Mesa Verde

After 8 straight nights of camping and 7 consecutive days in the desert, we chose a change of pace. After finishing the second half of the loneliest highway, we continued eastbound into southwest Colorado. Cortez was closer to Mesa Verde, and the friendly guy at the Colorado Welcome Center encouraged us to stay there, but Cortez looked like a wind swept plain, so we continued east and set up shop in Durango.

We suspected Durango would be like Bend, Oregon. We were right, just add a few more mountains and you have it. I am the designated negotiator for hotels, and I was able to secure a decent rate at a nice Best Western in downtown. First order of business . . .showers to cleanse the sand from the previous night’s storm. There was literally a pool of orange water in the shower after each of us washed our hair. There are several brew pubs in Durgano, and with MLB and NFL on tv, we checked out the local culture.

Mesa Verde National Park was our reason for venturing into this part of the Four Corners Area, and it didn’t disappoint. These ruins were built about 750 years ago and were only inhabited for less than a century.

We had a pretty funny guide for the tour of the Cliff Palace. He was like a drill sergeant, arriving at the lookout, pacing around with his hands folded, waiting until the group settled down before speaking. We don’t normally sign up for guided tours, but in this case we had to, if we wanted access to the Cliff Palace. It felt like I was back in Anthropology/Archeology class, but it was quite interesting to learn how the Pueblos lived and built these dwellings. I kept comparing it with Macchu Picchu in my mind. They are roughly from the same time. However, the Pueblo had a much smaller population, and harsher environment.

It was amazing how many structures had been built in the canyons of Mesa Verde. Cliff Palace gets all the pub, but every where you looked there were smaller villages and random buildings in several nooks and crannies.

For some reason, we both enjoyed the sunny 50 degree weather at 7000 feet. I think it had something the due with the fact we weren't going to be sleeping outdoors when the temps dropped below freezing.

The weather was beginning to haunt us again, albeit from the safety of a hotel room. The forecast showed two important things . . . snow followed by cold temps. We accepted the fact that 2-3 more nights of hotel were in our future. Where to next? Telluride was dismissed due to heavy snow, Canyons de Chelly was a no go due to the weather, ditto for Sante Fe and Taos. We chose to return to old stomping grounds and cross a few more items off the list. Moab was only 2.5 hours back up the road, and the forecast was calling for a manageable amount of snow.

Hite

Utah 95 is a lonely highway. . . 120 miles long and exactly one building. We drove the stretch from Hanksville to the Colorado River then headed downstream to Hite. We were not sure what to expect, but hoped to camp on the river. The Hite marina has been ‘abandoned’ due to the drop in lake level.

We were pleasantly surprised to find picnic tables, pit toilets, seventy degree temps, and a small store that was open 4 hours a day. We set up camp, and relaxed – well, I did. Wilson was busy hooking up his electrical system, building a stand for his light, bike maintainance, etc. etc. The one thing he didn’t have to do was gather firewood. There was a endless supply of quick burning driftwood. It didn’t burn very long, but it took quickly and it was cheap and easy. We called it fast food wood.

The next morning we headed off to hike the nearby Dark Canyon. We get our usual late start. We ‘sorta’ get lost finding the trailhead. The roads are plentiful and unmarked. It is several miles further on a dirt trail than we had read, resulting in noon arrival at the trailhead. The hike is described as two miles on the ridge, and then a deep decent into the canyon - dropping 1123 feet in a mile, with route finding necessary. We’re getting pretty good at route finding, and we’ve got our poles, so I feel ok about it.

