Bluff and Grit: Bears Ears VII

Another Big Mouth Pt1

2024-05-20

After finding our way out of the Valley of the Gods, we’re turning back onto the asphalt road. Before heading out into some hiking along the Comb Ridge, we need to visit another unknown, Bluff Utah. We’re hoping for gas and ice. It didn’t look like much on the satellite image. Again, we just don’t know what to expect in this region. We pass and nearly miss a turnoff onto a dirt road. Strikingly, this is the Lower Butler Wash Road, which is the main conveyance north along the east side of The Comb Ridge. It looks desolate, empty and the map shows that it goes for dozens of miles.

After Bluff, the plan is to double back and drive up this surprise, looking for hikes and solitude, in random canyons and whatever else that we encounter. My information tells of well-known canyons, cliff dwellings and petroglyphs in the area. I’m hoping to find the canyons less traveled, where I’m told surprising rich experiences abound. The plan is not a trek through such a bland looking desert!

As we slowdown from highway speed as per the signage, Bluff begins to unfold. Still, it doesn’t look like much. The outfitter store/pizza restaurant is regrettably closed, but there is a Bears Ears Visitor Center next door. Generally, my experience with visitor centers is to be simply channeled toward crowded tourist places to glean my money, a tool of manipulation of the local Chamber of Commerce. This information center looks small and the signage shows the support of other entities, preservation people. It is called “Bears Ears Education Center.” It somehow gives me the impression that it isn’t just a tourist trap. We decide to check that out on our way back. I still have a very muddy knowledge of how to find the solitude and freely nude experience that I’m looking for. I need more than books and a few tips from friends. I need local’s knowledge and experience.

Bluff has bluffs alright. It lies in a funnel carved out of sandstone over millennia.

There are several plots with homes, which starkly contrast with the desert and fun rock formations. A gas station appears. We decide to look for another to compare Utah prices, but none exist. The town soon disappears as quickly as it appeared.  At the far end, there are new high-end resorts, which are nestled in the more dramatic narrow of the canyon, between salmon colored cliffs. Several cement teepees stand there, reminiscent of the old tourist trading posts that used to dot the southwestern highways.

It is all kind of a nuevo-retro with a semblance of traditional Navajo pueblo architecture.

Bluff is small, laid back. The schools however, are sizable and must be regional because this is a small town.

We gas up, buy ice and find a very sparse grocery section. This probably won’t be our future resupply refuge when we come back out of the wilderness.

Back down a street, there is an interesting round home on stilts with various passive solar features. Its balcony is up on stilts, shading a half-submerged in the earth lower section. Above are many south facing windows receiving solar radiation. It gives me the impression that this isn’t a totally boring community lost in the 1950’s.

The Education Center is small, cozy. The wooden construction feels of the earth and displays several fascinating educational plaques along with the literature. A long desk has a single proprietor, an older guy, but not too old. I feel that I can look him in the eye with some commonality. He is helping someone else, so we entertain ourselves.

I try out the first real toilet that we have seen in nearly a week. I smile and open the door to the refuge. Closing it, in the private quiet, I find myself stunned, aghast! There before me, behind the sink in the wall mirror is a motley stranger. We had reluctantly just thrown on some coverings to go into public. There I stand in a dirty grey kilt, a rumpled pastel Hawaii shirt, and familiar cap, with the looks of an eccentric homeless derelict! What happened? I have become one of those quaint characters, old miners, those harmless hermits that inevitably inhabit the movie screens in old westerns…with a twist. If we are going to be camping for a week at a time, I had better take note that I may become more colorful than taking on the red desert dust.

I’m sure that I did come across as a get in the dirt and go rugged guy, as I apologized for my appearance at the information desk. My humble deprecation actually seems to help our relationship. This man has spent many years out in the booneys himself. We could relate. It is a part of a non-conformist individualistic attitude. When I somehow mentioned Edward Abbey, he lights up. A copy of “Desert Solitaire” is displayed for sale.

I begin to pry out information. I buy a map and bring in my guide book. I stress the solitude thing and our preservationist attitude with anecdotes to certify our intentions. I qualify our 4×4 with the rear auto-locker modification. I figure that if I am going to find anything special here, away from the tourists, we need a commonality to build our trust.

He gives us as clear a picture as he knows, glad to talk and be of service. He points out what to expect and makes recommendations. He mentions how rough 4×4 trails to these places could be. I respond to the mention of a particular canyon, with “some ruins” where we probably wouldn’t see anyone. The turn off for it would be “four, or five, maybe six miles” after a particular point. It sounds perfect.

Pleased, I could see several days of nude exploration ahead of us, a plan was beginning. One important nugget is that I am beginning to have the impression that we are not likely to see typical tourist crowds.

