Ruby's Inn

It’s been a few days since my last entry, although I’ve continued to post new pictures each day. I’m at Ruby’s Inn, the sprawling hotel just outside the entrance to Bryce Canyon National Park.

By the way, I'd love it if you left a comment (link at the end of each entry). It would definitely liven up the blog!

My first day here, Halloween, I went for a hike (inside the park) in a place called Fairyland Canyon. Places are rather fancifully named here, but you could really see how this one got christened Fairyland. Smaller and more intimate than some of the huge canyons like the Bryce Amphitheater, it looked a magical land dreamed up by someone who loves the color pink.

This hike was not a hike for the faint hearted. It was over eight miles, and took me down into the bottom of the canyon. I had to hike back out, too, which was the real kicker. The trail has lots of switchbacks so you’re not going straight up or down hill (you’d just slide the whole way), but it was a serious workout. The views and surroundings were just breathtaking, though, and kept me occupied. I didn’t run into anyone at all for the first two hours I was out, and then I passed just a handful of hikers walking in the opposite direction. That was really lovely, having the place practically to myself.

Speaking of which, I had a moment of panic at the beginning of my trip before I parted with Charlie, thinking about my physical safety when hiking alone on rather remote trails. I know that my odds of any harassment are far lower here than in Brooklyn, but still it unsettled me. Charlie suggested that I carry some pepper spray, which perked me up quite a lot. We were still in Virgin, UT at the time, visiting Rosa at Falcon Ridge, and I immediately thought of Karen, Falcon’s case manager, as the best person to direct us to a pepper spray retailer.

A hefty, hearty, maternal 50-something Utahan with a headful of curly brown hair, Karen was more than happy to assist. She didn’t seem fazed in the least that I was in search of a self-defense device, and offered to call Sportsman’s Warehouse in St. George to see if they carried my product. A salesman named Mike answered her call and they chatted amiably for several minutes, after which Karen informed me that pepper spray was available in not one but two of the store’s departments, and I would have a choice of over a dozen types. Wow!

Charlie and I set off for Sportsman’s Warehouse, which was kind of a cross between an outdoorsman’s Target and what LL Bean looked like in 1971. Not at all fancy or chic in the Patagonia fashion, but full of useful items for fly fishing, elk hunting, and dirty work around the corral. Mike wasn’t there so a droll man named John showed us an entire wall display of pepper sprays. A number of them were high-powered, designed for bear. It struck me as a bad idea to spray a bear with something disagreeable, but then I wasn’t worried about bear. We chose a canister that seemed geared to deflecting unsavory humans, and John assured me it was good for at least 35 actions, although he certainly hoped I’d never have to use it once. I like my pepper spray a lot. It has a clip so I can hang it from a belt loop, always at the ready. So far the most annoying encounters I’ve had are with small children who are tired of walking uphill, but it’s good to know that if I needed to defend myself, I could. At least until my attacker got hold of my pepper spray.

When I reported to Karen that our mission was successful, she eagerly asked if I’d purchased the 90 mile per hour edition, and sounded sorely disappointed when I told her I had not.

Yesterday I went on a little adventure, canister on my belt loop. I decided to take a ride down one of those unofficial-looking gravel roads that kick up huge clouds of dirt as you drive along. This particular gravel road was identified on my BLM map (for you urban greenhorns, that’s Bureau of Land Management) as the road to Tropic Reservoir; its full name was the East Fork of the Sevier River Backway. That sounded good. I never take these kind of roads, mostly because I assume that I’ll get stranded fourteen miles in with a flat tire and run out of water before anyone realizes I'm missing. Perhaps I took Into the Wild a little too personally. But I’m driving a car designed especially for roads like this, and I’m armed – well, not for bear but at least for prairie dogs, so I decided to give it a go. It was fun! The huge brown cloud of dust following my car made me feel invincible. The road was very pretty, and I was surprised to come upon the green waters of Tropic Reservoir. Set in a meadow with piney woods nearby, it didn’t look at all like the desert that is most of this region. Not a car was in sight, not a soul was there. I parked and sat by the water for a while, enjoying the tranquility and listening to the songbirds.

A sheriff’s SUV passed me as I drove out, leading me to suspect that if I had gotten stranded with a flat he probably would have found me, and probably within the hour.

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NEWSFLASH: According to my guide, the town of Hatch was, in fact, settled in the 1870s by a Mr. and Mrs. Hatch! So I guess the fact that Hatch has a hatchery is merely coincidence.


