Bedrock to Old La Sal

The Bedrock Store. Eat your heart out, it's finally reopened with limited hours.

The end of February of an unusually dry winter. I was driving around southwest Colorado, taking advantage of the dry roads and relatively mild weather. High, wide, and lonesome.

My first stop (after two hours' driving from Cortez) was Bedrock.

Leaving Bedrock for the Utah state line. The Bedrock Post Office on the left, with the La Sal Mountains in the distance. 

Bedrock, Colorado can barely count as a wide spot in the road. A few people live around there. Ranchers and highway department workers and such. No famous ski resorts close by to drive the cost of living out of sight.

To the west, not far over the Utah state line, were the La Sal Mountains, gleaming with new snow. I decided to take a short side trip.

The hulking Mount Peale, highest peak in the La Sals.

Up at Old La Sal (no services) I pulled over for another lovely shot of Mount Peale. At 12,721 feet in elevation (3,877m) it's the tallest peak in the La Sal Mountains. There are some subdivisions in this area, but they don't seem to have realized the developers' expectations. You could probably get a good deal if you have the money and don't mind being in the middle of nowhere in the winter. I would like to be both.

But I'm not rich so I did not call any of the realtors listed on the signs. Instead I reversed course back to Colorado. Because there was a lot more to see that day.

See more of my photography at 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

Lonesomest Award: Utah Highway 72

Fishlake National Forest, from Highway 72

Autumn is the greatest season of all. That's a given. Unless you love summer or spring more. In that case I can't help you.

Because nothing can touch autumn. Fall. Harvest time. Time to hibernate, even though we really don't. Though we should.

Fishlake National Forest, from Highway 72.

Thus I've been finding myself driving through southeast Utah in mid November, in a year of early snowfalls.  Snow in the red rock high desert canyon country, followed by blue skies. Why would I want to hibernate?

I drove west into the San Rafael Swell. I stopped to admire its eastern flanks. An interpretive sign called it the "Eastern Edge Of Nowhere". I like that. The wild west outlaw Butch Cassidy and his I Wild Bunch once roamed these parts. Now we cruise up over them at a speed limit of 80 Miles Per Hour. 

If you stick to the Interstate highway, that is.

The Henry Mountains, from Highway 72

I enjoyed it for a while. Then I exited. I wanted to head south, toward Capitol Reef National Park. I took Highway 72 for the first time. Conditions were good, and I had lots of time. How could I lose?

Highway 72 turned out to be a delight. It would never make the category of world class, which in a way only comforted me more. It was high and lonesome. I did not pass a single vehicle either way, though there were some hunters' rigs camped at the pass. I had the urge to camp myself. I would be back.

Looking down onto the high desert around Capitol Reef National Park.

Down the north side, down to lovely Fremont, and Loa. Irrigated cattle and sheep country below the snowy high country. Pasture and high country. Rural life. 

Forest and high prairie, Fishlake National Forest.

I stopped at the grocery store in Loa. Stocked up on some food, then drove on. Highway 72 across part of the Fishlake National Forest was still on my mind.

Fremont, Utah, just north of Loa.

Thus I give my Lonesomest Award for November 2015 to Utah Highway 72. Long may it be so beautifully lonesome.

© 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

Between Nowhere And Glen Canyon

At the trailhead of Collins Canyon

Early March, southeast Utah. It's been two weeks since the last snow here, things have dried out a lot under the high desert sun. The days keep getting longer, sunlight wise. I decided to stretch my vehicle's wheels a bit after work. 

Highway 276, toward the cliffs of Glen Canyon, and Navajo Mountain.

On the highway to Glen Canyon at Halls Crossing, I soaked up some low evening rays at Grand Flat. Cedar Mesa slickrock sandstone. Scattered pinyons and junipers. Clear mountain air. Blue sky and, the ultimate touch, rain curtain clouds to the east. 

Evening light, Grand Flats.

Finally, it was time to watch a rain curtain become lit up by the sunset. I almost didn't want to go back home. 

Sunset clouds, Highway 95.

Though home is temporary, so I will be back.

San Juan County, Utah, how I admire you.

© 2015 Stephen J. Krieg

High Desert Winter Sunset, Southeast Utah

[Navajo Mountain in the distance, from Natural Bridges National Monument] 

It's been so still here these winter days. For weeks, with not much breeze. Oh, one more winter storm to freshen things up, then back to stillness.

