Walking down the river,
Sweet Lullaby.
It just keeps on flowing,
It don't worry about where its going.
Allman Bros.
‘That is one big old hole in the ground’, I said to my wife as we dropped down the
super steep Shaffer Trail into Canyonlands National Park for our collective 25th
ride on the famous White Rim Trail. The
seminal Mountain Bike ride in Utah, the White Rim leads into and around the
geographical and geological epicenter of the state. The White Rim Trail is the center of collective
consciousness of the state, the focus and the power point of Utah. It starts by
heading south, downstream with the Colorado River, or 1000 feet above it on the
White Rim sand stone layer. Then it turns
back north at the White Crack overlook above the Colorado confluence with the
Green and loops back upstream to where it started, 110 scenic, spectacular
miles later.
We are riding with some neighbors and friends, old friends,
new friends, friends for life after another shared adventure, driving one truck
full of beer and food and a little camping gear. With over one hundred years of collective White
Rim experience or group is taught; Abe and Audry – lifelong
seasonal resort workers and energetic fun hogs, Vern and Mary – empty nesters and seasoned
river rats, Matt and Tracey - dilatants and dabblers in moderate outdoor adventures,
Joan and Dwight – high end performance and endorphin junkies, and trip leader Katherine
- the matriarch of the group with an easy laugh and teen age attitude to match
her tiny, powerhouse body.
Canyonlands NP is not as massive or as seemingly infinite as
Grand Canyon NP but it has more subtle beauty and contrasting color, more
nuance and fractal detail that, in its entirety, appears endless. It is not as deep or long or wide but it has
two rivers instead of one and is surrounded on three sides by snowcapped mountains. It is cozy and connected, contiguous and
comfortable yet larger than life and all of our imaginations put together.
What it does not have is people. Canyonlands NP is an undeveloped park and if
there are 100 people on the White Rim Trail at one time, that would be a lot. Canyonlands NP (527 sq mi) sees barely a half a million
visitors a year compared to ten times that much at Grand Canyon NP (1900 sq mi) or twice
that much at Capital Reef NP (378 sq mi). Like
Capital Reef NP, Canyonlands is mostly dirt roads and undeveloped backcountry
with a few small developed pieces for the tourists and Winnebago’s.
We need these National Parks, public places with easy access
to spectacular country for all, to show the masses that there are great public
lands worth protecting. We need to
develop a national mindset and a land ethic based on preservation for all, not
exploitation for the few. That way we
can protect more of the spectacular lands outside the park system that are not as
easy to get to but are worth preserving, like Wilderness Areas, Monuments, and
Recreational Areas. There are efforts to
protect 2 million acres around Canyonlands and another 2 million acres around
the Grand Canyon to provide rim to rim protection of the these ecosystems,
similar to the efforts to protect the Greater Yellowstone ecosystem. These are good ideas that have met with some
resistance from the locals and extractive industries.
We ride down the Shafer Trail to the White Rim sandstone cap
rock layer, past several scenic river overlooks. At one, I follow the rim several hundred
yards downstream and drop thru a crack, down 10 feet into a living room sized
enclosure that a friend had showed me years before. With room for 10-20 people there are wide
crack opening windows overlooking the river and rock benches around the walls
with a white rim rock table or alter in the middle. Is this a temple or an ancient Anasazi hang
out or home this high on the rim, more than 1000 feet above the river.
I lounge around for a while trying to get the feel or the
vibe of this place but realize in the back of my mind that no one followed me
out to the rim or down into the crack. I
head back to the entrance and pile up some flat rocks so I can reach the chock
rock in the crack. Things are a little
higher and a little more slippery than I thought when I entered and I scramble
unsuccessfully, trying to chimney and mantle my way out in bike shoes, helmet,
gloves and shorts. A wave of concern,
almost panic pass thru me and I restart with more concentration and
conviction. I manage to inch my way up
and slither over the chock rock in the crack, with less style than determination. I pop out into the sunshine, chastened and
humbled but thrilled and energized. I
find our group and take a few of them out to the crack and our trip leader Vern
climbs down but most are not interested in the living room temple or the effort
and adventure it represents.
Back on the bikes we ride out the lazy miles of the afternoon,
alone or in small groups, enjoying the views of the river below, the tall red walls
besides us, the snow caped La Sal mountains in the background and the endless
Utah sky above us that remains a perfect blue all the way to the horizon due to
the lack of humidity and pollution. Red
and blue, brown and orange, white and green, our rainbow is limited but our pallet
is full.
