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

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XV)

Part Fifteen: Beyond the Back of the Beyond

I am cruising north on Route 261 toward the Henry Mountains, the last discovered mountain range in the lower 48 (even more remote than it is now and it's still remote...), floating like a mirage on the horizon. This is real backcountry; I encounter nary another vehicle for many miles.

The Grand Gulch primitive area lies on both sides of me, rugged canyon lands accessible only by pack animal or on foot. The Anasazi ("Ancient Ones") flourished in Grand Gulch between 700 and 2,000 years ago. What makes this area truly unique is the multitude of unexplored and sometimes uncatalogued cultural sites hidden away in the canyons waiting to be discovered by the intrepid explorer. Many are in excellent condition, you can find dwellings, pottery, tools, and art work (do not disturb!) Historians theorize that the Anasazi abandoned the area for the surrounding mountains due to a prolonged drought, but, for whatever the reason, they vanished suddenly after making it their home for over 1,000 years.

To discover one of these sites would be exciting, make one feel like a real explorer. I am sure that I would really be able to connect to the spirit of the place too, at least so much more than I can at some roped off ‘historical landmark’ surrounded by a flock of gawking tourists and hovering park rangers. I make it a priority to get back here equipped with the proper wheels (four wheel drive de rigueur, many of the trails lie off rough roads that I don’t dare pursue with Hotel Truck) sometime in the near future.

Route 261 ends at Route 95, left heads toward the northern end of Lake Powell and right eventually takes you to Arches and Canyonlands National Parks. I choose the more remote route (surprised?); I turn left.

Lake Powell was created in 1963 by the damming (damning?) of Glen Canyon. Edward Abbey in his writings called it Lake Foul. He was convinced that eventually it would become one huge miasmatic, oil-slicked cesspool filled with debris, garbage, human waste and even a few cow carcasses washed down out of the neighboring canyons. He floated Glen Canyon twice before it was dammed and reported scenic, cultural, and wilderness qualities comparing to America's finest national parks. Glen Canyon has (had) over 80 delightful side canyons of colorful Navajo Sandstone containing clear streams, abundant wildlife, arches, natural bridges, and thousands of Native American archeological sites. Abbey was angry that all this was submerged to satisfy America’s twin addictions to power and relentless ‘growth’ (Abbey on unchecked sprawl and industrialization: "Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.")

Toward Lake Foul we go, let’s see what the hand of man has created. I hear it’s actually quite beautiful in spite of its ruinous history with its blue waters lapping up against red rock bluffs. The road to get there is beautiful in itself; I am surrounded on one side by a deep, mysterious river canyon that compels me to slam on the brakes, throw on my hiking boots and plunge down into it and on the other side by massive, impressive walls of fluted red rock. This is grand country, no doubt about it.

I glance down uncomfortably at the gas gauge edging down inexorably towards ‘E’, my last fill was way back in Page, Arizona (in hindsight, I shoulda got gas in Monument Valley or Mexican Hat but I am loath to backtrack now) and I am truly in the back-of-the-beyond; I haven’t seen a house or structure, much less a gas station for many miles. The map shows hope in the form of a tiny dot called Fry Canyon just ahead. Alas, it turns out to be all but abandoned. A former uranium boomtown, now all that remains is the Fry Canyon resort and even that is closed for the winter and it’s the only town shown on this route until Hanksville, about 100 miles away.

Sucking on fumes, I come to the intersection with Route 276, which angles off to southwest towards Lake Powell. It dead ends at the lake (in the summer there is ferry service to the other side where the road continues) but my map shows another tiny town called Ticaboo (love that name!) along the way, but will there be gas or will it be another ghost town and/or closed down for the winter? Well, there’s always the Bullfrog Marina all the way at the end of the road if I can get that far; I point my wheels towards Ticaboo and hope.

