Scampin

So, we decided to hike to the top of a mountain. It had been looming over us for days, looking down at us from our campsite, and Jo had been chomping at the bit to get going. See that flat looking knob in the middle of Superstition Mountains? That’s the Flat Iron. It stands 2,821 feet over 2.5 miles at a 45 degree angle; and The Phoenix New Times voted it the Best Badass Hike in the area.

We told the folks we’d be back in six hours.

Honestly, we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. But we set off, bushy tailed and gung-ho.

About an hour into the hike we arrived at the  basin of Siphon Draw. Flat Iron peaks over the ridge in front of us. We still had 1,800 feet to go, straight up.

I started to get into a rhythm, lunging up the boulders and crevices, hand, hand, foot, foot. The scenery was breathtaking. We had been told that it was a scramble near the top, that one has to watch out for falling rocks and loose gravel. Knowing this, I started up a route to the right, carefully testing rocks, then hoisting myself up, up, up.  It was frightening. Rocks and gravel fell in my wake, and Mikey had to wait until I climbed a ways in order to follow. We thought that the trail must fork, allowing one section to go directly up and one to curve around through the gorge. Jo hollered, “I think I found the trail! I’m taking this one.” We yelled back, “OK! Meet you at the top!”

I had a shred of hope, thinking that this meant we would meet at the top and I wouldn’t have to go down this same way. It terrified me to think about going down this same way. In retrospect, I must have been too in-the-zone, too tired to fully assess what I was doing. I was going the wrong way. Mikey followed, reluctantly. We reached a spot where bushes overtook the gravely wash, and Mikey wanted to go no further. I protested, thinking, just a little further, please. . . But the realization soon came to me. We could go no further. We had to go down.

Mikey took off, holding one foot out in front of him and sliding down on his butt. He looked up at me. “I can’t go.” I stammered. I could feel the tears coming. I was absolutely petrified.

It took some time, but with some gentle coaxing he eventually got me to move.

We duck-walked and crab-walked our way down, until the muscles in my quads were wriggling like fish. Mikey duct taped his hands, and I put my gloves on. “I can see the trail!” he’d call, “I can see people!”

Later he would tell me it was all a lie to keep me moving. Brilliant.

We finally reached the trail, an hour lost. There was nothing to do but continue on.

It wasn’t long after that we headed in the wrong direction, yet again. A European guy yelled at us, angrily, “Wrong way!” tapping his stick on a blue chalk circle on a rock. We were supposed to follow the blue chalk circles on the rocks. Idiots.

Near the top there was one last free-climb, less that twenty feet high, with a knotted rope tied to a tree. Unwilling to wait for the group of people coming down, I climbed up the left side, and froze halfway yet again. A young kid told me where to put my hands and feet. With one last push I had made it, I was reborn, I was at the TOP.

The 360 views were grandiose; so unbelievable, as if we could see the surface of the earth.

We were minor celebrities up there—Jo had shown our picture to just about everyone, wondering if anyone has seen us, wondering if we were lost. “Hey! You made it!” they’d say, one after another, as we staggered by.

On the way back, our legs were unsteady and untrustworthy. My method was to keep going—the more I stopped the more my legs refused to continue. I started to laugh uncontrollably. It felt as if someone put laughing gas directly into my legs, and the feeling made me tear up with laughter. I was so tired.

We made it back in six and a half hours.

The next day, Jo was already planning another trip up. He loves that kind of thing, he eats it up.

I’d need the next three days to fully recover.

 

Up next—stories of the Swedberg Family Christmas (:

I am lying on my back in a swimming pool. Steam curls all around me like little ghosts; I look up at the stars, still visible in the city, and then my eyes scan little hotel room windows, where a man is watching a woman on television sing.

Being underwater has always jolted me into the present moment. It muffles all the outside sounds except the steady sssssss of the jets, allowing me to notice, to be grateful, to shut off the radio in my head, if only for a moment.

