Fruita, The Creek, and Canyonlands 2012
A long weekend afforded me an opportunity to get out into the desert before any holiday weekend craziness would overrun state and national parks. I wasn't sure where exactly I would end up over the following few days, but that is what I love so much about solo road trips- anything can happen! So I loaded up the CRV with my mountain bike, gear, food, and tasty beverages headed west for some mellow yet adventurous road tripping hopeful to avoid the crowds and traffic.
First stop was just this side of the UT border, outside Fruita. A chill trail network at the Rabbit Valley exit. When ya pull off it looks like a standard trialhead, but there are many more campsites and interconnected little canyons with hiking/bike/horse trails. I was met with great views, a wide choice of camp sites, and not a sound but the wind...and a few KLR riders. I gotta get me one of them there puppies...
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| View from camp of layered sandstone ridge |
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| First camp again |
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| Looking South |
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| 'Mericah man.... |
At camp, short cliffs with splitters made for fun bouldering before "dinner". And what weekend would be complete without a can of 'Merica that tastes like freedom. Hey, it's red, white, and blue AND it won a blue ribbon. End of discussion.
It was a perfectly silent night, endless number of stars, and superfluous beers. Great way to start a roadtrip!
I woke up, pedaled around the canyons and vast open ranges for a few hours, had only one unexpected high-speed dismount (that I managed to save), and saw wild looking cliffs that had graffiti that may have dated back to early 1900 if they were, in fact, legit.
I fell asleep to the wind and a distant sound of an occasional trucker engine-braking on the interstate nearby. Stargazing is a great method to let your mind unwind and lull yourself into a deep slumber before hitting the road again. So much to see!!
I fell asleep to the wind and a distant sound of an occasional trucker engine-braking on the interstate nearby. Stargazing is a great method to let your mind unwind and lull yourself into a deep slumber before hitting the road again. So much to see!!
Next I was off to Moab...ish. I was rolling with an idea to hit up Slickrock in Moab for a few days of riding, but I was already pushing my budget given park fees and my bike was more of an outlet than my focus. And honestly, I'm not sure a hardtail is a great way to roll on rock on Moab. I intended to visit my favorite place, Indian Creek, and explore Canyonlands for the first time. On my way down 128 I stopped off at Big Bend for a quick bouldering session. Warm-ups and down climbs spit me off so I pressed on south towards that enchanted land of splitters and towers.
Gassed up and carb'ed up in Moab, I continued southbound, compelled to watch the sunset amid enormous sandstone towers. I made a right off Hwy191, rumbled over a few cattle guards, dodged some livestock on an open range stretch of right-of-way, headed for one of the greatest climbing destinations in the world. The second I made the reverse-curve drop into the east end of the canyon, I felt more at ease and home than I have in a long, long while. Bare branched aspens and dry creekbeds lined the road jsut like they did in my memory. Sunlight lit up towering cliffs as my car wove around each bend and over the leaves. Passing Newspaper Rock and other cliffs of lighter tones the valley began to open up in a welcoming way. Soon I caught a glimpse of what I consider the most aesthetic lines in all of climbing; so clean, simple, pure, intricate, demanding, unforgiving, burly, gnarly, and downright bitchin'. Once you go crack, you never go back, baby.
I pulled in to my favorite campsite that is still in operation, and improving, thanks to the amazing and unyielding efforts of the folks at Friends of Indian Creek . "The Pasture" comes alive this time of year. Dirtbaggers, world travelers, and pros alike come to feed on this place when temps fall off around Halloween. All manner of vehicles from distant locales and the locals alike flock to this little haven in the sagebrush. Vanagons from Alberta, Sub'ys from CO, converted school buses with solar panels from...whoa, that thing had a shower stall in the back of it! Rolling slow through this campground always gets me stoked to see such a diverse crowd of folks pursuing a shared passion, sporting the same red-dirt stained dirty clothes and raw knuckles, sippin' and strummin as the sun's last light reflects off the rich, red cliffs. Dreams, ambitions, and top-outs of a lifetime shine brilliantly and vibrantly in fleeting daylight. Some stare, others mime their way threw the days struggle, some calculate tomorrows siege. My mind drifts to the possibilities of this place, it's undiscovered lines, first ascents lurking in the back canyons, new lives breaking free into that sweet life of chasing a dream, traveling to new locations, enjoying really cheap beer or boxes of wine while making new friends and learning about everyone's secret cliff for favorite climbs. Rarely do folks mention pods as a favorite... Its a magical place, brimming with energy that draws me back time and again. Theres no place like it anywhere else in the world. That is a fact.
