Wanderings in Canyon Country: Part I

Just West of Grand Junction, Colorado begins a wide expanse of canyon country that stretches throughout western Colorado, southern Utah and northern Arizona. Encompassed within this broad area is some of the America’s most spectacular scenery including Bryce Canyon, Capital Reef, Glen Canyon, Grand Staircase-Escalante, Zion, and the Grand Canyon. This is also the stumping grounds of Edward Abbey’s infamously controversial Monkey Wrench Gang; ‘Seldom Seen’ Slim, Dr. Sarvis, Bonnie Abbzug, and George Hayduke; strident defenders of Mother Earth. Roughly tracing the path of the mighty Colorado River, the canyons twist and turn, narrow and deepen to the forceful whim of the river. Contained within these rock mazes are scraggly sagebrush, numerous varieties of cactus, creekside cottonwood trees; along with mule deer, big horn sheep, scorpions, and rattlesnakes. On the canyon floor ones’ world becomes limited to the colorful walls of the canyon. To travel within these deep cracks in the Earth’s crust is to step back in geologic time. The canyons amaze one with their silence, colors, and beautiful harshness.

Unfortunately, most tourists simply give canyon country a fleeting glance from interstate highways, speeding by at seventy miles per hour. A few may visit overlooks crowded with other noisy tourists. A quick photograph and they are back in their metal cages. They are unaware of the harsh beauty this landscape contains. This is not the experience that I sought. Thus for this year’s Spring Break I decided to avoid Moab, which in recent years has become a hub of canyon country, and a great place I’ve visited many times before. My friend Jeff and I decided to explore Black Ridge Canyon, a more remote and less-traveled area just South of Fruita, Colorado. It sounded beautiful and remote, just what I wanted. It was a place to escape the face-paced stressful life of civilization; where one is able to contemplate the simpler things in life.

We left Fort Collins on Monday afternoon amid a whirl of last minute preparations. It had been snowing since the night before and we desperately sought some warmer weather. Crossing over the Rocky Mountains, deep snow still held the high country in its winter grasp. We spent the night at the house of one of Jeff’s friends in Grand Junction and the next morning headed for the BLM (Bureau of Land Management) office to get information on Black Ridge Canyon. For the next hour we collected maps, talked with the staff, and asked natural resource questions. These people are trying to manage the land in the right manner, irregardless of the Bush administration and lack of funding due to Iraq. How long must Americans and the World endure these disastrous debacles? Yet, I digress. Loaded with maps and information we ate breakfast at McDonalds and attempted to establish a plan of action. It was mid-morning and we simply decided to start with a hike of Devils Canyon.

We drove to the trailhead, grabbed our packs, and hit the trail. The sky was a cloudless blue, the temperature in the 60s, and the scenery kept improving. The trail began winding through a plain of sagebrush and then entered the wide expanse of the canyon. We passed colorful rocks, steep spires, and sheer cliff faces. No one else was in sight. The path forked and we followed it up a creek through a shallow canyon; its walls limiting our view of the world above. We passed an old mine shaft littered with a rabbit’s foot and the remnants of a campfire, complete with pots and pans. The sense of exploration was exhilarating and my cameras’ shutters snapped with great rapidity. Every colorful and unique rock formation, cacti, ancient snag, and vista brought a sense of awe. At the end of the loop trail was an historic cabin. Stepping inside I discovered a bunk bed, wood burning stove, and other basic amenities. It was a pleasant surprise and reading through the journals entries of past visitors was enjoyable. A few hours later we were back at the car, with the first hike under our belts.

Gift from the Mountains

Breath came in fighting gasps. My body struggled to supply the lungs with oxygen while the legs churned onwards. As the grade began to lessen my breathing returned to a normal rhythm, at least for eleven thousand feet. The dirt trail meandered towards a distant mountain pass in the midst of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. The cascading water of a small creek could be heard through the scraggly pinyon pines scattered around the opening in the forest. As I ran onwards the trees thinned out and more rocky outcrops began to appear. The grade became steeper and then I emerged out of the trees, having reached treeline, the altitude at which trees can no longer grow. High above Mummy Pass loomed over the next rise. Even in late June patches of snow still rested on the mountainsides. At the very first snowfield I lost the trail and simply headed up. The sun-softened snow found its way into my shoes, chilling my feet. Eventually I found the trail and continued running.