In the middle of winter, stillness has its advantages. Especially on the high Colorado Plateau in southeast Utah. Cold nights but sunny days. Without wind, the sun feels extra warm. 

An atmospheric inversion of unprecedented longevity has been around for something like a month. Nobody around here has seen this. Fog clouds hanging down in the river bottoms: Colorado River, San Juan River. It moves around a little without leaving. 

[Cedar Mesa Sunset panorama, from Natural Bridges] 

Up here on Cedar Mesa, we're above it. We watch it from afar. People call up here to see if it's foggy way up here, too. Nope, we say. Come on up and bask in the winter sun. 

Being a dedicated sunset watcher, I always find myself scanning the skies to the west in late afternoon. How will the sunset colors be? It all depends on the clouds, because they are the reflectors. Or they close the curtain completely. Or they are totally absent, in which case the sunset is merely, um, nice. 

[Navajo Mountain from across Cedar Mesa at sunset.] 

So here are some from a recent evening here. The inversion was still nuzzling about in the distance. It made the high buttes and cliffs even more prominent. 

Photo location: Natural Bridges National Monument, San Juan County, Utah. 

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. 

Prints and photo products are available on my Fine Art America sales website:
http://stephen-krieg.pixels.com/

© Copyright 2014 Stephen J. Krieg

Moonset, Cedar Mesa

Moon setting over Cedar Mesa, Natural Bridges National Monument, Utah.

I'd awoken early enough. Just enough time to throw some things together and hit the road. Three days off.

Leaving Natural Bridges as the dawn was turning toward sunrise, I rounded the curve I call Sunset Point because of its excellent wide open view to the west.

Almost rounded it. Pulled off on the wide outside shoulder, because it was time to photograph already. Oh, yeah. It was going to be a good day, already.

Photo location: Natural Bridges National Monument, San Juan County, Utah.

© 2015 Stephen J. Krieg

On The Bank Of The San Juan River

Mexican Hat Rock, the improbable geologic sombrero upside down.

December, Mexican Hat, extreme southern Utah. Snow swirling above, lightly. 

I feel a part of this country now, so I had no nervousness of driving higher. Up the Moki Dugway onto Cedar Mesa. A piece of cake. 

Still...why today? I had one more. Why not stay down on the San Juan for a night? I knew where to camp. Who wants to camp in December, way out here? 

I did. Had spent a night in a motel the night before. It's nice to have some creature comforts, shower up. But really it's kind of sterile. The window curtains pulled shut, the strange noises of the city. Or even others next door in a little far out motel town. 

The Goosenecks Of The San Juan River,  southeast Utah.

So I usually sleep better in the wilds. I follow my gut, my feelings. I've been right so far. Don't mess with success, right? And I was beneath Mexican Hat Rock, which somehow I had an affinity toward. Maybe a protection from. I didn't feel like I needed that, but comforting anyway.

Right. I chose a campsite out on the red sand, a flat spot with a fire ring. Just a short walk down the bank into the Tamarisk cover along the lip of the cold, muddy river. 

I was looking for firewood. Streams tend to provide that, in the form of driftwood. But in this case I wasn't rewarded. It was a fairly popular spot, after all. The easy wood already gone. 

I noticed the cardboard shell of a beer case. I like to clean up camps I visit. Even though most are so clean, they can use a little more. My theory is: love a place and it will take care of you, too. It's worked so far. Right?

I pulled the beer case out of the sand as I walked back to camp. I'd burn it in my campfire. 

And back at the fire ring, peering into the gulley as I relieved myself, I saw beer bottles. I jumped down the sand embankment to get them. I'd look like a garbage man with all this stuff in my truck. As if anybody would see it before I dropped it off somewhere proper. It felt right to me.

And I gathered what firewood I could. It would be a short fire, burning hot and quick. Good enough for some cheer. 

I had bought a new sleeping bag, and was curious to test it out. Here on the river bank, in December, it was cold but not like being up in the snow. Rather, just below it. Fine. I slept almost too warm, keeping most of the zipper open. 

Morning. Repack camp, shove off. 

Approaching Cedar Mesa, December snow, from Mexican Hat.

Since I was heading past the Goosenecks of the San Juan River, it was only proper to veer west a few miles and gawk over the edge again. The geologists call the Goosenecks far below to be "entrenched meanders". Indeed. 

This un-entrenched mountain man continued on. The Moki Dugway beckoned, up the foggy, snowy face of Cedar Mesa. 

