In this story I try to tackle the difficulties in finding simplicity in a complex world. How can we tone down the overwhelming options before us, or silence the voices of a hundred threads coming at us at once on social media? Is there a place we can go to focus more intently on the present? On this journey I go bikepacking deep into the San Rafael Swell, a remarkable piece of Utah. I cover lots of miles and find my own version of simplicity in a complex world and discover the riches of the public lands all around us.
This ride was adapted from a loop called the Stone House Lands Loop found on Bikepacking.com.
The Glass Mountain: A Search for Simplicity
Central Utah, June 4, 2022
A MOUND OF GIANT selenite crystals, purple and white striations criss-crossing at angles to each other, stand like layers of salt water taffy piled on top of each other and frozen in time. The Glass Mountain. Behind it stands The Temple of the Sun, a dorsal fin of burnt umber sandstone, isolated—except for its similarly resistant friend, The Temple of the Moon—and standing tall. It is a scene taken from another planet.
Instead, this is just another day in south central Utah.
A place that might as well be another planet.
I had spent the previous three days traveling through an increasingly bizarre landscape. The twists and folds of rock within the San Rafael Swell and Capitol Reef National Park create a fantastical environment. The rock simply a medium in the hands of an experimental, or delusional, artist. The landscape merely a canvas for expression. Delusional or not, the artist is ambitious beyond reason. As if once they got started the assemblage of parts and the resulting forms became endless and ever more creative. The magical names bestowed upon these features is the pièce de résistance.
Naturally, it was imperative that I camp at the base of one of these monoliths, but of course that was illegal seeing as how I had just pedaled across the National Park boundary and had no backcountry permit. If you had passed by after I left the next morning you never would have guessed I camped there.
Neither would the National Park.
Day One – North Temple Wash
June 1, 2022
THREE DAYS PRIOR I stood in Justensen Flats (a mouthful of a name, perhaps not coined at the height of our aforementioned artist’s prowess.) I was there to cache water. It is a windswept staging area in Emery, Utah close to I-70 and nothing else. My planned route through the area, two hundred fifty miles long, passed one unreliable water source, heavy in mineral content to boot.
Here at the Flats—the halfway mark of my loop, and one of the few accessible points—I shoved three collapsible bladders holding a total of two gallons of water under a rubber rabbitbrush near a split rail fence. I stood back and assessed whether they were in plain view or not. I imagined I wouldn’t be the only parched desert wanderer in the area. Returning to the Flats to find my water stash pilfered would leave me in dire straits.
I contemplated taking the dirt roads through the Swell to get to Temple Mountain where I planned to park, but thoughts of getting lost, stuck, or stranded in that desolate landscape swayed me to take the highway instead. An hour later I was prepping my bike for the journey ahead. I prayed that my water would be there when I needed it; that a windstorm wouldn’t blow a cactus spike into the bladders and pop them; that a critter wouldn’t get nosy and bite them; that a man dying of thirst wouldn’t grab them, or that some drunk off-roaders didn’t think it fun sport to leave the fool who left them there high and dry.
Packing my bike for a multi-day adventure always takes longer than I expect. But I love it nonetheless. When I leave home the bike is cleaned and “naked.” At the trailhead everything comes out of my big duffel bag and things get much worse before they get better. I click my Garmin eTrex into its mount on top of the stem. I strap two blue 48 oz. Nalgenes into cargo cages on my fork. Sleeping gear goes into the handlebar bag. The frame bag gets put in place, requiring finger strength for the heavy duty, two-inch wide velcro straps. My spare parts, first aid kit, pump and a water bladder go in one side of the frame bag. A topo map covering the route goes in the map pouch on the other side. Next, I fill the seat bag with warm layers (in a thin trash bag for extra water proofness) and as much food as I can physically cram in there. Fragile foods do not fare well. In my top-tube bag I have tools, lube, a rag, and a knife. Then, I strap a pouch over the front of my handlebar bag for anything else I need within easy reach while riding. Finally, I put any remaining food and water inside my backpack. I clip my SPOT satellite messenger to the outside of it. Now the bike is “dressed” and ready for anything. All and all, I am fully self-sufficient for the next two and half days.