Just now a Hispanic couple step out of their balcony to smoke, and, noticing me and Mikey, call to their children, “Niños! llegado mira esto!” The two kids slide open the balcony door, and take seats next to their parents.  Soon we have an audience of four, staring in wonder as the two gringos swim leisurely in the dark in one of the coldest nights in Phoenix.

Mom and Grandma had arrived a few days earlier_, with little Sophie in tow. It was so lovely to have them; there were many hilarious moments (one of which was trying to get out of our tiny two-door truck’s backseat, nobody could do it with much grace, let alone almost causing serious injury), along with the usual fight-to-the-death arguments of who gets to buy what, etc.

The first day we headed back down to Gilbert Ray in Tucson, where Gram helped us with our budding interest in birding. We would walk in the morning and at dusk, the best times to view them, and Gram would narrow down a hunch, and with a flip of her wrist seemed to magically find the exact bird in her book within seconds. “It’s a Great-Tailed Grackle!” She would shout, as if she had just won a thousand dollars.

We hiked slowly. Mom donned new hiking poles for her broken leg, and we stopped every so often to rest and watch the birds. It was lovely.

At night, since they didn’t allow campfires, we would burn a sterno log on the grill and listen to the coyotes. Twice on our walks people have told us, “They’ll eat your dog, you know,” with that fatherly, all-knowing look. While that might be true, I can’t help but hear the desperation in their call, like a family of orphaned, lonely puppies.

On day three it was decided that we would return to Patagonia Lake. We camped a few feet from the water in a little grove of short, scraggily trees. Coot ducks swam in the bay, and we hiked the nearby birding trail each day. It seems that the swath of birds we heard on our first trip were merely passing through. The trail was mostly quiet. As we were approaching home, however, Mikey spotted something big swoop down and settle in a nearby tree. It was a Great Horned Owl. Stoic and proud, he stared at us like peasants in his mighty kingdom. We sat in silence. Once we came to our senses we scooped up Soph, who probably looked like a plump, delicious bunny rabbit.

The next day we went to a bird sanctuary in Patagonia, where we got to see dozens of birds, none of which I’ll try to rename so as not to embarrass Gram. One beaut, though, was the Lazuli Bunting, a pretty blue sweetie on the right in this photo:

Lost Dutchman campground sits behind the appropriately named Superstition Mountains, which reach upward like a giant crown in the otherwise flat desert. We’re told its the most famous lost gold mine in history. According to many versions of the tale, the mine is either cursed, or protected by enigmatic guardians who wish to keep the mine’s location a secret.

We camped here for the remainder of their trip:

See our neighbor? Baby Scamp:

The next day we drove on towards Canyon Lake. It’s always a shock to see a large expanse of water in the desert; riverboats churning slowly along the sheer-cliff shores. We drove on, surprised to find the road deteriorating—deep rivets carved out of the dirt and large sections completely washed out—just as the scenery was coming to life. The area reminded us of a smaller version of Zion. So beautiful. We switchbacked down, hanging on as we slammed over rocks; hugging the curves. “Good girl”, we cooed, patting the dash of our truck.

On the way home we stopped for beers and nachos in a little tavern in Tortilla Flats. The entire restaurant was wallpapered in signed dollar bills, and one could literally saddle up to the bar; the chairs were made up of western saddles. I squeezed lime and salt in mine; a custom I picked up whenever we’d go to Mexico.

We spent the next few days hiking, eating out at our new favorite Mexican hole-in-the-wall joint (Los Favoritos—they have the best carne asada burrito I’ve ever tasted), shopping and sitting around the fire at night. “Did the bus go by?” We’d say when we felt it was time for a toddy (an inside joke, kind of like is it five o’clock yet?) We would then ask Gram all kinds of stories from her childhood; when she was caught licking a pound of butter under the kitchen sink, when she was stung by wasps forty seven times in her face at age two, how great grandma and grandpa parented, etc.

The glow of the fire with a little snort of rum make the best combination.

—

In the mornings we would have our coffee together on the couch, exactly like the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

 

It was so nice having gram, the visit ended too quickly. We miss you gram (:

Up next—get ready for Dad and Jojo to visit for christmas.

