Hello and welcome to the land of plunging temperatures, wood smoke on the air, and decay in the refrigerator. It's good to be home, sleeping in our own bed, that wonderful king-sized pillowtop that we inherited from B's dad, after five nights out west. But if only we could spend nights at home, and still spend our days out among the spires, fins, arches and canyons of western Colorado and Utah.
We wanted to leave already Thursday night. That, of course, did not happen, because we fell badly behind schedule, partly because B has so much running around to do, lining people out and assigning work and fixing last minute issues, and partly because I was babysitting a friend's three children until five-thirty, then still went to work for several hours afterword. Friday morning, we got up and packed the pontiac with every blanket and sleeping bag in the house, our tent, clothes for living outside the next several days, hydration backpacks, hiking shoes, and of course, our bikes on the trunk rack. Then, as we were wondering where our destination for the first night should be, since the best vacations are only planned about a day out, a light bulb went off, and we decided it would be fun to do a little exploring on this side of Grand Junction. We formulated a plan that involved hiking up to Hanging Lake in Glenwood Canyon, then returning to Eagle for the night...and begging for a night's lodging at Grandma Rose and Grandpa Bill's. I called them and gave them a little advance warning (not much), and they said if we showed up by four, we'd go out for a drink together before dinner. We said we'd do that.
Then, on the way out of town, we stopped at the office. Our first big mistake. I sat on the edge of the chair in B's office as he made phone calls, contacted owners, gave estimates, gave his dad a list of jobs to do while we were gone, answered the phone, gave schedules to realtors, and proceeded to work a half-day. I tapped my foot, read and re-read the newspaper, sighed loudly, cleared my throat, and generally got ignored. Finally he looked at me and said we would push off our return date a day, to make up for it. We got outa there, sat in road construction on Vail Pass, sat some more just past Vail, and finally pulled into Grandpas at four o'clock, still coasting on the hurried few bites of breakfast we had managed to stuff down between carrying armfuls of camping gear to the car. We said hello, and got settled in our room that Grandma had finished just before our arrival, newly painted, newly sheeted, newly towelled, newly everythinged, it looked like. Then we rode with them down to Brush Creek saloon, and they treated us to a drink, while some of their friends treated us to a plate of nachos. Afterward, we were treated some more to dinner, and desert back at their place. All in all, we recieved some seriously royal treatment, especially royal since we had been prepared to rough it a bit this vacation.
We stopped at my uncle's place after dinner, and asked about recommended activities in the area. Long story short, we left their place armed with a map and five flashlights, and driving directions to Fulford Cave. And a trepidatious Bobby, and an excited me.
I was in Fulford cave once, years ago, but I was following my uncle, who knew where he was going, and I was seriously underdressed, soaked with rain, and shivering already by the time we had made the twenty minute hike to the mouth of the cave, and was shivering even harder once we had made our way into it's chilly, muddy bowels. Since that was the general state of the whole group, we did not stay long. This time, we were prepared. We descended down the culvert opening, switched on flashlights and headlamps, and began spelunking our way to the end of the subterrainian labyrinth.
B had never been on an unguided cave adventure, and he admitted to a bit of unease and claustrophobia, as well as a fear that one of us would slip on the treacherous footing and break something, where a rescue would be extremely inconvenient, not to mention costly.
But we managed not to break anything, and got through exactly half of the cave before deciding to call it enough for a day. We had reached the end of the lower level, by which time, every corridor looked more or less the same, and we were getting a bit tired of crawling, crab-walking, climbing, scooting, hunching, and all the contortions one must perform in tight passageways carved by water, much more flexible than things with skeletal systems, na
mely, us. We probably would have had an easier time had we recognized the tumbling underground stream , cascading down from far above, as the waterfall, a landmark inside the cave, and had not climbed it, balancing on rocks in the middle of the icy cascade, straight into a dead end, looking for said waterfall. The upper level has much larger rooms, but we were becoming a bit loopy and disoriented, proof that spelunking is probably not one of our strong suits, so we passed the tunnel leading up into them and kept going, met a whole gang of oncoming headlamps right where we needed to turn, got disoriented and accidentally turned the wrong way, back tracked again ten minutes later after we realized we recognized absolutely nothing, kept on, and suddenly found ourselves staring at daylight far above us, through the opening of the culvert entrance. After we climbed out, B admitted that he had fun, but until that point, the scowl had been deepening the longer we spent underground. Ten minutes in, pretending to be Batman stopped being fun, and his wife was much more enamored with the dripping water and calcium formations than he was, but he was still game until the last several hundred yards, by which point he was ready to be back on the topside and could not scramble fast enough.
