Leaving Zion

Today was my last day in Zion before relocating to Ruby’s Inn, just outside of Bryce Canyon. I spent the day checking out several areas I hadn’t seen before, and then drove the 70 miles or so to Bryce. I have a lovely room in the most remote building of this sprawling hotel and hikers’ gathering place. My windows look out on a lake and at the western sky; mule deer were running across the meadow by the lake at sunset. I’m so glad I asked the desk clerk for a room with some sunshine.

I think Zion may be my favorite place in the world. Well, along with New York City, Paris, and Mt. Desert Island in Maine. Just like Acadia National Park, I can’t imagine ever getting tired of Zion. I’ve barely scratched the surface: I’ve hiked many of the well-known trails once and visited numerous spectacular overlooks. I’ve explored both the Zion Canyon side of the park and the eastern side, which are very different. I haven’t yet gotten to Kolob Canyons, a section of Zion several miles west of the main park. And the best trails on the east side are remote backpacking trails. But at least I’ve gotten a good start.

Here’s the thing: Zion is a place where the scale is indescribable, and where animal, vegetable and mineral seem to merge. Well, not animal, maybe, but definitely vegetable and mineral. The petrified wood looks like rock. The monoliths, as they are rightfully called, often look to me like organic vegetable forms. Looking up at an immense orange and brown-stained mountain, I am reminded of a skinned, roast sweet potato. Many of these massive rocks remind me of root vegetables. I mentioned this to a lady on the path today and she seemed rather surprised, but take a look at those Zion pictures and tell me you don’t see a mammoth yam. These are the biggest sandstone cliffs in the world, and they’re curved and rounded and puffy.

The ones that don’t look like potatoes may look more like swirled sand, embedded with whorls. Rock walls rising above the rivers, like at Weeping Rock or at the Temple of Sinawava, are porous enough that water trickles through them and hanging plants emerge from the rocks along with the waterfalls—hanging gardens. Where have you ever seen ferns, moss, and cacti growing in the same glimpse of land?

The east side of the park feels like a tidal wave of rock. It took tens of millions of years, of course, but it looks as if the rock formations rolled in on a tsunami and just settled there. They dwarf you as you drive by, and seem about to spill into the narrow, winding road. Some of them look like melted goo that dripped down and hardened. Others have incredibly delicate ridge patterns, like the veins of a leaf.

The Zion Canyon, on the other hand, is much more verdant. The Zion River, which today looks like a rather demure burbling brook, was once a roaring river that carved out the whole canyon. And even today, during heavy rains, water rushes into the narrow slot canyons as high as twelve feet above its normal level. This is why there are warning signs everywhere: don’t go into the slot canyons if you think it might rain, because there will be no getting out. The walls rise far above you and the riverbed is narrow and slippery. Just a few months ago, a flash flood in the area deluged Rosa’s school, which sits on the Virgin River about ten miles west of the park. The entire campus was evacuated to nearby St. George. Normally the river looks too shallow even for a dip on a hot day, but during the flood, the school’s horses nearly drowned in the corral, cars were swimming, and the school’s air conditioning system (and lawn) were totally destroyed. The girls’ boots, which are kept in a cabinet by the corral, floated out across the pasture or filled with mud and got buried.

Today I walked the Riverside Walk, which is at the top end of the canyon. The Temple of Sinawava, a rock formation there, is the last place in Zion Canyon where you can walk on land. When you get to the end of the trail, the only way to proceed up the Narrows is to walk in the river, which many people do. Hiking the Narrows is a popular summertime activity, since the park gets so hot but the narrows stay cool, shaded by the high walls of the canyon. People rent special shoes designed to withstand the rocky river bottom along with “river sticks,” big wooden wading staffs that hikers hold to help keep their balance on the slippery rocks. The Narrows is passable for about 15 miles when the weather is warm and there’s no threat of rain. Today I saw several brave backpackers returning from upriver. The water is getting cold now.

I arrived at the end of the Riverside Walk, found a rock and sat down to eat my lunch. An older fellow and his wife walked up to me and the man asked, waving toward the path, “Is this trail one-way or two-way?” I figured he was yanking my chain, since some of these retired guys are always fishing for a chuckle. (Another silver-haired guy stood next to me at an unbelievable panorama atop an 8,000-foot high mountain, and said, “Not too shabby, huh?”)

