Pioneer

It was still cool out when I woke up at the rest area. I ate a can of peaches atop the rocks overlooking the parking lot and watched as the darkness faded into the western horizon. The reception here was poor; I’d have to go into Moab to search for things to do around here. I packed up and pulled out onto Highway 191, the same road I’d driven down the night before in a moment of pure serenity: all life vanished and the vast desert plain went quiet as the sagebrush rushed past and the sky glowed orange with the setting sun.

But now it was on the rise, and soon the whole canyon would become an oven. I tore ass to Moab, making it into town just before the sun crested the cliffs. Looking for a place to pull off, I turned right down an inconspicuous looking road leading to a gravel lot. The wheels skidded to a stop and gray dust rolled forward as I stepped out of the car.

Thin, wispy clouds floated slowly through open skies like giant cottonwood seeds, disappearing behind the rim of the rock canyon I’d found myself in. A chaotic gradient ranging from whitish-pink to bright orange to burnt brown streaked the walls of the cliffs down to the green bushes and khaki straw at the shore of the Colorado River, which itself was a greenish blue. The canyon stretched onward and I had no choice but to follow it.

The road ran parallel to the river, curving around twice before winding northeast until the two broke away from each other. I could have driven that road all day, searching for the end, but I’d hardly gotten to see the area I’d just come from. I turned around and headed out of the wide valley, speckled with sage and blanketed with orange dirt, back into the narrow river canyon. I passed a small sandy beach on the right, aptly named “Sandy Beach.” I continued down until I found another gravel lot with a sign next to it reading “ROCK SCRAMBLE AREA.”

“What harm could a little rock scrambling do?” I looked up at the rocky slope leading to the canyon wall then followed it down to a formation jutting out just above the parking area. It looked like an easy hike, I may as well. I dug through my trunk for a small bag of pretzels, a canteen, and a loose-fitting overshirt. Along with a cowboy hat, a zippo, and a single Lucky Strike; all I figured I’d need for such a short trek. I’d be leaving my keys, wallet, and phone in the car to avoid losing them somewhere in the rocks. I closed the lid and headed uphill.

It was hardly a challenge at all getting to the first formation I’d spotted. Up a gentle slope through a boulder-filled wash, then a bit of climbing, which was more high-stepping than anything, and I’d made it to the tip of the rocks. I looked out over the parking lot and across the road to the river. Then I looked behind me and wondered how the valley would look from a little higher up. I mounted the spine of the ridge and balanced my way over orange rocks to where it leveled out into the slope. Just a few yards away was a group of large boulders, resting against each other in such a way that created a small chamber between them. I stepped into the cool, dim passage and listened to the wind flow through. There was just enough room in the middle to stand up mostly straight, and the orange sandy floor looked like it could accommodate one bedroll. If it weren’t for the fact that there’s no material here with which to make a small fire outside, this would be the perfect camping spot.

Out of the chamber, I clambered up onto one of the orange boulders and examined the top: four or five parallel cracks ran the length of the stone surface, which was stained black, as if the sun had set fire to it. The thin slices of rock resembled orange pages in a charred book that contains an ancient but indecipherable past, forever lost in the stoic sandstone. The whole valley was a volume of history, containing billions of years of secrets that could only be guessed. Discoloration of the stone tells us its mineral makeup. Fossils tell of long-extinct life. Artifacts tell of people who came afterwards, long before the Mormons.

How did they handle the heat? It’s a quarter ‘till ten and my undershirt is soaked through. Sweat rolls down my forehead and back as I scramble up the hill to the next shady area. The sun is rising higher and the shadows are shrinking back. I rush up to a group of small boulders and press myself against them, hiding from the sun. As I rest, a cloud moves across the sky and the land grows dark. I sprint as fast as my legs will carry me to the next group of rocks, just before the cloud moves on and sunlight rushes across the slope, sizzling the orange rocks and bright green grass bunches in a shockwave of heat. I pull myself close to the rocks again, tucking my feet into the shade. I take a sip from my canteen and wipe my brow. My nerves were starting to get to me. It’s a long way back to the car. What would happen if I were to get hurt? Or stuck? I’ve only got this one canteen and the day is only going to get hotter as it goes on. If something goes wrong, I could die a slow and miserable death in the heat. Why am I doing this? I could just as easily turn back now and be done with this whole awful ordeal. What could be so important? What keeps driving me on?

