Trip West, Part V: Once Upon a Time

On the radio, David Bowie sets Major Tom adrift in space as we drive through land as barren and red as Mars. We skirt expanses of gray sand and follow the road as it curls between cliffs, slopes, and swoops of rock seemingly frozen in cresting waves. We drive through snow fields as flurries whip the windshield. And in Capitol Reef National Park, we pull over to see petroglyphs painted on a rock face thousands of years ago. In life, it is the journey as much as the destination, and our trip west has proven that true. 

We are on our way to Arches National Park, hoping to snag an entry time despite being told none have been available for months. Every vista along our way steals breath at the work of wind, water, and shifting plates in sculpting the Earth over eons. With that, our fury at the possibility of being closed out has evaporated.

 

Still, I watch the clock as we close in on Moab. The visitor center at Arches closes at 6:00 and we were told that a few entry slots were released every day at that time. We pull into the parking lot at 5:55. 

 

Dave says, “I’ll park! You run in and grab a reservation!”

 

I scurry inside, envious of those strolling out with souvenir tee-shirts and water bottles having clearly wrapped up a day of hiking. A ranger at the counter glances at his watch as I approach and ask if he can give us a time for the next day.

 

“You can do that online, “ he says, “But go in now if you’d like.”

 

“Go in? To the park? Now?” I say.

 

“Sure. No reservations required after 4:00. Go on in! Enjoy it!”

 

When I head outside, Dave is sitting on a bench, head bent to his phone. “I’m almost finished,“ he says.  “We have an 11:00 AM entry tomorrow.” 

 

Sigh. There’s a lesson here. When I think of my simmering anger and worry on the rim of Bryce Canyon... such a waste. My front-of-mind mantra for years was “Have faith in the unfolding;” clearly, I need to brush it off for display on my mental dashboard.    

 

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After several stolen hours during our gift of an open-entry-past-6:00 at Arches, it was dark when we arrived at Red Cliffs Lodge. In my relief, I’d not noticed the prominent “Hollywood Museum” sign by the entrance. 14 miles off the main road had felt interminable given our serpentine route between rockslide-ready cliffs and a dead drop to the river. Did I have the right address? Did I have the right place? As we closed in, I saw only the blessed name of our lodging. So, it was a revelation when, while in search of a ladies room after dinner, I saw a sign to the museum and an arrow pointing to the lower level.

 

John Wayne welcomed me at the foot of the stairs. Down the hall, the dummy that went over the cliff in a convertible instead of the real-life Geena Davis in Thelma and Louise looked as shocked as would be expected in such a plummet. Props and original posters from Back to the Future III, City Slickers, and The Lone Ranger as well as many iconic westerns going back to 1949 filled display cases. A video loop ran clips of films and highlighted the spectacular locations around Moab where they’d been shot, some right at Red Cliffs Lodge. 

Much of the vintage footage was so familiar: when I was a kid growing up in the fifties and sixties, much of our TV fare was westerns. We idolized all those handsome cowboys with their square jaws and perfect white teeth: Wyatt Earp, Sugarfoot, Davy Crockett, and our favorite, Brett Maverick. There was no ambiguity about Good Guys and Bad Guys. When the Indians swarmed, whooping, over a ridge and across the plains, they were ferocious and savage, their faces painted and long, black hair streaming behind them. Battles were loud and furious, but virtually bloodless: the Trail of Tears and broken treaties were not in those scripts. 

 

When preparing to travel, I focus on necessities. I Google distances and drive time between locations. I consult TripAdvisor for ratings in considering places to stay. For the most part, I don’t delve into area attractions until we arrive, which has generally worked out okay. It also leaves room for surprises, like encounters with John Wayne and Marty McFly. 

 

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An athletic blond in a cropped top, short-shorts, and hiking boots sits next to me on a steep stretch to the opening of one of the Double Arches. In her youth, beauty, and skimpy garb, she is intimidating, but friendly and kind as she smiles at me and says, “You’re almost there.  You can do it!” She, too, has paused on this incline. It’s convivial here beneath the arch as people aged 8 to 80 contemplate the remaining climb to the opening. A father encourages his son to go for it while the mom watches from below, one hand shielding her eyes against the sun as she warns, “Be careful! Maybe stop there!”