There was a curious frontier fort display in town, but our mood is to satisfy our new thirst for the natural wonder of this region, naked.

After a couple of talkative Colorado women with a new travel trailer are done with us, we slip off our coverings while sitting in the truck outside of the center, folding and tucking the unnecessary away. Now afternoon, we still have a canyon to find and a camp to create.

The Search Begins:

I pull off the pavement onto that aforementioned graded dirt road with a new perspective. We haven’t driven far before a kiosk appears asking for fees. We fill out our forms and place our envelope of good faith cash into the slot of a heavy metal collection box. “Who would come out here to check our certificate?,” I ponder. There is a trailhead here to petroglyphs, and I see two cars parked. We’re not going there today. We’re after more elbow room. This is too close to the pavement and tourist’s access.

As the trail meanders up and down, a strongly evident lesson is learned. Sandstone breaks down into sand. Sand drifts are burying plants, yet providing a place for them to grow. There is a fine tan powdery sand everywhere. It piles up around the bushes like at a beach. Together, they collect, making bumpy little island tuffs, which stretch across to the distant hills. The road is graded with shiny bedrock, or mashed sandy soil. Solid, but that too is being filled in with drifting sands. Drifts are across the bedrock solid road create some places that are slippery. Some is deep enough to change the course of my thick off-road tires. The sign warns of slippery when wet, impassible.

To the west there is a white ridge, a continual slope, looking as though we could just walk up the barren rock. This expends ahead for dozens of miles. This strip is called the comb, because at the end of the slope it suddenly drops off as a cliff, hundreds of feet, vaguely resembling a roosters comb. There will be occasional slivers of erosion, creating oasis canyons, which were once home to native tribes. There is supposed to be possible water in some. Our intention is to explore, to hike, to climb, to exercise and of course absolutely freely and natural.

Between us and that comb, is a string of deeper green cottonwood and mesquite trees. Tamarisk are taking over sections. Occasionally, a jeep trail wanders off of the road. We see campers out there, parked in a couple of the nests that they lead to. To the east is a cliff, the more colorful. All of this drains into the riparian valley, a wide ditch, a desert oasis in itself.

We find another turnoff where the sandy trail disappears into the group of trees. I check my odometer and this is roughly in the area where the canyon is supposed to be.  I have a feeling that this must be it. We come to a sandy 15 or 20 foot cliff drop off. There is no drivable access down into a green and shady riparian park-like spot. Only a steep crumbling sandy old cattle walk steeply slopes into the Eden. This is not a perfect situation, but we can make it work out well.

There has been wind and then alternate calm. I’m seeing dust to the south on the horizon out toward Monument Valley. With this sand, I’m imaging quite a cloud could be kicked up. It may be a weather front.

Once again, there is some calm.  Remembering that the directions were vague, I want to make sure, out of curiosity, that there is a trail through the thick desert obstacles to the entrance to the distant valley.  In the distance, I can see where the canyon’s crease has sliced the dirty white bedrock loaf. It gives me bearings and a goal.

We wouldn’t expect anyone else out here at this point. The truck can be seen from the road, kind of marking our territory for a campsite. People generally don’t crowd, or gather.

This is not a popular trailhead and I simply don’t care to be dressed anymore. I’m concerned about the need to be at the correct trailhead of some sort and we’re both curious. I figure that this will be a short exploration anyway, it can’t be much more than a mile out there. We start down the steep trail out of the desert and into the green below.

I carry no water, no camera, just hat and shoes and a pair of branch clippers, in case. I’m feeling that good truly naked sense, light, bare, natural and essential.

There is a bit of trail where the vegetation has been trampled before. I have an unusual intuitive sense that there is something here that I don’t like. Obviously cattle have been here. Cattle bring disease and pests, yet nothing like that is encountered, until a few hundred feet down the riparian ditch looking for a way out there is a buzzing.

One of the nastiest unsettling sights of my life is off to my left. A thousand black flies color the carcass of a cow. One got lost in the water, mud, or quicksand and died trapped. The empty black eye sockets eerily somehow stare with an expression of terror, as it lies there. Sickened, I feel vulnerable and exposed. I hurry past. I don’t want any part of this, or its given memory.

Very soon, I find another one of those sandy paths, this one leads out and makes a climb. Every two steps I slide back one, but at the top it is flat open desert scrub.

I feel like I have escaped something.

We find no distinct trail, but human tracks. A larger hiking boot with a small distinctive light shoe print, keep reappearing. I picture a young girl in pink shoes with her dad in his heavy boots. They were out here for something and what else could it be, but that canyon entrance. These leads in the sand may not last in this intense wind. I’d better learn how to get into the canyon while there is opportunity.  Bushwhacking, takes time and energy better spent exploring in the canyon. The blind trail-less process also leaves its mark, it makes extra misleading paths, and destroys the delicate natural environment. Besides that, we feel like a nude leg stretch walk.