I looked at him, trying to decide if he was kidding. “Sorry,” I said, “what did you say?” His wife looked disappointed that my comprehension was so poor. “I mean, can you get out of here thataway?” the man asked, pointing upstream to the dark narrows. “The only way to go up the river is to walk in the water,” I replied. “Well no way am I about to do that!” his wife said indignantly. The man was persistent, though. “But what I’m asking is, can you get back to the car that way?” He looked a little sad when I shook my head, and they trudged off back the way they'd come.

I’d brought a cloth with me and spread it out so I could lay down next to the river and look up at the cliffs and the yellow leaves floating against them in the breeze. Several children came over to make sure I wasn’t actually dead, but otherwise it was very peaceful.

*****

When I checked out of the Thunderbird this morning, Gordon, the owner, came over to shake my hand and say goodbye. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay til the end of the year?” he asked.

Checking into the Ruby’s Inn Best Western this evening, I asked the clerk for a single. “How long are you staying, one night?” he asked. “No, a few nights. Probably through Saturday,” I answered. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay til the end of the year?” he asked. “We’ve got plenty of room.”

*****

The drive up to Bryce from Zion was beautiful. The day was clear and the late afternoon sun lit up the mountainsides and pastures. I was surprised to see a dozen or so horses running madly across a plain, since they usually seem to just stand around contemplating. But then I noticed the little shepherd dog running along behind them, and a cowboy with a lasso just behind the dog.

I’m convinced that the municipal revenue for many of these tiny hamlets is generated by fining tourists for speeding. You go from a 65-MPH speed limit on the highway to a sudden 30-MPH as you pass a few scattered houses and a store that rents chain saws, and inevitably a sheriff’s SUV is sitting calmly on the shoulder like a spider in a web. So far I’ve been careful and lucky, but I’ve seen a lot of people pulled over.

My route took me through a tiny town called Hatch. I was wondering how it derived its name—perhaps there was a Mr. Hatch?—when I passed a sign that said “Hatchery Closed.” So I’m guessing that’s my answer. I don’t know what Hatch hatches. Chickens?

Driving north, I noticed a startling disparity in the weather in different areas of the sky. In some places, the sun was gleaming and the whole landscape looked like it was under a magic spell. But in other spots, the clouds were dark and menacing; I could see shafts of rain driving down. Generally the weather out here is not that spotty, and as I was trying to figure it out, I passed another telling sign: “Prescribed Burns. Do Not Report.” So it wasn’t rain or clouds, it was smoke from managed fires, which apparently have been called in by numerous alarmed tourists.

After solving that mystery, I was nearing Bryce and utterly enjoying the scenery. I could see for what appeared to be hundreds of miles, and I was lulled into a reverie. Until I came to a sign that said, “Escalante, 39 miles,” which meant that I’d passed right by Bryce. I could not believe I had done this. I mean, you can hardly miss Ruby’s Inn. There is a huge red neon sign out front, kind of a Bryce Canyon version of Times Square, a colony of buildings, thousands of cars. But I must have been looking at the other side of the road. Some of you will not be surprised by this lapse. I wasn’t. Fortunately, I’d only overshot my mark by ten miles, and retracing my route gave me the opportunity to see the landscape from the east rather than the west. So that was fine.

My day in the old west

Today was cloudy and overcast, and although I could have hiked I didn't feel inspired. Instead, I wanted to putter, take care of a few errands (like grocery shopping and laundry) so I drove into Kanab, the nearest town of any size, about 17 miles to the south.

I went to an optician to see if they could fix my broken sunglasses. After about 20 minutes of searching for the right size screw and then repairing the glasses for me, the owner handed them to me with a big smile and assured me, against my protests, that she wanted no payment. This is when I knew for certain that I was no longer in New York.

Then I went to the post office to mail a package. I was worried that the big envelope I was mailing looked a little raggedy so I asked the postal clerk if he could spare a little tape to reinforce the corners. "Well of course we can!" he said, impersonating a postal clerk in a Norman Rockwell painting, and proceeded to surgically dress my envelope with tape.

