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would drop them off at Green River and pick them up at the
confluence. A trip about 120 miles down the Green from
Green River or 70 miles down the Colorado from Moab.
More people took the Green River route because there was
less traffic and nicer pull outs for the night.
We knew the Green was running about 7 gallons per minute,
GPM, which is pretty fast. The Colorado even faster. Spring
rates, just under flood stage, ran about 10 GPM. The power
of the jet boat comes in handy against that kind of current.
It wasn’t long before we could see Dead Horse Point above
us, as we approached the Horseshoe bend.
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Looking up from the river we were surprised that the cliffs
were rough and ragged. There didn’t seem to be any easy way
down. They all looked like they would crumble.
With the exception of yhe Moab area there areas no open
areas. The river’s carving of the cliffs was always apparent..
Always on both sides, sometimes steeper or higher, but always
there.
Along the shore these African Tamorsk trees. They are
invasive and take over wherever there was any vegetation. We
stopped at one point to see some petrified trees. Doug
rammed the boat’s bow into the sandy shore.
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With a lower, summer river level, it was easy for him as the
shore line was more gradual. He quickly tied up around the
bushes. On shore we followed a narrow tunnel path through
the brush.
Beyond the brush was a little slope toward the cliffs, and sure
enough petrified palms lay covered with sandstone, sediment
from centuries ago.
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The river over years had washed away the rock, as it cut it’s
way through the ancient ocean. The Petrified Palms, unlike
the petrified trees in Arizona had very little color. They were
mostly black with a little translucent blue, but no reds, oranges
or creams.
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We passed several kayak ‘pick-up’ boats on the way down
stream. They didn’t always have any passengers.
Kayakers often choose to paddle down the Green River from
the town of the same name. It is more pleasant trip. The river
twists and turns more . The flow on the Green is less, and
there are plenty of places to stop and pitch a tent for the night.
At the confluence the Moab tour agencies meet them, load
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their boats and gear and take them back, up the Colorado to
Moab.
It seems like a grand adventure. One that we would love to
take in our two 14 foot Kayaks.
When we turned around and headed back up river the jet boat
really took off, leaving a long rooster tail. The kids loved it
and the adults loved the breeze as the temperature was nearing
100 degrees at the bottom of the canyon. We were back at the
boat ramp in less than 45 minutes.
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Doug left the boat tied, and drove us to our lunch area. It was
a nice ramada along the river called Gold Bar. We were to be
met there by the Tag-A-Long lunch brigade. 15 minutes later
they hadn’t shown, 1 hour still no show. Doug called several
times with no success. While waiting the kids went swimming.
The men went swimming. Doug went swimming. The women
went swimming. Everyone except Arlene and I went
swimming.
Yet, no lunch. Finally, we all got on the bus a drove back into
Moab. Still nothing happened. Finally, someone went
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to the grocery and bought a lousy lunch for us. It was very
disappointing.
We were sweltering in the afternoon heat, when a couple of
Ford Explorer 4x4’s showed up and the fellow guides asked if
we were ready for our afternoon run into the Canyonlands.
Again I expressed our dissatisfaction, but one of these drivers
was up to it. He responded positively. Talked to all of us
about the trails we were going on and a special Arch that he
wanted to take us to. Calmed, we moved toward the Fords as
he talked to the office help outlining his plan.
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CHAPTER 9
CANYON TRAILS
LONG CANYON
SHAFER TRAIL
WHITE RIM OCEAN
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It was good that this guide took over, and put together a plan,
because everyone was pissed. We couldn’t all fit in one SUV
so the French families went in one, while Arlene and I jumped
into the lead vehicle. We’d see the others later on the White
Rim, but how fortunate it was to be with our guide?
It didn’t take long before we we’re back on Potash Road. I sat
in front with our guide, and driver Mike Coronella. Arlene
was behind me.
We turned off the paved road and started up this dusty road
passing a short 50 feet long barbed wire fence.
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The first several posts were imbedded in sand.
Only a few inches were showing, while the top end stood
above the ground. Mike first pointed to the fence and said
‘Just one rain storm brought down enough dirt to bury the
posts’. We are forever reminded that it’s the debris, carried by
the water that cuts into the earth leaving canyon and ravines
behind. The debris does more damage than the water.
