We had been up early, hiked the canyon and visited the Fish Mouth cave and ruins, here in southeastern Utah. Visiting the ruins was enriching. Afterwards, we spent the heat of the day, relaxing and resting from our excursions.
The afternoon was spent listening to the sound of insects, while we rested and waited for the air to cool off again. The sun has been getting more and more uncomfortable in the afternoon. The desert is getting hotter. Without clothing, this warmth feels good, but as the seasons change, it will become to feel like too much of a good thing.
We now know that this being comfortably naked in the heat of the day won’t last long, because the Weather Service says that it will get hotter Thursday.
When the time comes, before dinner, we have decided to explore the area around camp and the road behind us. For miles around, there are no other people. None have been seen driving on the so called main road, all afternoon. It is a desolate looking conveyance which dips so much that it is a motor homes nightmare. There are pockets of deep dust that would swallow the tires of a conventional sedan.
Main Road
We are around a half mile back on a tributary to that that appears to go to nowhere in particular. There is no concern to keep nearby cover-ups around, let alone any clothing. We can go for an unburdened walk as far as we care without concerns.
We have arrived at the second ruin site of the hike and it looks extensive. Among it, there are a series of granaries in a different style of construction.
Smoke soot blackens the ceiling of the overhang that has sheltered these communities’ efforts since the beginning.
We’re about to leave civilization again, Blanding, Utah. We have waited all day for the mobile wood fired pizza trailer to exude the aroma of a classy tasty slice, or two, or three.
There is no seating for this restaurant. We’re sitting on the door stoop of a nameless building, a hollow store with windows that reveal only a waiting opportunity for a mercantile idea. The evening sun beams in, exposing old dusty carpet and a path leading to dark shadows beyond.
Before us, framed by old sidewalk concrete, sits a typical flat oil soaked cardboard carton, Americana, with the familiar golden color of roasted baked cheese.
Soon, a fitting notion of appropriate desert will find us around the corner at the end of a too slow line for a chocolate covered frozen banana.
Earlier that day, there was some quick business finding the proper common tool at one of the best stocked Ace Hardware ever. Right next door happens to be the ice-cream shop. DF indulges my gluttony now and then, as I falter at the consumption of a rather larger than expected bucket of Huckleberry, she helps me out with a very small plastic spoon. Civilization is tempting.
We had spent the afternoon wandering in a wonderful dinosaur museum. After those encounter’s with ancient tracks in the bedrock, we have found another aspect of history to be fascinated with. It is fun.
The prehistoric critters are stunningly huge.
A flying bug’s remnants look enough to have ability to carry off anything that a large raptor might.
We had expected less, but the place is quite serious and we now have more valuable information to apply to our walkings. We leave with a better sense and understanding of the terrain that we are visiting.
We are leaving, going into raw nature, after a couple of days of nice small town people, pleasant tidy newish homes on incredibly wide streets and its one intersection light, a four way stop. We pass our refuge with its hot water showers and chilled fruit flavored Pellegrino and then that ominous sign warning a foreboding 121 miles to the next services.
In contrast to the comfort of the community, there is a sense of adventure, freedom and health on this, the open highway. As we cruise, we wriggle out of our protection against the consequences of uniform conformity. From opened windows, the dry air circulates around us, sensually cooling and caressing, as bare skin adapts. A barrier is lifted allowing natural symbiosis, an intimate mutualism in a close reunion.
We find a campsite perhaps a mile across a valley from where, tomorrow, will be our morning’s first hike.
The big cave, looking as if an open fish mouth, looms in the distance. We have a light healthy snack and climb into our cozy open air cocoon when the sky turns dark. Another short reading out loud to each other of Edward Abbey’s “Desert Solitaire” and we drop off, during a last look up at the blanket of stars.
With the top off of the tent, the dawn comes up in luscious/delicious hews. It contrasts lovely with the green cottonwood leaves, which now hang still.
I’ve heard these leaves several times during the night. Any gentle breeze will dislodge their songs. These tenacious beings possess various strategies for fertility. Now, it’s not so much the fluffy white fairies that launch and float amongst us, accumulating, settling like snow, which will last years and be blanketed with fallen leaves. But in this night, fall tiny masses of what sounds like raindrops. Awoken by their sound, I look outside of our net nest looking for clouds. Puzzled, I find stars, no emerging downpour, no problems to deal with alarmed in the middle of the night.
