Steve in Public : Days 169-171: The Eclectic Desert: Utah Byways

The Eclectic Desert: Utah Byways

Days 169 – 171

June 15 – 17

Moab to St. George, Utah

One of the sights from last night at Natural Bridges National Monument.

Catching one of the natural bridges at sunset.

Last night, dark clouds moved in, creating the first bleakly lit morning of the trip. As I left the campsite, the plants emitted an unforgettable scent, nature’s own premonition of rain. As I pulled onto the main road, the first light raindrops speckled my windshield and facemask. I stopped for a moment, donned my waterproof layers, and pressed onward. Coming from Natural Bridges in the middle of the Utah desert, there was no overhead cover for 40 miles; the only thing left to do was ride. The first rain ride of my trip reminded me of the serenity created by this weather, despite the drenching side effects. The raindrops played a disharmonic percussion symphony against my helmet, and the cool air rushed by me, carrying with it a whole desert’s worth of plants.

Utah's desert roads are remote the way you imagine a desert to be.

The rains stopped, and I stopped to doff the now-warming waterproof layers. The road entertained me with towering rusted mesas speckled green and divided by sandstone canyons carved by ancient rivers long dried up. The air here was thin, and the winds stagnant, and 80 mile-per-hour flight came far too easily.

Crossing the Colorado River on Highway 95, the stratified plateaus gave way to pockmarked igneous oxidized iron monoliths. The road followed an impossible pathway through these stone structures that could have only been carved over eons by the powerful erosive forces of wind, water, heat, and ice. Today, Glen Canyon glowed beneath.

Crossing the Colorado River.

Dried up canyons are plentiful in the endless arid landscape.

West of Hanksville and now on Highway 24, the road followed the windswept monochrome desert until it reached Capital Reef. Sandstone again lunged from the earth, conquered only by the rivers that have and still do run through it.

South of Torrey on Highway 12, the road climbed a steep-grade serpentine towards the summit of Boulder Mountain. Pines and Aspens leapt from the ground. At the summit at 9,600 feet, the descent began, and I wished that I had a warming layer. But I opted to continue without stopping, knowing that the high desert below would provide me with all of the warmth I needed. To my left in a valley far below, all of the colors on God’s green earth were painted on the mountains and valleys.

The view is always best from the top of the mountain.

The valley disappeared. I dove into the Dixie National Forest, careening and cornering to alieve the danger of the mountain’s southern slope, dipping below the Ponderosa Pine Belt and leaving far behind the sub-alpine furs.

Passing the boundary of Escalante-Grand Staircase National Monument, I entered the Henri Mountains, and the level ground that used to flank the narrow road fell far below. Speed limits plummeted as the road traced the winding and climbing and diving ridgeline.

I climbed to the western end of the Colorado Plateau, the Panguitch, top of the Grand Staircase and home of Bryce Canyon, the delicately eroded wall of the plateau. The sun was sinking low to the West, and blinded vision was now part of the hardship of the ride. I struggled to find a place to camp for free nearby Cannonville, but someone pointed me 15 miles up the road to camp next to the front entrance of Bryce Canyon. I pulled into the lot with 30 minutes of sunlight to spare, made quick friends with a couple in a camper, and claimed a spot just on the other side of their site. I kept quiet, set up camp, parked the bike, and crawled into a warming bed as the cooling twilight faded, revealing unmistakable Venus and the first of the boldest stars in the sky.