It's the desert. High, gnarly, and dry - brown, but more colorful than one might imagine.
Every vista is breathtaking. Seriously. I have the hiccups and can barely be bothered to write this post after another week of the pandemic, joblessness, racial inequity, police brutality, white supremacist bullshit, and plumbing issues. Leaky pipes in walls cause problems. Grammarly is correcting every third word I write it seems but it's more about my typing skills than the beautiful language I desire to give you. But no words can adequately describe the beauty contained within Canyonlands National Park and the surrounding areas.
Now. I've always hiked in the midwest where I expect humidity, mosquitos, trees, mud, and plenty of easy water sources. I expect to feel the air ready to smother me. I've envied trip reports from those who hike primarily in the southwest - their ultralight gear lists and loads, sleeping in the open, no tent, or maybe only a tarp, no worry of a mosquito or rain. No beaver ponds to drink from when desperate.
But then again they have snakes, scorpions and spiders, unyielding heat, and limited water sources. If there is water available on trail it is mostly pond scum (like beaver ponds I suppose), or a few ounces found in crevices after rain, or from hot and manky fly-ridden cattle troughs - not the billion gallons of nice cool stuff I get in the land of Sky Blue Waters and 10,000 lakes.
Still, when my cousin Thomas invited me to spend a week hiking in Canyonlands, Utah, I leaped at the chance - because I'm a leaper (not a leper) and I'd never been to the southwest for hiking really, and hadn't spent any time beyond a day or two with one of my childhood heroes - my cuz, Tommy.
Tommy, now Thomas - also goes by his trail name "Angry Toes" knows his shit and his way around the southwest, having hiked nearly every inch of it over and over again over many years. He's been everywhere. Sorta like Johnny Cash. He's done all the 14'ers in Colorado, all of the gulleys and caverns. He grows heirloom peppers, tomatoes, and most everything else. He manicures his grass, keeps his garage, and his shoes clean. He's a lizard - darting between patches of shade and fenceposts. Makes his own salsa. Irons his socks and underwear. Knows his beer. Slays dragons. Married a fine and handsome woman who makes soap, among other things.
I arrived at Denver International in the early morning of my 53rd birthday. Thomas was waiting for me at baggage claim. He had breakfast burritos from a mom and pop local spot in the car. They were delicious. Onions, potatoes, peppers, cheese - maybe ham or chicken or chorizo. I don't know, I ate them too quickly to really tell. We drove straightaway from Denver to Moab, Utah - stopping at one or more microbreweries along the route. It was my birthday, after all, and I wasn't counting. I just know it felt about right. Which is, all one can ever hope for, really. We stayed at some hotel in between Moab and the entrance to the national park. I can't remember the name but it was a dry town, being Utah and all. Along the way, Thomas pointed out the different peaks in the different ranges by name and elevation and shared stories of finding dead hikers along the route. In the morning we made our way to Canyonlands - we checked out Newspaper Rock (the twitter of its day in 800 AD) and then came to rest near our desired campsite (they are first come first served) - one of Thomas' favorites in the park. We waited while the people who'd occupied the site the night before the site packed up and finally found the sense to leave. It may have been 9 am. We were eager. I am accustomed to moving from site to site along the path I'm walking, so the notion of base camping while hiking (I've based camped while canoeing in the BWCA) was new to me and wasn't sure how it would work.
A rangy and friendly but crotchety ranger named Ed came to visit us as we were setting up camp. Ed looks exactly like he did in 1972 except grayer and more lined. His long hair fell down his back and trailed behind him when he got up some speed on his bicycle. He gave us tips on hiking routes and how much water to carry ( 5 liters minimum ). We listened and added more water to our packs (at least I did) as we set out on our first hike. He would return to visit us every morning and most evenings throughout our stay asking us about our plans and our days, inquiring as to the state of the various trails we had hiked. He does not like rock cairns in a cavern. They are for wayfinding - not art, after all. He spent time chatting with us either because we were investing time in the park, and he respected that, or because we were the coolest dudes there, or maybe it was just his job. Whatever, he's probably right. We're used to it.
