Paria Canyon: A Visual Poem

 

I awake in the night and utter a small grunt of discomfort. The echo booms in a dark amphitheater of incredible silence. Strange. I open my eyes and, through the screen of my tent, I see the full moon has set the looming canyon walls alight. Oh, right. Stiffly, clumsily, noisily, I rustle out of my bag, unzip the tent and stand naked in the darkness. Layer after layer of rock face jut around me, some bathed in moonlight, some caped in shadow, like some mad MC Escher sketch come to 3D life. The silence thrums in my ears. Damn. A year shy of sixty and still doing this.

A crack in the Earth. What started as a simple sandy wash turns into a fissure. Deeper and deeper into the rock it twists. Contours of smooth, glistening stone looks not unlike folds of flesh and the entrance feels sexual, forbidden, arousing. But this is primordial love. Cool, dark, hard. The stone looks smooth but is rough as sandpaper. The way is choked with hazards. Choke stones, jammed logs, rockfall, pour offs, quicksand, mud. This is love made real. This is passion to last a thousand lifetimes.

A canyon walk is a simple walk in that there are not a lot of decisions to be made. Like the water, I am just flowing downhill, taking the path of least resistance, clamoring over rocks, ducking around boulders, wading through streams. And if there is a pool of vile, disgusting, sewer slime mud before you, you anoint yourself. And everything you carry. Don't think. Just move. You'll get there. You are there. Meditation in motion.

The colors. They set your eyes on fire. In 1992 I bought a new Jeep Wrangler. The color was marketed as “Canyon Blue.” Most people didn't get it. How can a canyon be blue? But have you ever seen the clear, blue sky from the bottom of a dry, desert canyon? It is a special blue. A blue that will stop you in your tracks. A blue that can make you cry. Contrasted with the rusts and reds and desert varnishes of the rock, it makes you appreciate the artistry of nature. Around every other corner the sunlight catches the leaves of a cottonwood just right and against that background, your eyes explode. I take a thousands pictures. But none of them quite suit. “I think God make most of the world for man,” my hiking companion muses during a snack break, “Farmlands and valleys and harbors and coasts. But some places, I think, He made just for himself. Just for fun.”

Little bluish birds hop down the canyon in front of us. They wait for us to catch up then fly away a few yards ahead. I can't decide if they are somehow picking up tiny insects disturbed by the vibrations of our approaching feet, or acting as our guides. The more I ponder them, the more I'm convinced they are greeting us. Trying to communicate. Come along ! Hurry! See this! You'll be amazed!

No one who hasn't hiked extensively in the desert knows the pure magic of a fresh spring. Tucked in a rock crevice or dripping from a clump of moss, the water tastes better than anything ever. The coldest beer, the finest wine, a chocolate shake never tasted so good. I've often thought that the hardships of hike were worth it just to taste spring water straight from the rock.

Memory falters. I've done this hike before. But nothing is the same. I am not the same. We hike for miles looking for a landmark I remembered from years ago. We walk and walk. Setting a goal only to realize, at the end of the day, we have far surpassed it. The rhythm of moving forward, of passing quietly through beauty is additive. And comforting. It's healing something in our souls.

Wading down the stream. a movement ahead catches my attention. I stop and peer ahead. Suddenly a band of Bighorn sheep explode out of the creek bed where they were drinking and in a few short bounds are standing on a rock face above us. They stop and peer back at us. The expression is clear. Indignation. Annoyance. We apologize and move on. Later, in the shade of a cottonwood, a coatamundi climbs down out of the tree and, in no hurry, starts walking down the trail. He stops, turns briefly and withers me with a look. It's the same expression the bighorn had. I get it. I'm a visitor. I don't belong here. But I should. I want to.

The human mind has a hard time with silence. The modern mind--conditioned with constant buzz and distraction-- even more so. In the quiet of the canyon, snippets of songs fall into the void. And grow. And grow into monsters. The same song line over and over builds from a simple mantra to a sonic obsession. Lying awake for hours in the sleeping bag, the music screams its objections to the Void. When I wake up in the morning, love/And the sunlight hurts my eyes/And something without warning, love/Bears heavy on my mind.../ Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day/Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day/A lovely day/Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day/Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day...

