Utah - Part 2

We set off for Moab by way of some hot springs in a town called Monroe. Named Mystic Hot Springs this place was hippy in every way, good and bad. The website for this place is clearly written by the bloke who owns it and he proclaims himself as a ‘Producer/Director/Artist.’ When we met him in his run down office which was essentially a computer set up in the middle of a room filled, and I mean filled, with junk he wasn’t so much producing/directing/arting (new verb for creating art?) as sitting in his pants on the internet. His website states –  

‘His artistic talent has been used to add new Soaking areas, restore pioneer Cabins, promote many wonderful Concerts, produce DVD's, create stunning Lampwork glass Jewelery and bring a special energy to this wonderful place.’ 

He has been at it since 1996 and as of yet I’m not so sure I can see the manifestation of his special energy. Behind his dilapidated house with its unused swimming pool filled with scrap metal, dirty water and reeds, is a hillside with water pouring down it. It flows at an incredible rate all across the hillside creating bluffs of orange minerals and cascades of steaming water. A wonderful sight for sure and yet it is tainted by the rusting pipes which have been run across the hill, channelling water to different concrete baths filled with murky water and sediment. His special energy has placed bath tubs under some of these flows and are being consumed by minerals leaving enclaves in which you can slide your body into the dirty water with your limbs pressed against the jagged deposits.

As I understand it the joys of a hippy lifestyle involve embracing some of the more ‘characterful’ places such as these so we stripped off into our bathing gear and jumped into each of these concrete pools and baths. Whilst reclining and looking across the valley it was easy to see the appeal of this place - lying in hot flowing water whilst staring at the snow-capped mountain range in the distance was very relaxing. However, after a while, your eyes are drawn back to the scrap metal, the sloppily put together landscape and of course the neighbouring RV park where people were living full time in their run down trailers. It was all a little bizarre. One can imagine the glory of such a place under the stewardship of a competent and driven owner however that isn’t the case at the moment which is rather unfortunate.

If dirt and rocks are your thing then you could do worse than visiting Moab. Pronounced ‘mo-ab’ as opposed to rhyming with lobe, this town is a hub of outdoor adventures. No matter which direction you arrive from the roads are filled with UTVs – sort of 4 wheel drive golf buggies, some 2 seaters, some 4 seaters – either being driven or being towed atop trailers linked to aggressively muddy jeeps. We spent three days in town exploring the region which contains Arches national park and a large number of off road trails for ATVs, UTVs, dirt bikes, mountain bikes and hiking. Just north of the town is a public lands area called Willow Springs Road where we camped with many other adventurous types. This campground was accessed by a mud road which turned off on to slick-rock flats on either side of the road. There were many big rigs down here – the giant tour bus kind – so we were confident taking our campervan down it. Most of the big rigs tow 4x4 cars or UTVs on trailers so they’d park their Winnebagos and such for a week or two whilst getting around on their other vehicles. We didn’t have such an option so when we came to leaving the camp area the morning after a heavy thunderstorm we found ourselves facing a quagmire where the road used to be. On most parts of the road the wet weather actually helped by softening up what is usually a very bumpy and ridged surface and, as I power slid around the corners, I was grinning at the irony of muddy roads proving more suitable to our camper than dry ones. OK, I was grinning at power sliding a campervan round a dirt track. Skidding around a sloppy bend we came face to face with a huge lake of a puddle – we are talking a few feet deep in places. Without a place to turnaround and adorning my usual cavalier attitude I stared down the track, told Emma to hold on to her knickers and gunned it into the water. 

There are a few things I know about driving through water or mud – stay in a low gear to keep your exhaust putting out fumes so as to stop water flowing backwards down the pipe and flooding your engine; build up your momentum beforehand and whatever you do, don’t stop. Well the van is automatic so I didn’t have any choice with the gears meaning literally the only thing I could do was drive fast without stopping. I can do that. As we hit the edge of the water at 30 miles per hour the front end pitched downwards and a flood of brown water washed over the windshield, the top of which, bearing in mind, is usually 7ft off the ground. Blinded but unperturbed I wrestled with the wheel to bring the flailing back end in to line. Screaming, we ploughed a wave through the water as if we were in a barge rather than a camper van. The back wheels faltered slightly as the front end clipped the edge of the far shore but the van held firm and we rose from the river like a mythical beast and shot out across the final stretch of road up to the junction with tarmac. Laughing we high fived each other, blessing our good fortune and my excellent rally skills. Then the engine cut out.

