MOAB

Christine Cross- Dixon

The Ford Explorer lurched forward and tumbled back even closer to the edge of the dirt road, a slick wet fusion of red clay and ice from the first snow of the season. My eyes fixed on the craggy precipice overlooking the Colorado River thousands of feet below, the menacing rim now only inches away from mud-caked tires. My nails dug deeper into the armrest but I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. Stark fear was blazoned across my ash face. And for the first time, I wished we had never bought the four-wheel drive SUV, imagining it, and us inside, plunging end over end and crashing against rocky walls as we fell to a watery death.

A few days before, we decided on a whim to take the short trip, partly because Steve had vacation time he hadn’t used the previous year. But the idea of hopping a plane was out of the question. Too expensive, long lines at the airport...and I hate flying anyway. So, we decided on driving to Moab, Utah. 

Home of Arches, and Canyonlands National Parks, Moab is a dichotomy. Beautiful and equally inhospitable, it invites and dissuades us. From the alpine climate of the La Sal Mountains teeming with flora and fauna, an impressive 12,000 feet above sea level where snow-capped peaks loom above the blistering floor of a red desert, to the cool Colorado River snaking through parched canyons, it beckons us.

Isolation reigns supreme here.

Although more and more Americans are discovering Moab, deserts still lack appeal for many of us, unless hot grains of sand are met by cool lapping waves at the edge of a beautiful body of water. But millions of Europeans who vacation in the deserts of Southern Utah, and in particular the Moab area say differently and we wanted to find out what brings them back year after year. So we packed a single suitcase, booked a room, and set our alarm clock for four a.m. That way the trip was a one-day drive.

We arrived at ten p.m. the first night and drove down Main street to The Virginian, consistently our motel of choice because it was right in town, and inexpensive. After checking in we learned it was a favorite place for Hollywood types when they were filming in the area. In fact, they filmed a movie in one of the rooms in 2007. But our minds weren't concerned with movies and commercials. We were tired and focused on only one thing after driving all day. Sleep.

The first day was spent touring Arches National Park, hiking a short mile for a picturesque view of  Delicate Arch in the crisp morning air and watching a rock climber ascend the sheer face of an impressive monolith jutting above the flat desert floor. After traversing the park, we drove the short distance back to town for lunch, deciding on a Mexican Restaurant that boasted they used “No Cans” in their Mexi-can food…but half way through the meal we unanimously agreed... they probably should have opted for a few. I’ll admit the meal was probably healthier, but I don’t eat Mexican food for my health. I eat it for taste.

After pushing my fork around the plate picking at bland enchiladas, unsalted rice and black beans (de la olla) we paid our bill to a smiling waiter. Outside the air was crisp and we meandered through the streets of the burgeoning tourist town looking in myriad interesting shops and a finally stopped at a bookstore where we chatted with a sales clerk, the wife of a Ranger. Steve and I like to talk to locals wherever we travel. We like to get the flavor of the areas, the towns and the oft-times colorful residents we meet pumping gas, ordering a meal, or working the cash register in a gift shop. We commented to her that many of the motels looked new, and asked if she was glad that tourism was increasing. Expecting she would be since outside tourism there didn't seem to be many sources of income, we were more than a little curious when she answered us with a forced smile, and a “Not really.”

It seemed that in addition to its plethora of contrasting landscapes, the dichotomy of the area has also infected the locals. Some of Moab’s residents can’t decide if they welcome tourists and their dollars or not. Many of these newer residents are late sixties dropouts that settled in the area twenty plus years ago in an effort to disconnect from society and rediscover the simple life and nature. Their efforts at saving the pristine beauty of the desert for their eyes only, these relative newcomers claim they don’t want the tourist dollar. On the other hand they clearly rely on it. Some, mostly transplants, bemoan the rape of crimson hillsides with the discovery of uranium in the fifties, the desecration of the grasses by cattle on BLM land and the death of microbes living in the soil with every stray footstep off the carefully marked trails by thoughtless tourists.

Except for the few old timers who can trace their heritage back to the uranium strike of the fifties or earlier most of the residents that live and work in the area today do so thanks to the tourist industry they profess to disdain. Nevertheless, everyone tries to put on a friendly face. Restaurant employees and hotel desk clerks all share broad smiles with visitors. The cowboys driving small herds of cattle down the highway in the early morning just outside town nod and wave to strangers. 

This isn't just a good backdrop for tourists wanting something different, something extreme. It's a place you can observe the adventerous, or participate in things like riding Slickrock on a mountain bike. Rent a Jeep and do a little four-wheeling. Shoot the rapids. Go on a dinsaour bone hunt and more

 As I said, Hollywood has had a love affair with the red desert’s cast of colorful characters for over 40 years, but even the most imaginative screenwriters would be hard-pressed to have come up with a more rugged version of the reality of Moab’s first years. It’s no wonder directors and producers have flocked to capture the perpetual divergence of the area’s red desert backdrop for every movie genre from westerns to sci-fi movies and television commercials offering adventure, parched throats and "other" worlds.

This dichotomy isn’t something new to the area. Around A.D. 750 the Anasazi Indians, or “Ancient Ones”, moved into the region. For hundreds of years archaeologists and anthropologists thought the Anasazi were simply a peace-loving nomadic culture that moved on or disappeared into the blazing sunset, but recently it has been discovered through petrified human excrement the peace-loving Anasazi practiced a very inhospitable custom… cannibalism. Nevertheless, they adorned the walls of the canyons with petroglyphs and pictographs for us to ponder today. Signs along Potash Rd. are clearly marked for petroglyphs as well as three-toed dinosaur tracks. Many of these treasures can be spotted from the comfort of your car. Others can be seen by taking one of the many hiking trails in the park or by renting a Jeep and taking a four-wheel trail to the Salt Creek area.