We hiked part of Chesler Park and then the Devil's Kitchen trail from the Squaw Flat campground, getting caught in a brief rain squall early on before completing about 11 miles. When we returned, Ranger Ed was waiting and enlisted us in a short-lived effort to find a Belgian dude who had continued hiking after his cute girlfriend turned around just past the trailhead. He got lost, was not dressed for the desert or hiking, had no water, and zero sense. He went missing for several hours but stumbled into camp parched, scratched and dusty before a serious search party could be organized. His black-clad nervous girlfriend was both upset and relieved while they argued. I think they left the next day, or maybe that evening. Short trip.
Over the next 5 days, we hiked primarily in the Needles District, and seemed to cover all of it on routes from 12 - 20 miles each, in the sand, the altitude (made me a little woozy on days 1 and 2), and the ever-present heat. I'm not sure I saw a cloud after our first day. The night skies were even darker than those in the BWCA. The strangeness of the landscape and rock formations captivated me. I'd go back. More than once. Chesler Park is a highlight but we hiked many other trails. On Day 2 we hiked out to the Colorado River over Elephant Hill and down Lower Red Lake Canyon and back again - which we affectionately named the Death March. On Day 3 we hiked Pothole Point, the Confluence Overlook Trail, and the Cave Spring Trail. Day 4 was Chesler Park, the Joint Trail, and Druid Arch. On Day 5 we hiked the Peekaboo Trail. We crisscrossed ourselves more than once as we covered ground, combining trails, loops and out and backs to see as much as we could.
The best thing about hiking with my cuz is just spending time with him, but after that, I gotta say that he has his base camp system locked down tight. He has a Subaru Forester, and in the back of that thing are a cooler or two filled with ice and many excellent beers protected by sleeping bags, quilts, Irish incantations and charms to keep them cold. Here's the deal. We would wake up early, drink some water, maybe have a bite, drive to a trailhead, walk all the day through the heat, see pictographs, native plants, small critters, some mule deer, a posse or two of Mormons (dressed in blue and black, wearing hats) driving serious 4 wheeler pick-up trucks down the gulley with barefoot women walking in front in flowered skirts and caps or bonnets looking sort of nervously mystical and sacred (it could have been a mirage) - like they should be holding candles or incense in front of them. We'd explore slot canyons and rock formations, eat a few snacks, walk and walk some more through rock, sand, twisting juniper, and the ever-present sun. Upon returning to Thomas' vehicle, we would drink an ice-cold beer or two of those waiting for us at the end of the trail. And then have one or two more when we returned to camp where we cooked and had supper. It's an amazing way to spend a day. We ate, we cleaned up. It would get dark - I mean dark, dark and we'd look at the stars and talk about the manner of all things for a while before going to sleep. One night, we got some peach pie, just for going to a ranger talk. So, take that.
On our return trip after hiking, we drove through the western slope, detouring through Paradox, and down the Dolores River Canyon, over the Uncompahgre Plateau and Unaweep Canyon. We then went down to Delta, up through Hotchkiss and camped at Delicious Orchards - an apple orchard in Paonia - a small town where we gave bartenders (Revolution Brewing - now Paonia United Brewing Company) our business, ate far too many peanuts, then too much pizza at Louie's, conversed meaninglessly with who knows who and quietly wished we were still out there, on the trail, where we each belong. Family. In the morning, we bought apples and preserves and breakfast, just like anyone else.
On our final day - we drove over Kebler Pass, stopped in Crested Butte, took a stroll, then drove over Cottonwood Pass through stands of aspens in the Rockies passing through Buena Vista and on through South Park where the driving was good before hitting traffic in Denver. Coming back to the city after spending time on the trail - whether in the high desert, in the woods, or on the water can be an abrupt and disconcerting thing. If you've never done it, you should. It is hard and strange and makes one question one's very nature and meaning in this world. Out there, we can breathe. #georgefloyd
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