I am riding my Trek Stache mountain bike. It has twenty-nine inch wheels with three-inch wide tires (a 29er plus). Utilizing all that air pressure in the tires means I can carry a lot of weight. Plus, it can float through sand. All these attributes make it a perfect bike for multi-day rides in dry and rough country.
The sun is very low when I finally sling a leg up and over and pedal away. Just like that. So simple. I double back to make sure I did not leave anything on the ground near the car. Then, I turn east on Temple Mountain Road for five miles before turning north into North Temple Mountain wash. The canyon walls on either side slowly encroach and climb in height until they are soaring above me. The road at the bottom is plunged into shadow. No more sun for me. I ride another three miles through this hallway until I find a nice open spot near the north wall. I lean my bike against it and unstrap my chair. I sit and gaze across at the far wall. Layers of Entrada and Navajo sandstone, streaked with black desert varnish, turn sepia in the twilight.
I take a deep breath. A big day. I drove over Loveland Pass at 11,990’ in a swirling snow storm that very morning. I left my normal life behind. My girls had all flown down to Texas to visit my wife’s brother’s family. I was on my own, in my happy place. But I was tired. I unrolled my bivy sack and stared up at the strip of sky above me.
I was back in the arena once again.
Day Two – Hidden Splendor
June 2, 2022
THE HIDDEN SPLENDOR AIRSTRIP unrolls before me. I prop my bike on a rock in the middle of the airstrip and snap a pic. Then I remember to throw the rock off to the side. This airstrip is used by the Utah Backcountry Pilots Association. These guys fly to isolated airstrips, spend the night in camp, load up the next morning and fly to the next one. That sounds awfully exciting to me. But different on so many levels. I love the intimate contact I have with the landscape as I roll through them.
I imagine from a plane you do not have that sort of connection. But I am sure they see a landscape I do not. A bigger picture I. Macro versus micro. I stand on the airstrip for a while hoping against hope that a plane will come. I would love to see one land and talk to the pilots about their experience. But it is not to be. So I turn around and climb back up Hidden Splendor Road toward Sy Butte and continue on my way.
Clouds build and the day turns breezy and cool with leaden skies. I put on all my layers and hope it doesn’t get too much colder. I ride on double-tracks that have grassy strips down the middle. I ride on sandy washes like highways through the canyons. In certain directions I ride over ledge after ledge of rock, jarring and tiring as I drop a foot or more over each one. If I ride in a different direction, however, I roll across smooth sheets of rock. It’s all about strike and dip, or the orientation of the various layers of rock. Bikepacking in the San Rafael Swell has me thinking like the geology undergrad I used to be.
I enter the Little Wild Horse Canyon Wilderness and follow a road paralleling a serrated ridge of rock pillars. In time, the pinnacles will collapse, the piles of chunky boulders at their bases testament to the ongoing erosion. Everywhere around me is evidence of heavy erosion. The whole region is a massive uplift of sediment that, once exposed to the elements, began weathering into wild and weird shapes and canyons and ridges (or “reefs”, as the old settlers called them back in the day). But it is so calm and still on most days that it is hard to imagine the forces needed to create such destruction.
The thing I seek has finally found me. The simple life. It is not easy for me to find. I have to go to some lengths to do so. But, without fail, I find it here in the backcountry. In the quiet backwaters of the great outdoors. On small day hikes near home I can find a semblance of it, enough that I am imbued with a tantalizing taste of it. But the complexity of real life comes crashing back upon returning home afterward. I do not despair of complexity. I do not rail against it every day. But I do know that over time it begins to sap my energy. It begins to take away my spontaneity. Faced with too many tangents and options and obligations and opportunities I suddenly find myself stuck, frozen in place. Why do so many of us espouse the theory that choice is good, that the mark of a free society is the availability of choice? I beg to differ.
