Desert Daze: A Southwest Adventure (XVIII)

Part Eighteen: Holy Sh*t, You’ve Got To Be Kidding Me, The Road Goes Where?

I find out later when looking at my map that I’ve been driving on the Notom-Bullfrog Road. Gotta love the names of some of the roads around here: Notom-Bullfrog (goes to Eggnog Junction!) Hole-in-the-Rock. Moody Canyon. Lampstand. Nipple Creek. Death Ridge. Left Hand Collet. Carcass Wash. Etc. All very descriptive and I’m sure, with some interesting stories behind them.

I looked into a couple of the names when I returned home from the trip. Turns out Left Hand Collet Road simply refers to one of two canyons (Left Hand and Right Hand Collet) that merge into Collet Canyon; not too exciting. Carcass Wash Road however, refers to the bodies of cattle that are found in the road after attempting to cross this steep wash and not making it. Turns out this steepness has created some human carcasses too. In 1963 a party of 49 people, including members of a Scout Troop, were heading to a boating trip down the Colorado River here (before it disappeared under the waters of Lake Powell) when the truck they were riding in lost power while climbing out of the wash, and then lost its brakes. It rolled back into the bottom, killing 13 adults and children.

Driving Notom-Bullfrog Road north, I am lost in reverie, consumed by the extreme beauty all around meand almost miss the road heading off west to Boulder.

I turn, but then realize it heads right up the massive wall of the Waterpocket Fold. Uh-oh. I see no warning signs indicating that this is four-wheel drive only, so I continue on. It is an admittedly very well maintained road, but still, it is gravel, only one vehicle wide in places, and heading straight up. And, just to keep things interesting, there are patches of snow and ice on the switchbacks near the top. And no guardrails. Arghhhhh!

Once committed though, there is nothing to do but keep pushing upward (can’t even imagine trying to back down.) I stop at one of the switchbacks near the top to look down at where I have just come from – whoa!, this is one steep mother of a road – it looks to be almost straight down from here.

Oops, now someone in a jeep is coming down at me from the top and I’m blocking the road. I have stopped at the edge of a snow patch - not too smart. I try to get going again and only succeed in spinning the tires, moving the truck sideways towards the edge. I’m scared. I think I need to change my underwear scared. I back up to dry pavement and try again; this time I gain enough purchase and momentum to make it through the snow patch and to dry pavement on the other side. Whew! I pull over in a wider section and let the Jeep pass me. The occupants are two women, apparently out looking for adventure like me. It's not too often I see women in remote areas like this. They look at me wide-eyed, probably thinking something like “this guy is totally nuts coming up here in that van” but they smile and wave. Naturally, I smile and wave back trying to appear nonchalant, trying to keep the terror off my face.

Of course, you knew I made it or I wouldn’t be telling this story. According to what I've since read, this road on this steep, 600-foot slickrock and scree slope is the only relatively easy crossing over the entire southern Waterpocket Fold. (Harrumph. If you had tried to tell me a few minutes ago when my heart was beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings (that's about 50 times per second) that it’s a ‘relatively easy’ crossing, I would have taken issue!)

I pull over at the top to gather my wits . I look back: an incredible view of classic desert scenery and mountains. Up here, the weather is different; there are patches of snow scattered about and the wind is bitingly cold. I am on the Burr Trail, named after John Atlantic Burr, who was born in 1846 aboard the SS Brooklyn somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. He and his family lived in Salt Lake City, then later moved south and established the town of Burrville, Utah, in 1876. The route was probably initially used by American Indians, but John Burr further improved it to move cattle back and forth between winter and summer ranges and to market. This cattle trail through the rough, nearly impassable country around the Waterpocket Fold, Burr Canyon, and Muley Twist Canyon eventually came to be known as the Burr Trail.

And said Burr Trail will get me to Boulder, eventually - it’s not done with me yet!

Next: Canyon Squall

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XVII)

Part Seventeen: Ticaboo Town, Pedestal Alleyway and the Great Wall

(Story continued from the April 28th posting. not the May 1st one.)