Chatting and spinning effortlessly on large diameter wheeled,
full suspension bikes that make this ride much easier than the rides of the
past when we had hard tailed bikes and hard butts and bodies to match. The roads are much improved and well-traveled,
making our ride safe and sound. We
wonder how long it will take the Park Service to pave the roads for vehicular
air conditioned access for all Americans.
The proposed Bear’s Ears National Monument, which would expand the
protected contiguous area of the Park by almost 3000 sq mi, may go a long way at protecting more of
these wild backcountry lands. On the
other hand it may increase the marketing, attraction and focus on the heart of
the park and promote development and pavement of these rugged roads. I hope not.
I ride alone for a while, lost in my thoughts of the
privilege we enjoy; having the time, resources and ability to appreciate this
spectacular, secluded place that previous generations were wise enough to
reserve for all Americans to enjoy. Their
foresight is equal to those New Yorker’s who saved a huge chunk of sheep
meadows and undeveloped Manhattan Island for Central Park, for the sake and the
sanity of future generations. Sixty
years ago this park was the purview and playground of a few cowboys and uranium
prospectors who built this dirt road around the White Rim loop to facilitate
moving cattle on horseback or to putter around in their Willis Jeeps, pounding
on rocks and mapping these birthday cake layers of prehistoric sand dunes and
seas. Before they even knew what they
had, they saved it for future generations.
The new park saw only 20,000 visitors in 1963.
I stop at the head of Lathrop canyon and think back 35 years
when I first came to this country with my sister in a dilapidated Subaru and we
rebuilt the road down this canyon to the river so we cold camp and swim for a
few days. The canyon seemed endless and
unfamiliar at the time but since then I have traveled to every section, run the
rivers and explored every access of the park and canyons and gained a
familiarity with the country to the point where I know how all the big pieces
fit together. Familiarity breeds contentment
and although the park has shrunk in my mind, I feel very at home here and have
a story to tell about every aspect and outcrop, nook and cranny, some of which
are true.
Everyone catches up with me as I nap and we pedal the last
few miles to Airport and make camp. Perched
on a wide open bench the size of Rhode Island, Airport can be windy and hot and
too exposed but on this night it is cool, calm and collected. We gorge on vegi-appetizers, since in our
haste to get started this morning we skipped lunch, and then have a monster salmon
for dinner with asparagus and salad with gin and tonics and a fine wine from a
box. No fires are allowed but we tell
stories well into the night under a waxing moon, Mars and the Milky Way. We look to the southwestern horizon towards
the Abajo Mountains and catch a glimpse of the tips or the Bears Ears poking
over the rim at sunset. Mary hopes that
they will further rise into view, like the stars do, as the night progresses
but they stay solidly in place. We call
this camp, ‘Bears Ears Rising’.
The next day after a leisurely breakfast, Dwight, another
member of our group who started a day late catches up to us as we leave
camp. We ride up and back the canyons of
the east flank if Island in the Sky, past the Washer Woman rock formation 1000
feet up the walls, with alternating views of the La Sal and Abajo mountains, Lockhart Basin and the Six
Shooter peaks in the Needles district with Salt Creek and Beef Basin in the
distance. The road is somewhat incised
with the desert floor at eye level full of blooming desert flowers and cactus
that zoom by as we ride. I take my turn
driving the truck and it is heavy and unwieldly at first but becomes familiar
and comfortable after a while with my arm out the window, a beer between my
legs and the tunes turned way up loud.
We break at lunch and ride out to White Crack to scope out the
confluence area. It is getting hot and
sunny so we seek the shade like a Mexican Burro but eventually take the hike
out to the rim for the view. This is the
power point of the White Rim and of all of southern Utah where the main rivers
come together and the panoramic view stretches completely from east to west,
from the San Juan Mountains in Colorado to the Henrys in Central Utah. In between is all of Canyonlands; from the
Needles to the Maze, Land of Standing Rock to Pete’s Mesa and the Flint Trail
to the Holy Cross Butte. You can’t help
but feel the landscape raising you up, exalting and resonating down to your
soul.
We are energized despite the sleepy, sunny heat, feeling the
healing power of land scape. We ride out
the sandy side road back to the main trail for the afternoon jaunt, racing and
pacing playfully with our partners, telling stories and lies as we go. Reality and the truth are hazy in such an
unreal place. We ride past scenes of
previous accidents and mishaps and the stretch where, during one hot ride a
woman rode topless singing ‘Free free, set them free’. Or maybe that was a dream.