Looking for more recent history with a flare for the dangerous? I was, and I found that here too.

In stark contrast to the peaceful Mormon towns established throughout San Juan County by their leader, Brigham Young, Moab became known as the toughest town in the west. It was the rendezvous for gunmen and rustlers alike and in 1908 John Riis, one of the first supervisors of the La Sal Forest Reserve wrote that old timers referred to it as “Robber’s Roost”, where “the flash of pistol fire split the darkness…” on a routine basis. The likes of Butch Cassidy and his Wild bunch and the Robber’s Roost Gang were as much a part of the community and environment as the cattle companies they preyed on. Saloons abounded, and even though Kid Curry shot and killed the sheriff to avenge the death of another gang member, the locals painted his behavior as just that of a “wayward cowboy’s”.

Ultimately we wandered to the end of town and into the “world famous” (per the salesperson’s own description and who am I to disagree) Moab Rock Shop. Perusing the store we learned more about Moab’s colorful and richly contrasting history that left its mark not only on her inhabitants but the red-rock landscape the area is world-famous for.

Millions of years ago bone-crushing dinosaurs roamed the lushly tropical state, depositing their remains in the lavender Morrison layer of rock for twenty-first century weekend Archaeologists to dig up on daytrips. We were amazed at the collection of rocks, bones, fossils, and crystals strewn about in chaotic order.

Unprepared for this unique treasure-trove I found myself without a pen and the salesperson offered me one to make a few notes. After writing the names of some of the animals the fossilized bones came from, like the Mastadon, the Alosaurus and “The Green Monster” they had displayed, the salesman asked. “Do you know what you’re writing with?” I didn’t. He nodded towards a skeleton. “It’s a pen made from the bones of an Iguanidarn.” Then he handed me another one and waited with a glint in his eye that made me suspicious. “What do you feel?” he asked. I shook my head. “Nothing, why?” He smiled. “Grab on to it.” I tightened my grip, still feeling nothing but waiting for some electrical charge to pulsate through my body or something....anything. Finally he pointed above my head to a long thin bone hanging above the cash register and laughed. “It’s from the penis of a walrus.”

When the heat finally left my cheeks I asked as calmly as I could if all of the bones came from the Moab area. He informed me that most of them did but some came from other states. “There’s fossils all over these hills but you aren’t allowed to just go out and look in the park. The government won’t let you. But, we have archaeological digs on private land if you’re interested…day trips for rock and fossil hunting,” said the salesman. I was interested. “You can keep anything you find.” I was skeptical. “We’ve had people find bones so large we’ve had to ship them back home,” he insisted. (For those who can’t find their own bones, the rock shop will gladly sell you everything from petrified dino- droppings to the entire skull of an Alasaurous or “Jurassic Park’s” terrifying T- Rex.)

We left the store just in time to take in a spectacular sunset atop Island in the Sky, a plateau overlooking a small canyon at the Green River overlook. We passed two buck- deer grazing languidly on the side of the road, and parked fifty feet ahead of them. They hardly took notice of us even though deer hunting season wasn’t far off. We turned on Bocelli’s Sogna and sat back, ready to be entertained by nature’s wonder. Once again Utah’s dichotomy didn’t disappoint us. As the cumulus clouds gathered in the western skies and the orange sun dipped peacefully into the mountains a cavalcade of lightning shafts split the northern and southern skies to a thunderous roar and I knew I had to return to this formidable, spiritual land of unforgiving sun burning across the banks of the cool rushing water of the Colorado River.

It was our second day when we decided to take Shaefer’s Trail, the back road off Potash road to Island in the Sky. Steve had been chomping at the bit to put the Explorer into four-wheel drive and I was just as excited but my enthusiasm was laced with concern. There were still patches of snow on the ground, and the deep red dirt had turned to sticky mud in many places.  

The climb was a cake-walk for the first ten minutes. Then the road narrowed and became slippery so we put the Explorer into for-wheel drive. I was ok. Steve was having a blast. The trail snaked around the mountainside, home only to sure-footed mountain goats spotted occasionally, and we marveled at the scenery.

The temperature began to drop. Instead of thawing, the ice and snow from the night before were hardening, and what should have been a pleasant but adventurous ride was becoming increasingly dangerous. The SUV began slipping, sometimes closer to the rocks on one side, sometimes closer to the edge of the precipice on the other.

My heart was in my throat by now. We couldn’t go forward, and the road was too narrow to turn around. Steve patted my hand and assured me he had things under control, but I knew he wasn’t as sure as he tried to make me believe. I smiled and nodded. Did I mention I’m terrified of heights? Yeah, I am.

Steve told me to get out of the car to guide him while he tried to turn the SUV around. He was being nice. He didn’t really need me to get out.

I watched him maneuver the car, slipping and sliding back against the rocks and again closer to the edge of the cliff until my stomach was tied in knots and blood was pounding in my head. And yet, lucky me. Feet planted firmly on terra firma I could only imagine how he felt.

Several long minutes later, that felt like an hour, he had the Explorer turned around and we were heading back down the mountain to the safety of the red desert floor, a feeling of exhilaration and relief coursing through our veins. We didn't pass any other dare-devils on the ride down the mountain.  

"We'll have to come back again and finish this," Steve promised. 

There were a few more adventures that trip, breathtaking sights we feasted on, unique hikes through other-world landscapes and the augur of unearthing the remains of creatures that lived millions of years ago. Spiritual journeys beneath the setting sun to cleanse our souls and fill us with wonder and deference to a higher power. Edward Abbey was right. This red desert, angry and serene, sublime and deadly at the foot of majestic mountains with contrasting spires of stone, endless sky and water is one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring places on earth.