We we’re headed up the Long Canyon Road. It twisted,
turned and ran along deep ruts, over slick rock that was pretty
smooth. But, sometimes it took a bit to get on to it.
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It might be a foot or more up and another foot off of it. This
rock gets slippery when wet and is pretty dangerous. We’d
learn that many things were slippery in the rain. These rocks
were the first. On the sides were deep gullies, yet the canyon
never changed it’s width, about 200 narrow feet. Signs of rain
were often where there were washed out areas of the road.
They never completely stopped us.
As the terrain became rougher and we climbed higher he
stopped to set the hubs on the Ford. They used to have
automatic sets, but when they needed them they wouldn’t
always work. The Tag-A-Long mechanics changed them
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back to manual so they would always work. With them set we
moved on. So this guy was winning our hearts and minds. We
had already forgotten the lousy lunch.
We came upon a rough spot and he told us to hold on. ‘We’ll
not stop or slow down along here.’ We didn’t. It was rough
alright.
Years ago when I was a young boy I use to ride with my
grandmother in her old 1934 Ford. It had that stylish box
shape and was made of heavy metal. The springs didn’t work
to well and the roads were paved, but lumpy. She would drive
over these farm roads like a maniac, and I loved it, bouncing
up and down, until I bounced all the way to the roof. That
hurt. I settled down real quick, but never forgot the
experience.
This was similar. We were tossed left then right. The seat fell
from under us then rose, We dropped left, then right, and here
came the roof. I shoved my feet against the floor board, and
pushed my back against the seat harder and harder until I was
actually stabilized. The tossing turning and bumping
continued.
Both Arlene and I were thrown around like rag dolls. I
suggested she tighten her seat belt which didn’t do much good,
and push hard against the floor, and the back of the seat. We
would get better at taking these rough patches. Afterward we
both would suffer from sore backs from being bounced
around.
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Meanwhile our guide had driven over this area without losing
his grip of the wheel or being bounced off his seat. He steered
the Ford over and around the ruts, the boulders and the rock
shelves without ever losing control.
A little further up the canyon there was another vehicle pulled
over to the side. The only spot on the road that you could.
back into. The road as all those that traveled it knew was only
one way. No one was allowed to come down. However, not
everyone knew the rules and many would venture down the
road, get stuck, crash into the side walls, or get hung up on the
ruts.
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We came upon two foolish young couples, that were stuck on
the road.
Mike was pleasant toward them. They were two German
couples, by their accents. They were afraid, way beyond their
ability, and didn’t think they could go any further. He talked
to them encouraging them to continue. He told them how to
navigate the next area, one of the rough patches, by speeding
up and never stopping.
The next group we came upon were in the middle of the road.
Their minivan was perched across a deeply rutted part, with
the front bumper up on the side of the road, one wheel in a
rut, the transaxle stuck on the ridge and one rear tire in the
other rut. The van was kitty cornered.
These young folks had no clue. They couldn’t move, didn’t
have a cell phone or survival gear or anything to help them
out. Mike wasn’t as generous with them. He attached the
pulley cable to the bumper of the van and pulled it scrapping
and banging off the side, and over the rutty area in the road to
the side.
He expressed how foolish they were and that they should find
some way to get out of there. We then gunned it leaving the
bewildered folks behind in something like a cloud of dust,
driving past them, over the deep ruts and further up the
canyon.
So why not ask about the rules of the road. You know like
what’s the etiquette.
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Does an Ocean liner have the right of way over a sailboat? No
it doesn’t, but don’t try testing it. The least power a boat has it
becomes the one with the greatest right away on the sea. But,
that’s not so far fetched. We’re on a one lane trail, hardly a
road, with a top speed of 5 to 8 miles per hour.
Here’s the scoop, the rules for those that would follow them.
The uphill vehicle has the right away. The one with less power
has the right away. If it has less power than the other; a
peddled bike over a motorcycle, and it over an auto, has the
right away.
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Here we go again, hold on! Around a turn and we
unbelievably dropped two feet into a dust bowl. Then up on
one side and down again.