Slowly deadened senses come alive. The flap of a raven overheard is as loud as a jet. The buzz of bees in the dusty scented tamerisk. In the quiet evenings, not only can you actually hear the click of a bat's sonar but you tell by the frequency whether it's actively hunting or just passing by. The feel of the lunch boulder beneath your butt. The sandstone walls along your fingertips. The taste, the actual taste of water. Walking through thickets of sage. The rustle of movement—there. And there... A collared lizard bathing in the sun. This is what it means to be alive. Really alive. In the moment. Aware of details. Mind relaxed and senses frolicking with joy. Even as I realize this, I know it is all temporary. Soon I will be back in the modern world and this feeling will fade. The memory of the feeling will fade. And all that will be left is a vague longing, an ache to get back here. Somehow. Someplace.

Up and Over: a backyard bike adventure.

When one thinks of adventure, one usually conjures up visions of alpine daring, whitewater adrenalin, or maybe deep jungle exploration. But there are many kinds of adventure, some large, some small. For those of us with common jobs, ordinary responsibilities and limited resources, we usually, out of necessity, opt for the small.

Nothing wrong with that. I personally define adventure as any endeavor in which the outcome is unknown. Depending on your level of security, physical condition and financial health, this could mean anything from walking around the block to making your rent at the end of the month. In fact, stress and adventure are two sides of the same coin. Heads: I'm freaking out. Tails: what a great adventure!

I'm being a little glib, but I still believe that everyone needs a little uncertainty in their life. There is nothing worse than a completely predictable, completely safe, routine life. Not everybody has the money or the body to climb Everest, but everyone can dream and explore. Push their own boundaries. Even in their own neighborhood.

Over the years, I've come to perfect the art of the mini backyard adventure. These are little “projects”-- usually in the near vicinity-- that I can dabble with on my infrequent days off. One year, I heard a rumor they were scouting a trail from Sedona to Cottonwood. Using Google Maps and a half dozen day hikes to scout, I pieced together the route for myself and hiked the 16 miles before it officially became the Lime Kiln rail. Another year I put together clues from the internet to find the route of the old wagon road down Grief Hill. It took me three months and a dozen hikes, but I finally found the route. Last year, I again used Google Maps to piece together several trails that would take me from the bottom of the Verde Valley to the top of Mingus Mountain. I'd never heard of anyone who'd done it, but I worked it up for myself, set a date and did it. To real adventurers, these would be considered pretty pedestrian feats. To couch potatoes, they might seem like bold feats of daring-do. I don't know, but I do know I need these little infrequent challenges to stay alive.

This year, I got a new scratch I had to itch. I wanted to ride my bike all the way down Mingus Mountain. Top to bottom. I got the idea a couple years ago when the local bike shop advertised a group ride down the mountain. It was rated expert only. I'm definitely nowhere close to being an expert rider and the singletrack route they had selected looked really extreme. Still I knew that the mountain was covered in old jeep roads and I wondered if I'd be able to piece together a less extreme route. Again consulting Google Maps, I thought I could. So one morning last month, I drove to the top of the mountain where the highway crests the pass and, with my bike and a full Camelbak. started pedaling.

The first pull up the mountain was very familiar. I often park at the pass and rode the rest of way up the mountain on the gravel road. It's a steep, but fairly short pull with a huge payoff –parking your bike on the lip of the hang-glider launch ramp! Today, though, I turned off before the summit and onto a road that paralleled the top of the mountain range. To my surprise, it was downhill –much faster than I anticipated. It was so steep in some parts, I was leaning back and riding the disc brakes. Soon I was at my next turn—Allen Springs Road, which I knew was going to be downhill most of way, but it started out mild enough so I relaxed a little and enjoyed the early morning cruise through the pine forest. At one point I startled a couple mule deer who gave me a curious look before disappearing into the woods.

