High Desert Sojourn

Rise and shine. Morning time. The early hours. The sun has yet to crest the horizon. Not a single bird graces the morning air with its song. The stars are still out, blinking tiredly in the sky. And then we hit the road, driving east, off towards the blueish glow on the horizon. 

Long miles ahead. Lots and lots of driving. Not for me. Haha. I'm riding shotgun. And we go down through Ventura, out past Santa Paula, out into the valley, out into the desert. The sun comes up, I fall asleep, the miles pass imperceptibly under the wheels of the car. 

And when I wake the sky is a piercing desert blue, and the brown, barren expanse of the Mojave is all around us, swallowing us whole, the Interstate just a tiny little line in a vast expanse of nothingness. Well, at least it seems that way. There's a whole lot of stuff out there if you've got the eyes to see it. I never see it. Perhaps I need prescription glasses. 

Out past Barstow, out past Baker, driving alongside the Soda Mountains, passing by Cave Peak and Clark Mountain. These peaks are devoid of snow. Only the highest desert peaks are coated with snow. We saw them, off to the north, distant and tall and dusted in white, standing in stark contrast to their beige surroundings. 

Rest stops, truck stops, gas stations, abandoned buildings. There are Joshua Trees. Hundreds of 'em. And they look strange and alien with their multiple branches sticking out at crazy angles. And over there, way off by the rocks, is a lone burro, munching on something in the dirt. And over there, on the other side of the Interstate, is another lone burro, also munching on something in the dirt. And they both got long ears and they got their winter coats and they bumble along, munching in the dirt, waltzing in and out of the Joshua Trees.

Primm, Vegas, Mesquite. There's a gorge. And there are climbers on the cliffs. No bighorn sheep today; perhaps they are waiting for the climbers to go away. We pull off the road and have lunch above the gorge, feasting on popcorn and citrus and sandwiches and more popcorn. 

And then we make it to Utah and then we're there: the high desert. This is the most beautiful place I know. The Escalante. The Grand Staircase. Vast and rugged, it stretches from the Grand Canyon all the way to Cedar Breaks, filling a good portion of northern Arizona and southern Utah. This is where it's at. This is where I need to be. 

But we have limited time and we can't possibly see it all. It's impossible to see it all. No one can see it all. You could spend a whole lifetime exploring the canyons, climbing the mesas, rafting down the rivers, rappelling off cliffs, crawling through cactus and thorns and brush and stagnant creeks through mud and muck with the flies and scorpions and tarantulas and you'd still have only scratched the surface, you'd still have barely made a dent.

There exist certain hotspots, certain "points of interest" within this vast area that have been mapped and developed so that people can get a taste of what's out there. Captiol Reef. Arches. Canyonlands. Bryce Canyon. Grand Canyon. Zion. What was once wild and inaccessible can now be enjoyed from the comfort of a moving, air-conditioned automobile. There are many mixed emotions about this. Some like it, others don't. Some want these areas to remain completely wild, others don't. Some want this, others that. What to do with the National Parks? I don't know. 

At the end of the day there are no borders. No names. These places are just places—quiet, beautiful, incomprehensible. They existed before we came along, and they'll continue to exist long after we're gone. The wind will keep blowin' and rain will fall and the rocks will erode, ever so slowly, just as they've done for millions of years. And I'm just plain lucky to be able to witness them at this point in time, to see them right now, before they imperceptibly change forever. 

We decided to visit Zion on this trip. A short little trip; didn't get a lot of time off. No matter. Just being there, in that stunning canyon, is good enough for me. I've been there time and time again. I've seen most of it, multiple times over. And I never tire of the views. Never. There's always something new to see, some new way to see it. Whether it's slight erosion, the weather, the lighting, the way the snow has dusted a particular cliff; this place is always changing. And it's unfathomably beautiful. Some might even say sublime. 

For such a short trip, we decided to absorb the essence of Zion using a particular method that we've learned over the years. You see some of the main sights, some of the main attractions. Walk on some of the established trails, share the beauty with countless others. You know. All the touristy things. And then you mix it up a bit with some good ol' ramblin' and wanderin'. To take it slow, one step at a time, climb the sandstone, take a break, soak it all in. 

On that first day of travel, after the countless miles on the road, we entered the park and began our short romp through Zion National Park, a park that is but a small chunk of the Escalante, the Grand Staircase. We drove through the tunnel, an engineering marvel. We pulled off the road, entering a side-canyon that has grown more popular over the years. And we walked on the sand and rock and observed the towering, gargantuan formations of sandstone rising high above us. And the setting sun shone faint and fatigued on the slushy snow and gnarled flora. White, red, black, purple, brown, streaked, criss-cut, criss-crossed, textured rock everywhere, some in sun, some in shadow, all of it a feast for the eyes, overwhelming for the brain. 

We met some other people and then we left the canyon and started off for a popular trail to a popular view. There were a lot of people on that trail. Young and old, fit and not so fit, we all walked along, walking on rock and dirt and wood. And we came to the view and could see much of the lower canyon before us, could see the towering 1000ft+ sheer cliffs, the tiny line of the road, the even tinier cars like shiny little beetles.