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After my journey to Tropic Reservoir I wanted to roam a little further so I drove a few miles east to Red Canyon, part of the vast Dixie National Forest. It’s funny how every park out here is very rock-driven, yet each one is unique. Zion is massive and masculine (or butch, if you prefer); Bryce is delicate, filled with spires; Red Canyon looks like a toy land, and is by far the reddest rock around. Seriously red. Not coral, not pink, not orange, but actually red. The park is officially closed now for the season, but except for the shuttered visitors’ center it’s perfectly accessible.

I took a hike that kept leading me to better and better lookouts. The park management had thoughtfully placed benches at various points along the trail, and posted signs identifying the shape of the path you were walking on, such as Serpent and Camel. Again, I was the only person in the entire park. Not a soul on the trails, not a car in the lot. Amazing! The sinking sun cast that outrageous golden light all over the red hills, making the whole place look like one of those cheesy biblical paintings of the promised land. I took another trail. I just didn’t want to leave the park.

Not wanting to find myself navigating Serpent in the dark, I finally tore myself away. I stopped on my way home at a place called Foster’s, which is a motel, restaurant, and store with a bakery. An old, overweight dog came ambling over to me when I got out of the car, and I bent down to pet him. He was delighted. Back in the car, I noticed a noxious smell; a quick sniff of my hand told me right away that that dog hadn’t had a bath in a long time.

After washing my hands, I went for dinner at the fabulous Ruby's Inn Cowboy Buffet. Hundreds of people – essentially every visitor within twenty miles of Bryce – go there to eat, and they’re hungry. There is a menu, but it doesn’t look promising (would you really want to order lobster in the middle of Utah?). Most everyone gets dinner at the buffet.

The buffet is a festival of starches and sugars, from jello salad to corn, carrots, potatoes, beans, rice, cornbread, and rolls. But there is a green salad, composed primarily of iceberg lettuce, and there is roast chicken, and that makes a good dinner for me. I couldn’t resist tasting the chocolate sheet cake, but it was awful and not worth eating. I elected to bypass the trembling vats of pudding.

On my way through the main lobby, I hear a man talking on his cell phone. He’s sitting on a bench, and he’s wearing cowboy boots. From the rising indignation in his voice, I get the impression he’s staving off a creditor. “Hey, you know it’s been a bad year! Ever since we turned the cattle out in the spring, the grass has been dry!” This is an angle I haven’t overheard on DeKalb Avenue.

I stop off at the grocery store to pick up some milk for breakfast, and the cashier launches into a conversation with me. The workers in the vast complex of shops at Ruby’s Inn are slowly dying of boredom because at this time of year so few people wander in. The cashier asks me where I’m from, and tells me that just a week ago, carrying a 50-pound pack, she hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back up, on a trail that hasn’t been maintained in eighty years. She wasn’t able to get a permit for one of the better trails because they were too full. This woman is probably ten years older than me. “Wow! How are you feeling?” I ask her. “I had to do it now, or I would never have done it,” she replies. With a big smile, she hands me my milk. “My back is killing me,” she says.

Today I went for a hike on a combination of two Bryce trails: the Navajo Loop and the Queen’s Garden. The Queen’s Garden is supposedly named for a rock formation that reminded someone of Queen Victoria, but despite my efforts I could not pick it out of the crowd. I asked some passing hikers if they’d spotted the queen, and they all waved vaguely in another direction, saying something like, “Oh, I think you can only see her from over there.” The beginning of the Navajo Loop consisted of an amazing descent called Wall Street, for obvious reasons. But not only does it rise hugely on either side of the path, it also goes down, down, down into the canyon. It was very exciting. I’ve posted some photos of it on my Flickr site, but I have to say it’s hard to capture the scale with my camera.

After my hike I drove to Inspiration Point, where a sign stated "Elevation: 8100 feet." I thought Inspiration Point would be a nice vista that you could enjoy from the parking area, but as it turned out I had to walk up a very steep trail. It was worth the ascent. At the very top was an outcropping of rock with a fence at the end, suspended over the canyon. A small girl named Margo Rose arrived with her family on the viewing platform, stared at me resentfully as I sipped my water, and declared loudly, “I’m thirsty!” As she scampered back down the trail holding her mother’s hand, she managed to kick off her shoe five times.