There was one canyon descent into Gaddes Canyon (the route I used to hike to the top), and other than the steep rocky climb on the other side, I thoroughly enjoyed the scenery on this portion of the ride. As I experienced on my hike, this is the hidden part of the mountain, Thousands live in the foothills, many visit the summit, but this area in between is kind of no man's land with varied micro-climates, running streams, pockets of pines and manzanita groves that drip with solitude that very few ever see.

Shortly after the pull out of Gaddes Canyon, I rounded the shoulder of the mountain and came upon the first expansive view of the Verde Valley. Often times I've sat in my backyard at dusk and seen the headlights of four wheel vehicles appear high on the mountain this spot. Now I was there and, it was at this place, the trail started getting dicey. The descent was steep but, worse, rocky--the kind of loose rocky marble alley that despises bicycles. Those big loose rocks—hit one just right on a bike and it careens you sideways. Almost impossible to roll over them at low speed ,but dangerous as hell any faster. In a couple places I unclipped from my pedals and dragged my feet on the ground while riding the brakes. Rock slalom skiing takes utmost concentration and, though true mountain bikers love this shit, it was the least favorite part of the ride for me.

After the drop from the shoulder of the mountain, the road becomes a shelf road and follows the contours of the mountain at pretty much the same elevation for miles. This was the most enjoyable part of the ride. Without the steep descent or dangerous obstacles (just ignore that huge plummet to the valley on the one side of the road), I was free to enjoy the scenery of the day. I serenely pedaled in and out of little oak groves. Springs appeared on the mountainside and funneled under the road in pipes and then disappeared into the vastness of the other side. The morning was still cool and the trees shaded most of the ride. The whole valley lay spread out below me to the right. I told myself if I ever did this ride again, I would ride this road all the way back to Jerome.

Instead my goal that morning was Cottonwood and my turnoff appeared to my right. I described the ride to a bike group as a long, beautiful gravel ride spaced intermittently with rocky horror death plunges. This was the worse of the death plunges. I didn't even try and ride this one. Riding alone in this remote area, this would be a terrible place to fall. Even an adventure sometimes calls for common sense so I unclipped and walked the bike clumsily down the rocky trail in my steel-cleated bike shoes. Clink, clink, clink. Then, back on the bike, I rode past the huge Copper Chief and Iron King mine fields, forcing myself not to stop and rockhound. Then another steep descent towards Cottonwood. It was at this point, leaning back on the bike and squeezing the brakes, that my wrists just started screaming. I could barely squeeze the brakes hard enough to keep from flying down the hill. Even as I started to curse “meat-cutter wrists,” I realized quite sheepishly, that due to the sustained free fall and my subsequent death grip on the handlebars, they had slowly rotated out of position. The bars were almost upside down and I had been trying to squeeze the brakes from a very odd over/under position. I do carry a small tool kit on the bike, so once I figured out the problem, it was a quick fix.

Once correctly aligned, it was a smooth sail. As I got closer to the foothill subdivisions of Cottonwood, the road gradually improved and I relaxed and let the bike take on some additional speed. By the time I passed the first people I'd seen all morning, I was a blue streak of joy.

It was a great ride. Once in town, I took a short-cut through a new subdivision to my brother's house. Pedaling slowly and savoring my survival, I relaxed and and contemplated the fine morning. People were busy waking up and going about their nine to five day. Construction crews were showing up on the jobsite. Garage trucks were starting their daily prowl. Through the ordinary I rode, a man with a smile, a secret, and another small victory that would fill my heart for a few more weeks.

 

Riding Gravel (since 1974)

The big buzzword in the cycling community today is: gravel. The industry is ramping up production of thousand dollar “gravel bikes.” The internet is filled with “gravel grinder” groups. Races and rides are suddenly being planned on, get this, gravel roads. I have to chuckle. Hell, I've been riding gravel since 1974.

