Treasures of All Sizes

It was a beautiful day in July of 2020. Already, the day wasn’t turning out the way we had planned.

It was brilliantly sunny, a stark contrast to the projected weather report of cool temperatures and partly cloudy skies. I wanted a scattering of cumulus clouds overhead to soften the blazing sun, because I knew the hike we were taking today had little shade. Somewhere I had read that this wasn’t a hike to take in the middle of summer, yet here I was: packing my daypack with water, sunscreen, more water, and snacks for a hike in the middle of summer to a place with reportedly little shade.

My husband and I had read about an amethyst mine not too far away, and we were on an adventure to find it. From the little information I could find about the mine, there was a short hike from the road up to an area below the private property where one could dig around in the wash and possibly come up with some fluorite and amethyst. I hoped that the rains from the previous day might have been enough to uncover some treasures in the wash. With daypacks and rock hammers, we headed down the road to Unaweep Canyon.

Unaweep Canyon, located in Mesa County, Colorado, is a geologic wonder that cannot be explained in one paragraph. There are no Cliff Notes for a geologic anomaly that still have scholars questioning their findings. An Internet search to clues of Unaweep’s origins brings up several hypothesis, and no one can claim, without a doubt, that they are correct. With all its unique qualities and stunning beauty, a drive through Unaweep Canyon would be a satisfying day drive, even if we came up empty handed in our amethyst search.

You know you’re at the right turnout if the cottonwood tree looks like this!

The information I had obtained pointed to a pullout on Highway 141 “with a big cottonwood tree”, where a one-mile hike started up a rutted dirt road. Tire tracks indicated that ATVs had come up the road, but I wasn’t sure about private property and the need for permission to drive the road. We were content to use our feet and enjoy the sunny day.

And sunny it was. No rain had touched this area during the previous day’s rains, and the ground was baking. At least, contrary to the report I had read, there was some shade. We leapfrogged from one patch of shade under a pinyon tree to another, following the road to some unknown destination that we hoped was somewhat apparent.

The terrain changed from dark, Precambrian rock to familiar sandstone as we walked though a geological museum. A sign indicated that we were leaving public lands, and immediately “No Trespassing” signs appeared along the side of the road. We stayed on the road, except for a much-needed stop in a patch of shade that paid no attention to property boundaries. Soon, another sign informed us that we were back on public lands, and our wandering continued.

The road forked, and the lesser-used right road wore another “No Trespassing” sign. The left fork crossed a dry wash, crisscrossed with undulating bands of dark rock and glittering mica and quartz. We noticed several depressions in the creekbed, apparently places where others had dug for their unseen treasures of amethyst and fluorite. It looked like a good place for us to stop and try our luck, as well.

Finding a shady spot in the creek bed was a challenge, and the one I found was obviously a popular spot with others, as indicated by the shallow craters in the sand and chipped rock nearby. My desire to get out of the sun overrode my desire to find the mother lode, so I plopped down in the wash and made myself comfortable.

I scooped up handfuls of sand and let them trickle through my fingers. The tactile experience, coupled with the shade and a slight breeze, was a joyful flashback to a childhood of playing in sandpiles on the beach. A tiny fleck of green caught my eye, and I happily pulled a small piece of fluorite out of the sand pile. It wasn’t much, maybe insignificant to many, but it was something. I got excited. I went back to digging.

I have no idea how long we played in the sand of that little wash, but the shade I had squandered when I first arrived had moved. My husband took advantage of his patch of shade by taking a nap in the soft sand of the creek bed. My little pile of stones now included two tiny pieces of amethyst, several small pieces of fluorite, and a lot of stones that just caught my eye because they were pretty.

My treasures of the day.

The walk back down to the car was no less broiler-pan hot than the walk up. The warm water in our water bottles gave us incentive to walk a little faster down to our car, knowing that there was a bottle of cold water waiting for us. Mental notes were made along the way to come here on a cooler occasion in order to spend more time deciphering the geology and taking in the views.

I was pretty excited about my little collection of stones. Like many of our adventures, my husband and I had little expectations other than to have fun and explore a new place. I don’t think my assorted stones would even raise the eyebrow of a gemstone collector, and I don’t know what others have collected here, but for our first time here, it was enough.

