Moving to Moab

July 24/25, 2009

Saturday morning after a rainy night finds us packed up/hooked up/tanked up and heading north on Highway 89 from Panguitch. Plainly, there is much more to the economy of the area than I realized coming in from the south. We are driving through a large valley flanked on both sides by substantial mountains. Attesting to plentiful water, we see extensive irrigated pasture lands and fat cattle. As we begin to leave the valley, the landscape gives way to sagebrush and grass. As in most places in the U.S., the remnants of early habitations stand as testimony to the isolation of early settlers - bare board walls and empty windows gaping at the ease with which we now traverse their formerly quiet domain.


Trout, rock art, back roads. . .
Canyon country they call this; the reason is clear. Everywhere are mountains with fantastic multi-hued rock formations of gigantic proportions. Yesterday, we chanced upon a panoramic view that defies description: sage green interspersed with the darker shade of fingers of fir forest, pastures far below, all backdropped by deep blue mountains banded by red and white rock layers - breathtaking!

How we came to that vista is another story, one which I hesitate to relate, but in the interest of thoroughness will tell. First however, I shall begin at the beginning, as they say. The day was set aside for fishing - licenses were bought and tackle was ready. We determined to return to the meandering creek we had visited earlier. Upon arriving at the end of the road, we found campers, so thought we might not want to share the area with them. Turns out they were packing up, nearly ready to leave. It was one man camping with five children and he was still smiling - obviously deserves a medal (that reminds me of another heroic act we witnessed, but I’ll get to that later).

We climbed down into the canyon and spent quite a few hours lure fishing (I have decided for sure to ask Sharon to teach us fly fishing when we get home - she has offered, but it seemed the time was never right). It was really a lovely time, peaceful and quiet. The birding and fishing were both fair - three rainbows and a brook trout, spotted towhee, western tanager, chipping sparrow, song sparrow and belted kingfisher (there’s one we don’t get in our back yard).












Then we determined to attempt a closer approach to the cave with the petroglyphs. It was across the creek from us but access was further hindered by a large island and the swampiness surrounding it. Well, we did get closer, right across the creek to be precise, and I only mucked up one shoe in the process. Probably would have been better to sink in with both; at least then they would match. At any rate, we got better photos showing the rock art.


When we had pretty well fished the twists and turns of the creek (if I had a Dixie National Forest map, I could probably put a name to it), we decided to try another dirt road that we thought might approach it further downstream. Apparently forgetting that we were driving Toter, the Toyota Tundra trailer toter, not Ruby, the four-wheel-drive Toyota 4-Runner, we continued on Forest Road 405 far past the point of good sense. The trail continued to narrow, hemmed in by trees, until it appeared that we would not be able to turn around. That bit of concern gave way to relief when we came to a more open area that would allow us to reverse direction. It was obvious we would not be able to follow that particular road to the creek anyway, if indeed it even went to the creek. Beginning the turnaround, Chris turned the Toter toward the uphill side and backed up toward the downhill side - oopsie! There go the back wheels off into soft stuff, digging themselves into substantial ruts from which they could not climb. What a sinking sensation, literally. And I thought we were old enough to know better . . .

Being the self-reliant entities we are, we immediately wondered if the Good Sam roadside assistance tow truck could or would get out to that distant locale and how long it would take them if they could or would. Alas, it seemed that if we wanted the Toter to go home with us, we would need to find a better remedy. Happily, we had him unstuck within a half-hour. The solution involved rocking the truck back up onto the dirt ridges we had created by spinning the rubber off the tires, filling the craters with rocks (luckily plentiful), shooting those rocks out the back while burning off more rubber and repeating the process until we were clear. Oh, how I wish I had photographed our dilemma, but until we were out, it seemed to be one of those occasions a person would like not to have memorialized.

Once free, we wandered on more dirt roads to who knew where until we came upon the previously mentioned panorama, and later the highway. In approximately 1.5 hours, we had traveled about three miles down the highway from where we started.

Pioneers, rodeos, ranchers, grandchildren . . .
No cold pool today, just nice showers after our ordeal, grilled chicken and then off to the Panguitch Invitational Rodeo. Seems this is Pioneer Days, commemorating the date that Brigham Young and his party entered the Salt Lake Valley in 1847, originally called the Day of Deliverance, thus parades, rodeos, fireworks and the like. The event, held in a very nice indoor arena, was obviously a primarily social event - very interesting and fun and very different from Prescott’s rodeo. It proceeded with very little pomp and circumstance, just real cowboys and cowgirls competing and sitting in the stands with us when it was not their event. As far as I’m concerned, there are no finer folks than ranch people. I am forever grateful to have spent my life in their company and for that heritage.

The other heroism we witnessed were fellow RVers who were touring the West and elsewhere for five weeks with their 10- and 12-year-old grandchildren (think about that!). The man stopped by our rig when we were sitting outside and Chris was playing the keyboard. He was asking kayak questions and stayed to visit (I suspect he just wanted to be away from the crew). They were taking the kids kayaking, wanted to do so on Lake Powell, so that led to Chris offering advice re places. Before long, his wife and the kids tracked him down, so we had a nice visit with all of them. The couple was from Missouri; the youngsters from Connecticut. It seemed that the close quarters were wearing on all concerned, not too surprisingly.