Let's go, up the Moki Dugway. Bring it on.

 No problem. I knew this road now. Loved it. Photographic opportunities. Peace via ascent in my warm vehicle, stopping to get out for more images. 

Winter sunset, atop Cedar Mesa.

Then up onto Cedar Mesa. Former home of the Ancients. And future home, yet again? After all, they have come and gone. Who is to say they won't be back again? 

All is temporary.

Honoring The Ancient Ones, White Canyon

Ancestral Puebloan cliff dwelling ruin, White Canyon.

I followed the trail down from the rim once again. Switchbacking down the slickrock sandstone (which isn't slippery, even when wet). Down steps both built and cut, down some metal stairs. Down three wooden ladders bolted to the cliff. 

Then, down in the canyon bottom, the stream bed, there is no maintained trail. Doesn't need to be: the 500 foot tall canyon walls provide all the side rails you could want. 

I walked upstream, enjoying the solitude. Early December in a remote part of remote San Juan County, Utah. Colorado Plateau, canyon country. The stream was trickling between pools. Cold sandstone wall on the left side. Ice covering some of the pools, even. The last of fall's leaves frozen on top, slowly melting through, because they are darker than the white-blue ice and so absorb more of the day's warmth. Interesting to ponder a dead leaf being warmer than the ice around it.

I came to a wide bend in the little canyon. Looking up on the left hand cliff, I saw ruins. No real surprise. A south facing alcove of sandstone to catch all the low winter sun possible.

Cliff dwelling pueblo ruins. Probably a single family, a few rooms. According to the best archaeological information, they left about 800 years ago. And haven't come back. At least not to live there again. Their descendants may have visited. Probably did. They won't say. 

Just like I won't say exactly where this is located. Because if you really want to know you will do the work to find out. Hopefully that will also make you respectful enough to be guarded about who you share it with, too. 

When you respect a place, you love it. When you care for it, it cares back. It will probably even take care of you. 

Remember that.

T-shaped doorway, Ancestral Puebloan ruin, White Canyon.

Prints and photo products are available on my Fine Art America sales website:
http://stephen-krieg.pixels.com/

© Copyright 2014 Stephen J. Krieg

Winter Approaches

[Photo: Moss Back Butte November Sunset Storm Silhouette].

Another mid November evening of brooding skies. Rain mixed with snow. A slit in the clouds over the western horizon at sunset ("Never bet against sunset" is one of my mantras) and there it was again.

Actually I had missed another shot about ten minutes before that I was aching to get. I knew it was out of reach by just a few minutes, but sometimes you get lucky and things seem to stand still.

No such luck this time. But I established my position anyway as soon as I could. Sit in the truck with the cold rain splattering diagonally down the window, and wait. Waiting is good. Someday I might even get better at it, too.

A few minutes later came my reward. Sunset-lit rain curtain over Moss Back Butte, with way distant Navajo Mountain off to its left. 

Then I left. But off to the right.

Photo location: Cedar Mesa, San Juan County, Utah.

November Evening Storm, Cedar Mesa, Utah

[Photo: Evening Rainbow, Natural Bridges National Monument entrance, Utah].

Mid November in the heart of the canyon country of wild southeast Utah. Or near the heart, one of them at least, since this vast, uncrowded region has many. On Cedar Mesa, elevation 6,500 feet. The upper limits of the high desert, just below the Ponderosa pine - aspen mountain zone up above on Elk Ridge. 

After a two week lull in the weather that produced balmy conditions for late fall around here -- by about ten degrees F. -- some more seasonal weather moved in. Rain mixed with snow in the afternoon. The streams will be running in the canyons again. We could see Woodenshoe Buttes and Bears Ears Buttes coated with white above us when the clouds parted enough for a look around. 

At sunset time another thunderstorm slid through. I drove to my go-to sunset spot near here, with an uninterrupted view to the west. To Moss Back Butte and the Red House Cliffs. Navajo Mountain way to the southwest, too. 

[Photo: Thunderstorm sunset over Moss Back Butte, Cedar Mesa, Utah].

Lovely. Soothing though I didn't need soothed. Enriching, then. 

Photo location: Cedar Mesa along Utah Route 275 just outside Natural Bridges National Monument, San Juan County, Utah. Camera: Olympus E-PL5. Development: Adobe Lightroom 5.

Prints and photo products are available on my Fine Art America sales website:
http://stephen-krieg.pixels.com/

© Copyright 2014 Stephen J. Krieg