THE BALLAD OF BELLE ZABOR

Vaughn Short was born in the foothills of the Chir-icahua Mountains. As a young man, he worked a mining claim in the Huachuca Mountains, worked underground in Bisbee and served in the South Pacific during World War II. Eventually, he settled near Tucson to raise a family. Then, in 1960, he met Ken Sleight and started running the Colorado River, where he became a legend. "Without a doubt, the poet laureate of the Colorado River is Vaughn Short," Lew Steiger wrote in Boatman's Quarterly Review in 2009. "Ever since it was first published in 1978, [his book] Raging River - Lonely Trail has been a campfire staple for countless river trips. Although Vaughn lacked a primary trait of your basic 'real' boatman (he actually had a 'real' job all his life), he broke into the ranks here and kept himself firmly entrenched by dint of his magical storytelling ability." One of Mr. Short's best-known poems was inspired by nostalgia and longing. "Belle Zabor is the product of waiting for a river season to start," he said. "I had it pretty well thought out before I picked up a pencil. Why the name 'Belle Zabor? Because it has a nice poetic ring to my ear and it's a snap to rhyme with. I had no particular rapid, place or person in mind. It is dreamed up in its entirety." Vaughn Short died in Tucson on November 16, 2010. He was 87.

THE BALLAD OF BELLE ZABOR

Reprinted with permission of the Glen Canyon Conservancy.

From a canyon deep, from a canyon dark, From a canyon steeped in gloom, The listening ear can always hear A deep pitched song of doom.

Far beneath the rim of this canyon grim Speeds a river wrought with woes. And the shadows are deep, and the light is dim Where the wild water froths and flows.

The walls are sheer in this canyon drear. In the river huge boulders lie, And they cause the water to surge and boil, And they cause the spray to fly.

At one wild turn where the waters churn The bottom drops away, There the river falls on the rocks below And the air is filled with spray.

In a frightening whirl the waters swirl And they form a deep dark hole. Around its edges the rocks are ringed To make the huge waves roll.

For miles around can be heard the sound Of this rapid's mighty roar. And a tale is told of how it got its name The name of Belle Zabor.

Smooth as a dream this raging stream At the mouth of the canyon flows, And there on its banks in yesteryears A tiny hamlet rose.

In a grassy vale at the end of a trail That wound from the winding street, A woodsman dwelt in a cabin of log, Kept by his daughter sweet.

With a temper quick, not one to trick, The woodsman guarded the maiden well. Old Zeke Zabor was not one to cross And he worshipped his daughter Belle.

Now they tell of this daughter Belle, Of her beauty and her charm, And how old Zeke watched night and day To keep this maid from harm.

But there came one day a riverman With charm and wit to spare, And he lulled old Zeke with good red wine While he wooed the maiden fair.

Soft as a breeze in the whispering trees He murmured vows of the eternal kind, And not at all did the maid suspect The fickleness of a riverman's mind.

Fast in her arms he reveled in her charms While in a stupor old Zeke lay. When the poor girl slept then her lover crept, To the river he stole away.

He climbed in his boat and put it afloat, Pulled hard for the middle of the stream. The moon came out and the stars were bright And the whole world seemed a dream.

All seemed so right in that balmy night 'Til he felt the currents tow. He leaned to his oars and he gave it his best, But his boat was swept on down below.

He knew he was doomed when the canyon loomed, But he made a hell of a fight. The water raged as the walls grew high And shut out the last of the light.

No time to repent for a life misspent Or regrets for things left undone. No time to recall the bad and the good Or the things done in the name of fun.

He gave no cry when his boat leaped high And his oars pulled only air. Then he was down in the swirling hole No time for a muttered prayer.

Though his heart was stout, time ran out, from the shattered boat he was thrown. The dark waters surged up over his head And the river claimed him for its own.

The very next day they found where he lay In an eddy by the rock strewn shore. They lifted him out and carried him away To the grief-stricken Belle Zabor.