We left Patagonia the next day, seeing that it set us back $25/night, and drove the forestry roads through the Coronado state forest. The drive was surprisingly woody and tight, winding through shack-y ranches and little sloping houses. Dry grass and steep, rocky cliffs surrounded us. We drove until it approached dusk. We looked at the clock and each other, thinking the same thing: “where the hell are we”? We agreed to turn around at the next pull-out, and immediately past that I noticed a clearing with a firepit. It suited us fine, nestled in next to a wash and a soft, open field.

We settled, gathered wood and made a fire in the cool blackness.

We stayed nearly a week, hiking the Arizona Trails, heading in to Patagonia to bum around and talk to the locals.

One woman, upon hearing our situation, gave us some key advice: at each town we stop at, ask where one could find the local Whole Foods/Organic store, and, once it gets dark, loot the trash cans. She cautioned us on the compactors, saying with a laugh, “when you hop in, just make sure it isn’t on—”

She had traveled this way from California for months, stopping when she found somethings she liked; in this case it was working as a children’s art teacher at the local Tin Shed Theater.

Each day free-range cattle roamed through our site, and after seeing their horns, we took to tying Emmylou to the camper. She sent one high-tailing through the woods. I couldn’t imagine what a momma would do if she was separated from her babe.

Border patrol trucks rolled by multiple times a day, and we realized this sign was at the entrance of the forest. Next time we will leave some water for those traveling through.

We made turkey burgers and tatos for Thanksgiving, and, realizing we had no desert, Mikey whipped up his new signature cast-iron whiskey oatmeal raisin apple crisp. Jesus. It melted in our forks. No need for plates—there was no time.

We died a little in our lawn chairs, in the middle of nowhere, watching the sun set in our hole-y, smoky clothes, thousands of miles from home.

In the following days we would travel through Nogales, Sierra Vista, Bisbee and Tombstone, and then we would find out, to our delight, that grandma and mom were to fly out for a visit. (:

 

 

 

We drove south through the desert until it dipped down into a bowl of lush marshes and trees, outlining the wide, 265 acre Patagonia lake. At the east end there is a campground, tucked in beside the marina where boats and kayaks are available for rent. It was beautiful. We were told that the old New Mexico/Arizona railroad runs straight through it; I picture it deep under the water—catfish rubbing their smooth bellies against the tracks.

We found a spot near the water so Bubba could help herself to a swim whenever she pleased.

We parked next to a couple from Georgia. The man openly described himself as lazy, to the extent that it seemed he could not muster the energy to finish his words. Tomorrow was ‘tomor’, fishing pole was ‘fish po”, and so on. He talked in short, stilted sentences that caused a great deal of effort.

“Now I’m not a racist—I got a daughter-in-law who is Mexican—but thirty years ago you couldn’t leave your fish po’ for a second without it bein’ snatched up by some illegal.”

He said this lightheartedly, resting his hands on his perfectly round belly.  His wife stepped out to tell him the pie is in the oven—a fact that would have brought both of us to our knees—but he looked right through her, talking about his pugs, which sat next to him like furry, overweight extensions of himself.

That evening we hiked the bird watching trails around the lake, seeing everything from Snow Geese to Gadwalls to Northern Pintail, all circling and nibbling in the eight foot high reeds. The sound was unlike anything I’d ever heard—a resonating choir so thick with song it blended into one, sweet note. The creek that fed the lake was sandy, crystal clear and ice cold, offering itself to the freerange horned cattle that roamed the woods. They would appear suddenly, like ghosts, staring intently and unwaveringly until we would round the bend.

But—I’m getting ahead of myself.

Written by Mikey: Old Tucson was our next stop after we left Gilbert Ray. It is a makeshift 18th century Wild West town which looked just like the black and white westerns that played back-to-back at Grandpa Bill’s.  Over 300 movies and TV shows have been filmed here since 1939.  There were cabaret dancers in an old theater, a decommissioned coal train and several live shows throughout the day.  The highlight was a Hollywood stunt demonstration.  Three stuntmen dueled to the death (sort of) in front of packed bleachers.  They had real guns firing blanks, a thirty foot freefall, and a fireball explosion toward the end of the performance.