We sped back to Eagle, filthy and soaked, grabbed a sandwich, and took showers at grandpas, then re-packed the car and headed west, scrapping the Hanging Lake idea as we passed the exit for it, our muscles beginning to stiffen from the two hours of contorting inside the cave. We had planned on maybe doing a little riding somewhere that evening yet, but sunset was well under way by the time we decided to camp in Fruita. Our former landlord and next-door neighbor had made the suggestion once that, if in Fruita, Highline Lake State Park was the place to stay. We headed out to it, but the signs announcing it was full, no campsites available, and that we should not even enter without reservations poured cold water on our plans, and we began processing alternate arrangements. Sometimes, a lack of planning can really come back to bite one.
We sneaked in anyway, to take a look around and determine if it would be worth coming back the next night, after the weekend crowd died down. As we made a u-turn in a parking lot, we recognized a familiar Ford truck. Upon closer inspection, we recognized a familiar face as well- that of our former landlord and next door neighbor's wife. We pulled up to say hello, and they immediately invited us to share their ample site. We, of course, wasted no time taking them up on it, since we had no idea where else to camp and we really did not want to pay weekend Fruita motel prices.
As it turned out, they were there with about five other families, three of whom we knew slightly, all from Summit County. As we were setting up camp, one of them came charging out of his camper, ready for a serious confrontation, since he did not recognize us, and was rather affronted that we would just pull in and set up camp in the middle of their circle of pop-ups and fifth wheels. It took only a moment to explain ourselves, but man, am I glad we were there rightfully. He was one scary dude, mad.
We spent the evening downing campfire beers and s'mores, once again the only couple without kids. Late that nig
ht, after the moon was high and the embers burned low, we crawled shivering under a heavy pile of blankets and sleeping bags, and were glad we had not left even one of them at home. Though chilly, it was an absolutely beautiful night. At six a.m., we both needed a bathroom run, and we made our way through the sleeping park under a moon so incredibly bright, illuminating the few clouds, reflecting and refracting around us.
The next morning, we finally got to use the bikes, the whole purpose of this vacation. We rode a loop on the Kokopelli side of Fruita, actually two loops. It was an incredible ride, as one of the campfire seatees had put it the
night before, "if you're into that sort of thing, incredible views of the river, edges of canyons, hugging the cliffs, ya know, all the usual stuff." Oh, we are into the sort of views presented by Mary's and Steve's loops. There was a time or two, I was so entranced by the sight of the river far below, I found myself dropping off small ledges that I had not even seen approach. They really should post a warning- "scenery can be harmful or fatal if viewed for longer than a glance".
We got back to the trailhead fifteen miles and three hours later, having carried our bikes over several portions of trail, and having stopped for pictures too many times, accor
ding to B. He has, so far, refused to spend the money on padded bike shorts, which if he would just try, he would never ride without again. It limits his rides to a few hours before he gets a bit squiffy and loses patience for things like pictures and side trips.
As it turned out, that was the last time we rode our bikes. The next morning, as we lay in our tent and tried to muster up the courage for the cold, the rain began. We pulled the covers over our heads. It stopped raining. We poked our heads out, and began preparing for a ride. It began raining. We crawled back inside and pulled our heads back under the
covers. Finally, even the few patches of blue sky had turned gray, and we gave up, accepting that by now, the trails would be muddy anyway. We weighed our options, and decided we should drive to where it wasn't raining, rather than wait fir it to quite in Fruita. So we packed up camp, fast and sloppy in the rain, and drove west.
