Adrift in Needles

At the end of my last entry, I had returned to Denver from Moab so I could make it to a doctor's appointment. I was getting a couple laser treatments a week on my feet, which might have even been helping. When I attended the appointment I'd come home for, they told me, "We weren't able to fit you in next thurs, so we won't see you till tues."

I boggled. I actually had another weeklong stretch of time ahead of me, long enough to make a proper trip out of. So what did I do? I went back to Utah. 

But first, I had to go grocery shopping and then pack everything back into the car. All of this camping had me noticing ways to optimize my setup. Bananas, for instance. My poor bananas, left in the food bag with all the other food, were always getting bruised. They needed a safe location. The center console has now become the banana box.

More changes were on the way. In the past, I've always stopped at the free campsite at Rabbit Valley on the way out to Utah. On my last trip, however, I found the Bureau of Land Management has turned it into a pay campground: $20 a night, plus a whopping $8 reservation fee. (They have not, however, installed any amenities like water, or even toilet paper in the vault toilet.) $28 is a bit much, especially considering I typically roll in around 10pm and leave at 7 in the morning. I literally only need a legal place to park the car for 9 hours.

So I decided I'd try dispersed camping the first night. I crossed the border into Utah after dark and turned toward Moab, then pulled onto a dirt road, found a sandy pulloff and hopped into the back of the car. My map that shows dispersed camping in the area is rather low-resolution, and it wasn't 100% clear whether I was in the dispersed-camping-allowed area or not, but the road was too rough for the Prius to continue any farther.

So. I was a little tense at first, worrying about The Knock. The Knock is when a police officer (or security guard, or ranger) wakes you up to say you can't sleep there and must move along. They aren't necessarily rude about it. However, knowing that it could happen isn't conducive to a good night's sleep. I have either gotten The Knock once, or zero times; if it happened, it was 26 years ago, and my memory of the incident is so hazy I wonder if I dreamed it.

All this is to say that it took me a couple hours to fall asleep. The stars were gorgeous, though, and sleeping in a car allows a clear view of them as you drift off. Once I fell asleep, I slept very soundly till morning, then used the bathroom at the next campground down the road.

I was headed for Needles. This is one of the four districts of Canyonlands National Park. I'd meant to make a day to visit it on my last trip, but in the end, I (and my aching back) balked at yet more driving. Now, I would be able to devote nearly a week to it and the surrounding area.

North and South Sixshooter Peaks

The sky was doing crazy things as I approached the park. It looked like dozens of jellyfish were on migration. In fact, throughout the week, the sky would cbe one of the main attractions: I saw so many strange clouds, drifting virga showers, foreboding thunderheads and etherial waves that watching the sky was one of my favorite activities.

My original plan had been to go straight to the Needles campground, half of which is first-come, first-served, and try to grab a campsite. But on the way there, I passed the Creek Pasture campground and decided to check it out.

It turned out to be very pretty, with lots of yellow flowers everywhere, and it was $5 less per night than the national park campground. The trees were a little scraggly, but who's judging? Of the thirty-two sites, only four or five were occupied. It was nearly silent. Since I was beginning to have grave doubts about my plan to grab a national park campsite at the beginning of a holiday weekend, and since quiet is one of my top priorities when camping, I thought maybe I should just grab a site at Creek Pasture.

I did.

I immediately set up the hammock and began to read, enjoying my nice view of the outhouse (and one of the Sixshooter peaks). The temperature crept higher.

Unfortunately, because I'm old now, the valves in my leg veins no longer do their job and I have to wear compression sleeves, even in the 90 degree heat. Also I hate sunscreen so I had full-length clothing on. The scraggly trees, it turned out, did not give very good shade. Basically, I was hot. I sagged in the hammock and watched a whiptail lizard dig in the dirt.

By late afternoon I'd had enough, and went for an air-conditioned drive. I stopped at the Needles visitor center to use the bathroom, and eavesdropped on a ranger talking with a couple of French tourists. They'd asked advice on where to go, and the ranger rattled off a hundred-mile-per-hour spiel that included the words "lush" and "planty."

So, this is where I complain about a pet peeve of mine: folks who work in the tourism industry, who have presumably received training in such, and yet who don't seem to understand that foreign tourists probably can't decipher their superfast, slang- and vocab-word-laden English. This bothers me so much in part because I used to work in tourism myself, and have high standards. Also because I've studied five foreign languages, and it's hard! Slow down and use common words.

