Trip West, Part III: Searching, Wandering, and Wary

The sky was unsettled, somber and muscular with low-slung gray clouds that threatened rain. A flash flood warning was in effect, but we’d heard from hikers on the Mossy Cave Trail at Bryce that there was an unmarked slot canyon exactly 11.2 miles off Route 12 on a backway named Burr Trail. We were not sure what a slot canyon was, but given the hikers’ wide eyes and glowing description, we resolved to find it.  

 

A rusted truck and decrepit buildings marked the turn off the main road. Like the twisted dry driftwood still rooted along the sandy trails, they were haunting signs of a past life now defeated. Neither man nor beast disturbed the scene, and I waived images from the movie Deliverance to the back of my uneasy mind.

Dave kept an eye on the mileage as well as the road as we snaked along a canyon. No guard rails, no shoulder, just head-swiveling drama as white mounds of rock, rippled as if by changing tides, gave way to towering red cliff walls, pocked and shaved by erosion and landslides. 

 

Usually a one-hand-on-the-wheel driver, Dave clenched tight with both. Given the roadside littered with massive boulders, crumbled debris, and slabs sheared from the cliffs above, the signs indicating “Rockslide Area Ahead” were unnecessary.

 

It was silent in the car as Dave focused on the road. “You’re up for this, right? I’m not dragging you into it?” I asked.

 

“No. I want to see it too.” He assured me. But our directions, as exact as they were, were anything BUT exact, and we hoped for a cluster of cars or a turn-off to indicate the location. 

 

This might be it,” said Dave as he pulled over and parked next to an empty, travel-worn RV. We climbed out of the car and went on the search.   

 

Soft breezes stirred spring-green cottonwood trees and tiny flowers sprouted miraculously from soil so parched that spits of rain left no mark. We walked along a dry streambed bordered by soaring rock faces streaked black and red: the perfect place for a flash flood.

 

“This is it, the slot canyon,” Dave said definitively. 

 

We wanted this to be it, and we didn’t want it to rain and kill us in a flash flood. We’d seen plenty of signs warning “Don’t get carried away,” the message hammered at every visitor center: you cannot outrun that rush of water. 

 

Lovely as was this silent setting of ancient rock and surprising flora, we were unnerved and aware of possible dangers. Our server a few nights ago had mentioned that the restaurant’s maintenance man was in the hospital recovering from a rattlesnake bite. “So, remember to check under bushes and rocks when you’re hiking,” she’d said. The scrubby shrubs and rock outcroppings along our way looked ideal for snoozy snakes, so I was on serpent alert. And, by the way, who had parked that empty RV? Still, we wandered on, hoping that this dry riverbed aching for a flash flood would reveal a slot canyon around the next bend. 

 

Eventually, images of racing water, snakes, and crazed survivalists turned us around, Dave still remarking that we’d seen what we came for. “But,” he said when we returned to the car, “let’s drive a little further, just in case.”

 

Maybe five minutes up the road, we passed a parked RV, and just beyond, a slash in the rock face. “Did you see that?  I think that’s it! Turn around!” 

Not so easy on this winding descent. The state of Utah, or perhaps the National Park Service, has been wise and generous with timely pull-outs, overlooks, and restrooms, but this stretch of road offered none, so we drove on until clear sight lines allowed a five-point turn.

 

We parked behind the RV and walked down the bank into a sandy clearing just as a couple appeared. Faces alight, they gushed, “it’s gorgeous! We just happened on it by chance. And to be the only ones here… enchanting!” They wished us well, headed to their vehicle, and left the canyon to us. 

 

Breath held in wonder, we entered… the womb of the Earth. A cleft in the rock led to a narrow path between russet-red walls curving around and soaring high above us, echoing our voices as we wandered within.  Euphoria erased fear as we marveled at the color and sweep that enveloped and dwarfed us. Through an act of grace, we had found the slot canyon.  

 

  

Trip West, Part II: Late Shift

It was 1984. Having finished her shift at Ruby’s Inn and Restaurant, Sharon was home and in bed when the phone rang around midnight. She was half asleep when she picked up the receiver, but alarm banished any grogginess when she heard the tone in her mother’s voice. 

“What’s wrong, Mom? Is Dad okay?”

 

“Yes, but I called to check on you. Ruby’s is on fire and I knew you worked the late shift.”