It’s a miracle - the fumes of the fumes get me to Ticaboo. And there are gas pumps here – Hooray! Turns out Ticaboo isn’t really so much a town as it is an all-in-one resort complex. It was established in the 70’s as another uranium mining town, but now relies on tourism business due to its relative proximity to Lake Powell (about eleven miles from here.) So here, in the middle of desolate nowhere, you’ll find everything you could possibly need – a store, deli, motel, tavern and, of course, gasoline. It’s probably a hoppin’ place in the summer, but now, in winter, the store looks closed. Oh no, now what do I do? But when I see that the gas pumps operate 365/24/7 by credit card, relief floods through me. Hooray indeed!

Flush with gas (the truck, not me), I continue south towards the lake. I spy a road labeled as a ‘Scenic Backway’ heading off towards the west. A sign indicates that this road will take me to the little town of Boulder and that’s exactly where I want to go - I desperately need a shower. So, if this road will get me to Boulder and someone thinks it’s scenic, that’s enough for me; I turn.

The road turns to dirt after a few miles but it is well-graded - so far. Dipping down into a ravine, I see a ‘Road Closed’ sign at the side of the road. Evidence in the form of eroded road bed and still-wet earth high up on the banks of the gully show why it was closed - the creek running through it had obviously recently flash flooded. Fortunately, the water is now low enough for me to ford it; I push on despite the little voice in my head questioning whether that’s a good idea. I tell the voice to shut up - after all, that’s what I’m here for - adventure!

Whoever designated this road scenic sure got it right. Grand walls of layered limestone accented by red striped mounds lying at its base rise monumentally in front of me as far as I can see.

Turns out this wall of rock I am driving next to is the ‘Waterpocket Fold’, a long warp in the Earth's crust. It’s a monocline: a regional fold with one very steep side in an area of otherwise nearly horizontal layers. A monocline is a "step-up" in the rock layers; the layers on the west side of the Waterpocket Fold have been lifted more than 7000 feet higher than the layers on the east. Major folds are almost always associated with underlying faults. The Waterpocket Fold formed between 50 and 70 million years ago when a major mountain building event in western North America, the Laramide Orogeny, reactivated an ancient buried fault. When the fault moved, the overlying rock layers were draped above the fault and formed a monocline. However it was formed, it’s impressive – essentially a ‘Great Wall’ of rock that stretches for nearly 100 miles!

On my right, a trailhead sign whizzes by. I turn around to investigate - the trail leads to the ‘Pedestal Alleyway’, a small canyon full of hoodoos.

By now, you’d think I’d have had enough of hoodoos but I can’t resist. The hike is tough going; it’s through disturbed desert (cattle grazing – I’ll say it again, what in the heck are cattle doing grazing in the desert?), a painfully slow slog through loose sand. I realize that my legs are still very tired from all the ambitious hiking I’ve been doing and that has, combining with not drinking enough water, reduced my legs to little more than wobbly wet noodles.

I finally make it to the 'alleyway' and it's an intriguing place. All varieties of hoodoos have ‘sprouted’ here in this little canyon - short ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones and even some that strikingly resemble a certain part of a man’s anatomy, if you get my drift.

But I have to admit that by now I have seen so many of these rock peculiarities that I am a little hoodoo'ed out. I shoot a few shots and then begin the long slog back. Lift foot, move it forward, put foot down, now the other. This is the way I’m feeling, like every step is a process. I’m so very tired of hiking through energy-sapping sand.

Finally, back at the truck, I wolf (why wolf, why not coyote?) down some peanut butter and jelly (no bread) and drink at least a half a gallon of water. This refreshes me both physically and mentally and I am now ready for more adventure – well, maybe only of the driving kind for the rest of this day.

Next: Holy Sh*t, You’ve Got To Be Kidding Me, This Road Goes Where?

Patience please...

With art show season upon me (for those who don't know, I exhibit my photography at outdoor art shows spring thru fall), posts will be a little more sporadic, generally about once a week. Part 17 will be posted later this week. Please keep checking back! And post any comments you have, lets get some dialog going.

Thanks so much for your interest!