On my 13^th birthday I received a much-coveted and drooled over Huffy 10-speed. Back in the early seventies those tall, slim tire, steel bikes were the rage—transforming an industry that was almost exclusively geared toward children to a more adult orientation. Man, when I got that ten-speed, I l felt like a real racer—like that kid from Breaking Away (even though the movie wouldn't come out for another five years). The future was so close, I could pedal to it. And over the next few years, I pedaled that bike all over the farmland country roads.

Now, back in those days, kids and bikes went hand in hand. From the time we could ride, we were on our bikes, pedaling off to each others houses, riding across the farm fields as a short-cut to our “forts.” Those were different days. We were pretty much free to ride wherever we wanted—our range was only as limited as our legs (though we were instructed to stay off the state highway). Most of our bikes were ancient hand-me-downs--old cruisers from older siblings we dusted off from the barn and re-purposed for our uses. I remember I rode an old English Racer for years and, because we rode them through mud and fields, we stripped all the fenders and unnecessary accoutrements and basically made defacto mountain bikes-- years before they became a thing.

When I got that ten-speed, however, my range suddenly expanded. Not only was it fast and efficient making it easier to go longer distances, it was a “road” bike. Now the highway was no longer out-of-bounds. I remember the first great adventure of my life, two neighbor kids (my cousin, Curt Groat, and a friend) planned a summer day ride that would take us all the way to Lexington and Lake Huron. Back then, Lexington was a magical place for us kids—usually a special holiday destination for the family. This trip would be our first visit on our own. No parents, no cars, no rules. And it was an ambitious 40 mile ride. Once underway, it was obvious that a long highway ride was going to be different than messing around on our little back roads. This was going to be more of a grind and, with high speed traffic whizzing by inches away, it took a different level of concentration. Also, Curt and I soon realized our riding companion wasn't in good enough shape for the ride. He lagged behind, complaining of mysterious bike problems. We egged him on the best we could and, to his credit, he made it all the way to Croswell before calling his Mom--the 70s kid's version of a SAG wagon.

Curt and I continued on. I remember cresting that last hill before the lake and gliding down that long grade into town—thinking we actually did it. I don't remember what we did specifically once we got there. I think we had an ice cream cone at the Diary Queen and I know we rode the bikes down to the beach, but I don't think we went swimming or anything. I do vividly remember, though, the trip back. In the afternoon the traffic increased considerably and the big semis would blow by us inches away and buffet us in their backwash. Eventually, I lost my nerve completely and convinced my cousin we had to get off the highway So on the way back, we took nothing but farm roads. It took a lot longer but, for me, miles of loose gravel and the occasional roving farm dog was a better deal than that terrifying highway. In fact, I hardly ever rode on a highway again.

I did ride that ten-speed all over the Michigan State campus for four years. In fact, when I graduated, for some reason, I insisted on leaving that bike there—chained up to a rack near the Farm Lane bridge. I remember my dad quizzing me when he picked me up because it had been a part of me for so long that it didn't make sense that I would leave it. I don't know why either, but it seemed important. Maybe I needed to leave a piece of myself there. My only regret? I do not have a picture of that “Mellow Yellow” ten-speed anywhere.

Fast forward to living in Sedona in the late eighties/early nineties. Mountain biking was a brand new sport and, of course, it intrigued me. I bought one of the first commercial mountain bikes ever made, and hit some of the trails that would eventually make Sedona a world famous mountain bike mecca. The thing is-- I never really liked mountain biking all that much. It was gruesome fearsome work pedaling up steep rocky slopes—only to plummet precariously down the other side. Lung searing agony followed by an adrenalin rush never really appealed to me. Those steep, rocky paths were much more fun to hike than ride. What I did enjoy, however, was riding away down forest service roads and up long grades. When I lived near Tlaquepaque, long before Sedona was overrun, I started riding up Schnebly Hill road. The long, aerobic workout, followed by a victory coast through beautiful scenery was a perfect workout. After moving to Cottonwood, I started riding the gravel road towards Cherry. The first time I made it all the way to the town of Cherry, the feeling of accomplishment was very similar to that first ride to Lexington.