I went to the Utah State Liquor Board to buy myself some Jack Daniels for a sip on these chilly evenings; this was my first awkward moment. Going into a liquor store in Utah feels like going behind the door to the porn section in the video store. Only losers and delinquents would have any business there. The lady behind the counter looked so wholesome, making me feel even more dirty for going in there with the intention of purchasing anything. Trying to appear unruffled, I took my Jack Daniels to the register. Just as I was getting ready to leave, a couple of leathery, burned out bikers came in and hastily slung eight jumbo bottles off the shelves and onto the counter. I heard the woman say, "Oh, shit, they've got Amaretto, man!" These were my compatriots.

Please note that we’re only a couple of hours north of Vegas.

Having filled the tank and lovingly washed the dust-covered windshield on my Ford Escape, I headed out of town. Just as I was leaving, I decided to stop in at Frontier Movie Town, a tourist attraction featuring the reconstructed set pieces of numerous westerns that have been shot in Kanab. Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, James Garner once slept in this town. Frontier Movie Town is just beyond the entrance sign to Kanab, which reads, “Welcome to the Greatest Earth on Show!”

Although the signage suggests it’s a museum, Frontier Movie Town is a huge souvenir store with an exceedingly raggedy collection of set pieces in its back yard. You can walk around the dirt lot and look at old log cabins with signs on them telling you what movie they were featured in. Each building bears a sign indicating which part it played in the film, like “The Jail,” and “The Boarding House.” The only one that didn’t have a generic sign was a discreet little place called “Amanda’s” just next to the boarding house. In the window were some lacy undergarments, a corset, and an empty bottle, leading me to conclude that this was the brothel. But I’m just making my best guess here.

I liked the inscriptions on the markers in “Boot Hill,” the graveyard:

“Here liez Mick, shot fer singin to loud in church.”
“Stranger killed. Wrong place. Wrong time.”
“Dancin Dave, that son of a gun. He thot he was fast, he died with his boots on.”
“Two Gun Ray. He was slow that day.”
“Too Thin Leigh. He told the sheriff they would never take him alive. They didn’t!”

And finally, the marker with the simple, “NEXT.”


The gift shop swarmed with a freshly released busload of Japanese teenage girls, who were eagerly buying up beaded necklaces, John Wayne lunchboxes, and hats that turned you into a wolf’s head. (In Wisconsin they have cheese wedge hats; in Utah they have buffalo and wolves’ heads.) Their male teacher stood quietly in the corner, apparently trying to make himself invisible.


******

The Thunderbird lodge, my current place of residence, has been very quiet since it’s so late in the season. Sadly, they shut off the ice machines yesterday; I suppose this is in anticipation of freezing temperatures at night. I’ve barely heard a sound coming from the other rooms, but last night I was treated to some interesting eavesdropping.

In the room below me were a man and a woman, who arranged themselves outside on the patio just below my little deck. They were puffing on cigarettes and generously sharing their cigarette smoke with me. As I listened to their conversation, I was puzzled about how on earth these two had met. Clearly they were not a couple who knew each other well—or at all—as they were filling each other in on the most basic information. Neither one was from this area; one mentioned Iowa, the other "up north." Clearly, they had designs on one another. My question: where on earth did they meet? We’re in Mt. Carmel Junction! It’s not like there’s a bar scene, or for that matter a Starbuck’s or a dog run. I am baffled as to how you would pick someone up in this neighborhood. At the Chevron, filling your tank? (Charlie, it's not that I'm formulating a strategy here; it's just an anthropological curiosity.)

These two did not seem well matched, but I restrained myself from barging in and letting them know. She described herself as a “tomboy,” whose family had always treated her poorly because she was a girl.

She: I was the youngest one of seven in my family, and the only one who ever went to college. They thought I was crazy. What was the use? All I had to do was stay at home, make pies, and pop out babies.

He: Did they help you with college?

She: Hell, no! I paid for it myself! Best thing I ever did.

He: Well, after I left my second wife I figured I’d just stay on my own.

She: You go to college?

He: Didn't see the need. I've always been able to pay my way.

[pause]

She: This drink is making me all giggly!

He: Hey, how about if I put on some music?

[As the music plays, they chat about country music concerts they’ve been to, and how they’re both really over George Strait.]

He: So you left your husband?

She: Damn straight! I mean, I let my daughter have a sip of beer now and then but I caught him giving her hard alcohol! She was just fifteen. That was it. I threw him right out.

