In 1974, the Needles District of
Canyonlands National Park was still a fairly isolated outpost, located some 40
miles from a state highway and nearly 80 miles from Moab, Utah, population 4,000
and falling. The uranium boom was
winding down and jobs were scarce.
People were moving out of southeastern Utah as I was moving in. It was an ideal time to be a young park
ranger in the heart of the canyon country.
As naive and untrained as I was, the situation seemed to suit my needs
at the time.
I’d been in the National Park
Service less than four years, stationed less than 80 miles from the San
Francisco Bay Area. Somewhat isolated
but close enough to civilization to periodically take in the hum and bustle of
the Peninsula. Nothing really prepared
me for the long distances, deep silences, and the staggering scenery stretching
into infinity in all directions. But
after only a few weeks, I embraced the change.
After all, I had a comfortably large mobile home, a willing and loving
female companion, a regular, if small, paycheck, and a job that demanded my
immersion in cowboy lore, ancient Indian ruins, white-knuckle jeep trails, and
red rock.
Red rock everywhere. It formed the monolithic Squaw Butte in which
the housing area was nestled. It defined
many of the jeep routes and foot trails.
It rose up all around us in towering pinnacles, mesas, hoodoos, alcoves,
arches and high plateaus. It spread
fingers of sandstone into curving canyons of infinite variety. And at the far edges of the horizon, it was overlorded
by dark, lacolithic mountain ranges like the La Sals, the Abajos, and the
Henrys.
For me, there were two nearby
pockets of civilization….our office and housing area at Squaw Butte, and the
nearby campground at Squaw Flat. Daily
life centered around the patrol, either by vehicle or on foot. The two-wheel drive patrol covered the few paved
roads in the park and the campground area.
Where the pavement ended, the 4-wheel driving began…over places like
Elephant Hill, the Silver Stairs, and SOB Hill, or up the winding stream beds of
Salt Creek or Lavender Canyon. But best
of all were the foot patrols. Making a
living by hiking all day, replacing rock cairns, checking out rock art sites,
and communicating with the occasional hiker.
At the end of the day, there was my
trailer home with its faux wood paneled walls and orange shag carpeting,
government-issue furniture, book shelves made of bricks and boards, the record
collection, books, two cats, a comfortable bed, hot and cold running water, and
companionship. One could not ask for
more. But there would be a lot more in
the months and years to come.
