Early season in the La Sals

Spring stirs up a deep, irrational longing in me for a return to the mountains. As much as I love the red-rocks and canyon-country. I’ve been desperate for the sweet vanilla scent of ponderosa and the softness of pine needles.

The La Sals

For my solo backpacking trip this weekend, I stay in the foothills. Starting from a trailhead less than 10 miles from home. The high country is still blanketed in snow. Jeep roads take me to a singletrack path that I’ve never been to before.

Looking down at the red rocks of canyonlands

North-facing slopes are still patchy even this low.

Just like salmon are imprinted on their natal waters, I must have been imprinted on ponderosa pines growing up in Oregon. A strong sense of home washes over me when I stink my nose into their bark and inhale.

I love finding groves of Douglas-firs too. There is just a narrow range that they are found in the La Sals now. But I like to think about how they were everywhere here during the Ice Age, when the giant camels, ground sloths, and mammoths were roaming around southeast Utah.

Butterflies are everywhere! It seems like hundreds are darting about. I stop and gaze. How mesmerizing to see so many! It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

Flocks of painted ladies

The only checkered whites that slowed down enough to photograph were the ones that were otherwise engaged.

Satyr comma

I am thrilled to find another trailhead for a singletrack that veers up a canyon. Not on any of my maps. The La Sals are like this. So many trails, both marked and unsigned, not on the 40-lats or Trails Illustrated maps, or any of my Gaia GPS layers. So I follow them to see where they go, and make the appropriate corrections with my sharpie. I’ve grown to love this about the La Sals, this gift of exploration that they provide.

Delighted to find a new trail

Until I get up above 8500 feet and the trail disappears under the snow and I can’t tell where to look. Just another reason to come back later!

Back at a lower elevation, I set up the tarp in a spot where I know I will get too much wind but where the views are breathtaking. There is so much time to watch the clouds move and to feel the soft pine needles under me. I love how time feels so expansive on nights when I am alone in the mountains.

A sweet spot.

In the middle of the night, the springtime winds batter me and steal my warmth. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not that cold. And I just roll with the winds and they seem more like a familiar friend then a problem, after all these years. Just part of springtime in Utah.

Simpson's hedgehog cactus, which is only found at higher elevations

Larkspur, one of the few flowers out this early.

Davis Canyon

A weekend backpacking trip to Davis Canyon. I’d overlooked this corner of the Needles District of Canyonlands. A nine mile long 4WD-only road made it seem inaccessible.

It shouldn’t have since it turned out to be a pleasant walk. And some nice Ancestral Puebloan sites in the canyon.

After a few hours of walking, chasing butterflies, and botanizing, I finally got to the trailhead (and park boundary). A couple in a Jeep were just getting back after their dayhike. "Did you walk all the way from the highway," they asked (surprised). I nodded. "Are you on a pilgrimage?" I didn't know what to say. But the whole rest of the day I kept thinking about how neat that was. If I were on a pilgrimage, what kind would it be?

Seeker of red rocks and sand

It is true that I've been trying to hike every trail and non-technical canyon in the Needles. Not for any reason other than the pure joy of exploration and satisfying my curiosity.

Ancestral Puebloan granary

Is there such thing as a butterfly pilgrimage? The canyon was alive with flittering and fluttering. I always delight in just watching their various flight patterns and bursts of color.

Painted lady

Beyond the spring at the mouth of the canyon, Davis Canyon was bone dry. Not something I’d expected in this above-average snowfall year when everywhere else seems to be quite wet and saturated. Apparently, there are fewer Ancestral Puebloan dwellings and sites here due historical scarcity of water.

Target-style petroglyph

Still, what sites are here are very concentrated. And I was satisfying to see the well-known pictographs with a similar motif to the Four Faces and Thirteen Faces I’d seen in adjacent canyons.

Five Faces

Rather than explore the upper reaches of Davis Canyon, I was drawn to the lush riparian area near the trailhead.

