“Embrace the Sand!” shouted the jovial boatman on a two week Grand Canyon float trip.
At the time micro rocks had been blowing in a 360 degrees fashion for days on end. The gritty particles found their way into crevices, gaps and unmentionable orifices. As if the sand wasn’t enough, there was the endless annoying sound of something without a true substance. When the winds finally abated, all us campers sighed an audible “Ahhh!”
Now back to the present. (If that makes any sense.) In early February, I began a somewhat common Coloradoan migration. I turned my back to our glorious (then cold and icy) mountains and set my sights on the desserts of California, Utah, New Mexico and Arizona. It’s sand country. This year it was blowing sand country.
In February, I ventured to Death Valley National Park. Originally, I was going to stay for over a month. However, the reality of Covid brought me back to Colorado. My buddy Paul L scored me a few Moderna shots via a website. I was craving to be out of Covid hell. I wanted to be part of the solution instead of part of the problem. In Death Valley, I discovered my camper can withstand 60 mph gusts of wind. (Numerous times). Yes, there was sand and shmuts (Yiddish for dirt) everywhere. I’ve had gentler visits there.
In late March (pre-second dose Moderna vaccine) I drove to the Island in the Sky district in Canyonlands National Park. I posted a blog about the experience. It was windy, it was cold. When I wasn’t hiking, I was hunkered down in my camper with the furnace at full bore.
In early April I had my first visit to Chaco Cultural National Historical Park. Initially, I thought what were those Ancient Puebloan thinking! The area is stark! Water is hit or miss in a nearby wash. Piñon pine and junipers for possible fuel or building materials are on top of the mesas. It’s cold in the winter and hot in the summer. In the campground, dust devils and an overly enthusiastic volunteer host performed continual laps. Both were annoying. As near as I could tell, the location was all about the big views for seeing and being seen. After all it was a cultural, administrative and trading center. No one really knows the whys. I guess the Ancient Ones had their reasons.
In mid-April, I returned to the Needles District of Canyonlands NP. It’s one of my All-Time happy places. Mother Nature cooperated. There was no need for a Shop Vac to Hoover out the sand. Many old friends joined me at our shared group campsite. Happy Hours were sociable and entertaining. A wonderful time was had by all.
A few days later (No rest for the WW J) I camped atop the Horseshoe Canyon district of Canyonlands NP. I hiked up-canyon the first day to see the Great Gallery and other amazing artful artifacts. I tried getting to Bluejohn Canyon to see Aron Ralston’s exit way. He’s the adrenaline junkie who amputated his right arm after a being detained by an irate chockstone. Once again, I was in awe of Mr. Ralston’s pluck, endurance and toughness. I never did see Bluejohn, it would’ve been a massive day hike. The second day I headed down-canyon. It was more scenic but the Green River was too far away for an out and back. In between those hikes, I read inside of my truck. It was too stupid windy to sit outside and get sandblasted.
The next morning, I met Brad with his tricked out, accessorized and macho Toyota Tacoma 4X4 truck. I dubbed his conveyance “The Beast.” We were about to enter the Maze. We’d need the Toyota’s spacecraft technology for a successful journey on a so-called road which is nauseatingly gnarly. The payoff would be camping and hiking in the most beautiful and remote segment of Canyonlands NP. Of course our forecast sucked. Warm and windy, followed by cold and windy, followed by cold, rainy and windy. Our tents were pancaked by the gusts. One blast broke my tent pole. Any attempt to sleep soundly proved futile. We did manage to get out each day for a hike. Once back we hid behind rocks. I wanted to cry more than once. On our six night campout, we scored 56 hours of fine weather. On that day, I celebrated by getting lost...again.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the Maze, but this time the experience was quite exhausting.
Five days later, I was schvitzing (Yiddish for sweating) at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. It was 93 degrees at Hermit Rapids. Once again Brad (plus two family units) was on hand. We hunkered in the meager shade provided by a few anemic willows. We couldn’t wait for the sun to go down. The next morning we hit the trail early to beat the heat. Five miles and a few hours later, we were hiding under the only cottonwood in Monument Canyon. We had plenty of time on our hands as we watched the nearby campsites fill in with other hot hikers. The following dawn, I was the first one up and out of M Canyon. It was another hot day. Eleven miles later, I shucked off my backpack on a picnic table at Indian Gardens campground. I was done. My Mojo wasn’t into this trip. My mind and body were saying, “No Mas!” For once I listened. The next morning I hiked out to cooler climes. Brad and family continued onto the Colorado River.
Back in Durango, I finally scored some needed rest. One night, I slept over 8.5 hours, an astonishing amount for an insomniac like myself. I guess I was tired.
Eight nights later, I was camped in four inches of slushy White Death in Great Sand Dunes National Park. OY! I finished one book and read 40% of another one before the onset of dinner and Happy Hour. The next two days, the snow melted or it might have been blown away. Yes, the winds returned. I hiked in the dunes way past the crowds. I enjoyed this giant cat box (minus the poop and acrid smell) all to myself. As usual I savored the solitude and serenity of those mounds of sand.
Yet, I didn’t “embrace” the winds.
And that’s all I’m gonna say about my Sand Country Almanac.
Cheers!
It’s time to get back to the mountains!
Jeff