I drove passed organized camps to the "cul-de-sac" to find a much more organized layout than my previous visit. What used to be "sites" spread around bushes, creek beds, and open lots have since been framed with stone borders organizing the former dust bowl into well defined campsites, in what I assume, is an effort to minimize impact and create some sort of parking system not resembling the end of a demo' derby.
I pulled into the first open spot entering 'the sac' and popped the door to stretch my creaky joints and soak up one helluva view. To the west a hilltop from which you can soak in some of Mother Nature's best sunsets. To the east, a seemingly endless array of splitters waiting to climbed and also hand out ass whoopin's on the reg'. North of this hamlet, lay a more well-known utopia known as Canyonlands Nat'l Park. Offering countless trails, canyons, scrambles, vistas, rock formations, a man can lose himself there many times in a single day. Southern way was the only access in or out of this treasured land.
As I took in my surroundings in the only cul-de-sac I'd EVER live in, my neighbor mosied on over to chat. Assuming I was rolling solo he suggested we climb together. Like an idiot I decided to "travel light" and only bring shoes leaving me with a less-than-intelligent explanation as to why a climber would end up here without the very basics!!! I repeat: idiot. But this trip was more about just existing; absorbing a feeling of freedom to roam and travel at will. Plus I wouldn't have lasted one pitch given my lack of athletic condition. Grave shifts at a desk aren't conducive to gettin' in shape. But I still had no excuse. So we chatted briefly and he continued on in search of a partner.
When he returned we talked about The Creek, travel, Mexico, dirtbikes, green energy, jobs, healthcare, Mexico, The Creek, travel books, Mexico. I think the theme is becoming more apparent. I learned a lot from that guy. He went to make some food for tomorrow and I finished off another PBR while I cleaned up my cookware. Stars came out and the folks a few fire rings over strummed a ukulele and sang a mellow chorus. Logs popped while burning down, wind whipped up some dust, and headlights creeped through until the wee hours. I dozed unable to sleep imagining tomorrows adventures in Canyonlands and coarsing with excitement to explore a new frontier. Dozens of images whirled through my mind and countless stories told left me salivating and ready for exploration. ZzzzzzzzzIP!
Day two
Waking up to the views in Indian Creek with only the wind blowing and the sun peeking through the clouds is always a welcome sight. Working overnight shifts rarely allows for a relaxing sunrise. I lounged around listening to pots and pans clinking and clanging, nylon front doors unzipping, Coleman stoves firing up and that constant swing and slam of the outhouse door. Ahhh, camp life.
Feeling lazy on my vacation I decided to roll around for a minute and not hurry given the proximity of the park. Canyonlands beckoned, but I still lay in my bag. Then it hit me: What am I doing?! I popped the door open, threw on my Chacos, swigged a liter of water and off I sped...well not through camp. If you've been there, you know how easy it is to cover everyone and everything in a desert-red dust storm.
Canyonlands National Park.
I WISH I had pictures, but my good ol' Nikon apparently needed a new battery. Sans Pictures. Bummer. All I can say is that when you go, your expectations will surely be met. I've seen few places that compare in diversity, inspiring views, incredibly unique landscape, and seemingly endless exploration.
Passing the gate and getting the usual speech from the folks in brown has a familiar feeling that is almost foreplay for your adventurous soul. You know what you're about to get and it feels so good. But I digress...
I sped onward to the farthest trailhead that led to the farthest established trail in the lower park. What I mean is that I entered via the southern entrance where one can stroll out to lay eyes on The Convergence.
