Day 10: Arizona, Utah; 157 Miles
I hardly slept. Something about the room had exacerbated my allergies, forcing me to mouth-breathe all night. Breakfast was blue corn pancakes, sausage patties, and black coffee at the on-site restaurant. Decent food, more than I could eat. Then it was on to Monument Valley.
Officially named Monument Valley Tribal Park, the area is overseen by the Navajo Nation's Parks and Recreation Department. The park sits on tribal lands, and is home to a few hundred residents. Some of their homes are located right on the 17-mile tour loop. Every other scenic turnoff houses a pop-up stall selling jewelry and other handcrafts. The Visitor's Center displays some sobering statistics: Forty percent of Navajo families live in poverty. Only fifty-four percent graduate high school. Nearly a third of homes lack indoor plumbing. In the 1940s, uranium was discovered on Navajo Nation lands. Mining corporations employed many Navajo workers without giving them protective equipment to mitigate the radiation; runoff from the mines infiltrated the groundwater. The people are still dealing with the ramifications to this day. Our tourism dollars seem like the rock-bottom least that we can do.
Into the Valley itself. Hundreds of thousands of visitors pony up the entrance fee every year, and for good reason. The valley's majestic rock formations practically define our communal sense of the West (see John Ford's classic Westerns, many of which were filmed with Monument Valley as the backdrop). I was a little worried that the past few days' experiences in Arizona might have jaded me to big, pretty rocks. As I jounced (there's that word again) along the rough and dusty track that weaves through the park, I was quickly disabused of that notion. Monument Valley is a grand spectacle of form and color: the red sandstone pushing into the blue sky; green dots of rabbitbrush and sage; the orange dust that coats your shoes and your car as you move through the park.
As I got ready to leave, the wind picked up, churning the dust into an impenetrable cloud. I stopped for food in a place with the wonderfully evocative name of Mexican Hat – so designated after a peculiar pinnacle on the outskirts of town. The San Juan Cafe's Navajo taco was hearty and filling: fry bread topped with lettuce, tomato, and “chili” - unseasoned beans and meat in gravy. This was my first exposure to fry bread. For any reader who is unfamiliar, imagine the fried dough served at the county fair, minus the sweetness. Soft, puffy, delicious. I washed it down with a glass of iced tea.
The geology of Mexican Hat is fascinating. To the south, the San Juan River cuts through deep, brick red canyons. Further north, the mountains take on a strange, swirled-paint appearance, gray and purple stirred loosely together. I've never seen anything like it. I wish I could've stopped for a picture.
Continuing on Highway 163, I noticed a sign for “Valley of the Gods,” and turned in. A good thing, too. The spires and buttes of the area are breath-taking, maybe even more so than those at Monument Valley. I know, sacrilege. But just look:
I noticed a number of campers and RVs pulled into campsites along the trail. An older gentleman was out walking with a pair of hiking poles. I asked about the campsites. They were free, he told me. First come, first serve. That settled it. I pulled into the next empty spot I found, and prepared to camp.
Nighttime in the desert comes on fast and hard and cold. I think it dropped into the upper 30s. I burrowed under a blanket in the back of the car, listening to the winds howl as they rocked me to sleep.
Day 11: Utah; 238 Miles
My phone had died overnight; it would need to charge before I could look up a place for breakfast. Hot food sounded good right now. And coffee.
Leaving the Valley of the Gods was painful. I had this fantasy: buy a coffee truck and tour the southwest, serving espresso to the people camping in places like this. This view, paired with a great latte – it sounded like perfection. I settled for a 7-11 sausage and a cup of surprisingly good drip.
There is so much geological variation in this part of the world. South of Moab, the orange and purple cliffs give way to hillsides strewn with boulders – my guess is glacial deposits from the Ice Age. I stopped for photographs near Church Rock and Wilson Arch.
My plan was to visit Arches National Park. That didn't happen. This time of year, the park gets overwhelmed with tourists. To alleviate the issue, visitors are expected to purchase entrance tickets well in advance of coming. Tickets are only valid during the specific window of time indicated on the ticket. Wait times in line can be an hour or more, meaning if you buy tickets in advance, but mistime your arrival by even a few minutes, you're out of luck.
All of this I learned while stuck in line to get in. I didn't have a ticket; I hadn't realized I needed one. The next available time slot was not for hours, so even if I bought an entry pass online, it wouldn't be valid when I got to the front of the line. I found a gap in the traffic, made a U-turn (scraping my bumper on the curb in the process), and headed back onto highway 163.
Next up: Zion National Park, Salt Lake, and...?
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