Unfortunately, Jayme died.

After Old Tucson, we headed south towards Ben’s friend, Kandice’s place.  Kandice and her husband, Richard, have an acre of land outside of town which is their retirement winter getaway.  They also have three full hookups for RVs scattered throughout their property.  We chatted the afternoon away and gave several thirty second tours of our Scamp to our hosts and their guests.  The next morning Kandice greeted us with fresh baked muffins.  “I’m hoping to be the best campground host on your trip!”  Wow, we are lucky.

The next day we drove further South toward the Mexican border to the Kitt’s Peak Observatory.  It was a pretty steady incline to the 7000 foot top and the temperature was a good 25 degrees cooler than Kandice’s place.  Some of the telescopes were open to the public including one tracking the sun. It was a pretty neat place.  Free, too.

 

Up next—Coronado National Forest.

We are walking in the desert. The mountains look quickly sketched, as if the person paid no mind to what mountains should look like; instead drawing little scribbles and dips wherever they please. One could use the color violet to paint them, perhaps adding a bit of white as they descend into Mexico.

We are in a dry river bed, or maybe a wash, hiking behind our campsite at Gilbert Ray Campground about four miles from the Saguaro National Park. The coyotes yap steadily off in the distance. As we walk we feel somehow that we’re in their territory, as if we’re being watched. The desert around here is such that we can walk just about anywhere, everything is made of gravel it seems, intermixed with scratchy brush and every kind of cactus you can imagine. We have Emmy on a leash, pulling her around cacti as she wags dopily along.

The very next moment we look down and she has a jumping cactus protruding from her mouth. It is about the size of a tennis ball, with long white needles pointing in every direction. She rears, snorting, violently shaking her head. There was no way I can pull it out with my hand, so I grab two large rocks and sandwich the branch in between and yank. It takes a few tries. Once removed, she is left with seven needles protruding from her face (and one in her tongue), like some indigenous Amazonian. Imagine holding down a forty pound fish, thrashing, as you attempt to pull seven hooks from its face.

Oh, the things a mother must do.

Once we were done, the little monster forgot everything, tail wagging, living completely in the moment.

We arrived in Tucson the previous afternoon, and, from spending a week boondocking in the freezing Kaibab National Forest (and a few days in Vegas…will write about that another time), we felt we needed proper showers and a warm bed. We splurged on a crappy Quality Inn room near the airport. It was glorious. We did our dishes in the sink, and I attempted to swim in the “heated” pool, but found that it was all but deserted and ice cold. We watched a Tom Hanks movie on the boxy TV and ate peanut butter sandwiches. Life was good.

The next morning, on a whim, I decided we should see the Saguaro National park and stay at an actual campground for a few nights. We had intended to head south to the Coronado Forest and boondock, but something pulled at me.

The campground was gorgeous. At night we could see the twinkly lights of the city below, silhouetted by saguaros. We were close to Old Tucson Studios, the set where dozens of westerns were shot in the old days, and just a few miles from the National Park.

Once settled we went straight to the park, hoping to get a hike in before sunset. There was something mysterious about this area, something that pulled at me from the inside; it’s almost like the exact picture I had seen in my head when I pictured this trip: a forest of saguaro cacti, endless trails, balmy days and cool, quiet nights.

The sunset here are unreal.

We had camped two nights before I found out this had been the exact campground where we stayed with my grandparents when I was seven. We hiked these same trails, toured Old Tucson and biked these same roads where Mikey and I walk Bubba. It’s bizarre, I’ll give you that, but if I were a religious person I would probably feel that it was fate.  I didn’t even remember what state we were in when I thought back to our trip to the desert.

When my grandma found out where we were staying, she promptly sent forty dollars for us to stay a few more nights, non-negotiable. She doubled our stay at the campground, allowing us to explore more into the park and meet some really neat people. Love you gram.