When I am bikepacking the choices are slim. I can ride. I can stop. I can eat. I can camp. I can take a picture…I like that. I think the lack of choice puts me more at ease than a plethora of choice. Perhaps I am just an indecisive person and that is why I seek simplicity. Or perhaps there is some truth to the “paradox of choice.” According to Barry Schwartz, an American psychologist, he turns a popular phrase on its head by saying that “more is less.” Here, from his TED Talk, are a tally of some of the items at his local grocery store, which he said was “not a very big one.” Cookies: 285, Soups: 240, Salad Dressings: 175, Toothpaste: 40. This probably doesn’t surprise many of us anymore. But it still feels ridiculous to me. Does this overabundance of choice really improve our quality of life?
I want to make good choices in my own life and stand behind them. But in today’s world it is so easy to make a bad choice and the ramifications of that hit me harder than they should. I blame my bad choices on having poor taste, a body that always falls in between sizes, a lack of conviction, or even just being destined to always make bad choices.
Choosing products in the grocery store is one thing, but making appointments is worse. I usually overbook, and then when I call to re-book I overbook with something else. For a guy who sits around the house a fair bit, I sure struggle with clothes more than I should. That flannel, or that flannel? These Carharts, or those Carharts? Sometimes it is more debilitating than that. I can truly get stuck. On a weekend recently I couldn’t decide what to do. I stood around my house for an hour paralyzed. Of course, choosing to do nothing is still a choice and this bothers me. Why would I choose to do nothing?
The backcountry, therefore, has become a balm for me. A way to sidle out of the complexity for a while and find a place where I have clear intent and laser focus. I feel myself becoming more at ease, the tension unwinding. Unfortunately, it is not a cure to my “choice paralysis”, but it provides a release for a time.
AFTER HOURS OF RIDING I have passed not a single car, except old abandoned ones riddled with bullet holes. And in fact these ones are just the bodies of old Studebakers or Ford Coupes, oddly discordant among the rock and dust and dirt.
That night I set up camp off the side of the road in a tangle of juniper trees. It’s an ok spot. I could do better, but my body is tired and my mind is fine with the setting because the views are huge. I can look down-country into lower Muddy Creek where it flows into a deep canyon before exiting the Swell. There are old bunkhouses down there built during the uranium mining boom of the 1950s. I could see planes landing at Hidden Splendor if there were any. The sky is still overcast and gray. But, finally, the sun peeks out from below the cloud layer and ignites the rocks and junipers all around me. I squint hard into the sunlight as I watch the light leech out. I thought about all the people that ask me “what on earth” I do with myself as I roll along all those lonely miles and I want them all to be here now. “This is what I do,” I would tell them. “This right here, look,” and I would point at the sun plunging down beyond the distant canyons.
Day Three – “The Polished Groove of Experience”
June 3, 2022
THE MORNING CALM IS complete. I unzip my bivy and sit up. I rub the salt crust out of my eyes and take in the complete silence and deathly stillness. It’s always this way in the morning in the desert. A calm so still it feels unnatural. I have to remind myself where I am and what I’m doing. As if to reassert my physical presence upon the world, which seems such an ethereal thing in the morning, an afterimage of reality itself. I climb out and relieve myself, then I stand and look into the rising sun. It feels good on my face. This is another aspect of the desert I have never understood; a feeling that you could cup your hands and capture the sunlight therein. In the morning especially I feel the sunlight as a stimulant on my skin. Like a touch.
Riding into the new day I feel the responsibilities and obligations of life slipping away, the complexity untangling. I tell myself to notice and observe; to look closely and not get too deep into my own psyche. The beauty of bikepacking, especially in the San Rafael Swell, is that deep thoughts eventually fall away to the side, they don’t fester. Mountain biking for me is never boring.
I am cognizant, always, that my wife, Wendy, is back home dealing with the complexity. I am not guilt-free. I think about her and know she doesn’t hold this desire in me to escape against me, that she knows me well enough to know this is who I am and this is what I need. But still, a shard of guilt lodges in my side, an acceptable reminder to myself to remember what it is in my life—and who it is—that enables me to do these things I love.