Dust on these roads is like ice. You slip and slide without any
control. We dug out of the hole and continued on a slant
careening first to the left and then up and to the right. We
turned a tight corner and bumped up on a massive rock, then
back down into the dust sliding to the inside towards the wall.
Ahead was a small opening.
A large boulder had caved off the cliffs. This one was an
entire cliff size rock. Shaped like an arrowhead only 35 feet
high and 20 feet thick. It lay at an angle across , really over the
road with a small bit of light coming from the other side. We
were barreling towards it jiggling and bouncing, with my feet
smashed against the floor board.
We were on it in a flash, and miracles of miracles, we actually
fit. Beyond it Mike-the-amazing slowed down, and for the
first time stopped to see that his buddy in the other Ford had
gotten through okay.
The boulder evidently had fallen onto the road blocking the
passage. He and several other guides drilled holes in it and set
dynamite to blow a path through it. Otherwise leaving the
remains in the roadside.
We continued on up the trail, until reaching the top of the
mesa, the plateau. The Canyonlands’ Isle in the sky, 6,000 –
7,000 feet above the Potash Road and the Colorado River.
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We had made it. I should explain that the photos that I took
along the way, were areas less bumpy and smoother parts of
the road. By looking at them you might think the road was
plowed flat to traverse. I suppose the Germans and the other
folks thought that too until it was to late for them, and there
was nowhere to turn around.
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We had just come up Long Canyon Road, but when we got to
the top of the ‘Isle’ we were on the Shafer Trail. We’re use to
this kind of changing road names in the East, but not so much
here in the west. Maybe, because there’s fewer roads, less
competition and larger political areas.
Ever since we first came to Canyonlands in the summer of
2000 we were in awe of views over the edge of the Isle. The
Shafer Trail struck our imagination more than any site. We
always dreamed of traveling down it to the White Rim. Even
after our discovery of hiking along the closed roads in Capital
Reef we never thought we’d walk on this trail.
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We were aided by the first sign at the turn off to the trail.
‘NO PEDESTRIANS
NO ATV’s
NO FOOL’s.
We supposed the latter was gratis, but probably encouraged
folks, like the two we passed coming up the trail.
The impossible nature of such a dream was the view of the
Shafer Trail that we’d first seen near the Islands Visitors
Center in June of 2000.
It was the access road to the ocean floor. It was stunning and
so scary that all thoughts of reaching the bottom disappeared.
The Shafer Trail literally descended down the sheer cliffs four
miles. Turning, switching and dropping until it crawled out on
to the dry ancient ocean floor, and became the White Rim
Trail that circled around the ocean floor.
Here we go down the Shafer Trail. It’s not down the way we
came up, because if you don’t already know. Going one way is
one experience and going the other is totally different. So
here’s to a new adventure. One ever so much scarier than
climbing up this cliff.
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On the way up Mike had won our confidence. Along the top,
before descending he gave us a quick resume of his life. Here
are some of his credentials and exploits. He was from New
Jersey where he went to Rutgers and was preparing to join his
father’s financial firm. His sister a Microbiologist and brother
a Chemical Engineer.
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Both he swears would trade places with him in a moment. He
came out to Colorado for a ski trip during a school break and
never made it back home. He says he tended bar in an
exclusive resort and made so much money he didn’t need to
work during the off season.
I could vouch for that as I’d spent a year in Italy studying
Montessori for 6 to 12 year olds. My expenses for the entire
year, were equal to a 5 day vacation my brother’s family spent
on a skiing trip to Saint Moritz, Switzerland.
During his summers he camped and explored the Utah
southern desert and mountains. He says there’s only one way
to know the land and that’s to get rid of all the machinery and
equipment. Pack up 40 pounds of camping gear, get good
boots, a compass and a topographical maps.
We’ve written several times how we think you can get
acquainted with the land. Auto doesn’t do it, but an ATV, or
horseback, or hiking would. He obviously didn’t agree.
By hoofing it on your own you learn from the animals, the
plants, the sun and clouds about what’s happening in the
desert. He says he can tell the time of day within 15 minutes.
The birds, beetles and plants would tell him when the weather
would change, before he could see it in the sky. Signs of water
are available from the plants and animals.
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Holy Miracle! He sounds like Edward Abby. The man who
stands above all in explaining how to understand the desert.