Next: To Tiny Ticaboo Town

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XIV)

Part Fourteen: Muley Magic – The Best Sunset and Sunrise Views Money Can’t Buy

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

As I watch the setting sun cast long shadows across the Valley of the Gods below, I wonder, what is this fascination with naming places after death, god, hell and the devil? Valley of the Gods. Devil’s Playground. Hell’s Backbone. Devil’s Postpile. Hell Hollow. Death Hollow. God’s Castle Spires. Death Valley. Kill Devil Hills. Devil’s Tower. Sleeping God Canyon. Hell’s Canyon. Hell’s Kitchen. Devil’s Run. I could go on…

But who cares anyway why? The view from here is simply incredible no matter what you call the landscape features. The sun sets the rims of the San Juan River Canyon, curling off into the distance like a giant, black snake across the plain, on fire, highlighting the contrast between the deep, dusky canyon and the plateau above. In this light, the canyon floor, dimly seen, somehow doesn’t seem all that far away; I feel like I could almost float gently down into it like a feather; again, the canyon beckons me. What glorious mysteries are hiding down in its depths? Basking in this golden sunset light, drinking in the awesome panorama spread out before me, I feel as if I am dreaming the best possible dream but am somehow still awake. Life is but a dream?

Once again, I have another spectacular place all to myself. How lucky am I? The New York Times called Southern Utah ‘America’s Outback’ and, while it’s certainly no Australia, it’s about as remote as you can get in the lower 48 - that’s one of the reasons I love it so. I have thought numerous times about moving here permanently, I could hike a different trail every day for the rest of my life and probably never run out. However, when seriously considered, the annoying problem of how to make a living here in ‘America’s Outback’ always rears its ugly head.

Wandering about Muley Point in the evening glow, I look for interesting photographic opportunities. I find a puddle that, if I lay down next to it on the ground, captures the reflection of a bush with the sunset glow behind it.

Neat. Again, I reflect on how simple life is during an adventure like this. My biggest concerns are typically: What should I shoot (photograph)? Where should I head next? Do I have enough food for the next few days? Water? Wine? Gas? I must figure out how to sneak away on adventures like this more often…

Rant: The sunset sky is crisscrossed (and therefore ruined from a nature photographer’s point of view) by dozens on contrails. At this time of night I notice that the majority of these planes are traveling west to east, I surmise it’s mostly end-of-day business travelers returning home from Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Here I am in the remotest of remote spots and I can’t escape ‘syphilization’ as Edward Abbey liked to call it. You may say I am a hypocrite because I flew out here, but I fly at most once or twice a year, while business travelers think nothing of hopping on a plane often, sometimes once or twice a week. With modern technology at their service, why can’t they video or phone conference more often instead of flying and putting unnecessary CO2 into our already besieged atmosphere? (Not to mention ruining the sky for my pictures, of course.) OK, rant over.

Waking up after yet another frigid night in Hotel Truck, I bundle up and go outside into the chill air to watch the golden sunrise slowly creep across the vast plain and canyon spread out before me. Watching this spectacle, I am a very happy, if not more than just a bit chilly, camper this morning.

Next: Beyond the Back of the Beyond – From Muley to Powell

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XIII)

Part Thirteen: From Mexican Hat to Muley Point

(Scroll down to start from the beginning)

Leaving the monoliths of Monument Valley behind, I drive across a flat plain towards the tiny town of Mexican Hat. The town gets its name from a large, flat rock balanced precariously on a smaller base below; it’s really quite a spectacle. The San Juan River runs through here carving inexorably deeper and deeper into the earth exposing an amazement of colored layers; the cliffs here look a lot like one of those glass enclosed layered ‘sand art’ pictures come to life in grand scale.
I take the dirt road that leads up to and then beyond ‘Hat Rock’; it ends at the banks of the San Juan. This would be a beautiful place to camp but I decide that I want to be at Muley Point for sunset so I turn around and drive back to the main highway. From here, I can see Cedar Mesa looming in the distance like a giant wall; Muley Point is at the top of that wall. To get up there you must take a steep gravel road that ascends 1,100 feet in three miles over a series of switchbacks. Well before the beginning of that ascent, there are signs posted dissuading large vehicles from continuing on; some of the switchbacks involve extremely tight turns.

So it’s ironic when, as I begin the ascent, I see a huge tanker truck coming down towards me, brakes squealing and engine roaring - the driver has obviously ignored all the warning signs. I pull over to let him by; he waves thanks. At one particularly tight bend, he performs a three point turn to make it; he seems to know what to expect, he must have driven this route before.

