Anchored in Moab

Here we are: mid-May 2023. I had been laid off and had been in poor health, between my ailing feet and a lupus flare-up. But the cloud lifted as spring progressed, until I felt well enough that I could imagine actually enjoying myself if I went somewhere.

And guess what area is lovely this time of year? Yes. It's my favorite place.

A rainbow-hued balloon was rising as I sped into Moab, as lovely a sign of hope as you could wish to see. Or maybe it was descending. Or crashing. I'm not really sure.

I was lucky enough to find a campsite with both morning and evening shade and a nice big flat spot for my nice big new tent, and set about covering the place with gear.

As seen from inside the giant tent. And yes, it's very important to cover the entire surface of the picnic table with crap

It was hot. I usually have aimed to be in Moab around the beginning of May; this was two weeks later than that, and daytime highs were already inching toward the 87 degrees they would be for most of my stay. It was worth it, though, to experience the amazing bloom of desert wildflowers.

Some of the flowers flanking my campsite were sweet sand verbena, which gave off the most amazing perfume that made the whole air delicious, like something you could eat.

Here I have set up not just the giant tent but a tarp and the hammock. As time goes by I am encroaching increasingly on glamping.

Since my feet were feeling better, I decided to try a short walk on an easy trail that evening. In the distance, below, you can see what is called a virga shower, where rain falls but evaporates before it reaches the ground.

The wildflowers on the trail were just as stunning as the ones at my campsite.

I woke up too early the next morning and decided to just head into Arches National Park. The park now has a timed entry system where you have to buy an entry ticket for a particular time slot, unless you enter before 7am or after 4pm. And waking up too early seemed as good an opportunity as any to get into the park for free and catch some photos in the light of sunrise.

Later, I sat at a picnic area getting work done while a very noisy raven cawed its head off from the perch of someone's truck.

That evening it was a lovely temperature. I do love warm evenings—they're not something I get much at home—and I was very comfortable exiting my tent to hit the bathroom after dark. When I glanced back, the glow of the red light on my headlamp lit up all the guylines of my tent and tarp. I was reminded instantly of those movie scenes where the heroes have to get through a field of laser beams in order to rob a bank or whatever. Except I wasn't robbing a bank. I was making a deposit.

The next day, I was examining the tchotchkes in the town visitor center when I overheard a couple talking with the desk person. They had arrived in town, it was a Saturday, and they couldn't find a place to camp. I had sympathy for them. Moab seems to fill up completely every weekend from April through October. They didn't look like serial killers, so I edged my way over to listen then offered that they could join me at my site for the night.

I was surprised when they accepted, though. I was the shady one: dirty, sunburnt, in rumpled camping clothes. I told them I had more exploring to do and that I'd see them at the site that evening. Then I headed off toward Canyonlands National Park, turning onto a dirt road some miles before the entrance.

I was here to explore the little roads that crisscross all the Bureau of Land Management land in the area. Out here is where the free camping is, which I might like to do someday. And checking it out on a Saturday would tell me just how crowded this free camping got.

Well, it was beautiful back there. But it looked like most of the good sites weren't on the "main" roads, but down little sandy two-tracks that it wouldn't be wise to take a Prius down. Now, I would not be the only person to do silly things with their car out here, as this sign from near my campsite proved:

...and Moab actually has the sort of tow companies that will come all the way out into the backcountry to rescue your car (for lots and lots and lots of money). Still, I stayed on solid dirt. It seems I will have to get a different vehicle to take advantage of most of the free camping. A bit disappointing, but you know what I'm not complaining about? The fact that it only costs me $30 of gas to get from Denver to Moab in the first place.

Cows, judging me

When I returned to my campsite, the non-serial-killers were indeed there, already making dinner. Their names were Tom and Gerri (yes!) and they turned out to be wonderful people who fed and wined me as we talked about our adventures.

I was very happy to have a break in my solitude. And if Tom and Gerri are in fact reading this, thank you again! You are wonderful company and I hope I can visit you on your own turf in the future.

