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.