Sigurd Olson, a past president of the National Parks Association, a man who helped draft the Wilderness Act of 1964, a long time guide and outfitter in the far northern canoe country of the Upper Midwest, and, most importantly, one of our country’s great nature writers, said the following in his book Wilderness Days. When I read these words I wrote them down in my notebook because they so perfectly mirrored my own thoughts on finding simplicity in a complex world. He’s talking about a “canoeman”, but he could be talking about any wilderness traveler anywhere. “When he has traveled for many days and is far from the settlements of his kind, when he looks over his cruising outfit and knows it is all he owns, that he can travel with it to new country as he wills, he feels at last that he is down to the real business of living, that he has shed much that was unimportant and is in the old, polished groove of experience. Life for some strange reason has suddenly become simple and complete—his wants are few, his confusion and uncertainty gone, his happiness and contentment deep.”
I will always seek the “polished groove of experience.”
I made it to my water cache that afternoon. The bladders were still there, nothing terrible had happened. I spent a happy moment refilling my empty containers, even though it made my bags heavy once again.
A short spin down the road, to put some distance between me and the Flats, I set up my bivy on a flat pancake of rock next to more junipers for protection. I always prefer to camp next to something, even a small bush provides a semblance of cover. I dump out my food bag and dig around for tonight’s dinner: chicken curry. I boil half a cup of water in my teapot and pour it into the ziploc with the instant rice, a crushed bouillon cube and a teaspoon of curry powder. After five minutes I scoop the rice into my bowl and add a pouch of cooked chicken, packets of peanut butter, coconut oil, lime zest and some dry roasted peanuts. It’s delicious…and it’s lightweight, full of calories, requires minimal water or cooking, and costs a fraction of what a freeze-dried meal at REI would run. For dessert I brew a cup of mint tea and eat some chocolate.Even eating in the backcountry is easier and simpler. Of course, that is because I plan everything out ahead of time. All my decisions have been made prior to setting foot in the backcountry. That is not to say the backcountry provides a simple environment, or that it doesn’t offer up its own slew of complexities. Perhaps, after years of exploring and adventuring, I have become better at navigating them. You would think after forty-eight years of living life, that I would have become better at navigating its complexities, but they keep changing!
Day Four – The Glass Mountain
June 4, 2022
USING MY TITANIUM MUG I scoop and pour water from Muddy Creek over my head. It is trickling across the ground at Lone Tree Crossing (no tree in sight). The cool and blustery weather from yesterday has given way to scorching temperatures and crystal clear blue skies. Approaching the rivulet is difficult due to the boot-sucking mud. I contemplate filtering some water, thinking that with this heat I might easily plow through my two gallons, less what I used for dinner last night. That half a cup was not part of my allotment for the cache. I missed that in my planning. As a result, I am already lower than I want to be. But this muddy trickle, clear traces of bovine tracks within it, is certainly not the place.
I crank some tunes on my MP3 player. It is a cheap Amazon product from China, but it takes a single AA battery. I prefer the simplicity of a few old Duracells to power things, even though they might be heavy. My headlamps, GPS unit, SPOT, and music player all run on AA or AAA batteries. My phone I simply power down except for a small window at night to check in with my family. I bring a small USB portable charger stick for emergencies.
At a BLM (Bureau of Land Management) sign I stop and read: “Old mines and mining claims may contain radon, radioactive material or abandoned explosives. DO NOT TOUCH.” At the Icebox Trail I take a short walk into the gloom of a rock grotto. The temperature must be at least ten degrees cooler. In the rock is scratched a message: “Hugh B. 1968.” Hello, Hugh, it’s been a long time.
