Desert Interlude

THE WASH

As the Colorado River makes its way from the Rocky Mountains towards the Baja peninsula, it twists its way around the town of Moab, Utah, and, just before that, creates a physical boundary along the edge of Arches National Park.  When the rains come, low areas in the surrounding desert turn to creeks and find their way to the river.  These creeks are also called washes, and are dry for much, if not most, of the year - but after a heavy rain, are also at risk of sudden flooding.  Courthouse Wash is one example of such terrain.  Lined with stubborn, gnarled juniper trees, and the occasional cottonwood, the wash originates in a high-walled canyon, its creek bed blanketed in thick, gravelly sand, soft and deep enough to require a sort of trudging effort to negotiate.  I had been hiking in the wash for more than a mile, I figured, when I discovered an elevated sandstone ridge, situated up alongside one of the canyon walls.  It looked like a nice place to set up my tent, so that's what I did.  It was late April, and I was taking a break from work to spend four days backpacking in Arches, toting my camera, a writing pad, and what little else I could carry with me.  Yes, this was my idea of a vacation.    

A good deal earlier that day, I'd been on a flight that landed in Salt Lake City, at which point I picked up a rental car, drove to Moab, and stocked up on propane, food, and water.  Now it was dusk, and as the day slowly lost its will, I stood in a cool, shady glow.  My small propane stove had proven itself up to the task of preparing a simple dinner.  Something in the northwest (Polaris?) was shining very bright.  Fifteen minutes after it showed up, other stars began to poke through.  As night covered the landscape, the effects of a very full moon became evident on the far parts of the canyon, and on the desert floor away from where I was.  I remained there awhile in the stillness, watching and listening, and snacking on some cashews.  Then I withdrew to my tent, where I curled up into a pile of sleep and dreams.

MORNING

The stars are gone, the moon is low, and the wash is dark.  The morning wind, if it is present, is a cold one, and it howls as it passes anything obstructing it.  Dawn arrives deliberately; pastels flare on the horizon, and strange shapes among the sands begin to take on color and form.

Geologists believe that a sea once covered this part of the country, and then evaporated.  Over time, heavier sediment was deposited, covering the salty remnants below.  This subsurface layer was inherently unstable, and its movement over time led to the formation of sandstone mounds and towers, which have since cracked, eroded, and in some cases, collapsed entirely.  The figures that rise from the desert floor today have a kind of quirky bravado, demanding both appreciation and curiosity the longer you look at them.

A single paved, two-lane road will afford visitors views of many of the park's landmarks, but some sights have to be earned with a hike.  The path to Double O Arch, for instance, requires scrambling up a number of steep ledges.  Those who make it to the top experience sweeping views over Fin Canyon, which can be taken in from behind the arch itself - with great satisfaction, I might add.

AFTERNOON

Following morning hikes, I would return to the wash to rest, eat lunch, and generally try to pass the warmest hours out of direct sunlight.  At first, my idea was to kill time by venturing toward the deepest point in the canyon, but I was turned back by a group of fearsome "bees" (picture a cross between a bird and a small helicopter).  I could still spend some time investigating the area closer to my campsite.  Occasionally, I found tracks in the sand that I attributed to a fox / bobcat / coyote.  The most fearsome things out in the daylight, though, were chipmunks and collared lizards, both of which liked to dart out beneath my feet at times when I was on high alert for rattlesnakes.

One afternoon, I was busy congratulating myself on the remoteness of my campsite when I heard footsteps in the creek bed, followed by a voice calling out, "Hello?"  It was a girl who was hiking through and had spotted the top of my tent up on the ledge.  Her name was Rachel, and she was quite pretty, with her braided brown hair and her suntanned shoulders.  She wore a ball cap low over her forehead to keep the sun out of her eyes, and as we got to talking, the way she put her sentences together made her ethnicity the subject of an active internal debate.    I said something clever like, "So, do you come here often?" and she replied that she was traveling with a male friend¹ and his dog.  She told me that she had lived in Marin County (Novato) for a while, but was now in the midst of a long road trip, and her and Male Friend were looking for a place to camp for the night.  After a while, she hiked further down the wash to continue her search, so I cooked dinner, left a precautionary note with my anticipated whereabouts in the flap of my tent, and set out for the evening.

EVENING

Eating dinner around 4:30 would allow me time for a subsequent two to three hour excursion as things were cooling off a little.

Some rock formations in the park are more noteworthy for their evening appearance.  One of those is an arch that draws hundreds of photographers every night, most of them sitting patiently around a large sandstone rim, enjoying an almost shared reverence for the drawn-out moment.

In stark contrast to Delicate Arch, pictured above, Tower Arch is located in a remote corner of the region, and requires traversing a very rough unpaved road.  Few visitors make it to this part of the park, so I wasn't surprised to find myself alone as the sun drooped lower, streaking across the landscape and into the inner reaches of the arch.  Because it took me an hour to merely drive to the trailhead on that primitive road, and the better part of another hour to hike into this location, I couldn't enjoy the scene forever.  While it is a shame to cut a sunset short, I left myself time to make mistakes on the unmarked trail - which I ended up doing - and still find my way back to my campsite.

A latent heat still hung over the desert.  From the open window flap inside my tent, I could see the definition of the night sky.  I planned to close the flap once it got too cold out, but as usual, by that point, I was already asleep.

¹Perhaps this point is plainly obvious, but there is no such thing as a man who takes an extended road trip with a platonic female friend.  In this context, "male friend" means one of the following:

1. Boyfriend
2. Guy for whom she has conflicting feelings - who, in his own right, is trying to win her over, possibly with this very trip as the ultimate turning point
3. Captor

A better question still might be, what was Male Friend thinking, sending Rachel off on this scouting mission by herself, in the heat and in the wilderness?  Come on, Male Friend!  This seems like such poor form.

I ran into Rachel again the next morning as I was returning to my campsite.  Male Friend was traveling behind, carrying some gear, while a large white dog pawed along beside him.  "How are you?" I asked.  "Happy," he answered.  "Rested."  They were leaving and heading south, now; he was an artist of some sort and would be performing later that day.  "Lots of people will be there," Rachel said.

I was happy to have met them.