When I reach the top, I pull over to get out and look back. The view is immense, to the south I see the buttes of Monument Valley and the Valley of the Gods (including the fancifully named Setting Hen, Rooster and Lady in the Bathtub Buttes) sticking up like so many fins and turrets from the desert floor. To the west, I can see some of the goosenecks of the San Juan and to the east the vast desert plain stretches out seemingly forever.

After marveling over this view for a few minutes, I climb back into the truck and continue on until I reach the turnoff for Muley Point Road. It’s a rough gravelly road and, like before when I traveled the deeply rutted road to Coyote Buttes, I must focus my full attention on my driving to avoid bottoming out. It’s a jostley five mile ride, but all that is immediately forgotten when the view of the goosenecks of San Juan River canyon suddenly appears at the end.

I’m now standing at the edge of a precipitous cliff looking down thousands of feet into the depths of the canyon. The river here turns back on itself repeatedly creating the goosenecks; at one point, it travels five river miles but only makes one mile of forward progress. The river that did all this sculpting is mostly hidden behind rock walls; only in a few places does it reveal itself. This incredible view has me hypnotized, I can’t look away and, for some reason, I get the feeling that the canyon is trying to suck me in - I move back a few steps from the edge.

Next: Muley Magic – The Best Sunset and Sunrise Views Money Can’t Buy

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XII)

Part Twelve: From Page to Sage
(Scroll down this page to start with Part One)

My kingdom for a warm, comfy bed. I deserve it. And I could also really use a shower too, so I rent a room in Page, Arizona, a strange little bustling city on the banks of Lake Powell. It’s a noisy place – people yelling and conversing loudly, kids screaming, horns honking and it would seem that very few cars and trucks here are equipped with mufflers. Or is it me? Am I just super sensitive after spending the last six days in desert silence? No matter, I’m out like a light the second I hit the pillow; normally a light sleeper, no horn nor voice nor loud vehicle can keep me up tonight.

On the other side of eight hours of sleep, I wake up totally refreshed. I decide to take it easy today, no hurry, no worry. I organize my stuff, eat a leisurely breakfast, study the maps to choose my next destination, do some laundry, shower then finally hit the road around eleven. I have my sights set on Monument Valley and the sagebrush country of Utah.

Monument Valley is located in southeast Utah just north of the Arizona border. It’s an impressive place - huge sandstone buttes dot the valley, the largest of which towers 1,000 feet over the valley floor. These buttes are not just big, they are also vividly colored with red being the dominant color. As in Coyote Buttes and throughout the Southwest, various oxides impart the color in the rock; the reds in particular is imparted by iron oxide.

Three distinct layers make up these monoliths: the base is made up of Organ Rock Shale, this is soft shale; the middle section is DeChelly Sandstone, hard shale; and the top is Moenkopi shale topped by Shinarump siltstone. These rocks have what are called ‘joints’ - vertical, very smooth and even, and they determine how a rock erodes and give these particular formations their unique look.

A fascinating place but I don’t stay long; I need to find a place to camp tonight before dark. Northward ho!

Next: From Mexican Hat to Muley Point

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (XI)

Part XI: Coyote Buttes North - More Fascinating Features
(Scroll down to start with Part One)

The Wave is perched up high on a long relatively flat bench of rock; I wander the surrounding area and find some other neat stuff. I’m always looking for reflections; these frozen puddles provided nice butte (that’s butte, not butt!) reflections.

To the north, I discover an incredible swirl of texture and color, too bad the light isn’t quite right! Ah, a reason to come back! (Yeah, as if I needed one…) Now a good distance away from The Wave, I pick my way carefully down a slope off the bench into a canyon and supernatural world of blue shadows, red sand, slick rock and big buttes.

Following the path of the occasional flash floods that must roar through here, I encounter a steep drop-off. At first glance it appears unscalable without ropes. Just when I’m thinking that I’m going to have to turn back and re-trace my route, I spy a way down via some protruding ledges. That obstacle overcome, the canyon spits me out below The Wave.

That’s where it hits me, how utterly exhausted I am and I still have to hike back. At this point I’m also experiencing sensory overload, so much stimulation in one day. It’s definitely time to leave.

