Walking to Dillon

There has been some recent talk in the pages of this newspaper about walking.  I like to wander around and see things in the backcountry.  Which can require some walking.  When VSO and I scrambled down off this ridge and picked up EDO for the hike back to the Chev earlier today, it was my fifty-second backcountry mile for November 2015.

When I started thinking about this—last December—I'd racked-up 78 miles of backcountry travel in one month.  Now that November is over, I guess I've got a 12 month total:  In the year from December 2014 through November 2015, I walked 571 miles in the backcountry, a 47.5 mile monthly average, or about a mile and a half per day.

If I put it all together, I could walk from my house to approximately Dillon, Montana, give or take ten miles.  Of course, it might require another year to get home, but I've always kind of liked Dillon.

Pictographs and Granaries

VSO has a good friend—a native of Escalante—who has spent a lot of time scrambling around in the canyons—places like North Creek and Main Canyon.  Over the years he has spotted dozens and dozens (hundreds?) of aboriginal artifacts.  When we lived there, everyone called them Moquis.  Wallace Stegner says that Moqui is a corruption of Hopi.  Which means it is probably the same people group as what we've also been calling Anasazi.  Of course, none of that is correct anymore.  I believe that the proper term is "ancestral puebloan."

In any case, we went over there yesterday to see some of the finds.  We banged around with a couple of VSO's friends in the canyons for a couple of hours.  Most of the observations were by binocular because there was too much climbing and scrambling involved to see each one.  Plus, the weather refused to cooperate:  It was cold, blustery, and snowy for most of four or five hours.  We did spend a minute climbing up to this little granary (below).  It looks just like an eye, doesn't it?

When we were done hunting for masonry, we stopped at the Slot Canyons Inn so VSO could drop off a couple of paintings.  While we waited, EDO made two very good friends.  To see her with her friends, click here.

The Sharp End

When I retired from climbing, I cut my rope in half.  I put one piece in the shed to use for chores and the other I put under the seat in the truck.  While both have come in handy over the past decade, the one in the Chev has played a critical role in a number of, well, rescues.  I know that I have told this story before.  In fact, one of my readers has pointed out that it has become tiresome.  So.  I'll keep it short.

This time it was a sort of mountain man:  Camo coat, wool cap, jeans, boots, beard, and dangling cigarette.  He said that he'd left the lights on and needed a jump.  We tried it, but there was nothing.  After 15 minutes the starter wouldn't even tick.  It had been 17F the night before and the sun was dropping behind the horizon.  I was beginning to feel the cold and didn't want to leave him out there.  Was there someone he could call?  (He had, of course, a smart phone.)  Well, he said, there were a few people he could try, but he wasn't sure.

So, I offered him the climbing rope.  He took me up on it.  I don't actually know that much about climbing ropes, but I have certainly learned that they make a good tow strap.  I towed the guy from Kane Springs to the TA truck-stop.  It probably wasn't ten miles, but it was close.  And most of it was gravel.  I tried to make a picture of the adventure, but didn't get much.  You can almost see him back there—I guess I was on lead and he was my belay.  Har.

PV Album

Usually, when I go out to look around, I end up on the Markagunt.  Which is to say, the Colorado Plateau.  But, sometimes, I'll change directions and head for the Great Basin.  Which is to say, I'll find a place to get off the road in the Parowan Valley.  A couple of days ago, I drove out and scrambled up a little way.  It was cloudy and the wind was cold.  Yesterday, I couldn't find a way to drive to the hill I wanted to climb, so I marched for a mile across the plain.  It was sunny and the wind was cold.  The scenery doesn't look much like southern Utah, and is more like Nevada.  It can, nevertheless, be picturesque.  Click the link for a sample.

The Ultimate Drive By Shooting

I probably shouldn't tell this story.  Someone will think I'm being condescending, or contemptuous.  And, perhaps I am.  But this just seems so egregious.

Everyone can agree that Americans are not walkers.  Right?  I mean, if you can go by motor, you will (go by motor).  Even if it is only half a block.  My own rule of thumb is two tenths of a mile—about 1,000 feet.  Ninety five percent of Americans will walk not one step further than that.  And, in southern Utah, where I live, my rule of thumb also applies to National Parks, of which there are not a few.  Which is fine, because in most places you can drive to the overlook, walk a few hundred feet, and get the view of Disneyland that you came for.

Anyway, we were at Point Imperial on the North Rim the other day.  We parked at the first spot on the horseshoe.  Which is to say that the view point features a paved loop with parking spaces forming a horseshoe at the top half of the loop.  The entire horseshoe is probably 200 or 300 feet in diameter and we parked at the very first slot on the right after entering the horseshoe.  We went out and walked down the rim for a while.  I don't know, a mile?  Forty or fifty minutes, an hour?  When we got back, we dropped a couple of items at the Chev and then walked up the horseshoe towards the main overlook.  At just that moment a big black new pick up truck—a diesel—roared into the horseshoe.  Texas.  The truck was from Texas.  The driver turned to the right and parked approximately near the Chev.  The guy slumped out.  A mammoth guy.  Texas-sized.  He left the truck running.  Rat a tat a tat.  He slouched up to the sidewalk and over to the rim.  He lifted the digital camera.  Kacheek.  Kacheek.  Fired a couple of rounds at the amusement park.  Turned.  Shuffled back to the truck, squeezed in, put it in reverse, mashed on the pedal.  A cloud of black exhaust.  Now forward.  100 feet.  One fifty.  To the apex of the horseshoe.  Into another parking spot.  Dragged himself out of the truck.  Left it running.  Shuffled to the overlook.  Raised the camera.  Kacheek.

I am not making this up.  I stood there and watched this.  I mean.  I stood out of the way.  God forbid you're in the way of these effers.  They'd run you down soon as look at you.  Now we can't even park at the overlook and shuffle our fat asses from one view to the next?  We have to drive?  One hundred feet?  I guess I'd better change my rule of thumb.  (Honestly, it makes me want to cry.  And, I'm not making that up either.)

Making Fire

This week, we were burning.  Or, trying to, anyway.  The thing about burning:  No one wants to do it when it is hot and windy.  But it doesn't work very well when it is cold and still either.  On the day I made these pictures it was 51F.  Sure, we killed a little common juniper in the sunshine, but overall it was hard to get it going.  When the diesel was gone, the fire was out.  There must be a better way.

Like I Said

Right place; right time.  This is where I was this afternoon.  Another good one.  In my opinion.