I parked, packed, pissed and I was off!! Down the trail with the sun on my shoulders and not a single vehicle siting since the entrance gate. What a magnificent way to be born into this amazing wilderness. Every inch of trail, every fallen tree, every sound, smell, and sight soaked into my soul. It may seem I'm erring on the side of overkill, but I'll tell you this my friends, you will understand when you stand where I have stood.
Winding along dry drainges, over hilltops, and scampering over rock gaps like a kid again I felt so excited to see what lay ahead of me just out of sight. More views. More rock. More space. Endless expanses of desert left untrodden. What a sight to see.
Dropping off an outcropping my boots made their way in a wide rift in the cliffs and opened into a field. A deep grass field in the middle of the desert. That place struck me as strange and peaked my curiosity so I scanned the lot for any signs of life, human or other. And then I noticed something. There was no sound. Not a whisper, nor a rustling of the blades. Complete silence. How long had this place existed? Who was here before? Has anyone else felt solitude here as I have?
The soles of my boots kept marching on with that recognizable ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. Still not a peep from this desert. The air remained still. The sun blazing down. I passed a trail merge and carried on towards The Convergence. As I reached the end of a wide canyon, there was a trailhead signage pointing tourists, like myself, in the direction of the mighty river. Just a hop and a skip from here.
Cresting another hillside I was welcomed with a mighty view. It seemed one could see for hundreds of miles and into infinity from this perch. My exhilaration could no longer be contained. I shouted in high spirits, which may have caught the Park Ranger, who had snuck up on my tail, a little off guard. A quick shuffle of sand and brush behind me clued me into the fact that even in the furthest corner of the park, its still a challenge to escape entirely.
Reaching the last foot of trail as it deadheaded into a sharp cliff line, I was once again reminded why people come to the desert. Gazing into a deep chasm of rock and sand, two magnificent flows converged. A faint echo of it's flow reached the cliff I stood atop as this smooth river drifted along. Distant walls and canyons painted a spectacular backdrop to this wonderful artwork nature had created. I sat for a moment letting my senses soak up this natural monument. I don't believe a single soul living or dead could possibly create such a masterpiece. So many intricate features and facades blending into one another, some seamlessly and at other times a mighty collision of shades and textures. Now I remember why I leave my desk. Now its clear why I travel so far. Now.
Addendum to Fruita/Indian Creek/Canyonlands:
Silence is Better than Bullshit
It is another reality far from common pedestrian's dreams; life flowing freely and vibrantly across a desolate and unforgiving canvas of intense beauty. Stepping back from the convoluted conveyor belts of tar that lead them astray, they probably struggle to envision what spectacular jewels lay hidden mere inches beneath the sun drenched dust afoot striking sandstone sentinels. That blood colored sand mirrors that which pulses through me. A connection established eons before I knew this land existed or before the universe knew I'd arrived. Dragging my fingers through it, hearing it's story sift through my fist, seeing it's struggle drift from my fingers on the wind, a sense of belonging enveloped me. All fell still. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Nothing existed except a beating heart. Daylight pressed down on my neck with the weight of a million miles traveled. Salty eyes sought refuge behind stained plastic. Ear drums hummed. Buzzed. The sound of quintessential silence. Deafening silence. It was hard to cope. It knocked at my very soul. Any movement would wreck the whole damn scene. Be somnolent. Mimic the towers. Observe, absorb, exist. Lessons learned in that isolated desert prairie were tattooed on my heart with a burning poker. Humbled won't begin accurately describe the beauty witnessed amid those rocks. But I know it exists and it shall long after my exit. That's the point.