The next day we hiked King Canyon Trail up 4,687-foot Wassen Peak. I did my best to bird watch. I found that pausing to listen and watch these delicate birds is such a sweet meditation; I can see why my grandma spent a lifetime doing this.

 

At the top there were a cluster of boulders—we sat and watched the sunset.

Again, the love and luck we felt surged through our veins. Every night we went to bed happy. I can’t say the same for the previous week, but such is the nature of travel.

 

 

 

 

It rained the next day. Mikey found a free spot on a side road next to the local library. There was a park with plug-ins, and nice outdoor toilets with hot water (for trucker showers). Since it was next to an outfitters store, many campers came and went without hassle. We talked to a Brit who drove what appeared to be a soccer mom’s van, but the back hatch opened up to a full kitchen, sink and everything. His journey started in San Francisco and had been on the road for months. He told us he hiked that morning in the rain, saying, “it was a bit slippy—”

I couldn’t imagine hiking the trails we’ve hiked in the rain. The back of my legs get little tingles thinking about it.

We spent the day at Deep Creek Coffee shop, a little hole-in-the-wall place with a golden retriever sleeping in the corner. The baristas fit the type for this town: grungy and muscled with dreads, windburned skin and big, toothy smiles. Very laid back. A couple came up to order, and the barista man, working on a drink, said, “It’ll be just a moment. In the meantime—why don’t you tell me a joke?”  The couple had to break from their role as the customer, so it took a second, and then they told a corny joke about ants having aunts. I laughed, not at the joke, but the barista. I’ll be saving that line for later.

The next day we hiked the Riverside Walk, also called the Gateway to the Narrows. Lush green vegetation—ferns, grasses, flowers and algae—grew seemingly straight out of the rock beside us, some even upside down. The Hanging Gardens, as they’re called, are an anomaly in the hot, cracked desert.

As we walked, the Navajo Sandstone cliffs close in and water is forced into the walls known as the Narrows. We didn’t bring anything to continue further—most people wear wet suits and have poles for stability. Next time.

The water was an iridescent green-blue.

–

The Angels Landing Trail is one of the most famous and thrilling hikes in the national park system. Zion’s pride and joy runs along a narrow rock fin with dizzying drop-offs on both sides. The trail culminates at a lofty perch, boasting magnificent views in every direction. Rarely is such an intimidating path so frequented by hikers. One would think that this narrow ridge with deep chasms on each of its flanks would allure only the most intrepid of hikers. Climbers scale its big wall; hikers pull themselves up by chains and sightseers stand in awe at its stunning nobility. The towering monolith is one of the most recognizable landmarks in the Southwest.

– ZionNationalPark.com

Looking at the map, we saw a little dot that read, Angel’s Landing.  It sounded neat, and knowing nothing, we shrugged and started up. The sign said 2.5 miles.

We hiked the switchbacks until we could no longer breathe, and then the path changed dramatically, curving through a narrow crack with a cool, welcome breeze.

And then the switchbacks continued.

These pictures don’t do justice to the epic scenery surrounding us.

The smile masked my terror. I know climbers in my family could do this with one leg tied behind their back, but for me, it was incredibly daunting. Mikey, on the other hand, took it like a champ.

The trail zigzags up to the top, seen here:

Here are some more neat photos.

We spent the rest of the week in our little free spot, heading into Hurricane to get supplies, lounging and reading, walking Bubba.

Our Camp:

Next stop—who knows?

 

We drove under a mountain. Once in a while we glimpsed a sight of the blue sky through a thick arched window, but mostly it was dark.  This was the Zion-Mount Carmel Tunnel—a modern marvel in it’s time—winding 1.1 miles into the rock. The walls looked as if they were chiseled out with a screwdriver or carved with a giant fingernail into the clay. It made me wonder how they constructed it in the 1920’s, and so I did a bit of research and found this:

How can you support an entire mountain with a wooden beam? Oh, the things we take for granted.  We drove slowly through the dark. Emmy whined beside me. Once we saw the light from the other side, we opened our window and this is what we saw:

I imagine the site looked much the same ninety some years ago. We drove the switchbacks down, down, down into the park, to a little trail along the campground where we walked Bubba.