The 2 miles is more like 3.2 – thanks to gps. We finally get to the edge, and I can really only see the first few steps down the large boulder field. Here’s a view of the boulder field from the approach trail.
I want to believe I can do this and put my head down and go. It’s one harrowing drop after another. I scrape my legs brushing by the rocks, and skin my knee on another, with blood dripping, my stress level is increasing, and I dread the return trip up just as much as the decent. The more I think about it, the more I realize that by the time I get down, I will have to turn around and go right back up. As Yogi says, “It gets late early here”. This is torture for no reward.
I call it. “Stop. Take a picture. I am done.” I would have loved to spend some time exploring the river canyon, but that wouldn’t happen this day. We have a sandwich and claw our way back up the rockslide. NOT my favorite kind of hiking. If I had known this is what the decent looked like, I may not have been optimistic about my chances of success. We look forward to burgers and another relaxed night at camp.
Back at Lake Powell, we can see a squall line to the north. No worries for us, it’s off in the distance and Pat Brown read the crystal clear calm skies forecast to us the day before. Curt builds a big fire - a huge bed of fast food coals. Just as we finish eating by the fire, there is a shift in the wind, and it’s dark now so we can’t really see the cause of this shift. Thus, we leisurely secure a few things, and then suddenly the wind starts to pick up. I look back and our chairs have blown over – almost into the fire. I struggle to get them folded, but we still look at this as a harmless challenge. Then the huge sustained winds hit. Still we kind of laugh it off . . . each us is rummaging around putting stuff away with a beer in our hands. Then we both notice the fire, what was a nice beacon on a dark night, has turned into a 100 foot streak of flying embers, with all of those hot little things headed right at our tent. . . .beers are dropped, Curt runs to get the water for the fire and I run for the tent, only to discover a slight issue, it’s bowed over sideways with more broken poles. No more giggling and laughing, we are in serious trouble if we want to sleep in an upright tent tonight. While Curt douses the fire, I grab the tent poles and hold them while I lean into the wind. At this point, I’m doubtful of the tent surviving.

I set in to hold the tent while Curt secures everything else. I am using my body weight to hold the tent up. Sand is pummeling me. I have to keep my eyes closed. I figure I can endure for a half hour or so. I approach it as a “Survivor” immunity challenge. A few long minutes later, my gallant knight comes to the rescue riding his FJ over piles of driftwood. He parks it right in front of the tent. Just then, the unrelenting sand begins to swirl around me – my personal tornado. I am ready to quit, so Curt takes a shift holding the tent. Things are not looking good for us. We keep calm, and together come up with a plan. We attempt to reinforce the fractured pole with a 2nd pole. Curt manages to string it through without taking down the tent and duct tapes them together. It worked. We completed the FJ wind barrier with the coolers and water jugs.

The wind subsided to a steady gust, and I was delighted at our recovery. The interior tent had a new color though, the same color as the sand that ringed Lake Powell. In this case, the wind helped us, it was quite easy to simply hold up our sleeping gear once piece at a time and let the sand just waft away in the breeze. All and all, we survived the night, but more wind on the following morning convinced us it was time to head east . . . Mesa Verde awaits.

72 hours with no human contact

We woke to brilliant blue skies and no signs of rain, but were still a bit cautious of entering a large slot canyon after a recent rain storm. Thus, we spent our first full day exploring the area and preparing for our descent into the Muddy Chute. We spent the morning doing recon on the river, deciding how far we could ride bikes and choosing footware for the many river crossing that lay ahead. I might actually be getting better on my mountain bike, Curt bamboozled me into riding up and down a river draw, and then later around this huge butte. All and all, I succeeded and only used a few bad words, and was left with minimal bruising.
With beautiful weather, we able to take full advantage of all that car camping allows. We camped under a lone tree on the sun baked red clay.
The solar shower heated river water that we filtered, at the base of the tree is our latest invention, “Curt’s electrical system”, a marine battery lights our camp at night, powers our sound system, recharges the ipod and of course makes it possible for us to listen to baseball games on satellite radio. Now, if we could just find a plug in coffee pot that uses less than 400 watts.

Curt was pretty excited to find all the old mining gear and was quite sure that he and Paul could find a use for this old engine, if he could just figure out a way to get it back to Seattle.
Night two on the Muddy River taught us another important desert canyon weather lesson . . . the wind doesn’t die down after dusk, it picks up, then dies down about two hours later. We struggled to cook and eat during the wind, only to see it disappear once the dishes were clean.