I pulled in to my favorite campsite that is still in operation, and improving, thanks to the amazing and unyielding efforts of the folks at Friends of Indian Creek . "The Pasture" comes alive this time of year. Dirtbaggers, world travelers, and pros alike come to feed on this place when temps fall off around Halloween. All manner of vehicles from distant locales and the locals alike flock to this little haven in the sagebrush. Vanagons from Alberta, Sub'ys from CO, converted school buses with solar panels from...whoa, that thing had a shower stall in the back of it! Rolling slow through this campground always gets me stoked to see such a diverse crowd of folks pursuing a shared passion, sporting the same red-dirt stained dirty clothes and raw knuckles, sippin' and strummin as the sun's last light reflects off the rich, red cliffs. Dreams, ambitions, and top-outs of a lifetime shine brilliantly and vibrantly in fleeting daylight. Some stare, others mime their way threw the days struggle, some calculate tomorrows siege. My mind drifts to the possibilities of this place, it's undiscovered lines, first ascents lurking in the back canyons, new lives breaking free into that sweet life of chasing a dream, traveling to new locations, enjoying really cheap beer or boxes of wine while making new friends and learning about everyone's secret cliff for favorite climbs. Rarely do folks mention pods as a favorite... Its a magical place, brimming with energy that draws me back time and again. Theres no place like it anywhere else in the world. That is a fact.
I drove passed organized camps to the "cul-de-sac" to find a much more organized layout than my previous visit. What used to be "sites" spread around bushes, creek beds, and open lots have since been framed with stone borders organizing the former dust bowl into well defined campsites, in what I assume, is an effort to minimize impact and create some sort of parking system not resembling the end of a demo' derby.
I pulled into the first open spot entering 'the sac' and popped the door to stretch my creaky joints and soak up one helluva view. To the west a hilltop from which you can soak in some of Mother Nature's best sunsets. To the east, a seemingly endless array of splitters waiting to climbed and also hand out ass whoopin's on the reg'. North of this hamlet, lay a more well-known utopia known as Canyonlands Nat'l Park. Offering countless trails, canyons, scrambles, vistas, rock formations, a man can lose himself there many times in a single day. Southern way was the only access in or out of this treasured land.
As I took in my surroundings in the only cul-de-sac I'd EVER live in, my neighbor mosied on over to chat. Assuming I was rolling solo he suggested we climb together. Like an idiot I decided to "travel light" and only bring shoes leaving me with a less-than-intelligent explanation as to why a climber would end up here without the very basics!!! I repeat: idiot. But this trip was more about just existing; absorbing a feeling of freedom to roam and travel at will. Plus I wouldn't have lasted one pitch given my lack of athletic condition. Grave shifts at a desk aren't conducive to gettin' in shape. But I still had no excuse. So we chatted briefly and he continued on in search of a partner.
When he returned we talked about The Creek, travel, Mexico, dirtbikes, green energy, jobs, healthcare, Mexico, The Creek, travel books, Mexico. I think the theme is becoming more apparent. I learned a lot from that guy. He went to make some food for tomorrow and I finished off another PBR while I cleaned up my cookware. Stars came out and the folks a few fire rings over strummed a ukulele and sang a mellow chorus. Logs popped while burning down, wind whipped up some dust, and headlights creeped through until the wee hours. I dozed unable to sleep imagining tomorrows adventures in Canyonlands and coarsing with excitement to explore a new frontier. Dozens of images whirled through my mind and countless stories told left me salivating and ready for exploration. ZzzzzzzzzIP!Day two
Waking up to the views in Indian Creek with only the wind blowing and the sun peeking through the clouds is always a welcome sight. Working overnight shifts rarely allows for a relaxing sunrise. I lounged around listening to pots and pans clinking and clanging, nylon front doors unzipping, Coleman stoves firing up and that constant swing and slam of the outhouse door. Ahhh, camp life.
Feeling lazy on my vacation I decided to roll around for a minute and not hurry given the proximity of the park. Canyonlands beckoned, but I still lay in my bag. Then it hit me: What am I doing?! I popped the door open, threw on my Chacos, swigged a liter of water and off I sped...well not through camp. If you've been there, you know how easy it is to cover everyone and everything in a desert-red dust storm.
Canyonlands National Park.
I WISH I had pictures, but my good ol' Nikon apparently needed a new battery. Sans Pictures. Bummer. All I can say is that when you go, your expectations will surely be met. I've seen few places that compare in diversity, inspiring views, incredibly unique landscape, and seemingly endless exploration.