We hiked the Upper and Lower Emerald Pools trail first. The waterfalls trickled down like rain, slicking the path, and Mikey stopped to tilt his head and drink.

We wanted to be isolated, to take it all in on our own, so we hiked Hidden Canyon next. The landscape was beyond words—the Virgin River has carved a gorge so deep that sunlight rarely reaches the bottom. The canyon is wide and breathtaking with sheer cliffs dropping some 3,000 feet. My brain grasped at anything to make sense of it; it felt like we were in Jurrasic Park—I looked up expecting to see a pterodactyl swooping over; our ant-like figures squinting in it’s shadow.

The path curved around the bend and started a gentle switchback, and it gradually became steeper and steeper until it became clear to us: we were going to the top. We noticed another hiker across the canyon—this is where we were headed.

We held onto chains as the trail narrowed, scooting our way along the cliff, our stomachs in our throats (little did we know that this was nothing compared to the hike we would do in the coming days). At the top, we could see our little truck in the parking lot below:

I was in love with this day. When we had tucked into our covers for the night (in the Zion parking lot—we had seen people do it all the time at Arches and thought we would gamble) my heart welled up with gratitude. I closed my eyes, and said “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

One thing we really haven’t done on this trip is keep track of time. We go to bed when we’re tired, get up when we’re awake. This night, though, after we’d been asleep for what seems like hours, there was a knock at the door. We finally pulled up the phone to see the time—9:10pm.  We must’ve gone to bed at 7.

It was the Zion patrol guy. He couldn’t have been more accommodating and affable, gently reminding us that we could not camp overnight. He chatted with Mike about the make and model of our Scamp, said his goodbyes, and then we went into auto-mode, getting everything packed up. Emmylou was like a bag of sand. A strange man can walk up to our camper with a bright light and knock loudly, and all she will do is slowly raise her head as if she was trying to remember a dream. She’s getting bomb-proof. We hoisted her over our shoulder and drove off into the dark, looking for a place to boondock.

When the free campground fifteen miles away was closed, and after some choice words, we headed back into Springdale (right outside of Zion) and parked on the street. We slept in fits in between noisy Halloweeners and loud cars. Even so, I couldn’t have been happier.

 

We took off through the hillside, cutting our way down to Bryce Canyon. It was so strange to see fir trees dotting the red and white hills—the ground color was so brilliant it looked mismatched. We drove through the Big Rock Candy Mountain, and to our dismay (and Grandpas if he were here), the place was a dump.  We noticed this trend with each little town we passed through; boarded up houses and sorry looking livestock, heads slumped towards the ground.  Still, we were revved up to be GOing, excited to see the next new thing. I played Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’s “A Posh, Posh traveling life, the traveling life for me,” and sang loudly to Bubba, complete with animated gestures. Mikey occasionally would dart his eyes at me, expressionless.  I kept on, singing, “P-O-S-H posh, posh posh!” as the little murder-y towns disappeared in our dust.

We arrived at Bryce Canyon just as the sun was setting with no concrete plans, Jayme and Mikey Rey style. Who knew that the park’s campgrounds would be closed so early in the season, especially when it was still a balmy 65 out every day? We ended up at a hookup campground that night, next to some monster campers that never stopped humming.

The next morning we found the best campsite we’ve had so far (at $8 a night!). It had elements we could relate to—unlike the other-worldy aspects of the canyons and desert—a soft, pine needle forest, little trails with rabbits and deer poop, and an endless supply of wood. We stayed there two nights, and each night (because of the elevation) it dipped below freezing. Mikey would heat up a big rock in the fire, wrap it in a towel and place it at our feet. We slept like kings. Emmylou would curl up like a cinnamon bun on my pillow, head resting on my neck.

We met some Canadian friends and invited them to our fire. After a long talk, I realized that all of us campers are like kindred strangers. We eat food out of the pan, pee outside under the stars and watch the landscape change through our car windows, hot coffee in hand. This makes us love one another even though we have never met. It makes is capable of speaking the truth and sharing the most intimate moments with each other. I’ve listened while parents share their disappointments in their kids, how one man left the pop-up sleeping tent of their camper van open as they drove down the freeway (he said he would never speak of it to any of his family), all because they know we can trust each other and most likely will never see each other again.