My legs, complaining the whole way, manage to drag my tired torso back to the entrance and the scene of the couple of unnecessarily added hiking miles early this morning. Those extra miles are looming large now as I trudge up the wash, staring at my feet, willing them to keep moving. After what seems like forever, but in reality is only about a half mile, I look up and, hooray! - there it is - Hotel Truck. Its four wheels and shining shell of steel never looked so good! Oh magic ride, take this crumbling carcass some where it can sleep, in a heap, long and deep – won’t need to count sheep to fall asleep!

Next: From Page to Sage…

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (X)

Part Ten: On to The Wave…

(Scroll down to start with Part One)

Despite my pooped pins, this parched person makes good time; that gives me about an hour before anyone else shows up. This is my second time visiting The Wave, but it amazes me all over again - I’ve never seen anything quite like it, it’s truly a wonder of the world. (Yep, that's me standing in The Wave, below.)

The Wave consists of Jurassic Navajo Sandstone and is named for its resemblance to a cresting ocean wave. Its coloration is a wide range of red, orange, yellow, white, and purple hues largely controlled by iron oxide mineralogies that document diagenetic (the conversion of sediment into rock) fluid flow and chemical reaction fronts.

There were at least four distinct coloration events: an initial reddening by iron oxides; a bleaching event that pulled some of the oxides back out of the rock; a second introduction of iron oxides, this time tending towards black to purple and then a final overprinting of yellow banding.

The Wave follows a large natural fracture in a cliff that has been enlarged by water. The smooth bowl is a wind-scoured channel whose dimensions are just right for it to act as a sort of venturi, effectively increasing wind speed within it, further sculpting and enhancing textural differences and highlighting the colors.

Even knowing how The Wave was formed and seeing pictures beforehand cannot prepare you at all for the awesome-ness of it. It’s, well… just incredible. Unbelievable. Surreal. All these things and more. No words seem good enough to describe it.

Finally, another one of the fortunate twenty shows up; that’s my cue to go off and explore other intriguing parts of CB that I passed up previously in favor of spending alone time with the one and only ‘The Wave’.

Next: More Fascinating Features of Coyote Buttes North

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (IX)

Part Nine: Exploring Planet Coyote North & The Wave

I am up and out of Hotel Truck well before dawn, excited about the prospects of the coming day. As it turns out, it’s a good thing I awoke early; navigating a dark, damp wash by headlamp beam, I miss the turnoff to Coyote Buttes at first, adding about two miles to my hike. I wouldn’t have stood a chance to make it in there for sunrise, as was my plan, without the extra early start.

Actually, it wouldn’t have been a bad thing if I had just kept going down this wash instead of turning around; I would have ended up in Buckskin Gulch. According to what I’ve read, Buckskin is the longest and deepest slot canyon in the entire Southwest, the canyon by which all other slot canyons are judged. I do want to explore it sometime for sure, but just not today.

Backtracking, I find the turnoff, easily missed by a single, narrow beam probing the dark, but now obvious in first light. After an uneventful mile or so of hiking, I climb up over a ridge and, Voila!, the otherworldly landscape of CB is revealed to me just as the sun’s corona peaks up over the horizon.

Perfect timing. In my estimation, there is nary a better place in the entire universe to be than here, now; from where I’m standing, fantastical formations are spread out before me as far as the eye can see. As if on cue, namesake coyotes again provide the soundtrack for a magic moment; I am privileged to hear their peculiar yelps, yips and yodels more often during this trip than all my other previous western adventures combined.

Now I again begin pushing one boot clad foot in front of the other over the rocky terrain. My feet feel heavy, as if they are encased in cement; I suddenly realize just how tired my legs are. This is the sixth straight day I'll be hiking at least eight miles – strenuous miles of ups and downs and clambers over rocks, ridges and ravines, all at relatively high elevations. Of course it’s my own fault that my feet are fading, not only do I choose challenging routes, but my unstoppable drive to explore often takes me off trail, adding miles to my original plan every time. The up side: I'll be in great shape by the end of this trip!