My partner’s presence places a warm feeling in my heart, so I roll over to gaze upon sleeping DF. She is not so much a peaceful sleeping beauty tonight, but blissfully conked out. Camping and hiking keeps us busy and our recovery time is dear.
We’re in south-eastern Utah. We are leaving the ruin of an ancient complex, which still boast a tower. As we climb out of the canyon, I look back one last time.
The petroglyphs called “Two Feet” are ahead of us.
I gave directions to the “Two Feet” petroglyphs to the couple that helped us find the towers. I warned, telling the story of our misleading pathway, there. As we are heading back on the main road, we hear their white truck coming up the main road in the distance. Once again, we scramble to cover up. DF is in just a shirt and me, a kilt wrapped around my waist, as we greet them. They have found the petroglyphs. They smile, telling us that they knew they were on the wrong level, when they saw our distinctive toe shoe’s prints.
We’re in Southeastern Utah. We have spent the morning climbing up a long ascent on the cliff side of Comb Ridge. We had been looking for an ancient tower in vain, but luck gave us some guidance from two strangers. We have just gotten our first glimpse of the structures in this remote canyon, as our story continues.
There is a huge spillway above that makes a waterfall in wetter weather and behind the imagined waterfall is a tower built into the rock. This is the two story structure that we have been looking for.
The plan is to get out early and quickly. We prepared last evening before bed for an earlier start. It may be a long day. We want to take advantage of the cliff shadow’s shade up the long hill.
We are climbing a 1200 foot, two mile cliff side road. It is the old main road to Colorado, which we are told, is now abandoned and in disrepair. As the day rolls on, the old travel route will reveal itself as a challenging 4×4 nightmare.
Somewhere up there are two ancient interests, a distinct petroglyph and a ruin that still displays a tower.
We’re off to explore north of Arch Canyon, along the rock slope west of Comb Ridge, Utah. I’ve been aligning a series of canyons, what I can see, with lines on a crude map. On the map, there is marked a cave, pictographs and ruins in a few of the several canyons. Which canyons are which, at this point I’m reasonably sure about, but heading north through the canyon on winding roads, trails may get confusing.
Then, there is a blank piece of the knowledge. I have no information about any trails, or routes to get to each canyon. There may be none. We’ll have to keep an eye out for any clues along the way. We may even find ourselves bushwhacking.
It is Memorial Day Monday, the end of the long festive getaway weekend. People are packing up, for their return to working lives. They are savoring the last walks, final drives, the moments before leaving their good time playgrounds. It is quieter, a calm is returning, passersby are much less frequent.
Memorial Day, I begin to think about my dad, the soldier, sadly, but proud and respectful.
By dinner’s end, we are feeling less impinged. The softer light permeates. Heat is turning progressively down to perfect warmth. Everything seems to mark the close of the holiday.
There is a sense of expanding freedom. We can relax easier in our nudity and stretch out of our hiding boundaries, safe to walk and wander.
There is in my guidebook, a reference to some ruins. They are somewhere on down the road that leads from our camping area, here where the creek empties out into the valley at the base of Arch Canyon. There is an old trail, a dotted line, probably another 4×4 route, leading up the stone surface. It is probably a good long hike on a less busy day, an ancient route, now marked by rubber skids and rubble.
There is “the old Perkin’s Ranch” a landmark. There is the symbol mark for ruins. As best as I can cipher, it is at the top of what is referred to as a nipple. I suspect it may be at the peak of an attention grabbing hill that I have spent time looking at, even curiously searching its nature with binoculars for details. It looks like a short walk. I’d like to see if I got it right.
We have climbed a gradual slope, somewhere around 1200 feet near our campsite at Arch Canyon. The rock surface has given way to a plain (See the previous post “Hotel Rock”)
In the distance, I see what has to be Hotel Rock.
It is a massive bubble of colorful stone, seemingly popped out of the flat terrain to prominence. There are ruins placed into its structure. People used to live here.
The Free Range Naturist 