Dino-Land with the fam
Ashley Valley, Utah, and the town of Vernal call to us with its myriad landscapes and sights, so it's a no-brainer to use the place as a jumping-off spot for meeting up with family adventurers.
Confusion reigned supreme as everyone converged at different times from various directions - a condition we sometimes refer to as Kelley milling. As long as we don't incorporate mooing into our milling around, we eventually pull it together to act less like a herd of herefords and more like real people who make a plan of action and proceed toward it.
The Green . . .
Our niece, Shannon, was the first of the lot to
arrive, so we three enjoyed a jaunt down to the end of Split Mountain Gorge to peruse the
spot where we will take out after our raft trip. The river has carved
its way through some massive sandstone monoliths, sculpting its way
through the earth.
Dinos trod here . . .
Everything hereabouts is dinosaur oriented, appropriately so: the extinct beasts - gargantuan & miniscule - left ample evidence of their passing in this territory.
After the arrival of our daughter & grand, Sara & Tristian, we whetted our appetites for the real deal of dinosaur evidence with a visit to the Utah Field House of Natural History State Park Museum (I am grateful I don't have the job of answering their phone with that moniker!) and marveled at the exhibits while amusing ourselves with selfies, and also wondering at the misspelled labels in the gift shop, which rendered those of the animal world into "criters" instead of critters.
Without a doubt, Sara is my daughter, as evidenced by her inability not to deadhead the petunias outside the museum, even though it would take a month of Sundays to deal with the scores of potted plants lining the streets.
One example of prehistoric prints is on a rock shelf at water's edge by Red Fleet Lake. The bad news is that Red Fleet State Park is closed for the summer while the powers that be do renovations to accommodate more and bigger, the result being that kayaking across to the trackway is not possible. The good news is that there is a walking route to access the area, and walking in is just what we did.
About a mile in, and obviously a mile back: across rolling terrain, sand and slick rock, we amused ourselves with sights along the way as we gradually dropped lower until we were at the shore line, where many critters from ages past left their imprint as they passed.
Those manicured nails give a perspective on the size of a three-toed allosaurus track.
The starkness of the rock art is softened by nature's beauty.
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
The sights along the way . . .
The extreme variations in elevation and topography in this region increase its sightseeing interest, not to mention the historic. A day-long drive up into the Uintas afforded us much to explore, including the fascinating Swett Ranch.
In 1909, a sixteen-year-old Oscar Swett persuaded his mother to file for homestead on an area that he located. He was too young to legally file himself, so when he came of age, he made the leap, leaving his mother to return to town.
Oscar & his eventual wife, Emma, raised nine children on the ranch that he developed by dint of hard work and ingenuity. They utilized horse- and man-power to clear fields and construct numerous buildings, including ever-larger houses to shelter their ever-larger brood, blacksmith shop, root cellar, several barns & shops.
Although I disremember the year, the one concession to gasoline power came when one of Oscar's grown boys purchased a Hudson automobile. Unfortunately, the vehicle never made it home in running condition, but that didn't stop Oscar from dismantling it and utilizing every last part - right down to the door handles - for various tasks around the ranch. His little sawmill was powered by the Hudson engine.
Much of the farm's equipment and furnishings remain from the family's nearly-sixty-year tenure there; the offsprings' memories enhance the experience in touring the place.
I always love the old advertising calendars.
The Uintas, Flaming Gorge . . .
As we continued through the mountains, we attained elevations nearing 9,000 feet, along with views both higher up and down into the depths. Jagged spires soared far above tall timber, while twistings of mammoth solid rock monoliths defied belief. . .
. . . while walks in the forest reveals beauty of an entirely different nature.
A very wet winter and spring has resulted in lakes overflowing their banks and creeks rushing down mountainsides laden with a plethora of clear cold water. We crossed over one rushing stream on a wooden bridge to see where a spring is gushing profusely & noisily, and with great force from within a cave.
We spotted a few bighorn sheep does, one with a bulky tracking collar, and a couple of kids, but failed to spot any bucks with their tell-tale curled horns, much to Sara's dismay.
The Ute Mountain Fire Lookout Tower . . .
. . . was constructed in 1937 by the Civilian Conservation Corps, but has been decommissioned from that duty. It now stands as a monument to days past. Of course we opted to climb the steep precarious steps just to determine if the platform was open.
To our delight, the erstwhile spotter's cabin was not only open, but manned by a charming volunteer couple who shared tales of the tower's useful past. Sam demonstrated use of the Osborne fire finder gadget, with adjunct information shared by the señor.
Some lookout towers are accompanied by a ground-level lodging; Ute Mountain was designed with the cabin as home base, be it ever so humble. Cramped though it is, it would be hard to find fault with the views from up top.
2 comments:
So much fun!
Always fun with you, Shannon!
Post a Comment