After a snack of mini-Naan, pepperoni and laughing cow cheese, I carry on into the Devil’s Canyon Wilderness and begin an endless slog through Kimble Wash. The sand is soft and thick. I stop and release pressure from my tires. The ride noticeably improves, but it is still tough going. At times, I walk up on the bank with the bike down in the sand. I pass empty cattle troughs and feel for the cattle…and myself. I am certain my water is not going to last. At a cattle guard there is a sign affixed to the fence that says, “$20,000 reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of anyone stealing livestock.” I stop for a moment to see if there is any nefarious activity underway. But I don’t see anyone or any cattle. Darn, $20,000 would be nice.
Kimble Wash ends at the Baker Ranch road. The wide open expanse of Blue Flats marches away. I am flying down the dead-straight, graded Baker Ranch road when I see a pickup truck at a pullout. It is the first car, except for parked ones at Justensen Flats, I have seen in two and half days of riding.
Jamie and Dave are searching for lost cattle. They ask me if I have seen any and I say no. Then, they ask me where I am coming from and where I am going. I say, Temple Mountain and Temple Mountain. I can’t resist—I have been eyeing the cooler in the back of their truck—asking them if they have any water to spare.
“Yeah, you bet, here,” Jamie reaches inside and hands me an unopened half-pint bottle from a cup holder inside. No luck on the cooler in the back, I guess.
“Thanks, you sure it’s ok?”
“Yeah, yeah, you need it more than we do. We’ll be heading back to the ranch soon, anyway.”
“So you came from Temple Mountain?” says Dave. I can see he is trying to figure out how I got here.
“Yep, Temple Mountain to Behind the Reef Road to Hidden Splendor, then up to Justensen Flats and Eagle Canyon, down Kimble Wash…” I trail off as I see none of this means much to him.
“Carrying everything you need, huh?”
“Yep, s’all here. I may have underestimated my water intake, though.”
“Wish we could give you more.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Thank you, really!”
“Take care,” they say as they climb into their one-ton and make a U-turn. They are gone in a swirl of dust. At that moment I see more dust out in the distance. A herd of wild horses is in full stampede. They run in a frenzied circle for a while, hooves and manes flying, before picking a direction and disappearing through a low pass between two ridgelines.
The afternoon wears on and my legs are straining with the effort. Sweat drips into my eyes and stings. Dust adheres to my shins and quads. My arms are covered in sun sleeves. I wear a short-sleeve snap button shirt that makes it easy to open one-handed for increased air flow. The eight ounces of water Jamie gave me is long gone. I start thinking I should be rationing water when I see a Jeep off the side of the road. Baker Ranch Road leads into Cathedral Valley within Capitol Reef National Park. The scenery has changed from free-range, barren cattle country with greasy bentonite roads to magnificent valleys bordered by vaulting ramparts of corrugated rock. I ask the Jeepers for more water. It feels wrong, but I figure better to ask and be denied than not to ask and wonder.
“Yeah man, no problem,” says the dad, his two young sons playing in the dust off the road side.
“Cool bike,” says one of them.
“Thanks.”
“Here,” says the dad, bringing one of his son’s Camelbaks over. As he begins to unscrew the lid to the reservoir to pour water into my Nalgene, I start to protest, “Oh wait, no. Dude, your kids probably need this water.”
“It’s cool, we’re good, got more in the Jeep.” Great planning here, bro, I’m thinking to myself. Taking water off little kids now. I usually pride myself in my DIY ways.
“I really appreciate it guys,” I say to the boys. One of them is sizing me up. I can’t tell if he thinks I’m cool or a jerk.
“Have a good ride. Good luck!” says the dad. They pile into the Jeep and take off down the washboarded road toward civilization. It is sixteen miles to the nearest paved road. Then another thirty miles to Torrey, or twenty to Hanksville. I hoped the boys wouldn’t get thirsty on the way back.As dusk approaches I slip down the access road to the Temple of the Sun and the Temple of the Moon. The monoliths guard the higher country behind them. The rest of the sediment around them has eroded away. For whatever reason these two held their ground. They stand like the tips of spade shovels driven up from underneath. I want so badly to camp here, but I know I am in Capitol Reef National Park now and do not have a backcountry permit. But who is gonna know? At that moment a white Toyota 4Runner pulls down the road. I ride over to the Glass Mountain and surreptitiously watch. They drive to the Temple of the Sun, then over to the Temple of the Moon, and then they leave. A quiet settles and I think, that’s it, no one else is coming here today.