Anyway. Beauty needs no translation, and yet I was still speechless once I got a little further into the park.

The orange flowers I had been astounded to see on my last trip, blanketing the usually sere, wasteland-esque desert north of Moab, had also spread themselves across the flats at Needles—but even thicker. It was so visually arresting I parked right on the shoulderless road and walked back and forth taking photos in the sunset like a tourist.

Back at my campground later, the evening light was soft on the sandstone cliffs, and at nightfall, surprisingly cold air descended and bright stars winked between the scraggly trees overhead.

The next day, I enjoyed a mix of writing and exploring the area. Since the trees weren't cooperating, I ate my dinner in the shade provided by the car's hatch.

I was finding that after spending all day in near-90 temps, I didn't feel much like hot food for dinner. Unfortunately, food that needed to be cooked was what I'd brought with me.

This is a good time to talk about my ambition: to find a job that will let me work remotely not just from home, but from the field. To this end, I've been acquiring the gear that will let me perform a proof-of-concept on the whole idea. I want to know if I can live in a healthy way, and one that's comfortable enough that I'm not distracted from my work by heat, cold, wind, etc.

So. Below is my new 12-volt fridge, which keeps my food and drinks very cold (see frost on walls) and was also surprisingly cheap.

It fits nicely behind the passenger seat, and the Prius powers it with no trouble. Keeping all my electronics and the fridge going, the car still only has to run the gas engine about two minutes per hour. The fridge holds about 30 liters, which could be 1 or 2 weeks of refrigerables for one person, depending on what percentage of the food that person eats is refrigerables.

It's well-insulated. I can turn it off when I go to bed, and it will still be at a reasonable temperature in the morning. However, as this trip continued, I found I was able to go for longer walks. I left the fridge unpowered for up to an hour while I did this, and it didn't get too warm, but I wouldn't want to leave it much longer than that in 94-degree heat. Which means that if my feet keep healing, I'll need to get a battery to power the fridge while I hike.

After my unpleasantly hot dinner, it was time for more photography in the park:

Well. I had decided I was tired of the lack of proper midday shade at Creek Pasture, and that I would try for the Needles campground after all. So, the next morning I got up early to drive into the park.

I was able to snag a site with good shade, and I left some gear there to leave no doubts that the site was occupied. I drove the ten minutes back to Creek Pasture and packed up the tent, then decided I needed to take advantage of the actual creek, and went and splashed the sweat off me in water that resembled chocolate milk and was absurdly cold. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised at the temperature. From any high point in the area I could see that the surrounding peaks were still flush with snow.

When I returned to my new Needles site, someone had been into the gear I'd left behind, scattering it all over the table and dirt. And I knew who.

In the past, I've seen signs at Needles warning people not to leave any food out, since the ravens here were very clever. They have even figured out how to get into coolers. I hadn't left any food behind, so I never would have thought I'd be a victim too. I guess no one is safe.

The new site was really lovely, with deep shade at all times of day, privacy, and a wonderful view across fields of orange blooms to the cliffs that themselves bloomed orange in the light of sunset. I spent my remaining time writing, taking photos, and taking short hikes on my healing feet. The fact that the feet were getting better had me, at times, ecstatic, and I hiked a little bit of just about every trail that began at a parking lot.

Enjoy these photos, which were a pleasure to take in such a beautiful place:

Over the course of the weekend I managed to make more new friends: a couple, each of whom worked as consultants and traveled between taking jobs. They were into backpacking too, and I enjoyed discussing trips and gear with them. They also plied me with food and were very enjoyable company.

Solo travel isn't so lonesome. I actually end up talking more with people when I'm on the road than I do at home. For one thing, folks on vacation—including myself—tend to be more open, more relaxed, less rushed. I'm also in contact with folks like rangers and welcome center employees whose job it is to talk to me. We all have something to talk about besides the regular old grind. Wildlife sightings, for instance.

Or amazing sunsets.

And, finally, the needles themselves, which I did not get to see up close on this trip.

It was the previous fall, hiking through those needles, that I first got plantar fasciitis. I can look at the photo above and feel a lot of things: regret, embarrassment, a touch of bitterness. Maybe I should have known better; maybe I shouldn't have tried such a long hike when my foot and calf muscles were still atrophied from my post-surgery rest period. Maybe if I'd been less ambitious I never would have been injured, spending the last six months with limited mobility, missing out on so many things.

The funny thing is, having reached that low, I'm now ridiculously appreciative of just being able to walk the half-hour at a time that I can manage now.