Day 3 in the Swell was the time for us the tackle the Muddy Chute. The actual Chute started about 4 miles downstream from our camp. After a slow start, we managed to pick up a trail, crossed the river several times until the river itself became the trail as the canyon walls closed to the river’s edge. We were actually well prepared for river walking, but not so much for river swimming in the shaded canyon. Eventually, the pools got so deep we could no longer touch the bottom with our ski poles. Who needs those fancy trekking poles when you got a closet full of ski poles? We debated swimming across the first big pool, but then reminded ourselves of the water temp and the air temp in the canyon and utter isolation we felt. We hadn’t see a soul since leaving Goblin, and we took the safe route and chose not to put ourselves in danger in a situation where rescue was not even a remote possibility. All the Chute pics are on my camera, and of course, I left the cable to upload them in Seattle.

On our final night, we built a big fire, waited out the wind and cooked an enjoyable meal under clear calm skies.
The San Rafael Swell was great, but I’m ready for a warm-up. Lake Powell is only about 100 miles away. Let’s see here, drop down about 3000 feet, that should add about 15 degrees to the temps. I can’t imagine the weather being a problem down there. We re-supplied our water at Goblin Valley and food in Hanksville, and finally saw another human after 3 days in the bush.

Did you look both ways for an airplane ?

After 2 nights in Goblin Valley, we planned to head just a few miles away into the San Rafael Swell and camp at Temple Mt., but then changed our minds and decided to set up camp closer to the Muddy Chute. Both entrances to the chute were about 40 miles away, we decided to check out the downstream entrance first to see if it was suitable for camping. The scenery was spectacular, the approach road weaved between the mesas and descended down towards the Muddy River.

Note, I said the road descended “towards” the river, it didn’t quite make it to the canyon floor, and ended just beyond an active runway on a wind blown bench with an assortment of old mining gear, leaving us about 300 feet above the river. There was an old 4x4 trail to the bottom, the sign said “closed”, but who was going to stop us out here anyways ? The 15% grade with a sheer cliff on one side accomplished that quite easily. We decided to head back to the upstream entrance, to try and find a better place. Upon leaving, Curt did stop the FJ and made a conscience effort to look both ways before crossing the runway.

Out of the canyon we went, only to re-enter the same canyon 16 miles upstream, and we found yet another abandoned uranium mine, this one still had several conveyor systems attached to the cliffs, and we found ourselves on a very picturesque canyon floor, complete with our own private arch.

Did anyone notice the gathering clouds in the distance of the first photo ? We had been keeping an eye on them, but with canyon walls to our west blocking our view and stopping our sunlight, we were not exactly sure what to expect. The aforementioned busy camper made no haste in setting up camp, getting all the bins out and covered with a tarp to create what we started calling “the bin burrito”. He even managed to cover the wood with another tarp. With the camp secure and the tent set up, we hunkered down in the FJ for 2 hours while the skies unleashed hail, rain, and wind upon us.

Curt threatened to take the FJ for a spin during the rain, until I reminded him the nearest town was 70 miles away. Finally the skies cleared and we set about the business of cooking dinner and enjoying a warm fire. All the while, something didn’t feel right, it was as if our legs suddenly got weaker, then we realized that each of us was packing around 15 pounds of red rock clay on our shoes.

Two Tarps and a Roll of Duct Tape, and I feel Like a Queen.

We “wake” in the morning to survey the damage. Nothing notable except the tent. We start with the first of Curt’s list of six possible fixes, and luckily the spare poles from the old tent were approximately the same length. With the major obstacle remedied, the day was free to go hiking. We picked the Wild Horse Canyon to Bell Canyon loop. With a rough start to the day, Muddy Creek will have to wait.

That's me on the left side of the wash as we head into Bell Canyon. I am so glad we did this hike!

I dig slot canyons. This is the best one yet.

We manage to conquer to boulder falls without drawing blood.

We cover the 8 miles in 4 hours and beat the busload of AARP hikers who went the opposite direction. Damn, we’re good.