And What a Wild Ride It Is

When I first started this blog, it was to share with friends my transition from multi-mile hiker and avid backpacker to a slower, more sauntering style of wandering. (The change wasn’t all my doing. My knees are shot and my hip is no longer my friend). I wanted to capture the nuances of what I call “detailed hiking”, where stopping to contemplate leaves and dirt and bugs overrides the need to pack in the miles.

I also wanted to get back in to writing, something that I love, and yet have neglected for so many years. And then there’s the photography – another love that I haven’t had the time to perfect. Starting a blog in 2020 seemed like the perfect time to combine those loves into something I could share with others.

And then COVID-19 hit.

For the last 11 years, part of my job was to write disaster response plans, train people in disaster preparedness and response, and conduct exercises in community response to a variety of disasters. While I used many of the plans and knowledge during wildfires and floods, the pandemic plans and training sat on the shelf and on thumb drives – ready, but not needed.

And then COVID-19 hit.

In the blink of an eye, I shared ground zero at the local level with hospitals and front line health care workers. As we navigated the dark and unknown waters of a completely new emergency, plans didn’t fit. Years of training offered muscle memory, but never had we trained for something this different, this unknown, this global. And nowhere in my plans, training or exercise did I factor in politics, hatred, and so much misinformation. We were overwhelmed.

Evening light on Bears Ears. My first overnight camping trip, three months into the COVID-19 response.

The first couple months of the pandemic was a blur. Keeping my sanity became as important as keeping track of the dozens of meetings and the new information arriving daily. On the weekend that I could find time to breathe, I’d run to the local desert to clear my head and look for signs of normalcy: the claret cup cacti blooming, ravens flying in the breeze, or the song of the river. I wondered if I’d ever have the time to camp, to hike, to fish, or to just take a full breath in the upcoming summer.

As it turned out, the weekend escapes my husband and I took last summer, albeit short, were some of the best we’ve taken in years. As the rest of the state flocked to the outdoors to distance themselves from crowds, our favorite places were discovered, and we found it necessary to find new haunts. We camped in places we had never visited before . We favored the tent over the RV and hid in places where newcomers to the outdoors and their shiny rigs would never find us. It was peaceful, it was adventurous. And it was life-saving.

A new place to camp.

Once we found a place to camp, the need for doing nothing made it difficult to try to write about it. Photography was hit and miss, but I did document most excursions. As the weather changed and the days grew shorter, we exchanged the sleeping bags for small hotels. We became very adept at preparing our meals in our hotel room and avoiding all others, while enjoying new sights and new roads.

New discoveries.

The arrival of a vaccine for COVID-19 has added a new layer of complexity to my job, but it is one that I welcome. There is a new level of urgency, coupled with a new glimmer of hope.

Always new roads to explore.

Short days, cold temperatures and endless work hours hamper the getaways, but day-long escapes are still a tonic for the soul and a necessity for mental stability. I have realized how important it is for me to write about my sojourns, as it is much more stimulating than creating an agenda for yet another Zoom meeting. I hope to reflect back on the adventures I was blessed to experience last summer and write about them in retrospect. In this new age and new year, my thoughts have become much more thoughtful, and my hikes have become much more detailed.

A Happy New Year to all of you. Keep dreaming, keep hoping, keep hiking, keep wondering, keep looking forward.

Leaning Into the Wind

Miles of silence.

No one goes to the place I visited last Sunday. It is not too far from my house. It isn’t popular, has no trailheads, and is mostly an inconvenience for those who must travel through it. But it is remote, quiet, and accessible. After so many days of long hours, a barrage of unpleasant news, and so much uncertainty, I needed some time in nature. Nature, right now, is the only sense of normalcy I can find.

I parked the car and started walking to the west, heading very slowly towards a rocky outcropping crowned with some scraggly juniper trees. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, except for an assurance that the familiar landscape was there, the events that happen when the seasons change were still occurring, and that I was far enough away from the ringing of my cell phone.

Spring green.

The curly dock was just awakening from its long winter’s nap, and it’s green leaves were a joy to see. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a photo of freshly-sprouting dock leaves, but I excitedly got on my knees for the best angle. Those knees cried out in pain when I felt a sharp poke into my left kneecap. Moving my knee, I noticed four pieces of chipped stone sticking defiantly out of the dirt. Evidence of the Archaic culture is found in this area, and these pieces were undoubtedly a result of someone crafting stone projectile points and tools, perhaps as long as 5,000 years ago. Would I have noticed them half-buried in the sand if I had not looked for the perfect angle to take a photo of the dock?