While with us, the boy used his cell phone to call his father who was celebrating his birthday so Chris could play “happy birthday” while the children serenaded. Before our new friends departed, they bought a cd.

Remind me not to go RVing for five weeks with grandchildren. . .

Landscapes, Mom's, sculpture . . .
We are seeing lots and lots of agriculture in a series of valleys as we continue. Many different types of mountains on both sides, including Delano Peak, 12,169 feet, that sports some snow up high despite the season. We’ve also been surprised to see extensive lava flows for the past few days. As we passed through the Circleville area and farther north (I think that was in Circle Valley), we noticed many references to Butch Cassidy. Will have to look up what his association was with this area.

There was also some attractive whitewater rafting through there. This is a must-return - a pretty valley, great looking river fishing opportunities, some float kayaking possibilities and rafting - and all within a day’s drive of home.

We have turned onto Interstate 70 heading for Moab, where we will settle for a spell. We shy away from Interstate travel in general; however, the only other route to get from here to there today is a winding mountain road that we have been on sans trailer and prefer not to do with the Totee trailing.

Stopping to borrow facilities, we saw a sign for the “famous Mom’s Cafe” in Salina (long “i”), so decided to go there for my birthday, even though it’s not. The eatery is in an 1889 cut-rock building. Mom has up and retired, we were told, but her fame lives on.

Near there, we spied a huge plaster statue of an Indian, apropos of nothing that I could discern. At its base, the sculptor’s name and date were amateurishly inscribed into the concrete, along with the information that the subject was Ute Chief Blackhawk. Oh, for answers to all the mysteries!

Travels with Rowdy . . .
Evidently, Rowdy has finally manned up to the whole RV experience. Of course we are carrying many items for his comfort - his gigantic “princey pillow”, his collapsible house, his carrier in the truck with a pillow on top and cushions inside, his stuffed bunny on whose lap he sits, toys and treats. Even with all that, he used to hide under bed pillows every time we prepared to pull up stakes and move. He advanced to only cowering in the open when it was time to put him in the truck, and now all he does is to shoot us a slightly snarly look.

And this is the first trip in which he has not prowled on guard all night long the first night out. Doesn’t sound like a big deal, that is until you realize that he weighs 14 pounds and that our prone bodies in bed were on his continual prowling route - check out one window, walk across us, check out the other window, peep upon jumping down with a thud, walk across floor (thunka-thunka-thunk), jump up at next window, and so on, alllll night loooong. Hmmm, just realized his weight equals his age - gad, I hope that trend doesn’t continue.

Blogging, heat, bighorn sheep . . .
Was it only two days ago that I published my first blog? Oldest son Darren called and when I told him I’d done a blog about travel, he renamed it a trog. Not long ago, I had no idea what a blogger was, and now I are one. . . I think it’s going to be fun and a good way to share. It was not nearly as simple to do, however, as the website proclaimed. In fact, by the time I finally got it set up, I was to the tearing-hair stage and enlisted Chris to lend a hand on the final niceties. There are obviously refinements that can be done; I will work on them gradually.

We are proudly a two-laptop family now, thus Chris can write music whilst I am blogging, journaling, charting family history and so on. Friend Pam just reminded me via email of some time in the distant past when she and I were designing ads at the Real Estate Guide and I was upset with Dad because he was touting the email type of communication and I thought it too impersonal. She opines that he set me on the road to computer geekdom. I fear that particular memory has been wiped from my brain’s data bank. Pam’s retention of minutiae I lost five minutes from its occurrence is phenomenal, so I’m sure it’s true. I just can’t get it on my recall screen.

Spectacular beyond spectacular! The drive we’ve just completed is one of the most incredible I’ve ever seen. We’re in Moab at an elevation of 4,200 or so feet, as opposed to the environs we’ve just left, 6-10,000 feet. I’d like to say this is of no consequence; however, the thermometer tells me differently. I’m already sorry I bought the thing. It sits there on the window at 6 p.m. registering somewhere around 95, as if laughing at me. Oh well, I can truthfully say this location was Chris’ idea. The views from our Spanish Trail RV Park are fabulous, but I think my activity of choice here will be a Colorado River raft trip, perhaps one each day.

On our way today, we pulled out to a place called the Devil’s Canyon overlook. To stretch our legs and see the sights, we walked off a ways toward the rim and spooked up a bighorn sheep. For reasons known only to himself, sandal-clad Chris had to go down a gravelly, slippery incline right to the absolute edge of the abyss in order to call back a description of the animal’s route despite my continuing whimpers of dismay (we’ve since had words). The sheep worked its way under the ledge on which Chris was poised at the edge of disaster, came around to the other side and posed quite nicely for his portrait. (Chris and I then had more words.) I was really concerned when I noticed that Chris had the bird book slung over his shoulder - that’s my irreplaceable birding journal!