what Abbev saidrnabout bringing women along on a hike?”rnI asked Tom.rn”He said it helps a man keep his mindrnoff sex.”rn”It’s a good line,” I said, “but I’ve neverrnfelt he really meant it.”rnFrom Hermit’s Rest on the KaibabrnLimestone down to Hermit Camp is arndistance of 7.7 miles by the Hermit Trail,rnin places steeper than breakfast at Aspen.rnWe washed up, turned in at a little pastrneight o’clock MST (having more thanrnenough, Arizona doesn’t save sunshine, itrnburns it), and rolled out at dawn in timernto see the ladies from Nebraska alreadyrnon the trail over to Boucher, waving to usrnfrom across the creek. Lady Cornhuskerrnmarched second in line, directly behindrnthe goose-faced, somehow attractivernleader. For breakfast, we ate coffee, reconstitutedrnhuevos rancheros, and bacon,rnadjourned to the swimming hole forrnmorning sheep dip, and set out on thernmile-and-a-half hike down to the river.rnHermit Creek enters the ColoradornRiver near Mile Point 95, the siderncanyon depositing the boulders thatrnform Hermit Rapids. Tom, a professionalrnriverman as well as one of the finestrnclassical guitarists of our time, squintedrnappraisingly at the crashing white wavesrnand hanging spray exploding from thernflow of glassy green water, smellingrnstrongly of salt. “River’s low,” he said.rn”Maybe 10,000 e f s – n o more.”rn”Where was it Ed got suekered intornrunning the rapids when Renee volunteeredrnto ride in the boat?” I asked.rn”That was Lava Falls, upstream fromrnDiamond Creek —celebrated, in KimrnCrumbo’s words, ‘in song, verse, poem,rnand frequent profanity.’ Gu}S I knewrnwho floated the river with him said hernwas seared s—less of Whitewater, no matterrnhow he described it in his books.”rn-A foaming wave to the left of an underwaterrnboulder collapsed into a churningrnhole (called an “eater” by boatmen), thenrnrose again on the other side to form a secondrnwa-e as it struck the eddying backwater.rnLike all writers —like me —EdrnAbbey maybe had just a little more imaginationrnthan was good for him.rnWe hung around on the sandy beachrnfor a while, waiting for boats to driftrndownstream. When they failed to appear,rnwe hiked up the streambed back torncamp for another dip in the pool andrnAUGUST 2001/49rnrnrn