March, 2010:
Above the canyon there is nothing but rock. Evan and I scrambled up at sunset to catch the last light of day. The way up was an intricate puzzle. The path of least resistance. Now the landscape itself is puzzling. Domes of erosion and upheaval. Stacked layers of sand turned stone reveal layers and twists and time. There is no vegetation in sight. We are aliens here.
We are camped in the famous Coyote Gulch in the Glen Canyon National Recreation Area. We have hiked through stands of willow, tamarisk, and cottonwood, the flowing water creating a riparian area in the recess that is the canyon, cut deep by Coyote Creek. The now quiet ankle deep flow of the creek belies the power of water in this place. The huge walls and undercuts, the narrow meanders and arches, they all speak volumes on the nature of time, water, and the power of floods. You can almost imagine the history of this creek while standing in it.
But not up on the rim, where there is nothing but sky and rock. And now, here at sunset, sky and rock converge into the same color, and the canyon becomes a ribbon of black ink in a sea of rust. The landscape is impossible, especially since we have not climbed all the way to height of land. Were we to climb further, we would be able to look south to Fifty Mile Mountain, north and west to Boulder Mountain and the Aquarius Plateau, north and east to the Henry Mountains, covered in feet of snow and likely now glowing in the last light of day.
I am content to imagine the views while I ponder this stark otherworldly place we now stand. It is easy to imagine the land as cooked here, and not only for it’s color and it’s barrenness. It is not flat, but appears blistered, broken, cracked. It is beautiful and incomprehensible. My mind is scraped as bare as the stone around me. I look around. Evan is staring down into the canyon, listening to the echos of voices, the rest of our group below. They are filling their water bottles from the spring and stretching their legs after a dinner of too many noodles. We laugh, call down to them, and come out of the trance.
We scramble carefully back down the ridge by Jacob Hamblin arch, fill our water bottles, and head back to camp. Soon I will crawl into my sleeping bag and watch the stars spin overhead. I will sleep well.