The Glass Mountain is a nine-foot high dome of selenite, or gypsum, composed of huge crystals. It’s a curiosity, to say the least. I frame a good picture of it with the Temple of the Sun in the background and spend a few minutes ogling the purple and white crystals, many the size of my hand. Then, I ride slowly over to the Temple of the Sun and I find a wash at its base. It’s a perfect campsite—given the skies are clear and there has been no rain in days. Generally, a wash would be a bad place to camp.
My bivy tucks down into the soft sand and a small bank gives me protection from any prying eyes. If someone comes down the road they’ll never see me. Behind me the Temple rises so vertiginously that I can barely take it in. I think briefly about rock fall and then shove the thought away. I take off my sweaty clothing and put on a pair of boxer shorts. The airyness and lightness after a day wearing tight bike chamois and a shirt stiff with sweat is welcome. I set up my chair and sit down. What a place, I think. What a way to get here. Thus far I have covered 175 miles bikepacking through the San Rafael Swell.
Then, my nose starts to bleed. I bend over and let it drip, the bright red is a violent, almost alien contrast to the dun colored sand. I rummage for some toilet paper in my backpack to staunch the flow. That gets me thinking that I should take stock of my water situation.
I usually factor a day as follows: a cup for coffee, another cup to make oatmeal, a cup to make dinner and a final cup to make tea. That’s four cups out of my gallon per day, leaving three liters for drinking, notwithstanding if I want another cup of coffee or any water needed for cleaning out my mug and bowl. It is not enough in hot, dry conditions such as I have had. After dinner, I find that I have three liters left. After my nightly cup of tea, tomorrow morning’s coffee and breakfast and whatever else I drink tonight, that will leave about two liters, half a gallon. I am still fifty rugged miles from Goblin Valley State Park, the next most likely place for me to get water. I will cross Muddy Creek again tomorrow at a more substantial crossing, but the signs warning of radioactive materials has me questioning it as a drinking source.
The margin is slim.
At night I stare at the Temple. Up this close I see its furrowed ridges, showing layer after layer of sediment. Some layers are clean and unblemished, others are coarse and gravelly. I try to imagine the environments in place when each of those layers were laid down. They were nothing like what I see around me. In fact, a lot of this area was once an ocean, the Western Interior Sea. The dinosaurs roamed then, they trod the ancient shoreline of the evaporating ocean looking for food. Then great upheavals rocked the area. Those layers upon layers of sediment, now hardened as mudstones, sandstones, and siltstones were raised high up into the sky and small cracks let the water in. Slowly, and inexorably, the water worked its way down into the dome and found paths of least resistance. The soft sandstones were eager for a sculptor’s chisel. The San Rafael Swell, an oval-shaped piece of central Utah, is the result of this long and storied past. At the height of the Swell you stand near seven thousand feet. But twenty-five miles to the east at the San Rafael River you drop to four thousand feet. The Swell is a remarkable chunk of our Earth.
Day Five – Crack Canyon
June 5, 2022
LAST NIGHT BEFORE DINNER I plunged my bare hands deep into the soft sand and scrubbed. They came up clean, free of chain oil and salty sweat and sunscreen. The desert is a clean place. There is a spartan-like, almost reverential, clarity to it. With scant resources, plants are carefully, and strategically, situated. There is an economy to it. Not the riotous free-for-all of the Everglades or the teeming abundance of the forests of the Pacific Northwest. The desert only gives out so much and in such a way that you must be ready for it. Plants, and animals, spread out to take advantage, there is no crowding. Violent summer thunderstorms scrub the canyons and washes clean. Strong winds clear out dead scrub. Wrens use what’s left to build their nests. The landscape pleases me in its simplicity. It echoes how I want to feel. I see it in the landscape and I feel it in my bones. In Utah, you have to learn to appreciate sparsity.