In Moab, we reserved a cabin in the Moab Valley RV Park for the next two nights, conceding that $50 a night for a heater would be the best option considering the forcast for wind and an approaching cold front. We chained our bikes to the cabin, then drove to Arches Nat'l Park, purchased anothe
r year pass, and made our way to Devil's Garden, at the very top of the park. We have never hiked the entire primative loop, back to Double O Arch before, but let me just say, it is well worth your time. We found a new favorite hike. One has to do a bit of scrambling over slickrock ledges and a bit of sinking in soft sand, but the views are totally worth it, as is the arch at the end. It is one of the few arches that one can walk across if one has the cajones to do it. We did not, we merely climbed to the highest point, just before the span begins, and stretched out in the sun for a bit, enjoying the cool desert breeze and the hundred mile views.
That evening, Bobby finally got to do the one thing he had been babbling about since the trip started, and (I suspect) one of the reasons we scratched off for Moab instead of waiting for the rain to subside in Fruita. He got to eat pizza at Zax. (Oh, I don't know.) Yeah, it's good
pizza. Their beer cheese soup is good, too. Zax was the reason he has been postponing beginning a diet until after this trip. Oh, don't you even start with me, I already know we do not need to lose poundage. But we really do need to start eating a bit healthier again, since we
fell off the wagon this summer. He is back on Mountain Dew and fast food, which leads to his body becoming a major roller-coaster of sugar buzzes and crashes, and I am back on cheese, and even occasional meat, which... well. There are unsavory side effects. I am finding that veggie really is the diet I do the best with, but it takes cheating on it to remind me of that.
We slept like the dead that night. And late into the next morning. It was noon before we finally dragged out the maps and began plotting our day. I wanted to ride bike, but B gingerly prodded his backside and announced that we would be hiking instead. I scowled ferociou
sly and gave him another lecture about needing to peruse the bike shops for some fall sales, to buy a pair of padded bike shorts. He gave me a lecture about how men should not wear spandex. I filled him in on the fact that the spandex would be under his outer shorts. He filled me in on the fact that he would not be riding anymore this year, and would rather spend his $60 elsewhere. I gave his sore posterior a tap with my foot just to make a point. He grimaced, point made.
We then hit the road for Canyonlands National Park, driving sixty miles to the Needles District. Canyonlands is tri-sected (is that even a word?) by the Green and Colorado Rivers and their confluence, di
viding canyonlands into three districts- Island in the Sky, Needles, and the Maze. The Maze is remote, home mostly to cougars, coyotes, and the occasional backpacker, the farthest fro
m town, just getting there requiring seven hours of unimproved, bone-jarring roads, the last seven miles not doable withouth a high-clearance 4-wheel drive (or so we're told). The Needles is more accessible, though a long drive from Moab, thus limiting the day-hikers. And Island in the Sky is busy, just a short drive from town, crawling with rented RV's, small cars, and screaming, outa control children, r
unning over fragile soil and dropping candy wrappers, all it's features being views of the other two districts, no great formations of it's own. We spent the afternoon with the lizards, occasionally annoying each other, occasionally agreeing on something, hiking in the sun with a cool, dry breeze making it an absolutely idyllic day. I was amazed by the sheer, pristine expanse of the Needles. Here, the cryptobiotic crust lies undisturbed except for a narrow, respected trail, black mounds of slow-forming fungus carpeting the sand, soaking up the rain and preventing run-off, holding it in place. Obviously, those who make the trip to the Needles care about a fragile desert ecosystem, unlike the millions who tromp through Arches and the Island in the Sky district of Canyonlands, churning up crust that takes decades to form, destroy
ing it with a single misstep, a single footprint leading to future wash-outs and gullies. We crept through it, feeling isolated, more like we were owned by the land than the sense of owning the land prompted by the obvious over usage of Arches. We stopped at Newspaper Rock, on the way into the park. I have been wanting to go there for several years, admitting to an obsession with prehistoric peoples that poor B just does not get. Newspaper Rock is a portion of canyon wall, black with desert varnish, into which is pecked an entire story? series of prehistoric doodles? poem?, with pictures and symbols, the means with which to translate them long since lost. The picture is included somewhere in this post.