Stone flakes.

Continued explorations in the dirt led to more stone flakes scattered around the little outcropping. What a beautiful place this would have been to work! Views that go on forever, a good supply of chert deposits on the hills behind me, and a few trees to shelter from the wind. Of course, I have no idea what the environment may have looked like at the time the Archaic people lived here, but it made for some pleasant daydreaming.

In a place where silence is the prevailing sound, something caught my attention that few people have the privilege of hearing. In the distance, weaving its way through the juniper branches, a dust devil materialized, and made its way towards me. The swirling wind struggled to pick up any of the damp dirt, so it’s approach was almost invisible. Knowing that I was in its path, I stepped off the rock I was standing on and braced myself slightly, leaning into the impending blast of wind. The trees around me, previously motionless, began to tremble as the wind caught their branches. Fifty yards…thirty yards…ten yards…the sound became louder and louder as the dust devil enveloped me and my rock outcropping, throwing a few juniper needles in my face, then continued to the east, quickly dissipating. In the space of thirty seconds, all was quiet once again.

A place for contemplation.

I stepped off my rock outcropping, allowing the silence to, once again, surround me. I noticed how I had already claimed some ownership of the locality in the hour or so that I had been wandering. Making my way back to the car, I saw things I had missed on my walk to the outcropping. My eyes were re-attuned to the small discoveries that a quick hike might miss. It was a satisfying feeling.

The two hours I had spent wandering didn’t add many steps on my fitness tracker. But that wasn’t the objective in this saunter. With the increasing concern over Coronavirus COVID19, my increasing workload, and the decreasing availability of time and location to escape the barrage of news and data, I needed a place to reset my mind. And nature gave me that opportunity. The fresh green growth reminded me that the cycles of the seasons are still in place. Slowing down and carefully observing the dirt under my feet literally grounded me for a blissful two hours. And the almost invisible dust devil assured me that events, be it the wind or a virus, come and go. How you weather the event depends on how well you can lean into it. I will take that wisdom with me as return to work.

Tipping the Balance

My day job is a rather intense one, and I sometimes find it hard to keep that balance between work and play in line. To give me some visual assistance, I recently purchased a funky little decorative scale that I keep in my office. On one side of the scale, the pan is filled with challenge coins. Like modern trading cards, challenge coins are often given out within the emergency response community to commemorate a conference, an event, or a particular agency. Challenge coins represent my work life. On the other side, there are an assortment of rocks and shells from various hikes over the years. This represents my play life.

The inexpensive balance doesn’t necessarily rely on weight to change the level of the pans; I can move them according to my mood and they tend to stay where they’re put. When I come in to work, I move the pan with the rocks and shells down to indicate that I had a great weekend off exploring somewhere, or I move the challenge coin pan down if I realize that my week is overbooked and not looking like any fun.

The arrival of the coronavirus COVID19 sent the challenge coin side of my balance crashing to the lowest it could go. My work puts me in the middle of the COVID19 response, even if I don’t have a case in my region. When I had to return to work early from an enjoyable conference, cancel plans I had for the weekend, work overtime, and know that I couldn’t go anywhere out of cell service this weekend, the scales accurately reflected how I felt. I was a bit out of balance.

A camping trip was out of the question, but a day trip where there was cell coverage was doable. As my husband and I drove to Moab for breakfast at the diner, I could envision the little balance in my office trembling slightly, waiting for its chance to move.

Banded clay hills.

With no plans on exactly where to go, I suggested to my husband that we explore a bit in the Green River area. As we traveled down Interstate 70, we decided to do some rockhounding in an area that was introduced to us a year ago. Exiting off the freeway towards Hanksville, we soon turned on the remnants of the old highway that was the main thoroughfare before the Interstate. Almost immediately, we found ourselves enveloped by painted hills of clay, and conglomerate boulders tossed into dry washes. When the hills petered out, we were on a very lonely road, with incredible views, and not a soul to be seen. If social distancing is suggested to help prevent contact with the COVID19 virus, we were in the perfect place.

A long ways from anywhere.