In the desert of Utah I see little, hear little, observe little and ponder little. The majesty of the landscape helps tame my monkey mind. It’s not that there is little to observe, it’s that everything comes in small doses and is only readily apparent upon close inspection. Like a black beetle with its head stuck in the sand. Or a small, delicate Indian Paintbrush tucked in the bend of a wash. A day earlier, near the shot up Studebaker, I saw a large bull snake perfectly camouflaged among the rocks. I could easily have missed him. Wolf spider’s eyes catch the light. Sometimes, riding at night, I’ll see dozens of eyes winking in the light of my headlamp. These things come to those who wait or who spend time immersed there. They do not come all at once and for that I am thankful. It means I do not have to be in a hurry. I can slow down.
I throw a sore leg over the saddle and pedal away from the Temples. It feels great to get rolling again, even if I am sore and thirsty and still have a long way to go. I turn south on the Caineville Wash Road and encounter brutal washboard. I hum out loud and it reminds me of being a little kid humming into a box fan. I cross an enormous wash, not even sure where the road picks up on the other side. I try to imagine it full of water and decide that is a bad idea. Flash floods worry me. They are not as prevalent in early June. The gray skies a few days ago were worrisome, but since then it has been clear and beautiful.
I reach Muddy Creek again. The same river that was nothing but a muddy trickle upstream at Lone Tree Crossing is now a decent river. In fact, the amount of clear, flowing water in that world of aridity is somewhat of a shock. I wade in, it is still only shin deep, and splash water all over myself. I carry my bike and all my gear across and take a break along the banks. I muck about in the water, it feels good on my bare feet. Water here is life. It is such a precious resource. Hard for people in aqueous places to see water in quite the same light as desert wanderers. The desert teaches you to preserve. Life clings in a delicate balance out here.
I saddle up and immediately get lost in a tangle of tracks along the river banks. My GPS unit helps me get back on track. Around a corner an old teetering two-story house, a massive and intricately stacked pile of sandstone for a chimney, comes into view. The old Hunt Ranch, according to Road Trip Ryan, was built by Charley Hunt in 1918 and was a working ranch for many years. A coal mine in the area provided a road to reach it. The proximity to the river makes sense. A wall or two are gone and the front porch is in imminent demise. You can look clear through the structure in many places. The wood has been bleached by the sun. But, remarkably, it looks as if it will stand for many more years. I wonder if old Charley would be impressed with the lack of change in the area. I imagine the view, a sweeping panorama of the southern Swell, from the front porch looks much as it did in his day. I like to think he found a way, here in the rugged interior, to live simply.
I pass a sign for Ding and Dang Canyons chuckling. Where do these names come from?
Finally, Wild Horse Road intersects with Goblin Valley Road and I see pavement for the first time in five days. Cars streak past on the way to the state park and I am momentarily jarred by the sight of fast moving vehicles. I pedal a few miles south to the Goblin Valley State Park entrance station and pay a small fee to enter on a bicycle. It takes me a moment to dig my wallet out. In the parking lot I ride to a pavilion and seek blessed shade under the shelter.
There is a large group of family or friends underneath and they have spread out, taking over most of the picnic benches. I find one near the stone wall and look out at the view. True to form for the area, it is another weird and wonderful view. The small mushroom-shaped rocks in front of another jagged wall remind me of children sitting on the lawn at an outdoor concert. Of course, all the people in the shelter are sitting looking out at the view as well.
When I turn around to sort my gear they all appear to be staring at me. I’m covered in a grimy mixture of dust and sunscreen. Instead of my helmet, I am wearing a floppy sun hat with the Vietnamese flag on it (I bought it there many years ago). I have granular white sweat stains on my backpack straps and the shoulders of my shirt. The collar is turned up to protect my neck. My gloves are tattered and worn and faded. My bike is a heap of dusty gear. I feel, while bikepacking through the San Rafael Swell, that I have truly earned my place in the world.