‘Add another 30 lbs of water to your pack, and off you go into
the finest most desolate and beautiful area in the United
States.’
For a couple of summers he hiked from Arches along the La
Sal Mountains, Escalante Staircase to Bryce and Zion. He’s
helped set up an 800 mile trail across Utah and wrote a guide
book for it.
Unlike the Appalachian Trail it requires more advanced
planning as there is no trail maintenance, or way points where
supplies can be easily gotten along the way.
He has made this trip three times in between bar tending
during the winter. He continues to camp and hike with
enthusiasm. He has taken a new wife, one that’s more in tune
with his aspirations and life style.
As an example he says he was scheduled to lead a group into
The Maze this coming week. The Maze as we’ve said is not
accessible. Only Abbey’s fictitious character George Dukus of
the ‘Monkey Wrench Gang’ has been able to enter, stay for
weeks, survive and get out alive. The Maze is not a place to
fool with.
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Next week the temperature is supposed to be 115-120 in
Moab. That means it will be even hotter in The Maze.
Anyone who knows what they are doing wouldn’t go into The
Maze under those conditions. He figured if the group knew
what they were doing they might not need him to guide them.
Further it would take 5 hours of rugged 4x4 driving to get
there, and that’s where they would leave the truck and
machines behind to proceed with their exploration. The Maze
is a tangle of towers and fins that resist mapping and is very
difficult to traverse.
He and his wife agreed. If they didn’t know what they were
doing then they shouldn’t be there. And he wasn’t going to be
responsible for them by taking them there.
WOW!! We’ve never heard such a story or explanation of this
country. Wouldn’t it be great to have Ranger lectures like that.
He says she had saved a few dollars which would tide them
over if Tag-A-Long fired him over it. I’d say they would be
crazy to let him go, when he was the one that saved our tour
earlier this morning. He is also an EMT, which gave us a great
deal of comfort, even though the waver we’d signed released
the company from any accidental hazards. The National Park
required any tour company to carry $500,000 on each
customer.
Then there’s the lobbying he’s done for the 800 mile trail
across Utah. It’s called the ‘Dukus Trail’ after Edward Abby’s
character. He’s lobbied the Utah legislature, and even gone to
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Washington. He says lobbing corporations for environmental
help is really difficult, where legislatures are a little more
interested, they at least listen.
He believes there are no differences between the park lands on
the plateau and the non-park lands. That’s true, but neither
politicians nor industrialists care about that, so they are not
dealt with similarly. As we have pointed out, just outside of
Dead Horse Point are oil and gas wells, recently drilled thanks
to the Bush administration’s view on the difference in the land.
At night we can see the gas burning off from our campsite.
Finally, before we move to the terrifying drive down the
Shafer Trail Mike talked about his dogs. One in particular was
a Belgium Shepherd. His attitude resembled Ted Kerasotes’.
The author of ‘Merles Door’. A good book on loving and
living with dogs.
We had taken a break while on the flat mesa, with the dust still
between our teeth, but there was no excuse to continue to talk,
while the Trail waited.
This was one of our dreams that we’d conjured up from our
many travels. These dreams come from the Yukon gold rush,
the Chilkoot Trail, the Great Slave lake, Newfoundland and
Labrador, and paddling the rivers of Montana. Some have
been fulfilled, some still swirl in our winter minds.
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The Shafer Trail has a long history, yet one of speculation
rather than written. I said earlier it’s a spoken history, like
drawings from the Petrograph world. It’s believed to have
evolved over many years, from a wild animal path possibly Big
Horn Sheep and later deer, elk and other migratory animals.
Our native peoples may have followed. We know they
inhabited the Moab area for thousands of years. They were
adventurous and daring people. They probably traveled here
years before the Anasazi, the ‘ancient ones’.
For years the path was just that, until the ranchers moved into
the country and used the trail to move live stock up and down,
with Dead Horse Point as a corral. The Trail got it’s present
name during this period, around 1900, from John Shafer a
rancher that used it for his cattle. Later, the opportunists
arrived. The Gold and Silver placers, and then World War II
when the government encouraged uranium miners toward our
atomic age. Little has changed it since the 1940’s and ‘50’s.
