Paradox and Bedrock

The Paradox Valley in April, from above the hamlet of Paradox, Colorado.

One of my favorite lonesome valleys is the Paradox Valley at the West End of Montrose County in southwest Colorado.

The residents call themselves "West Enders" and "Rimrockers". Both terms seem to have a double meaning. Because the early days of this end of the county were wild, as in civilized folks in the valleys trying to bring to justice sometimes lawless characters living (and sometimes hiding) in the hills and "rim rocks" of the surrounding mesas.

Highway 90 south of Bedrock. The La Sal Mountains (in Utah) are on the skyline.

These days the terms signify (in my understanding) very rural and independent folks that are exceedingly friendly, and tough. Who look out for each other, as rural people do. Not that there aren't differences of opinion among themselves. They are ranchers and construction workers. Retirees and highway department employees. Highly attuned to nature, their climate, and especially how dry or wet the current year is. Because it matters a lot.

In Bedrock, the Bedrock Store still stands. When I first visited here several years ago, it was still open for business. Then it was closed for a few years while the owner dealt with health issues. And happily recovered. But sold the store, whose new owners are dedicated to carrying on the legacy.

The Bedrock Store, Bedrock, Colorado.

If you've seen the already-classic movie Thelma and Louise, you have seen this building. It's where the pair made their last phone calls. Louise famously says: "Well, we're not in the middle of nowhere. but we can see it from here." as she looked out the door of the Bedrock Store to the red cliffs across the valley.

"Bedrock and Paradox" was the title of the final chapter of Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire: A Season In The Wilderness. But the chapter was neither about the towns of Bedrock nor Paradox. So why did he call it that? He certainly knew all about this area.

Looking across Paradox Valley at Bedrock, where the Dolores River cuts through the cliffs on its way to the Colorado River. The far side of the geologic "paradox".

The chapter in that book was about leaving Arches National Monument (now Arches National Park) during one of his stints as a seasonal park ranger there. He was torn between going home for the winter to New Jersey and staying in his beloved red rock canyon country:

When I return will it be the same? Will I be the same? Will anything ever be quite the same again? If I return.
My guess is that he named the chapter Bedrock And Paradox because it sounded cool. Writers and songwriters make a living that way. He had come to feel grounded on the rock layers of the Colorado Plateau, and contradictory about whether to go or to stay. That the two hamlets of Bedrock and Paradox are only six miles apart at the upper end of the Paradox Valley, just on the east side of the La Sal Mountains in southeast Utah, made for a nice pairing, a hidden tribute to those living in or loving the area.

Sunset glow on the cliffs near Bedrock, Colorado.

The Paradox Valley was named by a settler because of the seemingly contradictory nature of the Dolores River there. About how it didn't seem to be behaving as a river should. Which is a topic for a later post. There is so much beauty here that I would never waste it on a single post.

Photo location: Montrose County, Colorado.

See more of my photography on my website: www.NaturalMoment.com.

© Copyright 2018 Stephen J. Krieg

Down North Wash From Hanksville, Utah

The Silver Eagle convenience store in Hanksville, Utah. Effectively, the heart of the town. The Henry Mountains in the distance. A high desert outpost with...heart.

I must say that I love Hanksville in southeast Utah. But then again I love most lonesome towns. Notwithstanding the opportunity to stock up on gasoline and food, I like the people. In my travels I have noticed that the citizens of rural areas are the most relaxed, friendly, and helpful there are. 

The Henry Mountains, from Highway 95 south of Hanksville.

I believe it has to do with their environment. When you live far from anywhere, you realize how closely you might be to the edge, if you hit a tough spot. In short, people out there tend to look out for each other. And they look out for anyone else that might need a hand, too. Which is why I keep finding myself gravitating to rural places.

Well, except for the beauty of such locations. They go hand in hand, naturally.

Sand dunes turned to rock and uplifted a mile above sea level. After millions of years, I mean.

I passed back through Hanksville recently. There isn't much to the town, really. And many services are closed during the winter offseason. This is a summertime tourist town. Spring, summer, early fall. Outside of that the locals settle back into whatever routine they like to do.

Cottonwood trees with spring growth, North Wash.

Last year I stopped by the single grocery store. Its shelves were sparsely stocked, in keeping with the winter season. Keep inventory low, you know. The elderly cashier at the front said: "I love this place. I wouldn't live anywhere else!" 

At first a new visitor might look around the dusty town and wonder if she was nuts. No Walmart or a major chain grocery store. No national chain motel. Though I can enthusiastically recommend the Whispering Sands motel, right next to the Silver Eagle. The accommodations are splendid, especially for such an out of the way respite. 

Shadow of the Highway 95 bridge onto the Colorado River at Hite Crossing.

However, despite wanting yet again to buy a place there and settle down, I turned my truck east again, out of Hanksville. Not that I won't return soon.

Down Highway 95. The Henry Mountains glowing down at me, with their coat of snow. The high desert below. 

Photo location: southeast Utah.

© Copyright 2016 Stephen J. Krieg

Ghosts Of The Cowboys: Vermilion Cliffs, Arizona Strip

Highway 89A on the Arizona Strip.

Early November, and back to the Arizona Strip. That lonely, austere, beautiful high desert land between Grand Canyon and the Utah state line.

Welcome to the Vermilion Cliffs National Monument.

The Marble Platform, the flat shelf above the Marble Canyon portion of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River. Sagebrush and saltbush and bare soil in between. Soil and stones and bedrock. 

The Vermilion Cliffs and approaching early winter storm.

And lots of blue sky, normally. But not today. Winter was approaching, and I wanted to be there.