At a total loss by a new formed cross, Belle wept in wild dismay, As she flung herself on the new raised mound Where her ill-fated lover lay.

With a wailing sound she leaped from the ground To the raging river she fled! For her life had no meaning left With her lover cold and dead.

Where the wild waters swept with a scream she leapt And the rapid took her for ever more. When it took her life it took her name, For now they call it Belle Zabor.

Now they say at night when the stars are bright And the moonbeams flit around, From out of the din of the rapid's roar Can be heard a sweet, sweet sound.

'Tis music played by the long-dead maid As she pleads with the men on the shore, "Oh cast your craft on my plunging waves. Come run the Belle Zabor!"

In the little vale at the end of the trail Old Zeke lived out his remaining days, Then the cabin was empty, the windows dark, The old place was falling to stays.

But one bright day there passed that way A young man with his son and his wife, And he saw the old cabin and at once he knew 'Twas a dream he'd dreamed all his life.

From dawn to night 'til the cabin was right He toiled with his wife and the lad. And there they dwelt and all was well. It was a good, good life they had.

But one night late came the hand of fate And the song of Belle he heard. He did not know what troubled his mind For he recognized not a word.

As the days progressed like a man possessed He brooded and he knew not why. Deeper and deeper his mind was drawn To the dead maiden's plaintive cry.

"Oh come and rest on my trembling breast. Know the sweetest love ever gave. I'll tell you this, you've never known bliss Like a visit to my watery grave."

The man never knew as his troubles grew, 'Twas the siren song in his ear That tugged at his heart and poisoned his mind And filled his soul with fear.

He could not eat, the song's hypnotic beat Ever enticed like a deadly lure. Though he tried and he tried to shut his mind, 'Twas more than he could endure.

The sleep he lost as he turned and tossed Made his cheeks grow wan and pale. His temper was short and his moods were dark And his body grew lean and frail.

In sleep at night came a revealing light, He leaped from his bed and he swore, "I am the man! I have the plan! I'll run the Belle Zabor!

"I'll build a boat that will ever float, For I dreamed this in my dream. It must be strong and it must be stout And it must be tight of seam."

“It must take the knock of the jagged rock And still bounce back for more. It will be a boat that cannot sink, The likes never built before.” Like a man entranced, the risk he chanced Never entered into his mind. He vowed he would build his boat Of the strongest wood he could find.

In the country about he searched throughout And he selected his material well. Day after day in a skillful way His hammer rose and fell.

Stroke by stroke from seasoned oak He carved his planks to fit. He sealed them tight with pitch of pine And the boat grew bit by bit.

Fore and aft as he fashioned the craft, He built chambers water tight. He made it wide and broad of beam So it could tilt and bounce upright.

At last one day before him lay The boat of his fondest dreams. And it seemed a very able craft To run the wildest streams.

His wife implored, but he ignored Her pleas of not to go For he said, “It's destined I try my boat On the rapids down below.

“For I had this dream, and it would seem The first I was meant to be To run Belle Zabor with boat and oar. That is my destiny!” Despite his wife's fears and her flowing tears, He launched out in the stream. He settled himself unto his oars To fulfill his fleeting dream.

At the waterfall 'neath the towering wall The rapid roared its siren song “Hurry down to me, wild and free, Your journey won't be long.” With skill and poise, as the approaching noise Louder and wilder grew, He tested his craft with the bite of his oars And his boat responded true.

The moments passed and the time ran fast 'Til before him the rapid lay. He could not see what waited beyond In the churning froth and spray.

He went over the top of that awesome drop! He plunged into the deafening sound! The water took hold of his thrashing boat And spun it hard around!

Though sturdy the boat with a strong will to float, And the brave man at the oar, They were no match for the fury and wrath Of the wild rapid, Belle Zabor.

With all of his might, he pulled fast to the right, He tried to avoid the hole. Hard he crashed into a rock on the rim, And it caused his boat to roll.