An odd formation lies just at the bottom of the cliff face: it appears a part of the rock fell away some hundreds or thousands of years ago, and I want to see it up close. An inescapable desire to satisfy my curiosity pushes me on, almost against my will. I look over at the ground I’ve covered and my microscopically tiny car in the parking lot. I’m over halfway up the slope; it’s too late to turn back now! It’d be foolish to risk all just to see a damned rock, but I want to prove that I can. Dangerous? Maybe. Stupid? Of course! But such was the spirit of the pioneers! Something of desire lies beyond and I’ll stop at nothing to have it. So I put on my hat and face the sun one more time.

The last fifty yards was grueling. The boulders got smaller, and the slope seemed steeper, but that may have just been my exhausted legs begging me to stop. It was too late now; I either make it to the top, or get caught out in the sun, just yards away from my goal. I was banking on the fallen rock to have a bit of shade underneath, but the angle I was approaching from offered me no hints as to whether or not it did. I approached the behemoth stone and followed its edge to the cliff face.

My gamble had paid off: the thin slice of fallen rock had slid down the slope, creating a steep-sided chamber with a high ceiling. Inside were a few massive boulders, and I sat on the first one I climbed. I panted and laughed as I took off my overshirt and reached in my back pocket for the plastic water bottle I’d found near the base. I poured the water inside on my shoulders and down my back, letting the wind that channeled into the opening cool me. I made it. I ate a few of the pretzels in the bag I’d brought and took a few swigs from my canteen. I listened to the silence that filled the stone cathedral and wondered: who was the last person here? Beyond the opening, I imagined the silhouettes of Nuwutis on horseback walking the ridge above the water, where imaginary wagon trains stopped to rest on the banks. Phantom dinosaurs roared from a time lost and the Colorado shrank from a river to a gentle stream some millions of years ago. Did an exiled Dineh sleep in this cave at one time? Did Mormon settlers hide gold somewhere among these stones? Did a prehistoric beast witness, or perhaps onset the fall of this giant rock?

I’d never know. But if these lost beings knew of this secret cove, I was now among them in our shared knowledge, eating pretzels and contemplating how long it would take to get down. As soon as I felt rested, I hopped off the boulder and stepped on something in the sand: a filter tip from a joint. I knew all along I wasn’t the first person here, now I was certain I wouldn’t be the last. As for my own smoke? It could wait. No use in wasting any more time before the sun gets higher and there’s no shade at all. I stepped back out into the light and started the descent.

I never stopped to rest, but I took the whole thing slowly. I had to: my legs were shaking with each stone I stepped down from. I ambled one hundred yards through relentless sunshine. Towards the bottom of the slope was a deep-cut wash that dropped at a steep angle. I sat down and started scooting myself forward on the course stone. I slid down a few yards and stood up in the wash, brushing the red dust off the back of my jeans. From the floor of the gulley I scaled one final ridge before seeing the white paint of my car gleaming in the sun. Another fifty yards and about three dozen rocks later I was sitting in the driver’s seat with the A/C on full blast. I’d started somewhere around nine o’clock, and now it was just after eleven.

“Such an achievement deserves to be rewarded with a beer” I thought. Fortunately, the perfect spot to enjoy one was just around the bend. I changed into my swim trunks and hauled my blanket down to Sandy Beach. The water was cold and refreshing. I kneeled in the river, leaving only my cowboy-hatted head and my hands, one occupied with a beer and the other with a cigarette, above the water. The cliffs across the river rose straight up, too high to gauge the distance. And I was as low as I could be in the Colorado river. I blew out a stream of smoke and flicked the unfiltered end away. The water soaked it and carried it onwards, down to Arizona, through Hoover Dam, all the way to the Gulf of Baja. I trudged back to shore and dug my hand into the silt beneath me, revealing little flecks of gold. Too small to make me rich, but I had all the wealth I needed: a beer, satisfaction, and a cool river. Would the water feel as good had I not just come off the slope?