I also haven’t been drinking enough water. The high, dry desert, even in winter, sucks the moisture right out of your body; you don’t even realize you’re perspiring because your sweat is immediately wicked off your skin. Many people who move to arid places from wetter climes eventually form kidney stones due to constant dehydration; I once read that people are seven times more likely to develop kidney stones in the Southwest than in other parts of the country.

Intriguing formations abound along the route to The Wave, all calling out desperately to have me explore them, but I am one-focused. Actually, I am being selfish; I want The Wave all to myself for at least a little while and if I go straight there, I should be able to have some time alone before any of the other nineteen hikers show up. (Only twenty permits are issued to explore CB each day. By imposing this strictly-enforced limit, it is hoped that wear and tear will be kept to a minimum, sandstone is very fragile.)

Next: On to 'The Wave'

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (VIII)

Part Eight: Exploring Planet Coyote – South

(Scroll down to start with Part One)

Absotively posilutely (same word!) fantabulous. Oh no!, I’ve sunk to using funny but frivolous portmanteau words that really don’t tell you anything. I’m running out of superlatives to describe these places; even my good friend thesaurus isn’t much help anymore. Did you know that it was the author Lewis Carroll (real name: Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. How’s that for a mouthful? Try saying that ten times fast…) who first used the word portmanteau in this sense? (It also means ‘a large, double compartmented suitcase’). In his book Through the Looking-Glass, Humpty Dumpty explains to Alice the coinage of the unusual words in Jabberwocky: ’Slithy’ means ‘lithe and slimy’... You see it's like a portmanteau—there are two meanings packed up into one word. ‘Mimsy’ is ‘flimsy and miserable’ (there's another portmanteau ... for you)". The word itself is a portmanteau derived from porter (to carry) and manteau (mantle).


Anyway, as I said - fantabulous. I round a bend in the trail and suddenly, there they are – dozens of large twisted and tortured red rock ‘teepees’ looming before me. Hard to believe that these curious creations, in fact, the whole of the Colorado Plateau - an area larger than the Sahara Desert, once lay far away, near the equator and at a much lower elevation. The Colorado Plateau, which of course, wasn’t yet a plateau at that time, just a large desert, lay in a belt of strong trade winds, which blew quartz sand into dunes. Gradually, the dunes were buried and, under pressure, solidified into sandstone. Later, the whole area was thrust up, twisted and shoved north by plate tectonics, the interaction of ginormous (love that portmanteau!) plates deep beneath the earth’s surface. The uplifted area then weathered down, exposing the formerly buried sandstone we see now. Why the incredible colors you ask? I’ll get to that question in the next post…

South Coyote Buttes, when compared to North is relatively unexplored. For example, twenty people have permits to explore North today (and most every day) while I’m the only soul in South; I have the place to myself (yes!) Why the difference in interest? North has a truly standout formation called ‘The Wave’, (images to come) which is quickly becoming world famous. I read recently that ‘The Wave’ was featured in a German movie and that, as a result, many Germans venture hoping to visit it in person. While South may not have ‘The Wave’, it has its own collection of awetastic (hmmm, don’t like that one, sounds too much like autistic) formations and the solitude will be an added bonus; it’ll feel like true wilderness.

Wandering around in an awe-struck state with no plan in mind, I stumble upon a huge amphitheatre of twisted rock hidden away between some buttes where you’d never expect to find it; I suspect others miss it entirely. That would be a shame, its walls have some of the best striation patterns I’ve seen anywhere.

At this point, I could continue to attempt to describe what I see here in words, but I think I’d rather just let my pictures tell the rest of the story. Suffice to say that this is a most fanciful place, very ‘Alice-in-Wonderland’ (Lewis Carroll again!) in its otherworldliness.

After a wonderful day of hiking, climbing and clambering, I trudge back to my vehicle (at least it’s downhill this time!), then repair to my campsite. Despite the knowledge that I will be soon enduring yet another cold night in Hotel Truck, I am in good spirits; the thought that tomorrow I will be one of the privileged twenty who get to explore North Coyote Buttes keeps me warm. It’ll be a short night anyway, I’ll be getting up very early to be the first one in so I can spend some alone time with ‘The Wave’.