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XVI)

Part Sixteen: A One Night Vacation at Ghost Marina

(First time reading this story? Scroll down to start with Part One)

(Note: I actually got ahead of myself with the last post, accidentally skipping over some of my notes - the gas dilemma and Ticaboo actually happen tomorrow. I will continue with that story next post, today however, I am still in the middle of grand and lovely nowhere, heading north from my night spent at Muley Point.)

When I get back from one of these journeys, people often ask me how my ‘vacation’ was. Vacation? What Vacation? I usually need a vacation after one of my adventures.

The word ‘vacation’ comes from the Latin word vacare, “to be empty.” I guess that is what most people want to experience - a week or two spent empty of mind, responsibilities and physical demands and often it’s a chance to just lie around and do whole a lot of nothing. Be empty. And certainly there’s nothing wrong with that but…

By that definition, my adventures are hardly vacations. On what vacation would you dutifully get yourself up everyday an hour or two before dawn to be out hiking at first light? On what vacation would you willingly freeze half to death almost every night? On what vacation would you spend time every evening diligently writing notes instead of relaxing? On what vacation would you come back more physically exhausted than before you left?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I do love my adventures, but the word vacation just doesn’t fit. But, like a good vacation, I always come back feeling mentally refreshed and in better physical shape. Also, by the end of the trip, I feel that my spiritual gas tank has been re-filled, I have re-connected with the universe and usually have lots of new work and words to share. These trips actually allow me, for a couple of weeks at a time, to be who I really am – an explorer and adventurer - I escape to myself. Unfortunately, I can’t take these trips nearly as often as I’d like to, life and things like making a living get in the way. I am quite sure though that, in a past life, I was once a full-time explorer, maybe Lewis or Clark or possibly even John Wesley Powell.

Speaking of Powell, I am now descending steeply into the Colorado River valley towards the northeast end of Lake Powell. A marina suddenly appears like a mirage floating in the desert. The Hite Marina has all the facilities you would expect: bathrooms (open), store (closed), boat ramp and docks, but the ramp and docks are high and dry and there’s no one around. It’s feels like a ghost town, albeit a more modern one made of concrete and steel.

After several years of light snowfall in the Rockies, the lake has evaporated much more water than has been replenished, it’s down almost 100 feet from its highest levels. It’s almost back to being a river here. White ‘bathtub' rings high up on the rocks illuminate just how low the lake is. Add this to the fact that this is a weekday in midwinter and it’s no wonder that no one is here.

I benefit from the marina’s empty (vacare!) status in numerous ways. First, camping is free and I can select any campsite I want - I choose one with a great view. Secondly, there’s plenty of firewood (driftwood) just laying around for the taking. Third, it’s very peaceful and quiet; there are no motors out on the lake. And lastly, I have, all to myself, a real brick and mortar (clean!) bathroom with running water and toilet paper - what luxury!

I build a blaze, the first real bonfire of the trip (as you can imagine, the desert doesn’t usually offer up a whole lot of wood for fires.) Then I uncork a bottle of wine, take out some cheese and crackers and just sit by the fire while gazing contentedly out onto the surface of the lake (or what remains of it), where the glowing red cliffs above are being reflected. Beautiful!

It’s warmer here than any of the other places I have camped so far and not just because of the fire; I’m at lower elevation, 2,500 feet lower than last night for instance, which makes for about a ten degree difference. With the fire, that’s really significant, and, for the first time on this trip, I’m actually comfortable being outside after the sun goes down without needing to bundle up like the Michelin man. Real bathrooms, running water, good wine, a nice fire and relative warmth - I guess you could say I am on ‘vacation’ tonight!

I’m up well before dawn the next morning (vacation over!) to shoot the first light.

It’s cool, but not frigid and I am actually enjoying the morning placidity without shivering for once. There’s hardly a sound except for my breathing and the occasional vehicle passing by out on the highway. I consider staying here for another day – it’s all so very comfortable - but decide against it; there’s so much yet to explore and only a little more than a week of ‘vacation’ left to do it!

Next: To Tiny Ticaboo Town