On the table above is Tom's weather radio, which droned in that incongruously calm computerized voice about the storms we could see building up to the south. Just as we finished eating, the winds kicked up so that the tarp began to flap violently. Fat raindrops slammed down like bullets. We chucked everything in our cars, and Tom and Gerri dove into their tent. I was approaching my own as the whole southward side of it caved in, and the tent tipped, ready to blow away.

I dashed to the tent and grabbed it. All three of the stakes on the southward side had pulled out. But the tent has large handles at the center point on each side—it's a pop-up tent, and you pull these to make each panel pop out—so I grabbed my handle and popped the tent back into shape, then held on. The wind was so strong now that I had to hunker back with all my weight to avoid being dragged away with the tent.

I thought about calling for my new site-mates, but figured the wind would ease up momentarily. And it did. As soon as the tent was no longer in imminent danger of becoming an 8-foot cubical tumbleweed, I hammered the three stakes back in and added a fourth and fifth on that side, just in case. Then I brought my chair inside, unzipped the canopy-shielded windows enough to give a little view, and enjoyed being cozy while the rain fell.

Later that evening, after it calmed down further, I got some nice shots of T&G's tent under stormy skies:

I was sad to see them go in the morning, but we shared a few texts in the coming days regarding our adventures.

A brief selection of photos from the next few days:

Sunset at Sand Flats

Switchbacks to Mineral Bottom

Canyonlands sunset

That way too long and boring section of road in Canyonlands where you have to go slow but there's nothing to look at, in the beautiful light of sunset

T&G had recommended a different campground so I thought I'd leave my nice Sand Flats setup and try there. I succeeded in getting a site, but it wasn't a very nice one for my poor feet. It was quite rocky, and the picnic table was a long way from the main pull-in. Thankfully the site could also be accessed from the opposite side, much closer to the picnic table, so that's where I parked. But I didn't set the tent up. A couple of the other (better) sites' tags showed their campers would be leaving in the morning, so I aimed to move at that time. And I hate setting a tent up if I'm just going to be tearing it down eight hours later. (The new tent is too big to pick up and carry.)

I was at the picnic table brushing my teeth at about 10pm when a car pulled into the other side of the site, and the occupants began moving their seats and rearranging luggage. I stared in their direction a while, headlamp aimed right at them, hoping they would get the not-so-subtle hint. Eventually I hobbled over and said, like you do: "Can I help you?"

A young woman responded: "Oh, no, we're fine, thanks."

There was a long pause, while I stood watching them. Finally she said: "Is this your site?"

"Yes."

"Can we just camp here for the night? We'll be gone by six in the morning."

I was irritated. Obviously I don't have an issue with the concept of sharing a site, itself—but the manner in which these two had set up then solicited rubbed me the wrong way. (Some campgrounds even have explicit rules against asking people if you can stay in their site.) But it was 10pm, they certainly weren't going to find an open site anywhere, and their presence wasn't going to actually affect me very much. So I said yes.

Then I lay in the back of the Prius, looking out at the stars. I couldn't sleep, partly because what had just happened had set me back to a daytime level of arousal. But I did see four shooting stars I wouldn't have seen otherwise.

Red light from headlamp, feet, and stars

The campground, which T&G had loved so much, turned out not to be a win for me. It was very exposed—it was the highest point around, which wouldn't be fun if I got another storm like that first one—and dusty, and windy. The amount of bare ground made it difficult to work on the computer. Bare ground reflects so much sunlight, it makes my pupils contract to a level where even the bright screen of my Mac becomes too dim to see.

Also, people kept pulling in and driving around to see if there were any open sites. This happens in every campground. But in this particular campground, with all the open bare ground, it's kind of confusing telling what's even a site and what's not until you get up close, which led to lots of cars coming through very slowly and/or just sitting there idling right outside the sites. Add to this the general lack of trees and the elevation and wind and basically I felt exposed in about three different ways, all of them unpleasant.

What the campground did have were views.

Well. It wasn't so easy to get a good photo of the views. My car is actually parked right by the edge of a cliff, beyond which is open country stretching all the way to the horizon (with a few little dirt roads and some boondocking RVs). Also, the campground doesn't allow trailers, and the sites are pretty far apart. I expect these things will make it ideal for some folks. And that's why I'm not giving the name of the campground, because it only has 7 sites and already has cars driving through it all the damn time looking for open spots. It doesn't need more publicity.