A couple was taking wedding photos. They were dressed in their best. And all these people with cameras of all kinds were taking pictures of the sunset and the view and the light on the rocks. And others climbed past the guard rail and up sandstone ledges to get the best view possible. 

We stayed for a bit, watched as the red light of the setting sun moved its way up the face of a cliff. And then we headed back down the trail, back to the car, back through the tunnel, back into town. Grub time. Ate at one of the local joints. They had a trillion dollar bill taped to the window. Space heaters on the patio going full blast. I had me an overpriced burrito. Thing cost $22. Yowch. But man, it was delicious. 

The next day was gray. Took a while for the sun to burn through the wintery clouds. The Virgin River shone bright and silvery in the cold morning light. We had a full day of exploration. A full day of observation. A full day to relax, soak it all in, and take zillions of pictures. This is the kind of place where pretty much every picture is good. Just point and shoot. That's all there is to it. 

We checked out Emerald Pools, saw the waterfalls, saw the cliffs, saw the well worn path and the wood rubbed smooth from millions of touchy hands. And then we went for a drive through the canyon, sun roof down, observing the towering cliffs on either side. We stopped. Took pictures. Saw some deer. And then it was back through the tunnel, back to the sandstone, back to wandering around aimlessly amongst the trees and bees and spindly things. 

We saw Checkerboard Mesa. Crazy Quilt Mesa. Nippletop. Found a pullout and walked off on the sandstone, away from the road, away from the edifice of humanity. We ate lunch on the rocks, a picnic of popcorn and citrus and sandwiches and maybe a scone or two. And we wandered around, looking at the snow on the massive sandstone formations, watching it melt, watching the landscape change imperceptibly before our very eyes. 

And we bumbled along, much like the burros we saw the day before, wandering around without any goal other than to absorb the scene. And we got back in the car, drove around, found another pullout, explored yet another canyon. Saw some petroglyphs in the rock, carved by those who knew this place best. 

And we continued along, climbing, scooting, slipping on sandstone. Saw the rock turn from white to red to white again. Saw the lines in the rock, saw the infinite grooves and scars and divots and craters. Saw the water flowin' through the canyons, saw it caught up in big, circular pools. Some were clear, some were dirty. Some had life in 'em. Some were completely dead. And the day grew long and the sun kept on shinin', a cold, dry, wintery desert sun. And time didn't seem to exist. We just kept on exploring, taking in the whole thing, absorbing as much of it as we could. 

We followed this one canyon a ways, going along as it grew thinner and thinner. We had to turn around at several points; the whole thing would dead-end and we'd have to find another way to continue along. Through slow exploration, we finally found a good path, leading us up above the base of the canyon, on the side, avoiding a cliffy section with a few deep pools. 

We had found the entrance to a narrow slot canyon. Sheer walls, more than a hundred feet high, stood on either side of us. It was chilly in there; the sun unable to penetrate through the deep, red walls. Our steps echoed, our voices were loud, everything seemed to be magnified. And we continued along as far as we could, which turned out to be not that far at all. Slot canyons are usually pretty gnarly. This one was no different. Lacking sufficient gear, let alone a rope, we stopped, taking a small break. 

Looking up, the sky was a deep blue line, made more stunning against the contrast of the red cliffs. Looking back the way we came, we could see the faint rays of golden light, marking the entrance to the slot canyon. Golden light, red walls, blue sky. It don't get much better than that. But our legs were growing tired and we knew that sooner or later we'd have to leave, so we said our goodbyes and went back from whence we came, out of the slot canyon, out of the hills, out of the wash, back to the road, back to civilization. 

And our brief stay was coming to a close. Dinner that night was at a fancy restaurant, finished by a soak in the hotel jacuzzi afterwards. And in the morning we got a lazy start, deciding to drive down the main canyon just one last time. And so we did. And that was that—our sojourn in the high desert was over. Now all that remained was breakfast and the long drive back home. 

La Verkin, Hurricane, St George and beyond. We were back on the Interstate, back to the familiar humdrum routine of long miles, sore legs, and looking out the window. No climbers in the gorge. No bighorn sheep either. Much of the snow on the distant peaks had melted. Winter was slowly going away, making way for Spring.

Mesquite, Vegas, Primm. Jean is a ghost town. They've demolished everything except the biggest hotel, which now stands empty and vacant, the windows gone, the drapes flapping away in the wind. And we drove through the inspection gate and no one was there, not a single soul. Out in the desert, cutting through the Joshua Tree forest, we didn't spot a single burro. Oh well. Can't see 'em all the time. Maybe they were at the bar, shootin' the breeze. It's tough bein' a desert burro. Gotta take a break sometimes!

And then, several hours later, after driving through miles and miles of endless desert, we were back. And that was it; the trip was complete. Though it had only been three days it felt like we'd been there much longer. I suppose that means we had made the most of it. Hadn't been to Zion in almost two years so it was nice to finally get back out there.