Cresting the top of the Pass I paused to take in the grandeur of the scene. At high altitude life is harsh, but beauty abounds. Before me was an expansive alpine meadow filled with short grasses and colorful flowers of every variety. Mountain peaks stretched to the furthest ranges of my vision. I ran through the lush green meadow, skirting the persistent puddles, and descended to an alpine lake; its emerald blue waters ringed by late season snow. On its northern edge a scree field clung to the mountainside. Except for the snow, which revealed the water’s chilling temperature, the lake looked like the perfect place for a cool dip.

I ran further through marshy willow bushes and past another alpine lake. The trail became harder to follow and I was forced to slow to a walk searching for it. Eventually I gave up and simply ran through the alpine terrain wherever my mind and legs desired. I must have explored the area for well over an hour, running freely from one small rise to the next, searching out a new and exciting view. Except for the necessity of food and water I could have run throughout this grand mountain range, but eventually I forced myself to turn back.

Retracing my steps I saw a short incline of snow and decided to scramble up it. Reaching the top I was astonished by what I found. Nestled in a small depression, not more than twenty feet from the trail, was a small shallow lake. It couldn’t have been more than thirty feet across at the widest point. Through the lake’s shimmering emerald water could be seen ancient rocks of various shapes and sizes. It was a most extraordinary surprise! I sat peacefully treasuring the beautiful secluded lake hidden within the mountains.

Then bound by the constraints of a world that functions by the clock I continued running back towards the crest of Mummy Pass. Once again my breath came in gasps and the legs began to burn. Reaching the top I paused to look back on the incredible scene before descending into the valley far below. As I ran through the snowfield, back into the pinyon forest, and along the cascading creek I contemplated this most wonderful experience with nature.

The Grand Act

It is the sound of silence. The wind has died down and left stillness in its place. Even the screech of free-soaring birds can not be heard. It is not often that the total absence of sound exists. When such moments do occur they are to be embraced. To those that listen the silence has a mesmerizing effect. It is something sacred. Along with the silence is the empty barren landscape, virtually untouched except by eons of blowing wind. Miles upon miles of reddish-brown slickrock, with only an occasional patch of sand or scraggly sagebrush, reaches past the horizon.

In the middle of this vastness is a man. His soot black hair is dirty and disheveled. A scruffy beard hides a weathered face and piercing black eyes. Atop his mop of hair rests a beaten and battered straw hat that droops down over his eyes. On his back is a tattered flannel shirt; an unappealing puke brown color. It smells worse than it looks. Blue jeans, frayed from overuse add to his attire. Finally shoes, to use the term loosely, and a large well-used knife complete his shabby attire. He bought the whole outfit for five bucks at a Salvation Army thrift store. Left behind are the fancy suits, large house in suburbia, flourishing high-paying career, and a growing circle of friends. All his money is gone, and along with it all the other definitions of success.

In the midst of this barren landscape he seems to wander freely and aimlessly. Approaching a small pockmark filled with water he stoops and drinks. Droplets of water fall from his sodden beard. After drinking he dunks his head and then shakes it from side to side; like a dog ridding itself of moisture. As the sun and dry heat beat down, he walks among the rocks, leaving no footprints. Eventually he reaches an uncrossable precipice and gazes at the green water far below. He stands there on the ledge, a solitary figure amid the rugged beauty of this harsh land. Except for the occasional sagebrush, jackrabbit, and rattlesnake there is not another living thing for miles. The only sense of time is the passing of the clouds overhead. He sits down and contemplates the silent emptiness around him. Ever so slowly the sky becomes darker. Rich shades of burning red begin to appear in the sky and is reflected on the grainy rocks. Each moment the land is transformed. There he sits, silently watching, his body silhouetted against the sky. Emotions flow freely and tears are shed. With the grand act almost complete he simply gets up, and with the hint of a smile, walks onward.

The Walk

It’s Friday night in anywhere and everywhere America. This moment in time finds him sitting in an old well-worn chair on the front porch. His body appears relaxed, but the face alludes to some other state. His brow is somewhat furrowed, the eyes have a glazed intensity to them, and the mind is in overdrive. He’s thinking, searching, and not finding the answer. There he sits, dwelling on the question that has often puzzled him.