Towering cottonwoods

Delicious spring water. Maybe it tasted so good because I'd been slogging through deep sand all day in the heat.

A few side canyons north of Davis Canyon beckoned as well. I scrambled up to a granary and shimmed along a ledge to get a closer look. Always when it’s time to come down, I wonder what-am-I-doing-up-here.

Natural Bridge up another side canyon

Climbing up high above camp

Sunset

Clouds had been rolling through all day but the thunder and lightening didn’t start until dusk. I found a sheltered hidey-hole tucked between junipers and settled in for the night.

There really is nothing like the sound of rain striking DCF. I smiled and fell back to sleep even more deeply.

While I missed having company for this trip, I admit that I savor my solo mornings. Waking before dawn, packing up quickly, hiking as I watch the sunrise.  A time I feel most at peace.

Evening primrose in the morning.

Instead of taking the 4WD road back, I decided to follow a purposeful-looking cattle trail. It took me to all the exciting places I’d missed— solitary shade-trees with thick carpets of cowpies below and extensive mudflats. It kept me above the wash for a more expansive view for several miles— much further than I’d have expected- before it veered off into another canyon. A fun end to the trip!

The very faint Cow-Pie High Route Alternate.

The view from up there

“I wonder what the view looks like from up there,” I often think to myself. This weekend I got in a solo backpacking trip where I had the opportunity to discover just that.

I couldn’t find much information about this area. Just some reports about the 4WD roads that come in from the other direction. Definitely not a backpacking destination. Fine by me.

A sure sign I’ve crossed over from the National Park into BLM land.

The wind is bone-chilling on the open plateau. I take a detour up a canyon to see if a spring shown on the map is flowing.

All the water is frozen solid. Not what I was hoping for.

There are a few potholes filled with ice. I wack at them with my poles, hoping to break through to get at liquidy goodness underneath. But it’s too thick. I resort to melting snow for water.

A place to climb out of the canyon.

The wind gets worse near the high point. It should be the hottest part of the day. But I am wearing all my clothes (raingear, down coat, even my down balaclava) and hiking uphill and still can’t get warm.  When all my fingers go numb, I almost give up. But there is that drive inside. Not sure where it comes from. But it pushes me forward. Upwards.

At the rim, the view is even more breathtaking than I’d imagined. I'm glad I kept going.
All of the sudden, I enter a nature documentary. A golden eagle swoops overhead, then spirals around to join another eagle. They grasp talons and spin downward. Then finally, they let go and swoop back upwards. WOW! I’d heard eagles do this as a courtship behavior and to reinforce pair bonds. Seeing it in person I am completely awestruck.

This eagle came close! This photo is taken on my crappy iphone (i.e. no zoom).

I leave the eagles in peace and retreat. A few miles to the west, I set up my tent in the lee of a large rocky outcrop of sandstone. From here, I can see my park in the distance. My park I keep thinking. Mine.

But of course none of this is really mine.

After the 35-day government shutdown ended, HR got my paperwork through in record time and I started back as a “permanent” this week. I thought I would feel a sense of stability, but the shutdown shook away all illusions of that. Nevertheless, I am incredibly grateful for being able to live in this place that fills my heart with joy.

The next morning, I follow some old ranching roads to a wash and then turn up the wash into a nameless canyon that looks interesting on my map. Will I get to an impassible pour-off? Will I find a spring? Every twist and turn seems like an exciting adventure. Surely not as spectacular as other places, but as usual, the quiet and lack of human footprints makes up for it.

More frozen potholes.

Overall, a quiet trip. I continue to be astonished by the seemingly endless opportunities for hiking and exploring provided by the BLM land surrounding the more famous landmarks around Moab. It still feels like I could pick a different area every weekend and never get bored.

Still pretty wonderful, even if they are faint and take some imagination to see the bighorn sheep.