Next – Exploring Planet Coyote – North and ‘The Wave’

Desert Daze - A Southwest Adventure (VII)

Part Seven: Like Being On Another Planet

I pay the price for camping in winter in the high desert in an uninsulated van yet again. By 3am, my feet are frozen stiff and I try in vain to pull the blankets closer. It’s no use; I must get up and move. I take a moonlit hike, a brisk amble to get my blood flowing down the road that got me here.

This need to move turns out to be a good thing; it’s a beautiful night. I glide through the crystalline air warming up quickly, soon forgetting I was ever cold. Sparkling stars and a sliver of a moon provide all the light I need. I reach an apex in the road and stop to look around. It’s dead still and completely silent without my footfalls, I can hear my own heart beat. Above me, the Milky Way is painted in a great swath across the sky. Glittering stars reach all the way down to the horizon in every direction. Out of corner of my eye, a shooting star streaks across the black canvas. Suddenly, I am swept up into it all, into the vastness, floating amongst the stars, tethered to nothing. This is what they must mean when they say you feel you are ‘one with the universe.’ I am it and it is me. Pure magic.

The spell is broken when some coyotes set up howl in the distance, bringing me back to earth. I now notice the first faint glow of morning on the horizon; it’s time to return and prepare for the day ahead. I have permits to explore the adjacent wilderness areas known as Coyote Buttes South and North today and tomorrow. I explored the North area once in the past – it’s the closest I have ever come (and probably ever will) to being on another planet. The rocks are all twisted and layered into unbelievable shapes and patterns and the colors… well, suffice to say that they’re likewise almost unbelievable– deep reds, lovely pinks, soft yellows, vibrant oranges, pastel creams and all shades in between, like nothing else I’ve seen on this earth. I know I probably overuse the word, but I can think of no better to describe Coyote Buttes: surreal. Sublimely surreal.

Today’s permit is for the South area; this will be my first time there, it’ll be all new. I always get extremely excited, like a child about to open a present on his birthday, whenever I am going somewhere new - I can hardly stand the anticipation. Actually, the child and his present is a great analogy: this life spent exploring Mother Nature’s bountiful treasure chest is a wonderful gift to me from all those who support my work; I feel great gratitude for this.

The BLM ladies informed me yesterday that the trail to the buttes is 2.5 miles long, all uphill and extremely sandy. I park at the trailhead and begin the slog. They are right, especially about the sand. Another two steps forward, one step back type of a hike which makes for a long 2.5 miles, especially at this elevation. Very tiring, but as I round a bend about halfway there, a few of the fantastical rufous buttes pop into view in the distance, providing me with all the motivation I need to keep plodding ahead.

Next – Exploring Planet Coyote - South

Desert Daze – A Southwest Adventure (VI)

Part Six: Troughs, Tables and Technology

It’s getting dark and I must find somewhere to park Hotel Truck to sleep. I spy on the map the remote Stateline Campground just off the road I will hike from the next two days. The enthusiastic women in the BLM office told me that this road (called House Rock Valley Road) is passable by two wheel drive vehicles but, setting out on it, I immediately have my doubts. It’s extremely rutted, some so deep they’re more like troughs, forcing me to drive at a snail’s pace staying high on the dried-out top ridges to avoid scraping the undercarriage. Cringing as I creep forward, I expect at any moment to hear the dreaded screech of metal on rock. I bottom out the van several times and each time I look back fearing the worst – a trail of oil stretching out behind me. It never happens; we survive the drive, Hotel Truck and me, but it’s a loooooong 8 ½ miles.

As I drive into the campground, a little sign informs me I have left Arizona and entered Utah, hence the name, Stateline. It has picnic tables – hooray! My kingdom for a picnic table! I think about just how much that means to me right now - a place to eat, sit, open up a suitcase, and to type in these words. How interesting it is that in today’s gadget-intensive society that something so simple as a place to park my butt could mean so much, miles away from civilization as I am. And that's just the way I like it on these trips, primitive, where the simple is significant; it really helps me connect.

I have the place to myself, as usual; it’s just too darn cold at night for most people to consider camping. I pour myself a glass of fine red wine and wander the campground, basking in the faint glow of last light, admiring the red-rock hills surrounding me while enjoying John Huling’s heavenly ‘Spiritlands’ album on my iPod - this beautiful music has become the soundtrack for this trip.