 

The inn had been a fixture at Bryce Canyon since the 1920’s when Reuben “Ruby” Syrett and his wife, Minnie, expanded and moved their small “Tourist Rest Lodge” to the inn’s current location. Bryce Canyon had been designated a National Park, and the number of visitors had multiplied. Over the years, Ruby’s had become a destination in its own right as the Syretts added a post office, pool, gift shop, and restaurant. 

 

As Sharon cleared our dinner plates – she was still serving at Ruby’s over 40 years later – she said, “There’s no nicer or more hard-working family than the Syretts.” She gestured over her shoulder at a young woman taking orders a few tables down. “That’s Ruby and Minnie’s great-great-grandaughter. The family still runs the place.”

 

Sandra, our server at breakfast, was equally admiring of the inn’s owners. Like Sharon, she had worked at Ruby’s for over forty years, and had more to add about the Syretts.

 

“When the inn burned down, people came from all over to help with the clean-up and rebuilding. Locals brought food and opened their homes to the guests of the inn. Everyone loved the Syretts. I heard that, for years, travelers arriving late at night would find a note and a key to their room taped to the front door. ‘Course, it’s a different world now and you couldn’t do that, but that’s how welcoming they were. Didn’t want anyone stranded in the dark.” 

Ruby’s is about a mile’s drive from Bryce Canyon and met my two-fold standard in seeking accommodations: it was historic and convenient to the park entrance. After dinner and our chat with Sharon, we decided to make the easy drive to Sunset Point to see the stars. 

 

Bryce is famous for spectacular stargazing as it is part of the “Dark Skies Initiative” which identifies places with minimal light pollution, but the empty parking lot was bright when we pulled in. On this night, it was Nature herself obscuring the constellations as a full moon lit our way to the canyon’s edge. 

 

The vast amphitheater fell away before us, spires and towers seeming a shadowy city of sandstone drip castles rising below, whipped, as were we, by the wind. It is tempting to think all is as it will be, but millions of years ago, this was under water. The planet is ever-evolving, tectonic plates shifting, sea levels and temperatures rising. What will be here in a thousand years?

 

Dave and I were utterly alone. There was no light but that of the moon to outline the bones of the Earth below. Above and around us swept the expanse of the heavens. In the presence of the artistry of the Creator, I sought to radiate my awe and gratitude. 

*          *

 

On the rim of Bryce Canyon, within whispering distance of sandstone portals, temples, and hoo doos, we overheard a conversation. 

 

“You’re going to Arches tomorrow? Got a reservation?  No? Well, get one. They require reserved entry times now. The lines had gotten too long.”

 

What?

 

In that sublime place, high above ravens gliding on air currents, my stomach clenched. We were going to Arches National Park in a few days, and we didn’t have a reservation.

 

Breathing deeply, I looked to the expanse of sky; the gnarled, ancient bristlecone pines; and the audience of watchful hoodoos in the ampitheater below to calm my Ingersoll urge that all be under control. Nowhere was the message to release that idle hope more evident than in these National Parks where millions of years of shifting plates, whipping winds, and persistent water have raised mountains, carved canyons, and dried seas. 

We’ll call our hotel in Moab later and figure it out. Let it go. 

 

But a call later in the day confirmed what we’d heard. A moderately helpful representative at the park told us that times had been reserved months in advance, however some open slots were released every evening at 6:00. Unable to get our way and nail this down immediately, we were furious at Arches National Park. We had flown and driven thousands of miles to visit, for heaven’s sake!

 

For a short time, Arches joined Dale City and Breeze Airways on our shit list. 

 

Trip West, Part I: Ducklings Launched

Our banana-yellow Spirit Airways plane is at the gate and ready to go. This sunshine shade seems today’s travel theme as we were delivered to the airport in a Prius of the same color. One would have thought the driver of such an eye-catching car would be equally bright and flashy, but no. Sour, smile-less and mum, even “hello” was a stretch for this guy.

What a contrast to our three days at McMenamin’s Edgefield Inn! Unlike our Uber driver, McMenamin’s lifts the soul with art, humor, serenity, and food. Once a county poor farm, the long-abandoned buildings and campus were transformed when the two visionary McMenamin brothers purchased the property and sought artists, carpenters, chefs, brewers, gardeners, and vintners to reclaim it. 

 

The former power station now houses a restaurant and pub; the brick building that encased an incinerator is now a cozy, vine-shrouded bar. Paintings throughout the halls and rooms tell stories, some mystical, some poignant, in depicting the lives of those once compelled by age or poverty to live at the farm. Each room pays tribute to a former resident, their names and stories inscribed in murals that adorn the walls.  