Like beads on a necklace, people perch along the curve of the arch. Dave has decided not to try and is taking a video as I reach for the tiniest hint of a fingerhold and inch my toes a bit higher in search of better footing. This is not as difficult as I’m making it sound, but always I am weighing the possibility of injury over triumph. 

 

“It’s a nice view – pretty dramatic,” says a man as he descends. “A dead drop on the other side.”

 

Dead drop. Hm. I take that under advisement.  I want to make it up there and take in that view, but there are ample vistas in the park that don’t seem as risky. I back down and cheer on my blond friend as she scales the rock to the rim. 

 

We felt this same camaraderie at Zion and Bryce in the shared joy of extraordinary experiences. Arches, though, has been unique in its accessibility to little hikers as well. Really little hikers. Toddlers of three can manage some of the short trails and easier inclines, and they are adorable with their “Junior Ranger” vests and walking sticks. Some intrepid souls carry babies in canopied backpacks. Several of the families we’ve spoken to are traveling in campers: having always loved the parks and hiking, they are infusing their children with a love of the Earth and the outdoors from early on.

 

At the other extreme is a practical woman who has taken a seat on a bench near the parking lot. She comments to her companions, “Really, the view of the arches is better from a distance. You go ahead. I’m staying here.” 

 

Trip West, Part IV: Hell's Backbone Farm and Grill, the Anasazi, and Unintended Consequences

If ever I needed proof of avian communication, the conversation among the geese on the pond outside our room at Boulder Lodge would have convinced me. Such a heated give and take! Such honking and grousing! We were frustrated eavesdroppers in need of an interpreter.  

After yesterday’s mood swings from anxious to uplifted in our ultimately successful search for the slot canyon, Boulder Lodge was a lovely haven. My friend Edie had suggested nearby Hell’s Backbone Grill and Farm for dinner but cautioned that we might not be able to get a reservation because it was one of the best restaurants in the country. I assumed that was hyperbole: what would the best restaurant in the country be doing here, in the middle of nowhere?

Because that’s how it felt. After settling in, Dave and I saw only trees, hillsides, and the occasional house when we took a leisurely drive to find the charming little western town I expected Boulder to be. We later learned that, while expansive in miles, the town center was basically Boulder Lodge, the post office, and the restaurant. Where, by the way, we were able to get a reservation. 

 

We’d poked our heads in the door right after check-in and were warmly greeted at the desk by the hostess, Lacy, and one of the co- owners, Blake Spalding. When I related Edie’s rave review, Blake smiled and gestured to the wall behind the hostess stand, a wall crowded with James Beard awards. 

 

Whoa. We were lucky to get that reservation! 

 

When we returned for dinner, Lacy greeted us and led us to a table by a window that looked out over the mountains. Best table in the place; thank you Lacy! 

 

After perusing the menu and reading about the restaurant’s environmental goals and “No-Harm farm” that supplied the organic produce and grass-fed beef, we ordered roasted cauliflower with mint, toasted chickpeas, and a house-made spice rub so divine we bought two jars to bring home. For our main course, we tried the skillet-fried trout encrusted with blue corn, molasses and almonds; cilantro-pepita rice; and organic asparagus. 

 

Delicious. James Beard was right.

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It was a brisk November day in 2004 as David Holladay hiked the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in Utah with his dog. When he spotted an arrowhead on the ground, he knew by its pinkish tone and craftsmanship that he’d discovered something extraordinary. He left it in place until he could return with the proper authorities. 

 

Wait. What? He left it there? Who would do that? If I spotted an arrowhead, I’d absolutely pick it up and pocket it. And, despite guilt being a default for me applicable in countless situations, I’d have felt no guilt. Why would I?

 

Turns out Mr. Holladay did the right thing. An artifact’s placement reveals significant information, and the Bureau of Land management asks that any such discovery be left in situ, and the BLM notified. 