Along the way, the trail comes and goes, but the footprints fill in the blanks.

We cross over the flats and then into another deep walled wash.

Soon, it is evident that this is part of the drainage of the canyon. After two tries, we ascend to another island of a flat to cross, which brings us into squat pinion pine trees in the gully below.

A winding mile, or so, has brought us to a spot where the sands disappear and we are sitting for a moment on bedrock surrounded by steep rock slopes. This is it.

There is that urge to continue, but we have a camp to get into order. I memorize various landmarks, a slope, a mistaken turn, a distant tree, any feature that stands out. I want to spend my time exploring the canyon tomorrow, not getting there.

The wind picks up more and more, as we return. In the southern distance, the cloud of dust has gotten closer. DF tells me about her colorful conversation with a local lady while they waited lined up for the toilet in the Education Center.  This is the windy season, then after this, a shroud of heat and humidity will set down and make things miserable, “Hot as Hell.” This could be a reason that population is not dense out here. These used to be known as badlands, ominous. Outlaws and errant escaped Native Americans during Indian Wars came here to escape the imprisonment of military reservation life and racist expansionist oppression.

The wind has picked up even more when we arrive back at our future camp. A very fine powdery dust penetrates everywhere. The wind is too strong to pitch a tent. The soil is soft and sandy with no rocks to anchor to. Down that steep sharp sandy trail, the grove of cottonwoods don’t move as much, but up here, they are violently twisting as sheets of wind make them giant brooms moving like gigantic whips. They are swinging in all directions. DF walks to the edge of the cliff to find some shade and windbreak. We are both startled as a leaf filled tree branch crashes down right next to her, breaking smaller branches below, as it travels to the gully’s floor. There is a startling terrifying loud crack that competes with the sounds of the howling wind.

“These must be gale force,” I shout, as I close the door to the truck by holding it open. Otherwise it will slam shut on its own with way too much force. Occasionally, my body is pushed by the force. I feel as though I could lean into it, supported by the pressure. I remember as a boy in New Mexico, chasing huge tumbleweeds through hazy brown clouds like this.

The fine sand is everywhere. I taste the grit in my teeth, a layer cakes my eyelids, grinding as I wipe it off. I hope to tear enough to float it away from tender eyeballs. The wind is stronger, more constant seeming to go from bad to worse. This is too much to cook in. The table would blow away; we would be eating the dust. We quickly turn our backs, as gusts drive powder across our parking area.

We didn’t check the National Weather Service while in town with internet. I suspect that a front is coming through, bringing a different weather to us. The opposite of today would be cooler and hopefully a calm. Meanwhile, we are stuck hiding inside the SUV, waiting. The windows are left cracked open, but within minutes, red dust is piling up inside on everything. With too much of this to cook, our dinner becomes snacks. We sit in the front seats eating olives, artichoke hearts in oil, with sesame crackers and cheese, as we ponder where to sleep?

Our tent can’t withstand this, we’d be buried in dirt. Down below in bushes and trees, we see less wind turbulence. There is a spot amongst some windbreak bushes and out from under any potential falling branches. The tent goes up. We carry a few loads down the precarious loose sandy slope to make our beds, before dark.

That night as the winds howl, DF seriously asks if there is a danger of the truck being blown over and rolling down the hill. She is remembering how our heavy metal shelter had rocked so hard, as we sat in it.

It is warm in the tent and we can again strip out of our warm protective clothes. Exhausted, I quickly fall asleep. In the night, DF hears a loud roar in the skies and then rain and then it is gone.

MORNING:

Morning has peace and a chill. This is wilderness.

The sun’s out. Cottonwood leaves are glistening. Overcast clouds are breaking up, as turquoise sky increases its territory. As the sun gets higher and these make way for rays of warmth. Creeping toward mid 70F’s, I’m certain that the wind was a front. I’m hoping that the calm winds will stay with us. DF serves up camp style breakfast smoothie, of powdered veggies, acai, and banana sweetener, almond milk, chia seeds. I look out from under the bill of my hat, shaded from squinting off the bright sun. The long ridge of colorful cliffs out east are beautiful.

At peace, I listen to the many birds.  I notice the owl-like call of the turtledove, tortolita, and then silence in between. Like thoughts there is the wonderful silence in-between. The sand is pristine this morning. All traces of us are gone. Each step is as new as footprints on the moon.

We will explore this canyon and discover exciting ancient ruins and artifacts, as told in the next couple of chapters Parts 2 and 3.

I am on the forum of FreeRangeNaturism.com often, if you would like to converse.

© The owners of TheFreeRangeNaturist.org as of the year 2015 declare. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to TheFreeRangeNaturist.org with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.