ZION NATIONAL PARK TO MONUMENT VALLEY
I woke up before dawn and was hit with a
seriously rank smell. To
my dismay, I realized I was covered in dog pee. Let me explain:
I fluffed up my down sleeping bag before I left
home. Apparently Shasta, my 10-year-old Labrador Retriever thought it’d be pretty cool to let go on it while it
was stretched out on the family room floor. I rolled it up in a hurry before I left, and didn’t find out about the soaking until I was sleeping in it. What a
sincere drag! There were no showers and no drinking water except for what I'd
brought in one-gallon jugs.
Out of options, I sat there covered with puppy
wee-wee and cursed my fate. The first thing I did was make a little Shasta
voodoo doll out of duct tape and paper. I stuck pins in it for about 20 minutes
until I realized it was getting me nowhere. I threw my paper puppy on the fire,
watched its vague canine form cook off in the flames, and started figuring out
how to get the smell off of me. I ended up going through an entire box of “Baby
Wipes” in an effort to get cleaned up. I tried to stay away from the other early
risers who might get a whiff of me there in the campsite bathroom; I smelled
like a 6’-4” baby butt from all those scented "toddler towels”. After my “bath”
I packed up and headed out. I drove east out of the park and soaked up the
beauty Mother Nature had bestowed on that stark part of the world. The sun
was coming up, and the road was deserted. Even with the occasional whiff of my
"canine cologne" it was a nice morning.
There was
only one important task in my immediate future: finding a Laundromat and getting
myself cleaned up. I finally
found one in Kanab, Utah and set out to un-stink myself and my bagged-up
belongings. The little post-and-beam building looked like something seen in old,
weathered daguerreotypes taken from a wagon in a frontier town. The washing
machines and dryers looked to be very near the same age. I wondered for a moment
if perhaps Wyatt Earp had stopped in to get his duds cleaned up here at one
time. I realized that notion was absurd. They didn't have "Wash-and-Wear" in his
day, so no one would have thought to make that an option on the machines. As
such, I concluded that the building and its money-eating metal residents must
have come along after him. But then again, perhaps the machines had been
upgraded as time went on, and the "Wash-and-Wear" option came later. "Crap. Now
I'll probably never know" I absent-mindedly thought as I loaded clothes into my washer of
choice and fed it quarters. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. I felt
I'd used mine quite well so far that morning.
Once I was satisfied that the shuddering machine
wasn't going to come apart--and take most of my stuff with it--I took a look
around inside. I found a bulletin board in the corner with a picture of Wyatt
Earp on it; there was a bounty on his head. "A-HA!" I thought victoriously.
He WAS here at one time. I'd
been vindicated. Next to old man Earps spot on the board was an advertisement
for pay showers; four bucks a shot. Perfect. I sprung for it and got cleaned up
while my laundry was crashing away. My only towel was in the wash, so I dried
off using up an entire dispenser full of paper towels. I figured I'd used up a dollar in
those towels, so I really only spent
three bucks on the shower. My idea of highway economics.
Back in the desert Laundromat I hung out with a
group of “roadtrip freaks”; people who live on
the road like nomads. They struck me as modern-day Bedouins in the great American desert. All the guys looked like scrawny “Hulk Hogans"
and their wives, girlfriends, or significant others (as applicable) were perfectly suited for their
role. We sat on the cheap vinyl chairs drinking coffee and swapping stories;
where we were from, why we were here, why we weren't somewhere else. Stuff like
that. I won the prize that day with the "dog pee" adventure. The
stories abounded and I got a kick out of hearing their
highway tales.
There was one guy in particular named "Semi" (as
in the truck) who seemed to have taken the lifestyle to an extreme. In
one of his stories, he'd gotten drunk and passed out at the Indianapolis 500
back in the 70's. He woke up wearing nothing but a big diaper, and was chained
via a dog collar to the axle of a truck. It turned out that some bikers had
found him and hauled him away. I guess they thought it'd be a pretty funny
stunt. The best part was, after all the fun, one of the biker babes took a fancy
to him. Her name was Sin-dee ("With an 'ayse', a ha-phen, and two e's,
darlin" she interjected), and they'd been traveling together ever since. Her
big hair, Gulf Coast accent, and Daisy Duke appearance wouldn't have looked
right sitting anywhere except at his side. Semi and Sin-dee. Til death do you
part, my desert friends. I didn't have the heart to ask who changed his diaper during the
adventure.
