The Last Road Trip - Conclusion

Wednesday, March 27      Kanab, Utah

Today has been a long but exhilarating day, taking in four states in 400 miles and 10 hours of driving, more or less.  I left Barstow, California this morning at 6am while darkness still lingered over the Mojave.  I got on that seemingly interminable stretch of interstate heading for Las Vegas.  The oncoming dawn softened things quite a bit, imparting an eerie hazy glow to the distant mountains and the gray stretches of creosote bush and dry lakebeds.  By 9am I was in Henderson where I stopped at a Trader Joe’s to do some shopping.  I had already made the decision to drive straight through to Kanab, Utah rather than doing another night of camping at Lake Mead.  I just wanted to get closer to home and the sooner the better.

As soon as I got on the road again, I headed out of the Vegas megalopolis and into the stark hills surrounding Lake Mead.  Once again I drove the North Shore Drive that winds through folded, upthrust mountain ranges, dark volcanic ridges, and burnt red sandstone outcrops...all this punctuated by massive blooms of brittle bush and desert sunflower.  I stopped at a roadside picnic area to have a short brunch of yogurt, banana and cheese.  Then back in the van driving north through the Mormon towns of Overton and Logandale, and finally connecting back on to the Interstate at Moapa.  I was making good time in my own leisurely way, nearly out of Nevada and ready to cut through that small but intense slice of Arizona where the interstate makes a spectacular climb up and through the Virgin River Gorge.  This is the gateway to the Colorado Plateau.  This is the familiar way back.

Just past the Arizona/Utah border I got my first glimpse of the snow-clad Pine Valley Mountains and the beginnings of the urban sprawl that is now the greater Saint George metropolitan area.  Massive stretches of desert are being scraped away to make room for more tract homes, golf courses, RV parks.  The traffic becomes intense.  And I keep thinking where will all these people get their water from.  Both the Virgin River and the Colorado are nearly tapped out, yet the building continues unabated with unreasoning faith in the Almighty that all needs will be met.  When, in fact, it is a recipe for disaster.

Nevertheless, I pushed on through as quickly as possible with one quick stop in Hurricane for fuel.  I was determined to drive through Zion National Park even though I knew there would be hordes of tourists there and possibly some traffic jams.  Yet I couldn’t help but feel that old magic as I made my way through Rockville and into Springdale.  I was remembering my first view of Zion way back in 1967 on a college geology field trip.  52 years ago when this was a narrow two-lane road and Springdale was just a tiny portal town on the edge of the park.  It was spring equinox then, and in the upper reaches of the canyon where our group all camped for the night, I got high on weed for the first time with a biker dude named Duncan.  I can still picture that shimmering moon shining above the Great White Throne.

When I entered the park proper, there were even more automobiles  than I had initially expected.  I realized that it is Spring Break time right now for many schools, and the park was over run with people.  Every turn out was filled to capacity with vehicles.  But I was not intending to stop in the valley anyway so I pressed on, over the Virgin River Bridge and up the steep switchbacks that lead to Zion’s east rim.  It was slow going due to recent road damage, but slow is good in this neck of the woods.  Plenty of time to take in the massive walls of Navajo sandstone.  Beyond the tunnel, the rim country opens up in crossbedded palisades and sculpted cliffs.  Rock resembling pulled taffy.  And even though nearly every pullout held its quota of cars, I managed to find one unoccupied one where I stopped the van and decided to take a short hike.

I grabbed my cameras and made the easy descent down to the edge of Clear Creek where the cold water flowed gray green through stands of bare oak trees, yuccas and a few ponderosa pines.  And no people.  Above me the cars continued to wind by but, for the moment anyway, I had the creek bottom all to myself.  I skirted the shoreline, photographing patterns in the rock and listening to the sweet sound of desert water.  I walked until I reached a “narrows” where the shoreline ended and the creek was constricted between sinuous walls and the water flowed bank to bank.  By this time, a few other humans were filtering into my space so I made my way back to the van, feeling satisfied that I had grabbed at least a modicum of isolation and serenity.

As I continued out the east entrance road, I was feeling grateful for all the times I have spent in this place before it became overrun with humanity.  I especially remember the early 90s when Amy and I would come here every fall, camping in the valley but coming up to the east rim to play and get away.  Where we could capture the first light of day with our cameras.  Where we could take off all our clothes and make love on the smooth stone.  Where we could enjoy the primal experience in the illusion of being the only people on earth for that moment.  And in my old age I can still feel that rush of passion and primitive sunlight, but we are no longer the youngsters who could easily escape into a secret canyon.  And the secret canyons are no longer secret.

Still, it is hard to not be impressed by the overwhelming ocean of sandstone through which the road passes.  And near Checkerboard Mesa, I was duly rewarded with sight of a small group of bighorn sheep not far off the road.  There were several females and three newborns, perhaps only two or three weeks old.  And one young ram nearby surveying his domain.  A number of tourists had pulled over to take pictures and I did the same, but the sheep seemed nonplussed by it all.  And in so doing gave all of us the momentary gift of excitement and awe, and a little peek into a fading mountain west.

Upon leaving Zion, the roadside opens up in broad vistas of mountain and mesa.  Forests of pinyon and juniper.  I could see patches of snow against the pastel pinks of the Elkheart Cliffs as I dropped down to the junction of Highway 89 at Mt. Carmel Junction.  There I decided to head north a few miles to a favorite old book store in Orderville, owned and operated by a character named Lance who usually has a few old pulp paperbacks I can get interested in.  This time around he did not have much to offer except his opinions on immigration, homeless people, and how the Trump administration is an improvement over what we had before.  He was really giving me more information than I wanted to hear.  I bought a few books anyway and told him I’d still be a customer in spite of his backward politics.  We shook hands amiably and I headed back south to Kanab where my friend Mike and I could discuss the weird ways of the world, down a couple of gin and tonics, and watch another great old movie.  This time it was, appropriately, In a Lonely Place with Humphrey Bogart.

I have covered a lot of ground in two weeks. Driving these long, familiar stretches my head fairly explodes with thoughts, musings and many memories.  This country is ingrained in the fiber of my being.  Over half a century of camping, hiking, driving, exploring, working, romancing.  I feel enfolded in the rock, imbedded in the sage, and empowered by the open space.  And I can look back on incredible diversity of experience from the seedy edges of Barstow to the old California mission at San Miguel.  Shorebirds on the mudflats of Morro Bay and shooting stars in bloom on the hills of the Pinnacles.  Bookstores in Cambria and rain clouds rising above the Carrizo Plain.

I return to Grand Junction renewed and ready for what the future may bring.