It was late, and beginning to get cold and windy by the time we made it back to town. We grabbed a noodle bowl and found the hot tub, then began craving ice cream, so we dried off and drove downtown for a Wendy's Frosty and a promise that the diet would start upon our return home. And by 10:00pm, we were deep into REM. I began dreaming that we were somehow in the wrong cabin, but I was fighting to stay asleep because if i woke up, i would need to acknowledge it and then we would have to move, and an annoying blue flashing light kept creeping into my consciousness, but then the dream changed and I was living in the house I grew up in out at Pence, and I had discovered a stash of sports equipment, a real score, in the crawlspace, only to discover a squatter living there as well, and having to give it all back to him... and still that annoying blue light, only maybe they were just there to arrest the squatter... and then there was a knock on the door, and I climbed out of a long tunnel of sleep to hear voices on the porch. Another knock. I managed a sleepy, "what's up?" and heard a long sentence, and caught none of it except the word "fire", and "cabin". Somehow, still half dreaming, I decided that the neighbor's cabin must be on fire, and since people knew about it, ours was not in any danger, and began to stumble back to bed. Then I worked through the rest of the jumble of words out on the porch, and heard "marshland", and "headed this way" and "suggest you leave". I peaked out of the small, diamond shaped window on our door, and realized the entire campground was lit by an orange glow. And finally woke up. By that time, the men on our porch were long gone, but we began groggily, mechanically scooping up armloads of dirty clothes and stuffing them into suitcases on top of clean clothes, and when the suitcases overflowed, put the clean clothes we had lying out into the laundry bag with our long-dried muddy cave clothes. We did not even make a nod to packing, we just stuffed and crammed, loaded the bikes onto the trunk rack, found some shoes, and joined the stream of evacuating fellow tenters, RVers, and cabiners out of the park.
After a bit of muddy-minded consideration, we drove to the cheapest, dingiest motel we knew of, on the side of town not threatened by the wildfire, to inquire about rates. The lobby was locked, and we decided that even if it was cheap, we maybe did not want to pay for the night's lodging twice. We tried to call Wendell, although we would not arrive at his house until 3 am, to see if we could crash there, he did not answer because he was working, and his phone doesn't ring when he is several miles underground in a coal mine. We thought about driving to Grand Junction, but decided against it. Finally, at 1:30, we pulled into the trailhead at Negro Bill's Canyon, and hunkered down to get some sleep. Half an hour later, we were freezing, all of our blankets in the trunk, held down firmly by the bike rack and two bikes. We reluctantly unloaded the bikes and got out our sleeping bags, reloaded and locked the bikes in the dark, with the same wind that was feeding the fire howling and whipping around us, chilling our bones, crawled into the car with blankets and sleeping bags, cocooned ourselves and slept fitfully until 6am, at which point B started the car and drove our bed to the outhouse on the other side of the parking lot, did his business and woke up considerably in the cold, and got back inside with no inclination to sleep any more. We drove back to town, past the wildfire that had come within a hundred yards of the campground beside ours before being deflected, but was still raging and had grown to over four hundred acres. B bought coffee at a gas station, and we headed for Junction.
As we drove through Fruita, I finally climbed out of my sleeping bag and pajamas, thankful for dark windows as I found clean clothes and put them on. A phone call confirmed that there were chain restrictions over Vail pass, and us with our bald tires... we stopped in Junction and bought four snow tires, something we had planned to do upon returning home.
And just as we were coming through Eagle, I remembered that Grandma had offered us some tomatoes. That was last Friday, and they said they would be gone when we came back through, but she would leave them sit out. Yeah, right, we smirked. We barely remembered. What were the odds that we would both remember? But, just in case, we took a last-minute exit and drove up to their place. Sure enough, a bag of tomatoes and a potato, sitting on the table, waiting for us. I'll be danged. She thinks of everything.
Vail Pass was treacherous, but we pulled it just fine with our new snow tires. We got home in time to unload the car into the entry
way of our house and shovel six inches of snow off the front deck before going to a friend's house to "carve pumpkins, eat pizza, and play guitar". I ate the pizza and carved a pumpkin, but for the sake of everyone involved, left the musical instruments to those who knew how to play them.
And now, it's morning again, back home, and back to work. Actually, B thinks I am at work right now. But seriously, it was four degrees this morning. Since it has climbed to 33 degrees by now, I guess I will pull on my snowboots and make my way to Keystone, where I have a full day of work ahead of me, and all I want is a long evening in front of the fire tonight, and the longer I sit here and type, the shorter my evening becomes.