Smiles were eradicated. High fives were recalled. Laughs were returned without refund. As with every other break down I spent the next 30 minutes under the hood, taking the inner doghouse apart to look at the engine and intermittently looking Emma in the eyes and saying “I’m not sure about this one.” Having opened up the access to the carburettor and drying out everything I could reach I realised that when I started the engine I could get the carburettor to cough out a spout of steam. I figured if I did that enough times, being careful not to burn out the starter motor, I could dry it out and maybe get it going again. As Emma pottered around offering to call AAA I set to work on my plan and in 10 minutes the engine choked and spurted until it finally roared into life sending Emma running out of the cabin. Without the inner doghouse on (the large central reservation panel) the noise was horrific and I don’t blame her for thinking something was exploding. Covered in mud and grease we put the air intakes back together and drove on to Moab to pick up a couple of mountain bikes.

Moab is known for its mountain biking trails, specifically the Slickrock Trail which is one of the world’s best known and hardest trails for biking. Not really knowing what constitutes a hard mountain bike trail I settled on an intermediate network of trails known as Navajo Rocks. On arrival the trails looked like nothing but sandy pathways off into the rocky landscape. A few moments further down these trails we were greeted with a sheer canyon drop and a marked trail scooting off across acutely angled slick rock and up steep crags which would have required hands to mount even when walking. Before long Emma was walking with a face indicative of a woman at her tether’s end; I was loving it – not Emma’s misery but the bike riding. I couldn’t do some of the tougher climbs but I threw myself off the steep drop offs, whizzing over boulders at break neck speeds and skidding round beds like something from a Red Bull advert (probably). Emma wasn’t so embracing but after some carefully chosen words of encouragement she took on some of the harder parts of the route and even threw herself down a violently steep drop with a jump over sharp rocks simply because some other people were watching and she didn’t want to embarrass herself by walking. Coming to the end of the first 5 mile stretch we took a break before heading off down the section called ‘Rocky Tops’. Having seen Emma perform some pretty daring dos I persisted in encouraging her however this part of the trail was perhaps a little more technical with many more steep climbs. Having done a tough 5 miles across country at 6000 foot in altitude we were both tired but I underestimated how much it had taken out of Emma already and the second, 7.5 mile part of the trail was largely disastrous for her mood. After many stops, lots of walking and a few of tears she made it though and we got back to the van just before another downpour took hold. Suspecting Emma had had enough of the bikes we took them back to the rental shop and bought ourselves some beers and ciders from the state liquor stores (which, I found out, sold full strength alcohol). On reflection I was probably too hard on Emma whilst we were out there – I was sucked into the drama of the afternoon and was aching to chuck my body down some ravines – however she completed a long and technically difficult ride so I am incredibly proud of her.

After Moab we dipped into Colorado to visit the excellent Dinosaur National Monument which contains a preserved river bed of fossilised dinosaur remains. We camped on public lands not far from the visitor centre, an experience dominated by the presence of 12 deer carcasses each with the hooves removed and piled up like some sort of terrible ritual. The creepiest place we have stayed yet.

After the excitement of the Utah outdoors we headed to Salt Lake City and spent most of our time in the Family Records Centre tracing our ancestry. As I mentioned earlier the place is dominated by cult church members so I needn’t go into how creepy this place was, second only to the piles of deer hooves. It was the cleanest city we had visited though so there is that. Emma’s mum and dad paid for an Easter meal for us which we hadn’t used at Easter so we took the opportunity to dine out at the very nice Copper Onion restaurant which provided a bit of class to our otherwise outdoor experience of Utah. The next day we would set off for Southern Wyoming, an area we knew nothing about for a reason we would soon discover.