In no time my belongings were dry, folded,
and stowed. I said goodbye to my new highway pals and jumped back on the road. I
fantasized about living life on the road like the folks I'd just left. I spent a
lot of time trying to figure out how I could make a scheme like that work in my
world. I'd be sure to make every attempt to avoid the diaper and collar thing
though; I look terrible in leather.
I spent most of the day driving on Bureau of
Indian Affairs roads on the Navajo Indian Reservation. The land is as barren and empty as I've seen, but wonderful to watch pass by. Little events broke the
monotony of the environment every once in awhile, and said events would usually
provide food for thought as I continued my drive.
Here’s an example:
I was on some road—exactly where escapes me—and came to a railroad
crossing. I hadn’t seen anyone or any sign of life for that matter in
hours. As such, I was kind of surprised to see this railroad track stretching
from horizon to horizon. The crossing gate was down and flashing, but there was
no train in sight. As I got closer, I spied this guy in some quasi-official
looking truck parked sideways on the road in front of the crossing gate. Apparently, the gate had
failed in the “down” position, and his allotted task that day was to direct
people on their way out there in the middle of nowhere; way out in the
middle of nowhere. Bummer job! I couldn't figure out why it was necessary to
post this poor guy out there just for the sake of letting someone know not to
drive in front of an oncoming train. Looking up and down the track I could see all
the way into tomorrow. It seemed to me that if a train had been coming it'd be
pretty obvious, crossing gate notwithstanding. In addition, if somebody were to
have come to the gate and complied with it's flashing and dinging, a couple of
minutes of waiting and a glance down the tracks would be all that was needed
to figure that something was amiss.
As I pulled up, he got out of his truck and
started waving me around and over the tracks.
I looked up as I was getting ready to cross, and saw these power
lines right over the road. They couldn’t have been more than 10 feet
above the ground. The “engineer” in me was pretty shocked (pardon the
pun). I looked at one of the poles, and there was this little sign that read,
“WARNING – 50,000 VOLTS”. “WHOA!” I thought. I cringed, hunkered down involuntarily, and slowly drove under the power lines. I swear
I felt tingling all the way down to my “nether regions.” Hmmmm...
After driving slowly
back and forth under those lines for about 20 minutes, the helpful
“Crossing-Gate-Director-Guy” politely said that I’d best be moving on, as it was
his turn to drive back and forth under the power lines for awhile. I said
goodbye, thanked him for the impromptu high-voltage
thrill, and headed on southeast.
On the back roads, providing state line markers is apparently optional. I wasn’t
quite sure where I was—or what state I was in for a good portion of that day. I
didn’t have any maps with me, save my trusty Global Positioning Satellite (GPS)
moving map receiver sitting on the instrument panel. Every once
in awhile it would “run home to momma” so to speak; try to send me down a driveway,
or into a ditch—things like that. That had me worried a couple of times, and I
found myself wishing I’d taken advantage of my AAA card and gotten hold of some
old-fashioned paper maps. With the gas gauge bouncing on "E”, I coasted into Kayenta,
Arizona. Thank heavens for Texaco.
Gassed up, I made the final push for Monument
Valley. After heading down some unidentifiable dirt roads for a couple of hours
(the GPS "ran home" again and couldn’t seem to come to grips with my location) I finally saw a little
sign; “Monument Valley” and a “turn right” arrow. Another four miles, and I
arrived at Mittenview Campground. Except for a couple of motels and RV parks, there’s
really no other place to stay in that area. I’d heard about the campground, and
knew it was right there in the valley. I drove up to the visitors center and
set out to get a campsite.
I browsed around in the souvenir shop for awhile, and finally found the
campsite registration desk in back. I talked for a while with the gal who
doled out the campsites, and she gave me the killer spot. It was right on the
edge of a cliff overlooking the valley. I set up my tent right on the edge because it seemed like a cool thing to do. After I was done and had
it all tacked down, I stood back to make sure all was set right in my home for
the night. My foot slipped on a rock and I instinctively looked back as I stumbled.
Oh, man...the next stop was the valley floor below; far below.