We get back to camp in the late afternoon and the wind is still howling relentlessly. By now, the exposed full cans of adult beverage have visible sand blasting marks and my face feels the same. Dust has penetrated the tent walls and our bedding is ridiculously dusty. If only the tent pole hadn’t fit; I would be in a motel in Moab…

Curt’s mind starts working (more later on the ‘busy’ camper). The campsites come equipped with an aluminum shelter for shade. Two sides are metal screens. We both contribute to this ingenious plan . . .Curt wants to replicate the grove of trees on his Grandparents farm to block the wind by using our two tarps for the same effect, and I offer the final piece of the puzzle . . . Duct Tape. We could use our tarps and tape to build a wind shelter. Thirty minutes later I have a perfect cubby hole to hunker down for a pleasant – ok, bearable – evening. Curt wins backgammon and we actually cook a meal during the howling winds. Unfortunately, the 32$ guy quits and moves to a hotel before he has to endure a night of listening to our flapping tarps. I felt like a queen with this contraption. Thankfully, Curt was able to harness the metallurgy power of the shelter to make his satellite radio work in spite of the red rocks to our south and I got to enjoy the full 13 innings of that Yankees win, or did the Angels win, it was all white noise, but I kind of like the lady analyst on the Yankees radio feed. We plan to move deeper into the Rafael Swell area tomorrow.

Chapter 2 . . . October 2009 . . . $32 guy and the melon lady:

We’ve embarked on another journey to points yet unknown. After spending the night with family near Umapine, Oregon, we headed straight down the all too familiar I-84 towards Salt Lake City. Or so we thought, we planned to camp at Antelope Island on the lake, but a late start from Curt’s brother’s ranch left us with darkness descending 200 miles short of our destination. We chose the Three Island Crossing State Park, a locale made famous by the Oregon Trail. We both wondered why the Oregonians chose to cross here, when they would have to repeat the same feat a hundred miles up the river. The next day, more of I-84, and the most desolate and boring stretch of interstate (Burley, Idaho to Ogden, Utah). . . Curt chose to listen to BBC’s coverage of the F1 Brazilian Grand Prix, I immediately went to the ipod and headphones. There was some good news though, I was able to stave off Curt’s desire to visit the Golden Spike Monument once again. I know that one of these times I will give in, but not this one.

We quickly discover faulty equipment. The new “5 day” beverage cooler has a faulty seal. We make a beeline for the Salt Lake REI. Glad we’re members since we don’t have a receipt. They look up our purchases for the year, and apparently, we never paid for the cooler in the first place. Sales clerk error. She used the cooler to pack our purchases and never scanned it. So, we finally purchased our cooler, and last minute supplies and hustled to Goblin Valley State Park, UT before sunset.

Fortunately, there were a few sites available. We carefully reviewed the ‘reserved dates’ marked on the posts and selected the best spot from the ones remaining. We set the tent, unloaded our bins, and started to build a fire. Just after dusk, a pickup pulled up in the spot next to us. The gentleman explained that he had reserved the spot we were in earlier that day – he PAID for it. He and Curt had an unfriendly exchange about putting the reserved tag on the post – but the long and the short of it was that we had to move to another site. Campers can appreciate what a pain this is! Later, we realized that they were not even going to occupy the site. He spent the $16 fee twice to buy some extra space. The arrogance of the $32 guy was not sitting well with us. I began to imagine the perfect passive aggressive retaliation. I wish I could let it go…

The next day, the $32 guy’s lady came over with a Green River melon as a peace offering. I will attempt to let it go. We certainly enjoyed the melon for breakfast the next day. However, first we had to endure a tough night.

The winds began REALLY gusting. We woke – with everyone else in the tent area – to double check everything in the huge winds. Curt lost his balance in the dark and wind, and grabbed for the tent pole. Unfortunately, it snapped. The tent was flapping wildly in the gusting winds. I announced, “I’m leaving the tent”, Curt responded, “Where are you going to go?” I chose the front seat of the car, while Curt remained in the loud and collapsing tent. With the nearest real town about 150 miles away, Curt spent his night trying to figure out how to fix the tent, meanwhile, I slept like a lady in the middle seat of a transatlantic red eye to Turkey. And we haven’t even started our vacation yet.