He: Nobody never threw me out. I got right up and left! Slept in my truck for three nights before I figured out a place to stay.

She: You have kids?

He: Shit, yes. Every time I have sex, I make a baby. I must have some powerful seed!

[momentary silence]

She: Maybe I’ll have a little more to drink.

He: Well, not every time. But it sure seems like it.

[Slightly hysterical laughter, first from her, then from him joining in.]

Shortly after, they moved inside. They were still communicating, but it was a lot less articulate.

*********

Tomorrow, I leave Mt. Carmel Junction and the Thunderbird and move to Ruby's Inn, where I'll be exploring Bryce Canyon. I'll keep you posted.


NOTE: If you'd like to check out today's photos, clink on the link in the upper right hand corner of this page, or just go to:

http://flickr.com/photos/85265868@N00/collections/72157602776837285/

or you can always search for me at flickr.com under the user name teresastern.

Photos are up!

Thanks to the help of several friendly readers, I have come to terms with the fact that the blog is a blog and the photos are photos, and they aren't going to live on the same web page. At least, not unless I decided to spend my vacation learning web design.

So, here is the link to my photo collection:

http://flickr.com/photos/85265868@N00/collections/72157602776837285/

I've organized the pictures into different days and places.

If you'd like to check out a map marking the places I'm traveling, here's the link:
http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?uid=100857405535875424494&hl=en&gl=us&ie=UTF8&msa=0&msid=107836631716003043635.00043d6d12c0baf2a7393

I'm having a grand time. Today I went for a hike on the east side of Zion; the day was clear and beautiful and there was nobody in that part of the park.

All this technology has worn me out, so that's it for today. I hope you'll pop in for updates on my blog and photos.

How It Began

Greetings, everyone!

For those of you who don't already know, I am on a solo journey across southern Utah. It was inspired by the daughters: Rosa is living in southwest Utah -- at Falcon Ridge Ranch in the little town of Virgin, and Zara is at Open Sky Wilderness in southeast Utah, just over the Colorado border (about midway between Moab, Utah and Durango, Colorado -- or on an even more miniscule scale, between Monticello, UT and Dove Creek, CO). Let's put it this way: to get there, you meet your guide at the Shell Station in Dove Creek, turn on the 4-wheel drive, and bump your way for 20 miles along an unpaved road.

Charlie and I came out to visit Rosa on October 17, and had a lovely few days with her. Charlie, who had to return to NYC to maintain his status as Professor Post, flew home on a red-eye from Vegas on October 20.

Zara will be graduating from her wilderness program on November 14, so I decided to stay out here in the interim, traveling through the national parks. As long as I don't go hurtling into any canyons or encounter an antisocial rattlesnake, I intend to show up at Zara's wilderness course on Nov. 12 to begin the three-day graduation ceremony. I am not allowed to feel sorry for myself about the fact that during graduation, I will be sleeping out on the ground without a tent in subfreezing weather, because Zara has been doing exactly that for quite a while now. She's been there since Sept. 3, and she reports that the last few weeks have gotten rather nippy.

Since the only paid work I have done in recent months is freelance, I have the unusual opportunity to take some time for myself, catch my breath, and see this beautiful red rock country. Utah has five extraordinary national parks -- Zion, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, Arches, and Canyonlands. And that's not to mention Dixie National Forest (so named because its flora is similar to that which grows in the south: cottonwoods, tamarisk, juniper). And the Escalante Grand Staircase, which I believe is classified as a national monument. And all the state parks. Everyplace you go is outrageously beautiful, so that after a while you're just at a loss for words. Each park has a different feel and look.

I am still at the beginning of my trip. I'm starting at Zion, in southwest Utah, and will slowly make my way east. I plan to stick around here at the Thunderbird Hotel for a couple of more days so that I can do more hiking in Zion, and then move on to the fabulous Ruby's Inn jut outside the entrance to Bryce Canyon, where I'll spend a few days hiking.

I am posting some of my photos so that you can get an idea of what it looks like out here. I'm afraid that my pix hardly do justice to the awesome mountains and desert and majestic canyons, but they're all I've got.

I'll start with the pre-scenic vista photos -- a few shots of our visit with Rosa last week.