Anyway. Sand Flats also has views, and some reasonably spaced-out sites, and more trees and privacy, so after a couple days I went back there and found another nice spot with both morning and evening shade. I set up all my glamping paraphernalia and decided I really needed to wash my SPF-50 sun shirt, as—despite my pics—it'd mostly been sunny and hot as the blazes and so I'd been wearing it every day. (I do wash and re-apply deodorant in between, but that's still a lot for a synthetic shirt to handle. And the dust, my god.)

I don't currently have a basin in my setup... the Prius only has so much room... so I fitted a garbage bag into a storage tote and added a little water and Dr. Bronner's. It took three washes before dust stopped coming out of the shirt.

And it was lovely to be back in clean clothes. I wandered around in the soft evening air at sunset, watching others do the same.

I didn't spend all my time in Moab. One day I took a scenic drive out to Paradox, Colorado, which led me to this absolutely gorgeous valley I will have to spend more time in someday. Again, the pics don't do it justice. There were towering orange-red cliffs capped by a brilliant blue sky, lush green farmland spread below.

In the tiny, tiny town below this overlook I stopped at the library to get some work done with a proper internet connection. The library was attached to a middle school, and I got to talking with the front office woman at the school. She said this was the last week the school and library would be open. They were closing, perhaps permanently, due to falling enrollment and lack of funding. I was a bit sad. The valley seems like such a beautiful place to live. I hope the post-COVID possibilities for remote work allow people to move back so it can thrive again.

The next day, I took a little walk down a pretty trail not far from camp. My feet had up days and down days, and it was hard to tell if they were really healing or not. I have been emotional about this; on a good foot day, my whole mood surges, lurching toward joy with the assumption that I am getting better. On a bad day, I despair, feeling I will never get better. No equanimity.

But there are always flowers.

Not to mention the delightful sight of your little (huge) tent nestled in the sagebrush with snow-capped peaks as a backdrop.

And Fritos smothered in canned chili with cheddar cheese and corn nuts on top.

(Though I am here to tell you that, actually, don't put corn nuts on your chili. It didn't work out.)

I hadn't slept well the whole trip. I was excited about being able to travel at all, and I never sleep well when excited. Add that to a photographer's natural desire to take advantage of morning light, and I hadn't managed to get eight hours of sleep a single night, or sleep in a single morning. I decided I would do that on my last morning.

After a little stargazing, I went to bed. I put my earplugs in, snuggled into my sleeping bag, and seven hours of oblivion later was wakened by the piercing blare of a car horn, followed by full-throated screaming:

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP!" Honk, honk, honk. "WAAAAAAAKE UUUUUUUUP!"

I pried my exhausted eyes open to look at my watch. It was 6:30 AM.

By the time I had pulled out my earplugs and exited the tent, no perpetrator could be seen. The campground was silent. Not a soul stirred, which made me think it had been a drive-by shouting.

And, really???

Let's look at this nice picture instead of a bunch of swear words

I couldn't sleep; my adrenaline was way up from the honking and screaming. So I went back to Arches, and was able to "hike" (i.e., walk slowly) up to the Windows. Panting uphill, I had corresponding upward surge into joy. The exercise made me feel like myself, which was a remarkable thing. After a lifetime of being active in the outdoors, to not be able to do so for most of the past year has really felt like a loss of the self. And now, every time I manage to go far enough to actually get my heart rate up, the feeling of being "me" comes back to visit for a few more moments.

North Window Arch

Turret Arch

But the morning was not reserved for beauty and joy alone. I am capable of finding something to complain about just about anywhere. In the space of twenty minutes on the Windows trails, I passed four (4) people having loud conversations on speakerphone. Why. Why. Why.

I also passed one (1) hiker with dog (dogs aren't allowed on trails in national parks), and one (1) hiker flying a drone (drones aren't allowed either). I guess at least they weren't littering? Or maybe they were, who knows. I suppose they were littering sound and dog pee.