OK, I admit it - there are two modern gadgets I can’t live without on these adventures any more. The first is the just mentioned iPod – what a great invention. So much music, so portable; for personal listening, it just can’t be beat. The other gadget I always bring along is the similarly named iPaq. By today’s standards, the iPaq is ancient technology (I acquired it in 2002), but it serves my needs wonderfully – it’s a ‘Pocket PC’ that I use to input and store my notes. It and the foldable keyboard I purchased along with it are so small that I can store them in my backpack ready to be whipped out at any time I need to capture some fleeting thought that I surely would forget otherwise. You may ask why I don’t just take a small notebook in which to jot down my notes - if you saw my handwriting you’d understand why. Even I can’t decipher it any more; I’m so used to typing on a keyboard that writing makes me impatient and my handwriting suffers. Badly. Besides, with the iPaq I can easily then transfer my notes to my laptop or home computer to work with them – sure beats typing everything in from hand-written notes!

Next – Like Being On Another Planet

Desert Daze - A southwest Adventure (V)

Part Five: Hoodoo Redux Two - Dali's Dream

(Scroll down to start with Part One)

It's like coming home, I’ve dreamed about getting back here ever since I stumbled upon it years ago. So surreal, it’s like being inside a Salvatore Dali painting – the impossible hoodoos, melting rocks, smooth patina and intense colors all contribute to the unreality of the place. I call it ‘Dali’s Dream’ – surely, he would have been proud to sculpt something like this. But Mother Nature’s not through yet, it’s still a work-in-progress - I tread lightly.

Hidden high up in a hanging canyon, you’d never know it was here. I’ve seen nary another footprint on either visit - I wonder if anyone else knows about it? If not, that’s even better - what nature lover doesn’t fantasize of finding their very own ‘secret garden’?

I stumbled upon Dali’s Dream while trying to find a way up a cliff to get closer to some toadstool hoodoos I’d seen sitting high atop a wall near here. Driven by my desire to commune with the magic mushrooms, I paid no attention to how I wound up in Dali’s Dream and soon found darkness closing in around me with no escape plan. Nearly froze to death in paradise.

What a fitting end that would’ve been – like I always say, if I die while adventuring, I died doing what I love. They say that in the final stages of hypothermia, the victim no longer feels any pain; in fact, it’s reported that one often experiences intense feelings of well-being, contentedness and bliss, sometimes paradoxically shedding their clothes just before they lay down to begin their next big adventure.

Obviously, I did find a way down but I’ve longed to come back ever since. I’ve wanted to see if this fantastical place would give me the same extraordinary feelings of being inside a dream it did the first time – and the answer is an emphatic ‘yes.’

Alas, when you have found Shangri-la, you never want to leave. But I must, I have permits to explore two more unreal places the next two days and it’s getting late. Déjà vu. Except this time I know my way out…

Next – Troughs, Tables and Technology

Desert Daze – A Southwest Adventure (IV)

Part Four:

'Hoodoo

Redux'

(Scroll down to start with Part One)

As Dr. Suess might have said: 'Whew! Hoodoo beaucoup! It's true, more than two, more than just a few! Who knew? Did you?’

Who knew there were so many hoodoos? They are found all over the Southwest, indeed, throughout the world – if you know where to look. Hoodoos are erosional towers left in place when a hard cap rock (generally a boulder or cobble) protects a column of more erodable sediment beneath. Thus, while the material surrounding the hoodoo is washed away by direct rainfall and surface erosion, the hoodoo stands, sometimes just an isolated one or two, sometimes whole ‘fields’ of them. They come in a great many varieties – tall, short, skinny, fat, rough, smooth, white, red, gray (and all shades in between), etc. – every hoodoo is unique and every location is unique, all it takes for the possibility of hoodoos is a harder layer of rock above a softer layer.

My first priority upon arriving in Kanab, Utah on this most pleasant morning is to visit the local BLM (Bureau of Land Management) office. It is from these knowledgeable men and women who staff the offices that I often get good information about unique places to hike and shoot. These rangers know their area well and are happy to share their knowledge – I guess I’d be happy too, with a job like theirs.