With rock hammers and trowel in hand, we wandered up a hill where an outcropping of ammonites are found. The temperature was 20 degrees warmer than my house, and I could immediately smell the warming soil. We spend the next hour or so sitting in the dirt, searching for ammonites in petroleum-scented rock. Occasionally, a trowel-full of dirt would unearth a curlicue ammonite fossil, or an overturned rock would expose the imprints of fossilized seashells, coral, or what looked like roots and twigs.

Unearthing treasures.

Trying to find a comfortable position for the knees and hips, I stretched out on the dirt until my face was mere inches from the rocks. I focused on the scent of the dirt, and noticed how deep I dug before the dry soil gave way to moisture. I scanned the surface of the little outcropping, keeping my eyes open for the easily identifiable curl on the ammonites. Occasionally I looked up to see where my husband had settled down to dig, and appreciated the colors the dappled sun had painted the nearby red cliffs and high desert grasses. Soon, it dawned on me that I had spent a few hours not thinking a thing about COVID19, the conference calls I had to schedule, the presentations I had to make, or the volumes of paperwork that still had to be completed.

Ammonites and other fossils.

When our knees began to ache from kneeling in the rocky soil, we chose a small sample of our findings to take home, and scattered the rest across the outcropping for others to find. We left our peaceful knoll and drove back towards Moab, stopping briefly to visit some pictographs and petroglyphs on a rock wall near a side road to the highway. The timelessness of this Barrier Canyon style pictograph, gazing down from the cliff face for maybe upwards of 4,000 years, was calming. COVID19 will come and go but, provided we educate ourselves to the importance of preserving the past, the haunting figure will continue to gaze down from the cliff wall long after this outbreak is over.

Barrier Canyon Pictographs

My spirits were definitely uplifted when I got home. Although a mountain of emails requesting attention greeted me, my focus was on the tangible and intangible treasures I received today in the southeastern Utah desert. Tomorrow, I will add my ammonites to my balance, and watch it move to a more level position.

These are going on my scale tomorrow.

Reading Beyond the Headlines

Newspaper Rock State Historical Site

Last month, a storm cleared out on a Friday night, leaving Saturday morning bright and sparkling. I’m really not a winter person, but what excited me was knowing that the snow level had dropped so low that Canyonlands National Park was covered in the white stuff. Now, snow in the mountains is beautiful, but snow in the canyon country is absolutely stunning. Since the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park is a short drive from my house, it didn’t take long for me to load up the car and head out to enjoy the beauty.

I should note that my definitions for driving distances are somewhat different than most others. A “short drive” is anything that is under three hours from my house. A destination that is “a little ways away” can take anywhere from four to six hours. If I must go somewhere “a bit far”, it’s longer than six hours away and usually requires a tent and a sleeping bag, or a hotel room. This excursion fell under the “short drive” category.

The road through Indian Creek had not been plowed except for the tire tracks of those few intrepid souls who drove out before me. Pulling into the parking lot at Newspaper Rock State Historical Monument I was greeted with about four inches of new snow.

Winter in Indian Creek.

Located on Utah’s Route 211 on the way into the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park, Newspaper Rock is an extremely popular place. The site protects a sandstone rock face covered with petroglyphs – etched or pecked drawings on the rock created by historic and prehistoric people dating back 2,000 years. Hundreds of petroglyphs adorn the stone, providing a series of stories that offer a glimpse into the lives of the prehistoric cultures that lived here before us, and of the Navajo and Ute people who still call this area their homelands.

Newspaper Rock is crowded in the summer. Really crowded. The parking lot is packed, cars are parked illegally along the road, and there’s often a wait to get to a vantage point where you can observe the petroglyphs. Once there, most people take a couple obligatory shots of the rock art, spend far more time posing for selfies or group shots, then leave, checking off one more scenic stop on their list.  Few read the interpretive information located nearby; fewer spend time to ponder the existence of a stone “newspaper” with 2,000 years of information known only to the creators and their culture.

From the parking lot to the petroglyph panel.

During my recent visit, there was no one at the site. The trail indicated that a few people had slogged through the snow before my arrival, but at that moment, the place was mine. Fresh snow stuck to the deeper incisions of some of the petroglyphs, accentuating their depth and providing a contrast to the red sandstone. Rivulets of melting snow ran down the rock face, puddling briefly in a deeply pecked petroglyph, pausing before cascading down to the ground. Each tiny stream took a few grains of sandstone here, a few grains there, all contributing to the slow, constant erosion of the petroglyphs.