After that I went to Panorama Point to make breakfast and work for a while, which was very nice.

See, we can have nice things.

I ended up at another picnic area later where the tables were closer together, and had a rotation of various tourists passing through at the table next to me. For a while I talked with a French (?) man about backpacking stoves—he had the Soto Windmaster that I coveted; we both owned the BRS 3000T—and then with a pair of German men who were crossing the US on motorcycles.

The two of them took a month or two off every year to cross another part of the world. And each time, they left their bikes in the country where they'd ended, picking up right there the next year. Except, they told me, with the US, which hadn't let them leave the bikes. They'd had to bring them to Canada and start again from Canada this year (and will have to do the same next year, when they cross a different part of the US). We talked a bit about their travels in places like Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan, the conversation including phrases like "Thankfully, they took bribes." These dudes are way more hardcore than me.

Too soon, it was time to go home. I had a doctor's appointment the next day.

Every time I have come to this lovely place, I haven't wanted to leave. I wondered if that would change with my being more flexible this time, being unemployed and able to anchor here for a week and a half. If the place would become too familiar, no longer novel, a bore.

The answer is no, or at least not yet. As I stopped at Lions Park to bid the town farewell, and stood on the bridge and smelled the gorgeously perfumed breeze that wouldn't exist back in Denver, I nearly got tears in my eyes. I just plain didn't want to go.

And then I felt another thing, one that's been asleep for a while: the burning desire to go backpacking. It was something about the storm brewing in the east. I was dying for a good storm—aside from the first few days of the trip, the weather had been 97% sun and 87 degree heat—but more than that, and weirdly, I was dying for a storm to matter.

Weather never matters in daily life or even car camping like it does when you're backpacking. When you have access to neither home nor car, a storm can realign your whole day. It forces you to make decisions, sometimes quick ones. Right then I burned to be out in the sagebrush and sandstone wilderness beyond the city, pack on my back, staring at the storm and deciding how soon I needed to find cover and in which direction. It's a need to have decisions matter in a visceral and immediate way, to have a sense of agency that we so rarely get in our workaday lives. It's a big part of why backpacking is my passion.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to backpack again, let alone this year. But we can hope.

The drive to Colorado was the same familiar drive, until I passed into a flat section of land near Cisco and found myself surrounded by thousands of orange flowers.

They were scarlet globemallow, which has always been my favorite wildflower of the Moab area—partly because they're my favorite color (orange, not scarlet), and partly because they weren't insanely common. Spotting one was always a treat.

Well, here they were covering the land almost to the horizon. My rare treat had become ubiquitous. I would say something like "You never know when abundance will find you," but I didn't take my hippie pills this morning. Let's just say that we are sometimes mistaken about scarcity.

It was an odd thing. I'd been down this road many times before, including in spring, and had never seen anything approaching the sight. I eased into a pulloff and wandered around taking photos in the blasting heat. Another couple pulled up and started doing the same, speaking to each other in French, their faces wearing the same half-bewildered look as mine.

I chalked the unfamiliar profusion up to my never having visited so late in spring before, and made a mental note to come again this time of year despite the heat. Then I drove onward. I had a plan to stop at a dispersed camping area that was new to me, two hours from Denver. (I don't like to make the whole drive in one go as it hurts my back.)

It's always a little bit scary camping in a new area. Unknown plots of land are, in my imagination, potentially full of rapists and murderers, in stark contrast to everywhere else I have ever camped, which were filled with normal people who like camping.

This area had some folks already set up in RVs, or sleeping in their cars, so I kept going until I got to an unoccupied campsite. It was pretty.

No rapists or murderers arrived, even though I made tea. (Above, I have set up my chair to block the wind from my stove, and put my computer on a milk crate so I can work standing up. The rest of the car is not normally so disorganized, but I had to make space for the milk crate.)

I spent a very peaceful night sleeping in the Prius, woke early and made it home in time to shower before my appointment. But before leaving my camp area, I snapped this shot of distant mountains:

They're still completely cloaked in snow. The year has a lot of play left in it.