–

The first morning, after our fire and coffee, we headed for the park, stopping first at the visitor’s center.

It was there we learned of the Indian legend that described what we were about to see. Once there lived animal-like creatures that changed themselves into people. But they were bad, so Coyote turned them into rocks of various configurations. The spellbound creatures still huddle together here with faces painted just as they were before being turned to stone.

I think that is the best way to describe the phantom-like rock spires, or hoodoos, that make up the park.

At Sunset Point.

Natural Bridge.

We hiked part of the Briggs Spring Loop off of Rainbow Point, probably four miles or so through steep terrain, heavy woods and then wide open trails like this one:

 

We met a friend.

Aqua Canyon.

Our camp.

We would have stayed here for weeks if the weather hadn’t turned, so next stop—Zion!

We’ve been living off the beaten path these days and we’re finding it’s tricky to get internet and a good plugin in order to keep up on the blog. Anyway, here goes.

The next day we moved (yet again) to an almost-free campsite closer to Arches called Drinks Canyon. We were a stone’s throw from the caramel Colorado River, deep within two canyons and much further from town. Emmylou, being the naïve girl she is, jumped in immediately and was submerged under the current. We had her on a leash (again, the strict leash laws), and drug her in by the neck as she scrambled like, well, a frantic wet dog. Later that day we had a Wilson moment (remember Cast Away?) when her ball fell into the river, and, holding her back, she watched with the equivalent of dog tears as her beloved ball disappeared around the bend.

With the sun beating down we waited until dusk to head to the park again. We were the only ones driving into the park as the sun set; all other visitors were high-tailing it to their hotel rooms, fatigued. The arches were especially spooky, making my heart beat audible in my ears as I walked close to them. There was something moving about their stature, as if we were walking in a lightless New York City at night, craning our necks to see the skyscrapers.

We stretched out on the hood of the truck, bewildered. This moment could only be described by the poem by Li Bai:

Tonight I stay at the Summit Temple.
Here I could pluck the stars with my hand,
I dare not speak aloud in the silence,
For fear of disturbing the dwellers of heaven.

Later that night we had a fire with our neighbors from New York.  They owned a maple syrup farm in a town about 2,000 people. We had dozens of questions about the inner workings of such a trade, and they said people are so interested in helping some will do it for free, simply for the experience. After a beer or two, they mentioned (wink wink) the fact that they have an extra thirty acres that they’d love to lend to someone in exchange for that someone to own a herd of sheep. There was a pause, and she said, “We just would like to look out our window at some sheep”. Makes sense, I suppose. They also mentioned the small niche that is opening up in New York for sheep’s cheese. “It’s a French thing—and it is so delicious. . .”

It’s amazing the things we’ve learned so far.

The next day we hiked to straight up a steady incline that leads to Delicate Arch.

Sweaty, we got there right around sunset. We sat there for quite a while. It was magnificent.

That next afternoon, after walking through the art shops and getting some groceries in town, we hiked the Negro Bill Canyon trail near our site. It winds along the stream through cottonwood and willow trees, cut off from the desert above by sandstone cliffs. At the end, around two miles in, Morning Glory Natural Bridge spans the head of one of Negro Bill’s side canyons at the end of the trail. You can kind of see it off in the distance in this picture:

