Part Fifteen: Beyond the Back of the BeyondI 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
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…
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.
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.
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!
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.
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’.
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