May 2009 Travel Journal: Moab, Utah
After going to Moab, it became my happy place.
I raised this Utah desert town yesterday before noon. Turned off I-70 and drove south on 191 and followed the lazy Colorado river all the way in. The red rock hillsides are dotted with pine trees and tough bushes, and cracked with shadows. The terrain is hot. The sun pounds the land unceasingly and heats the rock. The sky is just blue. All these colors blend together: blue sky, white-capped mountains, red canyon, early summer grass, pine trees, and brown river.
Note — It is the thresholds that make me take notice. The Long Island Sound pushing against the north shore coast; the sight of a jagged ridge line in front of sky; the place where the prairie ends and the foothills begin; the edge of town where cell phones stop working, Where The Sidewalk Ends.
I am always seeking the most remote place, as far from the center as possible. That is my happy place. This is one of the reasons why I like to hike. I also like to be outside in the fresh air. I like to explore and discover amazing views for the first time. I like to walk, because it keeps my back healthy, and I like hard exercise that only comes with walking up steep hills.
Journal — I did two hikes on my first day. When I was driving down 191, I pulled into a parking lot about 20 miles north of Moab. I got out and walked along a 4x4 uneven trail. It skirted around massive rocks and led to a hallowed area. It was like a natural amphitheater, the size of a city hall, smooth and oval. Its wall rose straight to the top. It looked like something Georgia O’keefe would have painted. The path was leading a trickle of water. Since it was May, there were flowers and bright, green grass.
I continued on. Around the next corner I saw an irresistible smooth slope that rose 200 feet. The wall rose up an increasing angle. I hiked up as high as I could in my Vibram-soled boots, until the angle was nearly 80 degrees. Then I sat and looked out. In the distance I caught my first glimpse of the big mountain range. Clouds clung tightly around its 14,000 foot peaks. I skirted along the side, using my hands and carefully setting the ege of my boots against the smooth stone slide rock. This is how I shredded my anterior ankle ligament. I got to another pocket in the wall and stopped again and thought about people I knew. I realized it would have been unwise to go any further and I decided not to make a dangerous foray on my first day. I was at the edge. I turned back.
I clambered back down and followed the green, damp, stream-bed path back to my rental truck.
I continuued on 191. At a boat launch, I stopped to wash my feet in the Colorado river. When I stepped in, my foot slid on the loose bottom, and I caught myself. I stepped back carefully from the strong current. The river was cold melt from the snow-clad mountains.
Earlier that morning, as I was leaving Grand Junction, the last great city in west Colorado, I went to Wal Mart to get sun protection. I bought a Red Sox hat and picked up a straw cowboy hat with a small metal plaque: “Budweiser.”
When I got to town, I checked in to the Moab Valley Inn. In in a most agreeable way, I negotiated a good rate with the front desk manager. There is nothing contumely about a scheister with good manners.
After I dropped my bags in the room, I went across the street to the restaurant-brewery to get lunch. I ordered a pork tip burrito smothered in green sauce for lunch. I believe it was the nastiest thing on the menu. Rather than dispose of it, I ate the meal as fast as I could. I had a vague stomach ache afterwards, but I gave that no more thought since I knew I would walk it (the gross burrito) off later.
I spent the rest of the day around town, avoiding the fierce sun. I bought some used books, went back to my room, and rested. In the late afternoon, when the sun was starting to decline, I drove out of town.
I crossed the Colorado River and turned left along the west bank of the Colorado river. I followed the road south to Potash, UT. I drove for about two miles and pulled in at a campsite and trailhead. I parked beside a van that was taking up about three parking spots. Four mountain bikers lay on the ground, breathing and gasping. More riders came in from the trail. While they sat on the earth talking, I laced up my boots quietly, and put on my Budwesier hat. I drank water, gulped down some trail mix, and set off on the trail.
The trail ran parallel to the road. For half a mile I walked and wondered if it was going to be lame. I came upon a freestanding desk with a visitor log inside. I wrote my name and commented: “Cool walking in the shade.” I did not add: “This is the worst trail ever. If I wanted to walk next to a road I could have stayed on Long Island.”
Then I heard clanging ahead and I stepped to one side. One by one, three men on mountain bikes came down through a steep narrow in the rocks and pulled to a stop. We exchanged hellos and one of them said, “There’s two more coming. Two girls.
Are they going to run me over?
“No, they’re good. They’re super rad.”
Then the other bikes came into view. The women took turns navigating the staircase of rocks. They crashed to a standing stop at the bottom and won the trail to the general delight of everyone.
As I walked on the path, my doubts quickly dispersed. The trail went up and away from the road. The Colorado river flowed below on my right, and a high rock wall appeared on my left. I snapped pictures in every direction.
There was an 85-year-old woman standing on the path with her dog. She was waiting for her husband to come down from the top. The dog stood guarding her and looking anxiously up the trail. We talked and I patted the dog. The husband arrived, walking slowly, with wild joy in his eyes. He said: “the view is great.” The dog wagged its tail now that everyone was back together.
I kept going past shales of rock. I passed a red boulder that was half the size of a subway car. Long ago it had detached itself from the top rim of the mesa and caused an extremely violent crash. I reached the top of the trail and came to a halt at the edge of a cliff.
I was 500 feet above the Colorado river, and I saw everything: The green Moab valley below, the Arches to the north, and the Continental Divide to the east. I took pictures of my hat and the background.
The sun was setting. I turned around and sauntered back to the parking lot. At my truck, I dropped the tailgate and sat with my legs dangling off, eating and chatting with people who were returning from the trail.
I met a kid from Northern California. She was camping there with her whole family. I told her I met an old couple on the trail. “Those are my grandparents.” The old man had been the founder of a company. She told me about her rental property and the college kids whose lease was up but wouldn’t leave and were throwing non stop parties. I said to be aggressive and plant an ally, a roughneck, to crash one of the parties and pick a fight with the whole bong team.
When I drove back to town I went to the Brewery and got a turkey burger for dinner. It was not very good either. While I waited, I sat at the bar had a weak Utah beer. I watched the Red Sox playing the Yankees on ESPN. Mark Texeira had just hit the second of back-to-back home runs and New York was up 4–3. I scowled at Texeira and looked forward to watching the rest of the game back to the hotel. I also resolved to eat more slowly.
I inhaled the turkey burger and lay on the bed watching the Red Sox slowly come back. When Jon Papelbon got the final out he pumped his fist twice, and I yelled. It was a great first day in Moab.
-May 4, 2009
