Down through history it has been proven time and time again that a wayfaring stranger can't live by rocks alone, and indeed, my rough itinerary, scrawled on a piece of wallet-bound loose leaf, informed me that it was now time for old caliche-dusted Tom to be exposed to a little culture, in the form of the spectacular, ancient art preserved within a jagged tear in the surface of the desert miles from nowhere known as Horseshoe Canyon.
Getting to Horseshoe is a bit of a jaunt by any standards, but to add to my anxiety, I was informed by Connecticut's leading authority on the outdoors-my mom, that Horseshoe was also the place where Aron Ralston, author of the 2002 bestseller "I Left My Arm at Wounded Knee" (don't quote me on that title) was forced to cut off his forearm with a Swiss Army knife after it became trapped beneath a giant boulder while he was canyoneering alone. After promising to hike with my hands in my pockets like a good boy, I set off for the canyon. Here's how to get there in style:
Head north out of Moab on route 191, past Arches National Park and out across the white, hard-pan expanse north of town. After a while the towering and empty Book Cliffs will began to dominate the horizon, and one will begin to make out trucks on I-70 running along their base. But don't get too exited yet, as it will still take a quarter of an hour at 65 mph to cover the distance to the interstate. Once there, head west for twenty minutes to the desert oasis of Green River, and if you have time to spare once you arrive, spend the well-worth-it 4 dollars to poke around the John Wesley Powell museum and learn how real men toured this region. Spend some time ruminating about the reality of traveling 400 miles through unknown country in a tiny boat filled with scarce and moldy provisions as you fill up your own water jugs in the museum's bathroom. Afterwords, head into the center of town and pick up a Jerusalem melon, the agricultural specialty here and stow it away somewhere. You will very happy you did fifty miles down the road. After that its advisable to head over to Ray's Tavern (The Place for Everyone), belly up to the bar, order a giant burger (only dwarfed in comparison to the hair of the waitress serving it) and down a couple of watery drafts, held to 3.2% alcohol throughout Utah by Mormon decree.
Why did there have to be a minivan in this picture?
There is no better time for tackling 50 miles of brutally wash boarded sand track through the San Rafael desert than at high noon, right after stuffing yourself with 2500 calories worth of thirst-inducing fat, salt and alcohol. With that in mind, head south out of town along the Airport Road, where you will find every inch of the steep surrounding hillsides covered with the graceful, crisscrossing tire arcs of dirt bikes and ATVs. While you head towards the airport, meditate on why it had to be built ten miles out of town when there appears to be no shortage of flat and empty spots even fifty yards from City Hall. Directly after the deserted airfield, bear left onto the dirt and head out into the emptiness:
On the way to Horseshoe the traveler will pass the only stream in Utah graced with water
Japanese engineers, please don't fail me now
Don't give up yet...
After arriving at the surprisingly bustling canyon rim about two hours after lunch at Ray's I realized two things: One, the so-called campground here consisted of the unused portions of the dirt parking lot, and therefore provided absolutely no shade or protection from the constant and gusty wind. Secondly, I hadn't completely filled up my water bag back in Green River, so I couldn't really afford to romp around in the afternoon sun if I wanted to have enough water to hike into the canyon the following day. So I quickly set up my tent and filled it with rocks to prevent it with me inside from being blown down into the chasm. I then crawled inside and did what was quickly becoming a tradition on this trip: the high-desert afternoon nap.
Once the sun had dropped into the desert I emerged and did a little exploring:
Horseshoe canyon
Dusk falls on the few remaining possessions of mine that haven't been blown into Nevada
The next morning, as the sun just began to light the backside of the distant La Sal mountains, I threw on my pack and headed down into the dark canyon.
The canyon bottom at daybreak
I had the place totally to myself at this time, besides a few mule deer walking along the sandy canyon bottom. Soon I spotted the first panel of pictographs, high on a crumbly ledge:
I then came upon a breathtaking alcove in the canyon wall, easily the size of an upended Wal-Mart, carved out of solid rock by a constant stream of windblown grit and the occasional flood over a span of time incomprehensible to man.
Inside was more rock art:
And then, after walking three miles down a sandy canyon bottom in the dawn silence, I came upon the Great Gallery, where life-size, featureless ghost figures float towards you across the millenia. Archaeologists call the artists of these paintings the "Archaic Culture", and believe they painted them between 2000 and 8000 years ago, but this is just grasping at straws, and the truth is that the people who put these images here were as much of a mystery to the Anasazi as the Anazazi are to us. Adding to the mystery is the question of where one finds paint that has a 8000 year warranty?
The guys above (along with other scenes from southeast Utah, and also a NASA rocket, don't ask me why) star in the opening montage of Koyaanisqatsi, a film about god-knows-what, set to strange Phillip Glass music. Watch the below (skip the rocket launch footage) and it will sum up the atmosphere in Horseshoe better than I can
While I was looking at the Great Gallery I was reminded of the below photo from National Geographic, and I could imagine how the paintings were influenced by living in a heat distorted landscape devoid of any landmarks. But more than likely they were painted by aliens who later went on to found the Federal government, so what good is my theory, anyway?
Well, Horseshoe canyon was great, but I was a little anxious to hit it by this point as I was low on water, I still had fifty miles, thirty of it sand, standing between me and the nearest town, Hanksville, and my bike had been sitting on the canyon rim being sandblasted for the last 24 hours. In addition to that, my cam chain, the Achilles heel of the venerable KLX 650, had been developing a nasty rattle during the last few days, letting me know it was beginning to stretch after 2600 miles of riding. That's the noise it makes right before it derails and drops the valves into the engine, at which point the trip is really over. I wanted to wait until I got to Hanksville to adjust it so that in case I botched the adjustment there would be a chance of getting some assistance, so the ride out of the canyon was a little bit tense.
Anyway, needless to say, I made it to Hanksville, pulled into the only gas station in town, which, I crap you negative, resides completely within a hollowed-out sandstone hill, and easily adjusted the chain within five minutes while parked in front of this monument to free-speech:
Next up: Waterpocket folds, moki dugway's and Utah's fudge zone!
No comments:
Post a Comment