Little except the advent of the 4x4s, Jeeps, ATV’s, and
motorbikes, and a population, like the Californios who can
afford these avocations.
Three or four hundred feet from the top edge of the Island-in-
the-Sky is a shear caving cliff. Soft rock that drops straight
down to a crumbling steep layer of landslide debris and red
sandstone. Below this is a shelf that holds up that portion of
the cliff and wall. The shelf begins another combination of
shear straight drop and steep hillsides of large boulders and
debris that’s fallen from above.
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We slowly approached the edge. I couldn’t see beyond it. The
road turned toward the south around a mass of rock, my
knuckles tightened on the van’s handle.
Around the corner it was a slender shelf 7 feet wide, between
the rock wall and the abyss. So far down that you couldn’t see.
It was just enough to cause your heart to start pumping a little
extra and a call to my natural forces my Adrenaline Glands.
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We were now able to see our lives passing before us. We
continued over a few rocks and bumps. Going down would
be nothing like going up. Each bump encouraged us to think
the van might lose it’s footing and slide out over the edge.
We made it beside the wall and began descending. Ahead the
road hugged the wall. Arlene and I were on the inside,
hugging the wall ourselves. On the outside edge of the road
was a mound of dust and sand. It was about 8 inches high,
our tires passed just inside that ridge.
Before we were able to adjust to our side, against the wall we
came upon the first turn. It was steep, turning 120 degrees
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and dropping 4 feet. On the inside the sand debris was packed
high, on the outside was that little ridge. Mike drove into the
middle of the road, turned sharply and slid, yes sliding like on
ice, his back wheels spun around. We were facing a new
direction, fortunately the right one, still on the road, but close,
OH! so close to the edge.
That maneuver stood the hair on our necks straight up. The
dust being so thick that you could slide on it. The road rocks
added to the slippery turn. Our weight was obviously going to
cause us a wild ride. The first and always the worst came up
right after that turn.
We were now on the outside. To boot, calm and collected
Mike told us his next story about a guy from Tampa, Florida
who had a panic attack over these turns. We shrugged it off,
brave as we were and just sweat a little more in 105 degree
heat as we slid around. The temperature was bad enough but
being in the blazing sun as well as on the side of the awesome
view was a bit much.
I concentrated on the rough road ahead. Who knows what
Arlene was looking at. Maybe her eyes were closed tight.
For sure she wasn’t looking just outside her window and down
3,000 feet. If you remember she gets pretty quiet at times like
that. The next turn came up quickly and we had reversed our
position, back against the wall
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.
The first 180 degree turn was coming up. It seemed steeper
than the others, Mike cut the tires sharply running the inside
front wheel into the hillside. It didn’t hold and the front end
slipped back to the middle of the road. It stopped there
before continuing on along a seemingly rougher rut. Mike
pointed out that the road had been graded, and it tilted toward
the inside wall. So when you slip or slide, like under a snow
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cover you don’t slide off the edge and do a ‘Thelma and
Louise’ but slide up against the wall. That was comforting to
know.
Down we continued. When we were on the outside we were
able to see where the road was going, and if anyone was
coming our way. When that occurred we’d mention it and
Mike would either speed up or not, depending on where he
wanted to be when we met them.
Speeding is relative. We’re talking between 3 and 5 miles per
hour, as opposed to our way up at 5 to 8. His choice, greatly
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appreciated by his passengers, was on the inside. Unlike the
Mules of Grand Canyon who stuck their heads out over the
cliffs while resting. Each time he pulled off near a wall we
spontaneously applauded.
Concentrating on the road wasn’t all we did. The sharp turns,
our sliding, the endless feeling of being out of control. No we
really did consider the beauty of the cliffs, and what we were
able to see. The amazing and incredible views out across the
plateau, the canyons we could see into and were headed for.
The colors that dazzled us, pinks, oranges, white, tans, bright
reds, to the darkest burgundies. The shapes of the cliffs.
Many rounded towers looked like pencils standing side by side.
Others were rectangular, and like the cliffs deeply scared. We
wondered how long they would stand before breaking off and
falling into the canyons below, or over the trail.
This land is raw, and with it we can imagine what happens as it
ages, how the sun, rain and wind changes it. We’d imagine
how long they might hold before braking free and crashing
down on the road, or creating a land slide.