I might be that rare person that, when the weather forecast indicates a snow storm coming into an area, I head for it instead of away. Well, at least in late fall I do. I love the changing of the seasons. And not being sweaty just by sitting outside doing nothing at the time, relaxing. And not having to clean the bug guts off the windshield yet again that day.

Simple things.

The clouds were very low, enveloping the Kaibab Plateau just to the west. Snowing up there. But not down here on the Platform. Not yet. If the weather forecaster man in Flagstaff was right, it would be snowing right about this elevation -- 5,000 feet -- before the day was done. So I was hopeful.

Vermilion Cliffs cowboy cabin ruin.

From Highway 89A I drove onto a sandy BLM (Bureau of Land Management) road that headed straight north toward the Cliffs. It was a spot I'd visited before, and it had an historic red rock cowboy cabin ruin.

Cowboy cabin light and shadows. The roof is gone, but not the rafters.

I walked out back of the cabin to take in more of the scenery, of the brilliant light. The corrals are still there. It was clear that this had been no quick, thrown-together deal. A lot of work had gone into it. A cement truck had been driven back here, for the poured concrete foundation of the cabin, and the cement watering or feeding troughs out back, I don't know which.

Corrals and winter storm light, Vermilion Cliffs.

Stock pens and approaching storm clouds, Vermilion Cliffs.

Cowboy cabin ruin and Vermilion Cliffs.

Approaching winter storm, Vermilion Cliffs, Arizona Strip.

Corral, Cliffs, and storm clouds.

Storm clouds, red sand, and sagebrush.

I imagined living there. I'm no cowboy. Just a naturalist, a lover of nature, the land. But just like back then, you have to have a livable income. Otherwise you will have to leave, and your house will start aging back into the landscape.

Photo location: Marble Platform and Vermilion Cliffs National Monument, Coconino County, Arizona.

© Copyright 2015 Stephen J. Krieg

Not The Magic Bus

The non-magic bus, and the Henry Mountains.

A windy early spring day on the Colorado Plateau in southeast Utah. I'd been driving and photographing since about 6 AM. A wonderful day. Now it was time to head home, wearily. 

I left Hanksville, itself a rather lonesome but friendly little town in the middle of nowhere, after enjoying a buffalo burger at "Stan's Burger Shak". Thus fortified, I drove east on Highway 95, one of the wonderfully lonesomest roads anywhere. 

The bulk of the Henry Mountains -- last mountain range in the U.S. to be explored and mapped -- loomed above the low cliffs south of town. It had been windy all day, and the dust made for a thick haze in the air. (As the motel owner in Hanksville had joked the previous evening, the sand here is so fine that it comes through the walls. Not just the windows and door frames. Bragging rights.)

Then, out on the high sagebrush plain, amidst the free ranging cows, was that RV again. I pulled over to photograph it, again. It's kind of creepy looking, being out there all alone, no visible road to have driven it there on. Busted out windows, door gaping open. Graffiti sprayed all over the side. Before or after its abandonment? Who? Why?

Mysterious. And so it deserves my Lonesomest RV In Utah award. Somebody let me know who to mail the award to, won't you?

Photo location: Wayne County, Utah. Maybe Garfield County. Somewhere near the county line. 

© 2015 Stephen J. Krieg

Pondering The Ancient Moqui Queen

[Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, Highway 95, North Wash.] 

January, following a snowfall in southeast Utah's canyon country. From the Colorado River crossing at Hite, further westward on Highway 95. Beautifully lonesome. 

An atmospheric inversion had kept the lower river canyons under wraps, low clouds and fog, for over a week. Which served to keep the virgin snow on the ground perfect. And peaceful: no wind. Just calm white beauty on the red canyon sandstone cliffs. 

I stopped to visit a panel of ancient rock art called the Moqui Queen. A pictograph (painting) on a smooth sandstone face in a huge alcove. It's not hard to find if you know it's there. And it's easy to miss if you don't. 

I followed North Wash down from the parking lot, per instructions from friends. The stream was mostly frozen, making it easy to cross, though it was not deep anyway. Up the far bank and into the yawning, cathedral-like alcove. The fresh snow was so perfect that I hated defiling it with my tracks. 

[Moqui Queen Alcove] 

Up into the alcove. Where was she? I walked along the base of the sheer face. There she was. A path led right up to her. People know about this rock art panel, but you have to seek it out. Those who love these kind of sites want to protect them from vandals, so they usually only share the knowledge with someone they trust. 

Which is why I'm not giving you specifics. You need to feel drawn to this kind of thing, to be interested enough to find out more. 

The Moqui Queen. What does this rock panel painting of mineral paint from at least 700 years ago signify? No one knows for sure, since the Anasazi, or Ancestral Puebloan, culture left no written language for us to decipher these things. 

[The Moqui Queen, from below.] 

"Moqui", pronounced "mo-kee", was a term applied to the natives in this area when the first Europeans and American explorers came here. It seems to have been a catch-all name for the pueblo tribes found in this region, including present day Hopi, Zuni, Acoma, and other pueblo dwelling tribes into northwestern New Mexico. 

So what about "queen"? It's because of the regal appearing white dots at the crown of her head. Which are amazingly apparent after seven centuries. They have been described to represent white feathers. But then why round? I think they would have been white shells. Yes, this far from the Baja and California coasts. Because it's well established that their culture had such and extensive trade network. 

[Moqui Queen detail.] 

The robe, too, with the whitish streaks, looks quite ceremonial. 

As to the animal shaped figure to the lower right, well, that's been called her dog. Really? It looks like a bird to me. Some people think it's a turkey (which they cultivated), but the neck is too short. And the tail is too tall for a duck.

[Moqui Queen panel, with "bird".] 

So I think it's a grouse. Though why it's that large in proportion is...still another mystery. 

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http://stephen-krieg.pixels.com/

© Copyright 2014 Stephen J. Krieg