By mid-afternoon we reach the climb to Murphy’s Hogback and
Joan and Dwight tackle it right away, dabbing at the impossibly steep and sandy
starting section but then riding strong all the way to the top. I stop for my afternoon nap and wait for the
group to catch up and we tackle the climb together, well rested, riding with
style and aplomb. The climb seems easier
than in years past but maybe it is the new bike, or the fancy, well vented, zip
to the waist bike shirt, or the improved road. After the impossible steep start
there are several relative flat spots where the slope backs off for several
pedals and you can trick yourself into thinking you are resting, breathing,
strong and young.
We all make it to the top as does the truck and we find our
scenic campground, inhale several ice cold beers and are joined by a couple of
geology students from Texas who need a camp site to share. They are pleasant and polite, reverent and
respectful to us old desert rats, incredulous that we are out here in the middle
of nowhere on bikes. They are looking
for cross bedded Aeolian (wind) deposits in the White Rim layer and we give
them some hints where to find these outcrops but they seem more entranced with
the country and the company and make a good addition to our cocktail
conversations and dinner time camaraderie.
We dine on wonderful burritos full of lots of guacamole, vegies,
cilantro and god knows what else mixed with Margaritas. Everyone gets a nick name made from the names
of their first dog and childhood street address. I am Suffolk-Ling for the night, the rest of
the trip and probably my life. Nicknames
are like family, you don’t get to pick your own.
Kathrine pulls out a robot parrot from her pack that
screeches obscene rants at everyone like ‘Polly Wants a Freaking Cracker’ or
‘Dickhead alert’. I move away from the
camp to watch Mars rising in the east, chasing a waxing moon as the Milky
slowly rotates around in the evening gloam.
The next morning I rise with first light and stumble towards the kitchen
to start the coffee and see Vern doing the same from his tent site. Halfway to the kitchen the Parrot breaks out
in a extemporaneous squawk, ’Dickhead Alert’ and we break down laughing,
pointing at each other.
After a light breakfast of oatmeal, bacon, fruit, granola,
juice and coffee we descend from Murphy’s towards the Northwest now. Right off the rim is a wrecked Park Service
Honey Wagon that crashed a few days before spewing the waste tank and truck accoutrements,
antennas, windshield wipers and toilet paper 100 yards off the cliff and awkwardly
across the desert landscape. A rudimentary
sign on a cardboard box at the side of the road said the young driver took
Life-Flight directly to Denver and was in fair condition. We took a moment to pause and consider the
horror of rolling down that hill in a two ton truck as the windshield exploded
and the cab was crunched into an unrecognizable scrap. We all said our own little silent prayer for
the driver.
The morning riding is cool and casual as we wrap in and out
of deep canyons, around the rim past Vertigo Void and Studebaker rock, slowly
dropping towards the Green River level where we will camp tonight. The river looks swollen, engorged, turgidly
stretching from bank to bank, flowing chocolate debris from the snowmelt and
rainstorm runoff up stream, mostly from the Yampa River that has no dams on it
and received 4 inches of rain in the previous week. I estimate the flow at 20,000 cubic feet per second
or a million pounds of water flowing by every second, powerfully, peacefully, silently,
to the sea.
Powered by the joy and comfort of being in this place, and
Vern’s incredible edibles, the miles peel off free and easy as we spin the
morning away. By 11 we take a break at a
saddle climb between major side canyons and seek shade under a nearby
overhang. We lounge nonchalantly in the
relative comfort of the cliff and the shout goes out for a breakfast beer. ‘You can’t drink all day unless you start
early’ Abe declares. More beverage than
bacchanalian, the ice cold beer tastes so good and goes down smoothly.
A young, self-supported, Canadian couple rides up the hill
and we offer them an ice cold beer which they accept after a polite nanosecond
of hesitation. The women are entranced
by the young stud and the men are captivated by the gal, tripping over each
other to share the shade, snacks and stories.
Beauty and strength are an accident of youth and the six pack abs and
perfectly smooth skin are lost on those who have it now but not on those who used
to be that way.
Some of us have another beer as different groups pull up and
take a break in the sun, since we have capitalized the shade. We stay long enough
that is becomes lunch time and we break out another feast of cold cuts and
chicken salad sandwiches, complete with pinion nuts and cranberries. There is always room for comfort, style and
culinary delights on the trail.
As we settle in for our post lunch nap, the other groups
start to stir with concern as they discuss the rumors of the rising river and
the potential for backwater effects on the new road alignment crossings thru
Taylor and Upheaval Canyons. I notice
that the young guides and the newcomers to this country are very alarmed and
planning in almost a panic mode. The
older, more experienced riders seemed to take it in stride. I discuss it with Vern, our co-trip leader,
and he is nonchalant with all his experience and confidence. ‘We will cross that bridge when we come to it’,
is his attitude and we don’t let it squelch the joyous, almost boisterous
feeling of the day.