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Stopping from time to time we were able to take some pictures
of ourselves with the cliffs behind us. And to peer down a
cliff into a canyon that had been whittled out by these great
forces. We were nearing the bottom, approaching a flatter
area.
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Below all the cliffs was the lighter colored sandy white clay like
shelves. They had scraggly pale green grasses growing on
them This wasn’t a Bermuda lawn grass, neither in color nor
richness. A small pathetic clump here and there was as good
as it got. Even an occasional sage was under-nourished and
under a foot high.
We’d reached a plateau where the road flattened out. Just
minutes before a truck with cleaning gear passed us on its way
up the trail. Mike recognized its significance at once and when
we got to the flat area he pulled over beside a small outhouse.
Take advantage of that pit, he said. ‘It’s just been cleaned.’
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We had actually reached the floor. And it was a relief to
relieve ourselves. We had seen precious few animals for
weeks, and only two Jack Rabbits since being in the
Canyonlands. We’d heard stories, but there were no Big Horn
Sheep, no Golden Eagles, or Antelope. Just a couple of lizards
headed for the shade.
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Across this shelf Mike. drove with utter confidence. Despite
the jostling and continued roughness of the ruts. We were
joyful about being at the bottom. Above us was the massive
80 mile long Island-in-the-Sky, Mesa. It’s cliffs, sides, and
shelves and the trail we’d driven slid and careered down four
miles to get here.
We were on the WHITE RIM’s floor.. If anyone looked
from the top, where we had for so many years, the miniature at
the bottom of the great old ocean was now us.
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Mike came to an intersection. A small sun scorched sign with
two arrows. Straight ahead the White Rim Trail. To the right
Muscleman Arch.
Early, in Moab he had told us that we would love this place
and he wanted to make it a part of the routine tour.
Off we went toward the Arch bumping our way along until we
came upon a turn around. The end of the road with a circular
area to park the vehicles.
We climbed out. Whoa! these trucks need running boards, we
were so high that we just slid off the seats onto the ground.
Getting back in was another story. I clambered up grabbing a
handle. Arlene was much more fun. She needed a boost. One
that I always step forward to offer. Even in this heat it’s a
pleasure.
A short hike over the slick rock and Muscleman Arch
appeared. We were on the edge of a deep canyon. The Arch
unlike all those we’d seen before was a thick shelf of rock that
spanned two points between the shelf. Look carefully to see
it right in front of Arlene.
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You can see from the two photos that we actually walked
across it. It’s scary, a narrow 6 feet wide, and below, gravity
tugged us toward the 700 foot drop. We’d come a long way
and with encouragement, holding hands we walked across the
70-80 foot arch looking straight ahead, not down. Our
thoughts clinging to shear fear, of just below us was the
bottom of the Earth.
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Our return trip was back up the Shafer Trail to the Isle, and
around the hard road back to Moab. It was a piece of cake. In
the Ford we climbed like mountain sheep. Rock solid with
sticky tires instead of feet. Only one thought disturbed us as
we took in the grand sight, the twists and turns.
Mike asked me to see if anyone was coming down. He
couldn’t see around the Ford’s front window post. What!
You say what!!?? It’s not so bad he replied. We do have the
right away, but this post gets in my way so if you’d tell me if
some ones on their way down, I’d appreciate it.
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How long had that post been there? Right, all the while up
Long Canyon, and down Shafer Trail. Wow what a trip. We’d
also passed two other vehicles on our way up, and survived.
Although we think we reached the bottom of the Ocean Floor,
the White Rim, we’re not sure. You see it wasn’t just the deep
cliff side below the Muscelman Arch but a day later we looked
out across the mighty ocean bed and saw the deep ravines and
canyons that the Green River had cut. There really may not be
a bottom to speak of.
That’s okay for us. We were as I’ve said and in my
imagination a miniature item on the bottom of the ocean or at
the center of the Earth.
Several days have passed since our great adventure, and we are
in pain. My ‘something’ around my stomach, intestines, area is
acting up. My muscles in my lower back are sore and I get, a
‘Stop That’ signal down my left leg when I stretch. My right
side is also sore. I’m sure I don’t have a hernia, possibly a
kidney problem, so for two days I’ve drunk gallons of water. If
it’s a stone I’ll try to wash it out.