There is a spigot near the bathrooms. I take my empty water bottles—unnervingly empty for the last ten miles of my ride to the state park—and fill them up. Then I wash my face and hands and run the cold water through my hair. People walking in and out of the bathrooms glance at me, perhaps uncomfortable with my unabashed, on-the-spot “shower”, but I don’t care. It feels incredible to just twist the valve and see plentiful water come pouring forth. After days of constantly rationing and thinking about my water intake, the abundance of it is now thrilling.
The shot of civilization is nice and the water is more than welcome, but I’m feeling an urge to flee. I hurriedly load up wanting nothing more than to seek the simple world of the wild places. I pedal past the entrance station out to the highway and cruise along smooth pavement for five miles until I see a sandy turnoff heading west toward the lower flanks of the Swell. There is a small BLM sign pointing to Crack Canyon. Perfect, I think.
A few miles in I see what looks like a cul-de-sac and there are two trucks down there. I wave and nod at one guy thinking, bummer, thought I had the place to myself. Then I see what might be a track continuing beyond the circle. A ribbon of sand runs through the brush and I remember this is why I love bikes. I can go where the cars cannot. The track leads to a wash that would eventually take me up into Crack Canyon. It is a popular slot canyon due to its easy access from Goblin Valley, but there is no evidence of its popularity today. I lean my bike against a wall of swirling orange sandstone. I contemplate my position in life. I like what I see.
This is my last night out here. That brings mixed emotions. It also brings back inklings of the complexities to come. I know it will all come crashing back, the infinite forking paths of life that we all have to negotiate. Wendy, my wife, would tilt her head and raise her eyebrows and say, “Yep, that’s life, babe.” Hinting, perhaps, that I should get on with it like everyone else.
The complexity of life would not be so overwhelming to me if it weren’t for the possibility of such simplicity, also. Going further, perhaps if I had never discovered the simplicity of life in the backcountry I wouldn’t despair of complexity at all. It would just be the status quo. Which, of course, is exactly why we have to continually challenge the status quo. Otherwise, we might never find the opposing factor that reveals a hidden truth in our lives.
Once again, I climb above my camp and gaze out at the unfurling view before me. I see my bivy, bike, camp chair and gear down below. It all looks miniscule, laughable. The view is much more desolate now. The Swell is behind me. I have lost a lot of altitude over the last day. I look east out at the San Rafael Desert, a searing flat plain of nothingness until the Green River some thirty miles distant.
Yet, even as I despair of returning to the complexity of the modern world, I also look forward to rejoining my family. I look forward to seeing their faces again and maybe telling them a story or two. I anticipate a warm feeling of communion as we are together again. I know, deep down, that I will never be able to fully express my thoughts and views and feelings as I have them out here. But that’s ok.
Day Six – Where to Next?
June 6, 2022
DAVE MATTHEWS BLARES ON the radio. The windows are down. Warm, parched air is funneling through the truck. Now, after five days of pedaling my way across the landscape, traveling at 70 mph down the highway feels insane! I laugh and shake my head. Then I remember the speed limit is 80 mph. I’ve been going on slow time long enough that I can’t even get my car up to the speed limit yet.
The drive home is long and I think back on my ride. I am thankful that I didn’t get into any trouble, because there is plenty of it waiting in the backcountry of Utah. I am thankful all my gear held up, that everything functioned as it should. I am thankful my plan was solid and that I executed it as expected. But mostly I am just thankful to be alive, to be able to do things like this and to know I have a place in the world that can soothe my soul. I spend too much of my time contemplating things, wondering about my place, my purpose, my passion. I worry a lot. I think I have made some bad decisions. I wonder where it is all leading. Did I not work hard enough? Did I miss an opportunity I shouldn’t have? Why don’t I have a better plan for the future? And so on.
Yet, the truth is, I am so lucky. Because I have found something I love to do. Something that takes me away from the complex world to a simpler life.
Before the drive home is even two hours old I am already thinking…
…Where to next?