Growing up in an aviation environment, I've flown with countless pilots in
countless airplanes; old ones, new ones, fabric-covered ones, ones with
more than one wing, more than one engine, etc. I earned my pilots license as a
kid. I've got a bunch of licenses and ratings, and have worked as a flight
instructor. I've flown hang gliders off of cliffs, mountain launch sites, blah
blah blah ad nauseum. I've loved every minute in the air.
All that notwithstanding, I am scared to
death of falling. I'm
the consummate little kid with shaking knees; blubbering away with a big snot
bubble coming out of my nose when it comes to looking down out of high-rises,
over cliffs, etc. I've never had a problem if wings were involved; they
lift, protect, and make all the scary "gravity gremlins" go away. There's
something about being on the ground looking out from way up high that makes my
knees weak. When I was hang gliding a lot and tentatively walked up to the edge
of a cliff at a new launch site, I'd feel that inevitable "edge suck"; that
feeling you get when you walk close to a drop off and know that some invisible
"thing" is going to spirit you over the side. Nope. Never liked it, never will.
After
the stumble, I made every effort to auto-start my heart. It worked that time. I
decided that under no circumstances would I get out of my tent on the cliff side if I had to get up at night. It
was a long way down, and I sincerely hoped that this wasn't the place where I
cultivated a sleep-walking habit.
I was essentially alone
there on the cliff. There were some Recreational Vehicles parked on the other
side of the campground, but no one else seemed to be too interested in sleeping on the
"tent only" side. The vacant campsites adjacent to my new temporary home added
to the feeling of openness. I was glad I didn't have any neighbors that
evening.
There's a 17-mile
long dirt road that snakes through the valley; weaving through the monuments. I
paid the gatekeeper five bucks and headed down the valley trail. My whole life
I’d seen television commercials, magazine ads, etc. that have the
monuments as a backdrop. I can remember—as far back as I can remember—thinking
how I’d really like to see that part of the world up close. That residual memory had a profound
effect on me as I slowly drove up next to the silent stone behemoths. I kept
thinking “gosh! I’m truly here!” I actually said “gosh” and
“jeepers” in my head. It’s best not to be a potty-mouth around those big rocks.
It’s a
spiritual place, not to be disrespected. I walked around where it was allowed, and took the requisite “Jeep in
the Scenic Spot” photos.
Arriving back at my campsite after spending hours in the valley, I settled in
and absorbed the world around me from my evening perch. As the sun set, I fired up some "Match Light"
briquettes and
cooked my dinner; Pork and Beans again. It's funny, but I never eat
them at home. I almost live on them on the road, though. I took my meal--cooked
in the can and sat on the edge of the cliff; my estaminet for the evening.
I ate in silence and watched a
stream of headlights winding down the dark valley below; tiny dots of white in a
sea of black. I figured that they were late-comers to the monuments, trying to
get in a little sight-seeing before total darkness set in. The monuments were
mere silhouettes in the fading light, and I guessed that the view down below was
sadly lacking from it's daytime splendor. I imagined this last group of people would tell their
friends and neighbors back home how disappointing the monuments where. That's a
shame to head all that way and miss the view. I hope they paid the
gatekeeper another five bucks and tried it again the following morning.
Night
closed in and the valley grew silent, except for the crickets. I messed around
with my handy little AM/FM travel radio and looked for some sign of life out in
the world. All I got was static on both bands. As it got darker I came across
this classical music station that sort of “popped” out of the ether. It was
strange; there was never a station call-sign given, nor did any announcer ever
talk. It was as if someone had put on a classical music CD and let it
drift out onto the airwaves. I set the radio next to my sleeping bag and turned
it down real low.
I listened to the crickets, the classical music, and stared out at the
monuments; just visible when the moon poked out from behind the clouds. It was
as close to magic as anything I’d ever experienced. When the clouds would close
in, the world turned an inky black. Even then, I could actually feel the
monuments out there…just sitting, like they have for an eternity…
Waking up the next morning, I broke down and packed all my stuff in the pre-dawn
desert cool. The sun was just coming up as I fired up the mighty Jeepster and
said goodbye to Monument Valley. It was a great experience. I can imagine making
a yearly pilgrimage there, just to refresh my memory of
those wonderful stone giants.
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