    

Edie, my friend-from-birth, and her husband, Dave, have been the spark to several of our greatest trips. In 2018, they recommended McMenamins, and this May, invited us back to celebrate their 70^th birthday along with their sons and close friends. 

 

While chatting at dinner and hiking along the Columbia River, Dave and I realized our lives were mundane and danger-free compared to those of this active and activist crew. We learned about Rick and Sue’s romantic meeting while in Africa with the Peace Corps, Bart’s photography trek on the Chisolm Trail, Shaun’s bone-breaking fall while rock climbing, Bob and Genevieve’s work with Greenpeace and Earthjustice, and Patty and Joe’s plummet over a waterfall while rafting. Lordy! In June, Edie herself flew to Denver to advocate for an assault weapons ban. She has knocked on doors, marched, and made calls, literally sacrificing her voice for justice and the planet following a surgery that was supposed to silence her for weeks.  

As they did in 2018, ably and safely guiding us up Misery Ridge Trail on Smith Rock, Edie and Dave led us, their ducklings, on a hike through mossy forest, past blooming white trillium and pink bleeding hearts, up, up, up to stunning views above the Columbia River. While but a stroll for many in this group, five miles was a feat worthy of pride for Lea and Dave. A soothing soak in the warm water pool back at the inn while sipping Cock n’ Bull ginger beer garnished with lime was our glorious reward.

Now, here at the gate, I am feeling a little vulnerable, uncertain, a duckling launched. In our yellow plane, we fly from Edie and Dave’s care to Las Vegas, hoping there are no glitches in picking up our rental car to drive across the desert to the Driftwood Lodge near Zion National Park. 

 

*          *

 

The delightful shady trail along the surging chocolate tumble of the Virgin River began to climb. Dave and I had just remarked on how nice it was to be able to look up at our stunning surroundings without constant focus on footing when loose sandstone on the steep incline returned focus on footing to top priority. Um, and focus on handholds too. The well-packed sandstone trail surface had surrendered to sand, shifting sand, like beach sand, and uplifted though I was by the magnificence around me, caution demanded eyes downcast to scan for roots to grasp or avoid. 

 

During stops to take pictures – and, let’s be honest, to rest and catch breath - the rewards were bountiful. Towering peaks layered in pink, red, and white thrust from the Earth like whale teeth, marking eons of change in colors and crags. Over millennia, the river had carved its way ever deeper, sculpting paths and crumbling seemingly solid rock faces. 

While evidence of change and endurance were all around me, I was wilting.  Panting, heart pounding, I considered the hateful mental worm whispering, am I too old for this?  We had planned this trip thinking, do it while we still can. Had we, in fact, missed the window?

 

No! Virtually upon conception of these heinous reflections, my second wind kicked in. What is the biology behind that saving grace? Revived, relieved and elated as that miraculous breeze blew away thoughts of age, I strutted on.  

 

We were hiking the Emerald Pools trails at Zion National Park at the recommendation of a helpful ranger at the Visitor Center. With three levels of varying difficulty, it was up to us to assess what we could handle, and with the blessing of that second wind, we made it to the topmost, with its waterfall cascade and pool. While Dave and I gratefully claimed a comfortable rock to relax and drink in the beauty, nimble teenagers – Dave dubbed them “the mountain goats” - leapt from rock to rock, scaling the rock face to stand beneath the tumbling water.   

With their wiry bodies, youthful energy, and no signs or guards to shoo them away, adventurous souls were free to thus scramble. The message was clear in each park we visited: individuals are responsible for their own safety. Still, we found that most everyone was mindful of others. In French, Italian, German, Ukrainian, Japanese, and English, camaraderie, conversation, and courtesy conveyed whatever was needed. People encouraged each other on challenging stretches, stepped aside and waited when the trail was perilously narrow, offered to take pictures where selfies were a stretch, and shared in the wonder with smiles and exclamations. 

 

At one point, a ranger with condor expertise directed our gaze to the skies in search of those massive birds with wingspans up to ten feet. How I yearned to catch a glimpse! The ranger explained that in the 1980’s, the condor population was down to twelve breeding pairs due to poaching and lead poisoning from tainted carrion. While that is still an issue, population restoration has been successful, bringing the number up to 330 birds through zealous protection and monitoring. Condors are trapped twice a year to test their blood for lead: if the level is not too high, they can be treated and ultimately released. The ranger urged us to pass the word along, so, hear ye all hunters, make the change from lead bullets to steel.