Every day, the ebb and flow of campers was consistent. We never saw the same people twice. The last evening in Moab we had three visitors; a freelance videographer couple on their way from Maine to California then to Ecuador to film (Autumn and Leif were there names—I swear—I can’t make this stuff up), and a science-math-engineer type guy (Ben) who takes climate change facts from scientists and converts them to mathematical principals that can be studied. I think. The conversation was great. These people have been EVERYwhere. They told us we have to visit Switzerland, and to come visit them in Ecuador. We laughed and said Emmylou kind of anchors us in the States, and plus what are we made of money? It was such a sweet luxury to listen to their stories. After the couple left for bed (being from Maine I’m sure it was like 5 am or something their time), the conversation turned philosophical. Becoming a scientist changed Ben’s views on life, he had this overwhelming feeling that nothing really mattered. “The time humans have been on this earth is nothing! Its just a tiny blip on the calender of the earth. Look at that canyon. Those rocks were there when the dinosaurs were around, and they don’t CARE about you. Look at the stars! There is probably life out there, looking back at us! But it doesn’t matter! Humans will come and go and life will go on—” he said, arms outstretched and staring upward. We nodded, agreeing, offering bits of our thoughts here and there, but mostly listening.  We were cooking potatoes on the fire, and he continued, “I mean, look at those potatoes. They don’t care about you! They don’t give a SHIT about you!” he said, exasperated. We laughed. What a great night.

 

Next stop: Bryce Canyon.

We pull into Moab, Utah around dusk. The little town is a mixture of downtown Ocean Beach, California and Jackson Hole, Wyoming; with little hole-in-the-wall shops mixed with tourist traps, stoner-looking cafés and fancy hotels, all with the sheer canyon cliff backdrop. Sunset comes early here, setting before we’re ready behind a wall that reminds us of The Lord of the Rings. It seems if we say the magic words the great wall will open up; complete with Orcs cranking on giant chains.

We stay at the KOA. This was a hasty decision based on the fact that Dead Horse Point State Park, our first choice, was booked. Apparently this is the last great week for tourists here in Moab. We plugged in to water and electricity—such a weird luxury since we’ve been on the road—complete with free WiFi and cable. Not exactly what we wanted, especially since no fires were allowed.  We walked around camp, meeting fellow campers from across the world—a French family with a camper that looked more like a semi; the entire back opened up to house an eighteen wheeled off-road vehicle, probably. Next to them was an old horse trailer converted to a camper, with two young ropey-muscled guys tinkering with their bikes. The trail skirted around the camp, with a shabby horse farm off in the distance overlooking Arches, and, even further, purple-blue mountains.

We noticed such a mix of cultures, ages and wealth here (especially hiking in Arches National Park), which I’ll get into much deeper later. The thing I love about this place is that we are all so different; Chinese businessmen in pants and cuffed shirts, Alaskan climbers with grizzly beards, South Africans and Australians all here for the same experience, all pointed in the same direction. Everyone is so friendly. Everyone pauses from their hike, stops speaking their native languages to share a genuine “hello” to us as we walk by.

We plan to stay here a while.

The next morning we packed up and found a much cheaper site a mile from the KOA, called Moab Rim. Here we have the entire desert behind us with trails to run Bubba, as Arches doesn’t allow dogs. We have a shady spot under some trees, hot showers and some peculiar neighbors living in an old school bus converted into an RV. We got along great. Ben and Crystal were from Washington, working summers as rafting instructors and working winters, to quote Anne Lamott, “wherever Jesus flang ’em”. They picked up temporary jobs in Moab and worked off their site fee by doing maintenance. They invited us to join them in Maine in a few months to work at a camp, but we figured we couldn’t pass up a Minnesota summer. This would not be the first alluring offer we receive.

Once we were settled it was finally time. We walked Bubba,set the fan in the camper and left for the park.

The Colorado River snakes its way through Arches National Park, which is carved and shaped by eons of weathering and erosion. It’s hard not to find drama in the red sandstone formations that give the park its name—and its beauty. There are more natural arches here than anywhere else in the world. Only one word describes the way we felt driving up the switchbacks into the park—giddy. In the next few days we will come into the park many times, and the heart-thudding beauty will not wane, not even a little.

We hiked up to Courthouse Towers first—the rock ground carved out in swirls and lines like sand—craning our necks to take it all in. One can drive for hours and hours through the park. Wide open spaces yawn into view, then disappear behind the gentle, red rock dinosaurs. The first day we only made it as far as Twin Arches, where we climbed around like little crabs, peeking in nooks and crannies.

Tomorrow we will check out the town and look for more  hiking spots.