Passing the gate and getting the usual speech from the folks in brown has a familiar feeling that is almost foreplay for your adventurous soul. You know what you're about to get and it feels so good. But I digress...
I sped onward to the farthest trailhead that led to the farthest established trail in the lower park. What I mean is that I entered via the southern entrance where one can stroll out to lay eyes on The Convergence.
I parked, packed, pissed and I was off!! Down the trail with the sun on my shoulders and not a single vehicle siting since the entrance gate. What a magnificent way to be born into this amazing wilderness. Every inch of trail, every fallen tree, every sound, smell, and sight soaked into my soul. It may seem I'm erring on the side of overkill, but I'll tell you this my friends, you will understand when you stand where I have stood.
Winding along dry drainges, over hilltops, and scampering over rock gaps like a kid again I felt so excited to see what lay ahead of me just out of sight. More views. More rock. More space. Endless expanses of desert left untrodden. What a sight to see.
Dropping off an outcropping my boots made their way in a wide rift in the cliffs and opened into a field. A deep grass field in the middle of the desert. That place struck me as strange and peaked my curiosity so I scanned the lot for any signs of life, human or other. And then I noticed something. There was no sound. Not a whisper, nor a rustling of the blades. Complete silence. How long had this place existed? Who was here before? Has anyone else felt solitude here as I have?
The soles of my boots kept marching on with that recognizable ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. Still not a peep from this desert. The air remained still. The sun blazing down. I passed a trail merge and carried on towards The Convergence. As I reached the end of a wide canyon, there was a trailhead signage pointing tourists, like myself, in the direction of the mighty river. Just a hop and a skip from here.
Cresting another hillside I was welcomed with a mighty view. It seemed one could see for hundreds of miles and into infinity from this perch. My exhilaration could no longer be contained. I shouted in high spirits, which may have caught the Park Ranger, who had snuck up on my tail, a little off guard. A quick shuffle of sand and brush behind me clued me into the fact that even in the furthest corner of the park, its still a challenge to escape entirely.
Reaching the last foot of trail as it deadheaded into a sharp cliff line, I was once again reminded why people come to the desert. Gazing into a deep chasm of rock and sand, two magnificent flows converged. A faint echo of it's flow reached the cliff I stood atop as this smooth river drifted along. Distant walls and canyons painted a spectacular backdrop to this wonderful artwork nature had created. I sat for a moment letting my senses soak up this natural monument. I don't believe a single soul living or dead could possibly create such a masterpiece. So many intricate features and facades blending into one another, some seamlessly and at other times a mighty collision of shades and textures. Now I remember why I leave my desk. Now its clear why I travel so far. Now.
Addendum to Fruita/Indian Creek/Canyonlands:
Silence is Better than Bullshit
It is another reality far from common pedestrian's dreams; life flowing freely and vibrantly across a desolate and unforgiving canvas of intense beauty. Stepping back from the convoluted conveyor belts of tar that lead them astray, they probably struggle to envision what spectacular jewels lay hidden mere inches beneath the sun drenched dust afoot striking sandstone sentinels. That blood colored sand mirrors that which pulses through me. A connection established eons before I knew this land existed or before the universe knew I'd arrived. Dragging my fingers through it, hearing it's story sift through my fist, seeing it's struggle drift from my fingers on the wind, a sense of belonging enveloped me. All fell still. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Nothing existed except a beating heart. Daylight pressed down on my neck with the weight of a million miles traveled. Salty eyes sought refuge behind stained plastic. Ear drums hummed. Buzzed. The sound of quintessential silence. Deafening silence. It was hard to cope. It knocked at my very soul. Any movement would wreck the whole damn scene. Be somnolent. Mimic the towers. Observe, absorb, exist. Lessons learned in that isolated desert prairie were tattooed on my heart with a burning poker. Humbled won't begin accurately describe the beauty witnessed amid those rocks. But I know it exists and it shall long after my exit. That's the point.