Since then, my gravel rides have been a complement to my hiking. Days when I only have a couple hours but want a quick workout become bike rides up Bill Gray, Buckboard Road or Sycamore Canyon Road. Sometimes in the heat of summer, I'll drive to the top of Mingus Mountain and start there. Or up the Canyon to Fry Park. Or up the freeway to Rocky Park.. My rides aren't glamorous or particularly impressive but I love riding those long, lonesome, empty roads. Not only is the fresh air and exercise invigorating, but somehow, just being on a bicycle makes being a responsible adult damn near impossible. When I ride, I still feel like that 13-year-old kid with the wind in my hair, dust on my spokes and the fresh taste of freedom in my lungs. 

A River Moment

The kayak gained speed as it swept down the chute. Steering carefully, dabbing the paddles between boulders, he shot through the final drop and glided into the pool at the bottom where the river met the chalky limestone bluffs. Letting the kayak float sideways, he grabbed his fishing rod and made a cast back towards the top of the pool. The current was stronger than he anticipated, however, and it was already sending him backwards towards a boulder that split the current in half. Dropping the pole, he grabbed the paddle to make a move around the rock. At the same time, though, his lure snagged in the water and the pole jerked and jumped. Caught momentarily between tasks, he reached for the pole with one hand, while the other tried to hold the paddle with one end in the swift water.

Neither was a good option. The pole leaped into the water and the kayak slammed awkwardly into the rock. Still reaching for the pole, he was off balance and the kayak tipped precariously towards the water. Pay attention! He let the fishing equipment go and concentrated on getting around the rock, gripping the paddle and getting back in good paddling position. Once back in control, he was able to beach the kayak and got out gingerly. The water was still swift next to the bank.

Damn, that all happened quick.

He stood on the bank and scanned the river wondering what to do about the fishing reel. Not much hope of recovering anything in that swift water. Looking upstream, however, he saw no sign of his paddling partner so he had a little time to kill. Carefully he waded into the icy water. It was thigh high and running fast. He had to brace himself against the current. Still holding the paddle in his hand, he used it as a probe but the rush of the water swept it away before he could even rake the bottom. Pointless.

Wading back to shore, he stowed the paddle and looked around for a stick. If the lure was still snagged upstream that meant the line was likely still attached to the reel. If he could drag the bottom and intersect the line, he might be able to pull it up. The bank was littered with driftwood and flood debris. He picked through it looking for something with a “hook” on the end but found nothing that seemed appropriate. Finally he found a slim but sturdy stick and walked back to the river. Looking back upstream and still seeing no sign of his friend, he waded back into the river.

It was not easy dragging the stick through the fast water. The current wanted to sweep it away before he could get it to the bottom. Finally though he was able to position his body in such a manner as to bring his weight to bear on the stick. He was able to drag the point across the bottom. It was still difficult to feel anything through the trembling of the stick but, wait, was that some kind of resistance? He raked the area again. And again he seemed to catch on something. Concentrating, he repeated the process, increased the angle and, yes, it was caught on a line. Reaching into the cold water, he grabbed the line and the tip of the pole appeared out of the water.

Ha! Immensely pleased with himself, he was gathering his equipment out of the water when he looked up and saw a parade of items coming down the chute. A small cooler, a water bottle, a tackle box...

Oh shit.

He waded out of the current and ran back to his kayak. Tossing the fishing pole in, he made a quick running shove off and turned into the current. Just in time, he snagged the cooler sweeping past the large boulder. Paddling upstream he started plucking things out of the water while trying to keep pace against the current. He smiled to himself. In big rivers these “recovery pools” were serious business—a place where the paddlers who successfully negotiated a bad rapids waited for those who didn't. In those instances, not only did you wait for personal items, but boats and bodies as well. In this kind of river, however, all he had to look for was floating lunch and pride.

Soon enough, the friend appeared on his kayak at the top of the chute. He glided through easily enough, sopping wet with a sheepish grin.

“Man, things happen fast. One wrong move and then everything goes wrong.”