 

But, but, but… Mr. Holladay and the experts were unable to return to the site for months because of snow. So much could have happened in the interim! What if run-off or another hiker had carried the point away? What if the melting snow had changed the ground enough to leave the location unrecognizable? Seems to me Mr. Holladay took a risk with his good intentions, but in the absence of theft and unruly Nature, Mr. Holladay’s Clovis Point is now on display in the Anasazi State Park Museum, our primary reason for visiting Boulder, Utah. 

 

While the archaeological dig of the Coombs Anasazi village site out back was intriguing, as were the displays depicting Anasazi dwellings and implements, it was our conversation with the docent that prolonged our stay. It began with my questions about the microscope that was broken, the interactive panels that didn’t work, and the items that were missing. While there was much to see and do, the theft and damaged exhibits were noticeable. 

Jamie, the docent - or was she the director? – acknowledged that these were concerns. Large school groups were hard to monitor as were the increasing numbers of tourists following the sequestered year of Covid. Jamie asked if we’d noticed the Clovis Point, which, to be honest, I’d seen, but breezed by. There were lots of pretty arrowheads on display, so why linger on one? 

 

Because it’s between 8,000 – 11,000 years old. Because, to a point connoisseur, it was remarkable in workmanship. Because, well, it was displayed all by itself under a spotlight, so I should have known it was special. 

 

Dave is curious and always bubbling with questions, and Jamie was delighted to have inquisitive visitors. She squired us around the museum, with particular attention to the reproduction Anasazi dwelling, tools, pigments, and sandals created by the same David Holladay who discovered the Clovis Point. There was also a beautiful fan-like array of arrowheads he’d made during demonstrations at the museum. 

 

Informative, and clearly an admirer of the Indigenous American jewelry bedecking her fingers, neck, and waist, Jamie was generous with her time. The tone of our exchange wavered some, dipping and rising in a diplomatic dance, when I asked her about Bears Ears National Monument.

 

In 2016, President Obama designated the Bears Ears buttes and 1,351, 849 acres as a National Monument. In 2017, former president Trump reduced the monument by 85%. In 2021, President Biden restored Bears Ears to the original acreage. Hm. Definitely some politics involved.  

 

As a local, Jamie’s take was practical … and bitter.  “I understand the need and wish to preserve lands in National Monument designations… but they don’t include funding nor anticipate the repercussions when lands previously left pretty much alone suddenly come to the public’s attention. People swoop down in droves…and there are no restrooms, no parking, no trails, no plan for garbage collection.” Her nostrils flared in disgust as she described the results of such omissions.  

 

Federal protections in general led her to mention her sympathy for ranchers who’d lost livestock to wolves. We were treading in tricky territory.  She was a local, no doubt had rancher friends, and was certainly far more knowledgeable than I, but I love wolves and if, like my canine friends, I had hackles, they would have been bristling. 

 

Wolves have been given a bum rap. Humans kill and eat innumerable animals, so vilifying wolves for doing the same in order to survive is sheer hypocrisy… but I tried to say that nicely. I asked if Jamie had seen the video “How the Wolves Saved Yellowstone” that demonstrates how wolf re-introduction had bolstered other animal species and restored riverbanks and shrubs. 

 

She had. We agreed that these issues are complicated. 

 

As if to graciously acknowledge my point, Jamie mentioned past efforts by farmers to eradicate beavers, believing that their dams diverted water from crops. To the satisfaction of the farmers, that effort, along with trapping for pelts, led to the near extinction of beavers in North America in the late 1800’s. 

 

Jamie raised an eyebrow and said, “Well. That certainly backfired.”

 

In the animals’ absence, farmers came to recognize, and miss, the ecological benefits of beaver activity in creating streams and pond systems. Now programs have worked to re-establish beaver populations in order to efficiently and inexpensively retain local water supplies, revive degraded wetlands, and support biodiversity.  

 

Hm. Humans and the peril of unintended consequences: so many lessons, yet we are so slow to learn.