This time I’ve come specifically for permits to hike into Coyote Buttes where the semi-famous ‘Wave’ formation is located (more on Coyote Buttes and The Wave later.) I get my permits to explore the Buttes tomorrow and the day after leaving me with the rest of today to poke around elsewhere – I go hoodoo hunting.

I visit two locations. The first area is called ‘The Toadstools’; it is a hike featured in the BLM’s Grand Staircase-Escalante visitor information pamphlet and has an actual trail. It’s all new to me; this is my first visit. The hoodoos vary from white with red capstones to all red. There are three main sets, each different. The first bunch I encounter are red with a little striping, sitting high atop a base of furrowed bright white sandstone. The change from white to red is abrupt, there isn't any transition zone; I wonder why that is (anybody?)

A short distance away, another group sits beneath an imposing white cliff, mostly red again with slightly darker capstones. For some reason, this group brings to mind the ‘Flintstones’, that old cartoon TV show from the sixties. There’s something cartoonish and slightly absurd about hoodoos, as if someone with a goofy, but fun-loving sense of humor created them. They always make me smile.

The third set is hidden away and, if you’re not the curious type like me, you could easily miss them - I suspect many do. As opposed to the other two all-red sets, these have white columns.

Speaking of my curiosity, a few years ago it led me to stumble upon a truly surreal place that I am quite sure not many know about. This magical place is the second hoodoo location I visit today…

Next – Hoodoo Redux Two - Dali's Dream

Desert Daze – A Southwest Adventure (III)

Part Three: 'The Valley of Fire'

My feet feel like two blocks of ice. I have forgotten just how cold it gets here in the high desert at night during the winter. Guess I’m going to need to procure another blanket or two and some wool socks. My ice-cube feet have awakened me at 4am, but that’s OK because the timing is right, I want to be in the Valley of Fire for sunrise and it’s a bit of a drive from here.

I careen through the early morning darkness on remote roads until I sense the presence of monoliths around me - I have arrived. Funny how, even though I can’t yet see a thing, I can just feel that this place is going to be magical. Looks like I'm not the only one excited about being here to watch the golden orb rise, I see a huddle of vehicles gathered in a parking lot, tailpipes issuing forth a steady stream of steam to keep the passengers warm. Later, I see that these people are here to film a Ford commercial – I run into them (well, not literally) all over the park using the fantastical formations for backdrops.

I spend two days exhilarating days exploring this place. Filled with huge, alien, mostly red, rock formations, it looks more like Mars than earth. The valley was formed from great shifting sand dunes approximately 150 million years ago. Complex uplifting and faulting, followed by extensive erosion, have created the present bizarre landscape. The hiking is splendid, and if one explores the park beyond the obvious - off the roads - he or she will find some amazing hidden rock formations. Among them (my names), ‘The Roman Villa’ (complete with steps!),


‘The Pottery’, three colorful, giant ceramic pots perched on a cliff (featured as one of my March Images of the Month on my website) and, ‘The Balls’ an area where all the smaller rocks ranging from the size of peas to tennis balls are perfectly round - it's really quite bizarre.


On my second crisp and clear morning here, I set out on the ‘White Domes’ trail. This hike has it all – amazing rock formations (this is where I find ‘The Pottery’), a deep slot canyon, an arch you can climb through

and the remnants of an old movie set. Some of the rock formations tower hundreds of feet above you, it’s almost intimidating at times just to think that if a hunk of this rock were to let loose, well, I wouldn’t be telling this story.

After two splendid days exploring all the gifts the Valley of Fire has to offer and three nights now spent in Hotel Truck, I’m feeling it’s time to move on. Moreover, I’m beginning to feel a bit ripe, time to find a motel. As I am driving out of the park on the main road, I pass by one of the campgrounds and spy a building off to the side– nah, it can’t be. It is! Showers! Ahhhh, a warm shower never felt so good ( I say that every single time after a few days without one). Now feeling refreshed and reinvigorated, I point the truck eastward, my sights set on Utah.

Next: Part Three: Hoodoo Redux