Slowly he gets out of the chair and starts walking, seeking the answer to his thoughts. He passes by the corner grocer, gazes into the local liquor store, crosses the street while the “do not cross” signal is flashing. The quiet movements of his worn and tattered sandals mark his progress. He walks on looking but not seeing, listening but not hearing. Finding the answer is the single focus of his absentmindedness.

Arriving at the gigantic cinema he crosses the bustling parking lot. Boisterous high-schoolers, love-struck couples, and the middle-aged emerge from their cars. He goes inside. After buying a ticket to the latest blockbuster he finds a seat in the crowded theater. The mingling of butter saturated popcorn and slurp of sugary sodas identifies this place. A piece of gum has attached itself to his shoe. He watches the movie searching for the answer. The film contains all the necessary tears and triumphs, love and loss, life and death. The movie ends. He walks out in silence. Outside the wind brings fresh air. The cinema did not contain the answer.

A few dollars poorer and a bit deafer he wanders onward. In the distance a train whistle blows. At the next corner he looks first to the left and then to the right, or was it first to the right and then to the left? For no reason he starts walking to the left. He passes some nondescript modern art sculpture and pauses at a streetlight to read the posters. A few minutes later he is walking up the marble steps of the local library. As he enters the librarians look up from their reading; it’s uncommon to find someone in the library on a Friday night. He walks past the long tall stacks of science-fiction, self-help, Westerns, and religious books. At the back of the library he browses through literature in its truest and most revered form, the classics. He turns the pages of Dickens, Shakespeare, Allcot, Vern, and many others. They all write about interesting things in interesting ways, but it is not what he is seeking. The intercom announces the library is closing. He walks out empty-handed, his question still unanswered.

The night outside has taken on a slight chill and he raises the collar of his jacket against the cold. Except for a few passing cars the streets are quiet. Through the drawn curtains of the houses he passes can be seen the dull blue glow of televisions; the people inside watching some manufactured reality until they become tired and go to bed. An ambulance speeds past, its siren blaring. He hears music coming from a bar and steps inside. The bar has the familiar mix of stall beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat. The atmosphere is loud and energized. After a few minutes he has a glass of overpriced cheap beer. Some band is playing and he makes his way towards the stage. Around him the young and pushing middle-age sit or stand in small clusters. Bits of their beer-altered-state sentences reach his ears. Most of it doesn’t make sense and all of it is meaningless. He finds an empty seat. It’s not difficult to find a single seat anyplace these days. The band is good, but not great. He finishes his beer and orders another from the scantily clad waitress; less clothing equals better tips. The music stops and another band begins their set. Their music is more slow and sultry. The dancers begin to swing and sway with the rhythm. A girl turns and begins to talk to him. She is mildly attractive and they talk. He orders two shots and another round of beers. He’s getting buzzed and she’s drunk. In her alcohol induced state she thinks he’s sweet and sensitive. She communicates this through touch. After a few more rounds she suggests they go back to her place for a “wild fun time”. He leaves, but alone. Bars and romance don’t contain the answer to his question.

It’s early in the morning and he’s drunk. He walks on a bit unsteadily. He passes by a quaint stone chapel. He goes up to the door, opens it, looks in, and turns away. In a roundabout way he begins to make his way back to the chair on the porch. His route passes through upper-class neighborhoods, nondescript subdivisions, and rundown trailer parks. A dark forest lies ahead. He enters it along a small dirt path that leads to a small grassy meadow. He’s no longer sure if this is the way back. Drunk and tired he lies down beside a creek. His head falls back and his body sprawls out on the dewy grass. His alcohol glazed eyes gaze into the starry night sky. Beside him the movement of water over rocks creates a rippling sound. Except for these things the night is dark and silent.

Beside the rippling creek in the quiet grassy meadow, staring into the starry sky, his tired mind and body continue to search for the answer. He has been asking the question for a long time and has not found the answer. He may never find the answer. He does not know what he is looking for. As he lays there, his intoxicated body sprawled out on the dew soaked grass, he finds the answer. He finds what he has been searching for. No one else is around. He can not share the answer with all the others who search for the answer. He simply lays there.