We ride out the afternoon, stopping to climb down a slot
canyon that ledges out over the river.
We notice perfectly cross bedded Aeolian deposits deep in the slot and
make a note to mention them to our geologists if we ever see them again. The sun is bright and it is getting hot but
we take time to marvel at the river on overlooks as we drop with the strike or
dip of the White Rim layer as it sinks under the river. At Potato Bottoms where we make camp under
some huge shady Cottonwood trees.
Lounging in the shade
drinking beer and napping again we are approached by a very nice but officious
Ranger and his side kick, a visiting Ranger from Australia or Austria or some
such place. They advise us that the
river is rising quickly and that we might want to pack up and make the crossing
before it is too late. We look at each
other questioningly for a few seconds and then simultaneously and unanimously
say, ‘Naaaaahhhh”. We offer the Rangers
a beer, pepper them with questions and comments and take a few selfies and
group shots with them before letting them go to spread their information and
advice to other riders, thanking them profusely for their service,
professionalism with cool, pressed uniforms and hats.
The next day we are up at dawn and after a quick breakfast
of bacon and oatmeal we are packed and on the road by 8 am. It was going to be a hot one, 90-95, and we
wanted to get the hard climbs in before the heat . The river is down four inches from the night
before but we are taking no more chances.
The morning climb over Hardscrable is difficult but cool. We meet a new party from San Francisco
struggling up the hill as we rush to get to the water crossing before it
becomes unfordable. At the Taylor Canyon
backwater crossing there is perhaps 12-18 inches of water over the road that we
ride thru and the truck has no problem navigating. Much ado about nothing. Tragedy narrowly averted.
The last of the ride along the swollen river was spectacular
with a cacophony of birds singing from the riparian vegetation and a yellow biplane
circling overhead in a cerulean sky. We
take a group break before the big climb at Mineral bottoms and then proceeded
up in groups and singles. The climb is
not bad and just a question of putting one pedal in front of the other. I have troubles with my seat that keeps sliding down until I
feel like I am like Pee Wee Herman riding on a mini tricycle. I jump off a few times and pull it up but to
no avail. The seat has been sliding down
for several weeks but being a low maintenance type guy, I seldom pay attention
to it, except on big climbs. Before we
know it are at the top where the truck is waiting with water and beer. I finally get an Allen wrench and tighten my
seat for good as the rest of our group filters in. Better late than never.
Some of the group rides the last hot and windy 12 miles of
dirt road back to the pavement and some ride in the truck. It is the weekend and our re-introduction to
humanity is abrupt. There are hikers,
bikers, kids and dogs wandering aimlessly in all directions without water,
sunscreen, hats or a clue. When we get
to the road we see an oblivious air conditioned Lexus SUV go by with a nice,
expensive bike hanging precariously off the back bike rack, dragging on the
ground, shooting off sparks while other people beep and point and laugh.
We head back into Moab for a shower and a debriefing party
but the town is packed with tourists, bikers rafters and motor-heads so there
is traffic and accidents waiting to happen, everywhere. The Ken Burns documentary on the National
Parks, our country’s best idea, and the upcoming 100th anniversary
of the National Parks Service has really put this place on the map with Arches
and Canyonlands NP. With over 300
million visitors a year even little things like lower gas prices has exacerbated
the already insane growth the parks have been experiencing lately with stagnant
budgets and little support from congress.
We desperately need more parks, and more funding for the
parks that we have, to accommodate the hoards that will seek and need these
places in the future. By the turn of the
next century, when there will be 10 million Utans, 100 million Californians, 1
billion Americans and 3 billion Chinese, the pressure on and the need for parks
like this will be tremendous. The State
of Utah would like to take over 34 million acres (53,000 square miles) of these
federal public lands and sell them to Exxon and McDonalds for short term profit
for the school kids but oil wells and hamburgers are temporary while National Parks
are forever.
Even when we leave
early on a Sunday morning, with our fading perspective, there is a traffic jam
going out of Moab. This country is so
amazing and so huge but the growing concentration of needy recreationalists and
irresponsible thrill seekers in these parks is overwhelming and obscene
compared to where we have been in the backcountry. We are lucky to have the energy, experience
and ware-with-all to explore the heart of this country while we can, while it
is still there. As we head north for home I hope that some of
the other tourists get off the road and away from their vehicles and creature
comforts, to seek some space and solitude and explore the canyons that make
this big old hole in the ground so unique, so special, so worth preserving.
