Hack Canyon

When we turned into Hack Canyon, there were no tracks in the snow.  I put the Chev in 4WD and proceeded with caution.  I needn't have worried.  The road was in pretty good shape for about seven miles.  It got bad down in the bottom, but, by then, we were happy to stop.  The girls set up their mobile art studio in the truck bed and I walked down another three miles to the wilderness boundary.  There was a trail register at the gate.  It had six entries in it for 2012.  Hey.  Not bad.  I don't know why the yuppies don't like this place, (maybe because the cowboys are still using it?) but, we'll take it.  By 3p, the sun was setting.  We were 40 miles from Fredonia, and I figured it might take us two hours to get there.  We packed the paintings and retraced our single set of tracks back to the main road.

Big Spenser Flat

The road to Big Spenser Flat was snow-packed, but firm.  It was overcast the whole way out there and when we stopped at the end to pick up a few clinkers, the light was flat and there was a cold wind.  Fortunately, it was clearing even then, and, by the time we got back to the west side, the sun was breaking through.  We stopped for a short hike while VSO made a painting.  After lunch, we started down Big Horn Wash.  I've been in there before, but it was when EDO was fairly small and the going was slow.  Now, we can move more quickly and it ought to be possible to walk down to Harris Wash.  It is a very nice hike, not at all difficult.  In any case, we had given ourselves only an hour or two, so we had to turn around well short of Harris.  We drove up to the little ridge above Little Spenser Flat, and VSO got out the paints again.  It was late in the day, but EDO and I started down another small, unremarkable draw on the Harris Wash side.  It turned into a very nice little canyon—buttery 60 to 80 foot walls, with a sandy bottom, and more yucca than I've seen anywhere.  We had to turn around after half an hour, but it was well worth the exploration.  VSO was frozen nearly solid at her easel by the time we returned, but we were able to lever her into the Chev and get back on the oil before the sun set.

Losee Canyon

They say that this was a Butch Cassidy hide-out.  While Losee Canyon is only about 25 or 30 miles south of Cassidy's hometown, Circleville, it is hard to imagine he and his gang hiding out down here:  During much of his career he operated fairly openly in southern Wyoming and the Brown's Park area of northeastern Utah.  Even the famed Robber's Roost would have been more convenient to the Wild Bunch than Losee Canyon.  In any case, we didn't see any sign of Cassidy or the Sundance Kid on this day.  Of course, as Valerie pointed out, they would both be around 140 years old by now.  Whether they survived the shootout in Bolivia or not, it is doubtful that either of them is still with us.  Besides, given that ole Butch felt that the mountain west was too crowded in 1890, it is probably better that he didn't see the stream of tour buses whistling up Highway 12 all afternoon.

Christmas Eve

Last year, for Christmas Eve, I skied up Dry Canyon.  Thinking that it should be a tradition, I got the skis out of the shed on Monday and drove up the highway.  I skipped Dry Canyon this year and turned in at First Left Hand.  It was snowing hard and no one had tried the road for a week or so.  I put the Chev in 4WD and pushed up past the new bridge over Bowery Creek (see picture).  That was far enough for the truck.  The snow was sufficiently deep and sticky to make getting stuck a possibility, and I didn't want to spend the evening digging.

I put on the skis and started up the road.  It was kind of a slog.  It was snowing so hard that my glasses completely crusted over.  I couldn't see anything.  I took them off, but it wasn't much better.  My hands were cold.  I had just finished Angle of Repose and was feeling regretful about Oliver and Susan Ward.  Humbug.  It wasn't much of a Christmas Eve.  After ten minutes, I thought about turning around.  After 20, I'd had it:  Time to shake off the sleet and go home.

But, by then, I was at Five Mile and I decided to ski over to the old cabin across the creek.  When I got to the creek, I tried to side-step onto a fallen cottonwood tree.  I thought I might be able to cross the creek on the log without taking my skis off.  Bad idea.  It was too slippery and I fell on my butt.  On a rock.  I writhed around in the snow for a while until I could stand up again.  Then, I took off my skis and jumped the creek without them.

The cabin has been without doors and windows for several years, but I don't remember it being too badly vandalized before.  It is worse now.  Holes in the walls, and a lot of graffiti.  Filthy graffiti.  What is wrong with people?  Why can't we just keep it to ourselves?  Why do we have to go out in the woods and destroy something that has nothing to do with us?  What makes the idiocy and hatred something worth expressing?  Anyway, I can't say that my little detour exactly brightened my day.

I went back to my skis and started down the road.  The snow had stopped and for a moment the clouds lifted.  I watched them swirl in a ragged eddy around Noah's Ark.  The Vermillion Castle came into view and the settling dusk brightened to a low glow.  It was still.  I could see the Douglas fir trees, high up on the ridges of the Ark, cloaked in snow.  I heard the cheep of a chickadee.  I started skiing—the slog converted to half a glide.  Then more.  I found a bit of a rhythm.  I was floating—taking long downhill steps in soft snow.  Gravity had partially released me and I was walking on the moon.  Five minutes, ten, fifteen.  I was lost in the pleasure of it—tireless—kick, float, balance, kick, float, balance.

When I got to the truck, I threw the skis in, cleared away the new snow, and put it in drive.  The Chev wallowed down to the highway.  There was some slow traffic.  While I waited, I climbed out to break ice from the wipers.  It was miserable—cold, gray, sleeting—and the highway was covered with slippery sludge.  I couldn't have been happier.  I laughed.  I'd just been up the canyon.  Alone.  Skiing.

First Days of Winter

When I arrived in Florida last Monday evening, the temperature—at 9p—was 81F; when I woke up on Thursday morning, back in Parowan, the temperature was 1F.  As Wallace Stegner says, I have been consuming too much transportation.  I mean, jet lag aside, what do you call it when you get up in Florida with the air-conditioning running and go to bed—3000 miles later—with the wood stove full of pinyon?  Jet freeze?  Thermo lag?

Anyway, in addition to the cold temperatures, southern Utah received significant snowfall this past week.  It was right on time.  Friday was the first day of winter, and we have been celebrating with icy streets and 40 degree indoor temperatures.  Aside from the minor discomforts, however, the thing I have noticed the most with this storm is that the snow has acted as a sort-of passive radar—turning the invisible visible.

I know, for example, the route taken by the cat when we let her out at the front door and—later—in at the back.  I also know where the coyotes have been feeding between Paragonah and the freeway by the circle of packed snow with a bull's eye of blood.  I can see the path taken to the curb by the trash can, the place the rear wheels on the Chev lost traction, and the tracks of the silly mary-janes EDO wears to school in sub-zero temperatures.

Moreover, the snow amplifies the light of the gibbous moon, turning night to day.  When I awaken to a quiet house at 4a, the room is not dark.  If I get up and go to the front door, I can see the deer herd coming up the street, foraging in the landscaping and dodging Santa, Rudolf, Frosty, and the Wise Men in the front yards.  It is winter, I suppose, in Florida, too, but it comes without this ability to see the unseen, or to smell, as Rupert Brooke has it, "the blue bitter smoke" of the pinyon in your stove.