His chances were dim as he tried to swim, But his efforts were to no avail. The mad waters dashed him on the rocks And they broke his body frail.

The day was sad for the widow and lad. The walk from the graveyard long. The mother patted the boy on the head And bade him be brave and strong.

But when he got his chance the boy in a trance Into the deep, dark canyon fled. 'Til he stood on the brink of the awesome fall Filled with fear and dread.

But as the moments flew his passion grew Until he shook his fist and swore In a towering rage, “When I come of age I'll run you, Belle Zabor!” The years flew fast until at last The boy left his mother's side. And her pleading tears were to no avail To this headstrong youth with pride.

Fast in his head were the words that he said When he made his childhood vow. Ever and ever it burned in his mind And he swore he'd do it now. His mind was on fire with a wild desire This rapid he must run! He set forth into the world To seek how it could be done.

This fledging boy, he sought not joy. He had a desperate need To be able to guide a heaving boat And a raging rapid read.

At camp on the bars at night 'neath the stars He heard tales the rivermen told. And he listened well and he listened long To the wisdom of the old.

Never before had youth at oar Strived so hard to learn. He seldom spoke and he never smiled. And his manner was cold and stern.

When he did hear be it far or near Of a river hard to run, Then he set forth be it south or north And he ran it not for fun.

He did it to learn, for he did yearn All the things to know About the rapids, wild and free, And how a boatman should row.

How to survive the knock of the jagged rock, How to avoid the swirling hole, How to brave the wildest wave, And what to do in a roll.

As time flew his skill grew As a boatman shrewd and strong. On every stream he was supreme. He stood above the throng.

As oarsman staunch, wherever boats launch, They sought his services out, In times of distress with great finesse He proved both skilled and stout.

But they thought it sad, this handsome lad Never smiled or tried to joke. The rumor grew of an ill-fated love And how his heart was broke.

For many said at night in bed On some lonely river shore, They often heard him toss and turn And murmur, “Belle Zabor.” But he was never swayed by winsome maid. For him life held no fun, Until he could fulfill his burning need. This rapid he must run!

Time slipped past and at last He'd made himself such a name. At oar of boat he had no peer, To him all rivers were tame.

Then he knew what he must do. The time had come and now He must return to his boyhood home And fulfill his awesome vow.

The mother was glad to see the lad But her heart cried out in pain, “Oh stay away from the river, Son!” But her pleading was in vain.

He brought with him for his journey grim The latest boat on the scene. It was strong and its sides were tough. It was made of neoprene.

His smile was brave, as a kiss he gave To his mother on the shore. Said, “The time is now to fulfill my vow To the rapid, Belle Zabor.” The water was fast, for in days past Rains had raised the river's flow. Never before in such violent rage Had the rapid roared down below.

His heart beat stout. He had no doubt As the rapid closer and closer grew. He'd be the one! He'd be the first To shoot a boat on through!

He pulled hard to the rear as the rapid grew near To slow the boat's wild flight, Then his craft went over the edge And he dropped down out of sight!

Never before had man at oar Rowed with such skill and might. Where the wild waves roll he avoided the hole. It looked like he'd won the fight!

But at the very last when he tried to slip past A jagged rock that stuck Barely above the foaming froth, The side of his boat he struck.

With a sickening tear he lost the air In a front compartment of his boat. Water poured in! He was out of control, Although he was still afloat!

He could not guide with that deflated side. His boat flipped in the very next wave. Between rocks on the right his body wedged tight, And he went to his watery grave.

If you want to live, this message I give To all brave rivermen; Whether you tread the narrow and straight, Or revel in the deep dark sin.

No matter how bold, if you want to grow old, Heed what has gone before. Fulfill your dreams on the wildest streams, But don't try the Belle Zabor!

For more information about the Glen Canyon Conservancy, please visit www.canyonconservancy.org. AH