My stay at Needles was truly lovely, quiet and beautiful (if very hot). I was quite busy, between hiking and photography and writing and the job search. But I felt a lack of purpose. I do have a purpose, ostensibly: to take advantage of my unemployed time by seeing more of the country, while simultaneously moving toward a future in which I can support myself from the field. I am applying for jobs, I am testing gear, I am testing how it feels to work eight hours a day from a campsite in all temperatures and weather conditions. And I am writing, the thing that always gave me a sense of purpose in the past. And yet, now, I feel oddly aimless, adrift.

I have a few theories why, and here is one: these past couple Utah trips, I haven't felt like I was on vacation, because I was working so much at the computer. But I also haven't felt like I was "at work." I have been in a halfway zone in which I struggle to focus on my computer tasks—being surrounded by the hallmarks of vacation, which constantly trigger the desire to hike and/or go find some ice cream—and also can't fully relax, knowing how much I want and need to accomplish with my time. My internal compass hovers between north and south, unable to settle.

I don't know if this will change if I ever do find a job that lets me work from the field, and a routine of morning or evening hikes bookending eight hours work becomes truly routine. I hope I'll be lucky enough to see.

It occurs to me now that some folks must be wondering, why not a van? Well, it might come to that. But I tend not to buy things unless I truly believe I'll both need and use them, and right now I'm still testing this out. Besides, I like being outdoors.

On my drive home I explored some of the near-empty land south and west of Moab:

I stumbled on a housing development in the middle of nowhere, where great holes were carved into the cliffs, and house facades were being built over the openings:

This was simultaneously cool and also distressing. I am a wilderness lover, and it's always a bit sad to see what had been pure nature (and beautiful, in this case) taken over by a housing development. And the houses seemed pretty clearly priced for rich people. On the other hand, it looked like it would be a sustainable development, and a cool place to live, both literally and figuratively.

I was hoping there'd be lots of dispersed campsites out here in the middle of nowhere, but I didn't find many. Just dirt roads stretching to a colorful horizon.

I ended up at Looking Glass Arch, which was once a landmark for travelers on the Spanish Trail. It would be a long ride from here back to Denver, so I took the opportunity to stretch my legs and climb around a bit.

I was sad to be leaving Utah once again. The fact that it was nearly June, and getting oppressively hot and buggy, did help a bit. I knew I probably wouldn't be back till the fall, but my methodical procurement of gear has helped cement the idea that some day I might be able to see a lot more of this area, and get paid for it.

But there were a few more practicalities to work out, and I hoped to handle a few of them on my next trip, this time to a special location in Colorado. Stay tuned!

A Week in Dinosaur National Monument

I'd planned to take a vacation in the mountains in August, but when it came time, the forecast said rain all week. So I looked for somewhere that wasn't going to be rainy and quickly settled on Dinosaur National Monument, where I'd worked the summer of 2011.

I was doubting my decision as I left Denver, because there were nothing but blue skies above me. And smoke.

A truck on fire just outside of town made for an inauspicious start. But I was soon validated in my decision, because by the time I reached the Continental Divide, thunder was booming.

Here, I took a little hike to stretch my legs. There were still fields of yellow wildflowers, though it was nearly the end of summer.

As I drove out onto the scrubby plains of western CO, storms pounded the land with intermittent rain.

Once at the park I found a nice campsite from which I could walk to a "beach" on the Green River.

It was oh-so-quiet that night--if you didn't count the nearly ear-splitting music of thousands of crickets--but I couldn't sleep. It was also quite hot, and would top 90 degrees the next few days.

With that in mind, I got up early the next morning for a pre-breakfast hike. It was quite nice at first, but by 8am the sun was beating down unpleasantly.

Making breakfast after my hike, I discovered that the ground squirrels at my site were truly brazen. It would become a problem throughout the week, as I couldn't turn my back on any food. If I so much as left my car open long enough to carry something to the picnic table, they would be in the car and eating through packages of food before I got back. Here, one tries to steal some oatmeal with me standing right there.

They also managed to find the bite valve on my hydration bladder. This is the second time I've had to replace a bite valve due to it being chewed on.

Ground squirrels weren't the only wildlife that was comfortable with humans. Here, a fawn wanders through, mewing like a kitten.

It was buggy at night, and sometimes difficult to enter the tent without letting them in. One morning, I opened my eyes to find two mayflies hanging above my nose. Then I realized it was just one mayfly, clinging beside its molt. This thing had felt comfy and safe enough to shed its entire skeleton, right above my face, while I slept. This was a first for me.