Arlene of course is cheerful and energized. She grabs her cup
of coffee. Lays back for a while then downs a couple of
ibuprofen, does her back and leg exercises and exclaims that
she is ready to go.
Of course she knows I’m not ready for anything. This will be
another quiet day for us in the air conditioned splendor of
Dead Horse Point’s camp
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.
For an adventure we had gone as much as we could. Yet
when we look out across this great dried up ocean bed our
imagination again takes root. Look for yourself. There is the
Green River traversing through the Canyonlands. It’s over a
hundred miles to where it meets the Colorado. The river
moves quickly, but there are no real rapids, and no falls. It is
so to speak a flat water traverse. Yea! maybe it’s just what we
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ought to consider some day.
Or maybe we should take a drive with a tour guide down to
The Needles District and over land to the great confluence of
these two magnificent rivers.
In either case it’s time for us to pack up and head easterly
toward Colorado and Route 128.
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CHAPTER 10
ROUTE 128: ‘THE RIVER ROAD’
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Once called The Grand River now it’s the mighty Colorado
River is over 1400 miles long and there are many places along
it that are spectacular, from its origin in the Rocky Mountains
to the great dams and lakes in Utah and Arizona, and the
vegetable fields of the Imperial Valley in California.
Even before it reaches Utah it’s the most used and abused
river in the Southwest. Everyone wants their pipes filled with
it. Many rivers contribute, but The Gunnison, The Green and
San Juan are the largest.
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When finally it reaches the Gulf of Mexico there is no flow
left. At best all the water has been used and drained leaving a
trickle into San Luis, Mexico.
Four great dams in Arizona have backed up hundreds of miles
of water. Creating more miles of lakeside than coastal
shoreline along both Washington and Oregon combined.
Water, law and legal issues make it one of the most
convoluted, controversial, and difficult problems in the great
west. Touching every State, Colorado, Nevada, Utah, Arizona
and California from Northern Colorado to the draining of the
irrigation ditches in Southern California.
State Water Associations have tried for years to negotiate the
use of the Rivers water. Drought in the last decade has
heightened their interests.
A lady we met on the trail had a story to tell us about her small
farm and acreage in Colorado. It’s only an example, but spells
out clearly how difficult the ‘First Come - First Serve’ law is
manipulated. She has no water rights, but a creek flows past
her land. She has cut a small channel to divert some water into
her fields.
We have traveled from one end of this great river, a small clear
water creek wading through it, to the free flowing muddy
waters above the dams, and swimming in the crystal clear
waters between dams along the Arizona and California
borders.
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Along these 1400 miles there are plenty of spectacular areas.
Lake Meade, or Lake Powell are incredible to cruise. The
greatest ditch in the world, The Grand Canyon is difficult to
wade or swim in but is viewed by millions every year. The
miles of irrigation in the Imperial Valley create enough food
for our entire country and a lot of the world. Even though the
latter is draining water from every source, including the
Southwestern Aquifer.
Yet, here along the eastern side of Utah, south of Grand
Junction, Colorado is the only road that follows along the river
so closely that you can reach out and touch it, mile by mile,
foot by foot. This is the only stretch that The River is both
wild, free flowing and you can drive beside it.
From Grand Junction it flows south across dry flat and prairie
lands into canyons that it’s created for about 60 miles to the
small town of Moab. It circles the town before flowing
inaccessibly into the Canyonlands National Park, Lake Powell
and The Grand Canyon.
It’s not hard to find The River Road from either direction.
From the north it’s just off Interstate 70 at Cisco, Utah, ‘The
Ghost Town’.
In the south the Colorado circles one side of Moab. Driving
North out of Moab, just before the bridge that leads to Arches
and Canyonlands National Parks is a turn off to a small road.
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ROUTE 128: ‘THE RIVER ROAD’
Don’t miss it because it’s the start of Route 128 the famous
scenic ‘byway’ called ‘The River Road’. We’ve travelled both
ways several times and loved every one. This description is
from Moab north.
If your GPS is on this first turn lets you know how the drive
will be. The receiver cuts off because of the shear wall beside
the road.
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