Land of a Thousand(ish) Icy Stream Crossings

A Douglas fir cone! In the bottom of the wash. Even though the canyon here at the mouth is full of sagebrush, willow, and cottonwoods. Anticipation heightens. Doug fir can only grow in the coolest, wettest of places in southeastern Utah. A relic of the past. Not like on the west coast where it is everywhere. Is there a grove of douglas fir higher up? Was this cone carried down the canyon in a flood? Will we find where they are hiding?

Low down where the cottonwoods and junipers grow.

One of the reasons I’d suggested this canyon for our backpacking trip this weekend is because I’d read there was ponderosa way up the canyon. And anyone who knows me knows how much I adore the puzzle-shaped bark and vanilla-scent, the soft needles. But I hadn’t thought there might be doug fir too. How neat! Oh what critical pieces of information are left out of most trip reports and guidebooks!

The stream is partially frozen over. Ice bridges. Sometimes just thin ice on top, not enough to support a person. It’s never clear how thick until you feel the ice crack and the cold bite on your toes. No other footprints before us. Just gotta go for it. For a thousand water crossings. Well, not really but who’s counting? Certainly not us.

Bridge or thin ice?

Icy hop scotch.

Around the bend, a sunny, sandy bank! In contrast to the ice, it’s warm enough to lay out like lizards. Packs become pillows. I sink into the sand and bask in the surprisingly warm afternoon glow of the late-January sun. The babbling of the stream chasing away all thoughts. My body relaxes for what seems like the first time in the weeks since the government shutdown began. For a moment, I’ve forgotten to feel stressed about the two paychecks I’ve missed (and will never get because I won’t get backpay) and how my savings are slipping away.

Also in a sunny alcove, that which is left behind by the ancient ones.

Finally the sun dips behind the cliff wall. The temperature plummets instantly. Time to move.

I love this contrast between the warmth and the ice. How quickly it all changes.

Douglas fir cones.

The douglas fur and ponderosa appear! So good to be among them. Tucked away in the quiet canyon. I think about how this moment is just a blimp in the span of time. How many years have these big old trees seen?

Land of ponderosa.

Towering.

Getting water at camp right at sunset.

The next day, leaving the canyon, the budding willows shine in the sunlight. Change is inevitable.

Hope.

Seven dayhikes in Arches

For the first seven days of the government shutdown, the park remains open thanks to funding from the state of Utah.

I’m still glowing from accepting my first “permanent” position with the NPS after being a seasonal for so long. Even though the shutdown has halted my paperwork from going through and I’m in that weird in-between place of having accepted their offer letter but not officially hired back yet. I still feel a deep peace at finally having some stability. And deep joy at having work that is meaningful and feels valuable.

I’m not supposed to start working for a few more weeks anyway. Once the students are back in school from the winter holiday.

So I celebrate. Seven days of dayhiking in "my" park. Venturing into the familiar but overlooked. Finding the surprising and the new-to-me.

Most people don’t think of Arches when they go looking for solitude and wildness. Most visitors concentrate on the instagram-worthy iconic sites. I know I did when I first started volunteering here three years ago.

Before I learned how to follow washes and slickrock. How to travel without leaving any lasting footprints.

Just following the slickrock.

Along the washes.

I go in search of perspectives I’ve never had before.

Though I've driven that road down below countless times.

Relics of the past that are tucked away.

Stumbling upon water in unlikely places.

Perched up high.

I find the delightful contrast between the expansiveness of seeing miles in all directions and the narrowness where you can’t even turn your head as you squeeze between the fins.

I love squeezing through and not knowing what will be on the other side.

Listening to the sounds of ravens. Not seeing anyone else.

I stumble on an arch that’s not on my maps. Get a taste of discovery. (Even though it’s just re-discovery.)

Another not-so-famous arch.

One day, Mags’ friends come to town. He has to work but I enjoy a wonderful morning exploring the Fiery Furnace with them. One of my favorite field trips that I do for my job is our 3rd grade field trip to the Fiery Furnace. And their youngest son happens to be in 3rd grade! Perfect! It makes me so happy to share it with them!

Going with some new friends to the Fiery Furnace.

A wonderful week.