Another pest came out at noon: biting flies. I tried to work on my writing through all this, but eventually I gave up and went for a drive.

Along the river, I found where someone had laid out pebbles of all different colors. There are something like 23 different rock formations exposed in the Monument, an astounding amount. It makes a lovely place to look at rocks.

Within the boundaries of the park is a parcel of private land, a ranch. Irrigation devices sprayed water over bright green fields as the sun set.

I met another new friend in the bathroom that night. She'd be there all week. The bathrooms looked like no one had cleaned them since 1970, even after a staff member came by and cleaned them. If I didn't already love Dinosaur so much, it definitely would have put me off.

The next day, I continued with what would be my little routine: early morning hike, breakfast, then write in the shade at my site until ninety-degree noon and the biting flies hit. Then go for an air-conditioned drive, maybe with some brief side-hikes.

The central part of Dinosaur (an hour's drive from my campsite) is higher-elevation, cooler and breezier. It also has some great views.

Above is Mitten Park Fault. The actual fault is to the left of the layers that curve upward steeply.

For scale, see the whitewater rafts on the beach below:

Beyond the fault, the Green River winds through more canyons. Downstream a good ways, it will reach my campsite. Quite a bit further, it will join with the Colorado River in Canyonlands National Park.

Days when I returned to my campsite to find it warm and sunny, I could take a little dip in the Green River.

Or just sit with a book and a lukewarm seltzer.

I'd bought some firewood and I had meant to have a campfire some night, of course, but each evening it was just too hot. So I gave in and made a campfire for breakfast one morning instead. After I got the fire going, I grabbed my package of foil and tugged on the loose end. A few inches pulled off the now-bare cardboard roll. Not nearly enough to make a packet of food to stick in the coals.

Instead, I balanced the narrow strip of foil on the burning logs and kept shuffling things to make sure it all cooked. But it was incredibly delicious.

A few times I had cause to go into the nearest town, Vernal, which is a wonderful place to visit if you're a fiberglass dinosaur.

Here, I enjoyed working in the cool, air-conditioned library, and eating too much restaurant food.

At a barbecue place, I waffled on whether I wanted a giant rice krispie treat, and ended up declining. It was just too big. But I think my waffling confused the woman at the register, because she ended up including a krispie treat in my bag, but not on my bill. It took me several days to eat.

Did I mention the days were hot?

But the park was always pretty in the evening light.

The heat didn't let up when the sun set. But that made it easy to lie out on the picnic table at night and look at the stars.

Some more photos from hikes around the park. Look at those formations!

Other parts of the park are covered up, in this case with sagebrush.

Horned lizard:

Tiny baby horned lizard:

BLM rangeland surrounds the park, with its attendant non-wildlife.

This cow was followed around the next bend by a cowboy and cowgirl on horseback.

A distant view of the Green River:

One evening, I walked from one campground in the park to another along a trail, then got to talking with a ranger there. By the time I walked back, there was just enough light to follow the trail. Rather than turning on my headlamp, I walked along in the gloaming, looking at the stars.

Until I heard a rattle.

I stopped where I was and turned on the headlamp. Can you spot the rattlesnake? At that moment I was glad that rattlesnakes had rattles, for hikers who temporarily forget how snakes like to warm themselves on rocks even after the sun goes down.

As the week wore on I made friends in the campground, and even got invited for pancakes. But then the week ended.

On my last night, I burnt the rest of my wood, though it was really too hot for a fire.

The next morning I packed up and went for one last drive to snag a final few photos.

Here is the Morrison Formation, in which dinosaurs are found, and which always reminds me of melting Neapolitan ice cream:

A family of wild turkeys crosses the road:

Monarch:

Petroglyphs:

A pleasantly cool box canyon:

The homestead of pioneer Josie Morris, who lived alone and used the box canyon as a corral for livestock:

A damselfly:

An unmaintained trail that now goes nowhere:

On the long drive home, I stopped once again at the continental divide to stretch my legs.

The blooms were still blooming, but it was stormy and cold. On my walk I met a couple from Denver who were familiar with Dinosaur, and we reminsced about the park. It's always interesting to make random connections.

The temperature continued to fall as I drove east, until by the time I got home, I was schlepping my bags in a miserable, chilling rain. The next day, I saw it had snowed in the mountains.

This seemed too much. It was, after all, still August. I didn't need any reminders that winter would soon be here.

But we never have a choice about the seasons, do we?