The sun was warm despite the frigid temperatures, and I spent at least a half hour examining the massive display in front of me. Most visitors are drawn to the larger images: the “wagon wheel”, a petroglyph resembling a flying squirrel, a bison with its head lowered, or the multitude of bighorn sheep. These “headline” petroglyphs stand out in the confusing array of smaller images, all which have a story of their own.

How many visitors have spotted the long-beaked bird that reminds me of a hummingbird? How many saw the six-toed footprint that brings to mind a badger’s paw? And then there’s the more recent petroglyphs etched over older ones. Why would one do that? It’s not like it was a lack of space; so why cover the work of someone else with your own creation?

Perhaps a hummingbird?

In the Southwest there are many, many “Newspaper Rocks” with hundreds of images crammed on the rock surface. Some are well-known stops in well-known locations. Others are hidden in the backcountry somewhere, far from a parking lot and pit toilet. Some are smaller, “tabloids” if you will, still with numerous images and compelling stories. All invite hours, days, years, of pondering and thought. Yet we often tend to only look at the headlines: those images that stand out clearly, may be larger than others, and have shapes that are recognizable in our minds. But all those images were painstakingly created for a reason. The little petroglyphs, footnotes to the bigger story, have meaning as well. They, too, request our attention, so that we may understand more of the bigger picture.

Bear tracks and bison?

Even today, how many of us only pay attention to the headlines when we watch the news or peruse social media? How many seek more information by looking at the whole story, not just the first paragraph or the attached photos? How many take the time to question what we see? How much are we missing?

My recent wintry visit to Newspaper Rock was easily my 20th visit to this special place. I don’t think I ever noticed the small petroglyph on the left side of the panel; an orb, carefully filled in with peck marks, and surrounded on ¾ of the exterior with eight matching points, faintly resembling a dandelion seed head. It’s covered in snow in the overall photo I took. It wasn’t until I was about to leave that the snow melted enough and it caught my eye. If you would like to see it, I guess you’ll have to visit it yourself.

Snow in the toes.

Well-worn Knees and a Lifetime of Questions

Welcome to my first blog! It’s kind of like walking and chewing gum, right? Some people will ace it; others will bite their tongue and trip on their shoelaces. Hopefully I fall (no pun intended) into the first group, although I’m sure I’ll make an appearance in the second group as well.

And what am I trying to write about? Well, places I’ve been to, places I’m going to, and questions that invade my head as I’m wandering around. That’s the broad answer. Here’s the background:

I’ve loved to travel ever since my dad pulled me out of first grade for a week to take me to Yosemite National Park. He was of the opinion that I could learn a lot more being outdoors than what I could learn in a classroom. I have memories of doing my spelling lessons in the back seat of a 1960 Chevy Impala, while looking out the window at the redwoods rushing by, or struggling with math problems while my dad’s aging pickup struggled up a grade near Mt. Shasta in northern California. My teachers may not have approved, but I sure did.

There was a time when a week-long backpack trip down the Grand Canyon was rather commonplace, or a 10-mile day hike in the mountains above Santa Fe was a great leg-stretcher. But the years have punished my knees and hips, and my hikes have become shorter, with more sauntering, and less epic hiking. And that’s just fine, because the little things along the trail become more significant, the pondering becomes more thoughtful, and the end result is still soul-satisfying and rewarding.

While international travel hasn’t happened much for me until recently, the hundreds of thousands of miles that I have traveled across the United States and Canada has shown me what an incredible, international melting pot we have – places that lure those from other countries to see the remarkable, diverse landscape we live in, and the people and cultures that make up our country. In all my travels, the Southwest corner of the US, particularly the Four Corners states of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah, call me home like nowhere else. I am fortunate enough to live where I can see all four of those states (well, I’d have to get on the roof to see New Mexico), and those are the places I visit and write about most often.

So that’s what this blog will be about – saunters, short hikes, road trips, good food, out-of-the-way places, and unexpected treasures. Hidden locations will stay hidden; special, sacred places that must stay protected, will stay protected. There will be no GPS waypoints or detailed directions, unless the location is already listed in books or maps. Some places are extremely popular places that can be re-experienced with a different purpose, a new tidbit of knowledge, or by just slowing down and really enjoying the journey, rather than just the destination.

I hope you enjoy some of my wanderings, and you take a few of them with a new level of thoughtfulness.