Outdoor Adventures Archives - Page 2 of 2 - Miracle Update: Outback Edition

Scenic Byway 12: Utah’s First ‘All American Road’

Utah’s 124-mile All American Scenic Byway 12 captured my heart with intense drama, diversity, and landscapes unfolding with stunning perfection across south-central Utah.

give yourself plenty of time

This All American Road has 11 amazing national or state forests, parks, monuments, and recreation areas. You won’t want to miss any! Each is a destination in its own right, so give yourself ample time.

Spanning from Bryce Canyon to Escalante and then Boulder, the diverse landscape includes lush ponderosa pine and aspen forests opening to sliprock canyons and then stunning mountain meadows full of flowers.

Desolate shale badlands and rugged limestone canyons filled with eroding rock formations and spirals of hoo-doos seem to keep watch over this infinite, quiet beauty. Breathtaking is an understatement.

Landscape of american pioneers

Scenic 12 crosses the Trail of The Ancients Scenic Byway where maps spiral beyond time in a land that has shaped resilient, tenacious people. The range spans Paleolithic societies to ancestral Pueblo’s, then on to nomadic Navajo, Apache, and Ute tribes and finally followed by white settlers.

Limited water, rugged topography, and powerful winds carve astonishing vistas in the landscape. It also carves an enduring faith and deep appreciation for life in the people of this region .

Vistas spanning hundreds of miles and eons of time offer a rare silence broken occasionally by the faint drone of airplanes. Sunrise and sunset delight the senses while expansive dark skies starscapes reveal glimpses of the universe beyond our galaxy.

how to get there

Scenic Byway 12 has two entry points.

The southwestern gateway is from U.S. HW 89, seven miles south of the city of Panguitch.

The northeastern gateway is from HW 24 in the town of Torrey near Capitol Reef National Park.

There are nine communities along the route. There’s quite an expanse between towns so be sure to keep an eye on your gas guage.

All American status

How does a road become an All American? These elite scenic byways are a portal to Nature’s stunning creations.

All American Roads offer inspiring vistas of natural, historic, recreational, archeological, and cultural significance.

I am transformed by each All American Road I meet.

A single lifetime is not nearly enough.

River Monsters and Rosemary Pear Preserves on Montana’s Mighty Madison River

I was too excited to sleep so we hit the water early.

The day before I met the mother of the third generation to grow up on this magic stretch of the Madison River in Montana.

Her childhood memories of camping with the neighbor kids on the river’s edge feasting on the first catch of the open trout season reminded me of my own outdoor adventures and freedom as a child.

Her stories of picnics in Pickle Jar Meadow, sunrise at Frank’s Hole, and the beaver trapper who homesteaded this area filled my mind during the morning fish upstream.

As usual, the catch was smaller wild rainbows and browns in the three to six-inch range who fight like crocodiles.

Past due for a Montana Monster Fish I decided to experiment with a crazy long tippet rolling it out quietly on the water, delivering the tiny fly far beyond the end of the bright yellow fly line and thick leader.

The fly line spooks them but the tiny fly landing a few seconds later can trick the distracted fish.

The leader and lengthy tippet were much longer than the 7.5-foot rod I was using, but sometimes it works in pressured, end of summer waters.

It’s also a rig that rules out using a net to land a fish, especially waist-deep in big water currents. Ass far as I know, but I’m always open to learning if a full-timer is available.

This time I knew the name of Frank’s hole when I stripped and jigged a beetle across the confluence of the cabin side stream and the roaring Madison.

Frank and Joe could catch fish no matter the location or conditions and sounded a lot like my Dad and his best friend Jim.

Frank’s hole was just off the front yard and deck of the cabin he built in the 70’s. It’s a stunning view and the fishing hole name is a proper tribute to the man and his family legends.

I was daydreaming about that when the Madison Monster hit stripping line and skipping my heart as he torpedoed out of the water.

This one isn’t the monster, but there’s a story to watch for about this whitefish.

Muscle memory kicked in popping my rod tip up and line pressure tight yet responsive. I’d give him plenty of space to wear himself out and come in gently.

Steering him out of the weeds meant I had to stay in the middle of the strong, deep current where an experienced monster can throw a hook easily.

He fought like a machine and I reeled in line during his brief rests, but still had too much line out given how long he’d been on. Eyeing a possible path to shore I decided to try to sweep him across the current to land.

This strategy is my least favorite because it takes the fish out of water increasing the stress and potential for injury. It’s even rougher on the fish than lifting it out of the water to get a photo because fish thrash about in panic on land.

It’s hard to catch and release when you’ve maimed a fish in the catching process. For me, it’s too cruel just to have bragging rights or photos of the landing.

The river dance is normally more than enough for me, but I was past due for a monster catch and hooked deep in this fantastic challenge.

Fate twisted in favor of the fish when I turned toward shore tripping over a submerged boulder and crossing the tight line into my pole with a definitive SNAP.

Monster Fish 1. Cindy 0.

To add insult to injury my defeated slouch rolled me into the strong current filling my waders with ice cold water.

On the way down I snatched my phone from the open bib pocket, holding it triumphantly in the air while body surfing down the river.

I heard Rocky’s distant, sharp bark and shrill yelps just as I was pulling myself out of the water. Adrenaline slammed into my legs propelling me past cabins across Pickle Jar Meadow through the shoulder high thorny brambles over several downed logs and into the side stream calling for Rocky and getting no answer.

No yelps. No barks.

I spotted him slammed into a log jam scrambling to find purchase on the slippery logs.

Our eyes locked and he arched to leap toward me just as I held my hand up signaling STOP. WAIT.

I’d never catch him if he jumped into the fast current even though I was running like a mama bear through the river.

Years of training, our combined stubborn will, and plenty of help from Frank, Joe, my Dad, and all the guardian angels in this stretch held Rocky frozen in that perilous perch until I lunged the last few yards and bear hugged his chest.

We might be going down but we were going down together.

There was no easy way out of this mess. Direct access to the shore was totally blocked by decades of downed trees.

The current was too strong and water too deep for Rocky to wade. I’d have to carry him upstream through the current around the log jam to shore.

He’s 50 pounds and I’m not 29 anymore, but adrenaline, the force of will, and the power of love is an amazing combination.

We groaned at the same time and I laughed pulling ourselves up the steep bank and out of the water.

Rocky squirreled beneath the brush but it took me forever to work myself through the tangle of thorns I had torn past in seconds earlier.

Exhausted, winded, and grateful I crouched at the top of the slope with my hands on my knees when I saw something that caught my breath, “Are you kidding me? ”

The labyrinth.

I hadn’t noticed it in Pickle Jar Meadow but the day before Chris told me about the years she and her kids would collect and place rocks carefully creating their family labyrinth.

She had texted me before I hit the river to let me know she left a gift for me in the labyrinth center.

I had no idea I’d be in a state of absolute grace when I got there. No idea the first steps on level ground would land Rocky and me in front of this sacred space.

Sloshing in my freezing, waterlogged waders around that labyrinth immersed in the gift of the miracles of this day I was mindful of little more than grace.

Snuggled in a warm, soft blanket back at the cabin devouring homemade rosemary pear preserves, I am gratefully mindful that life doesn’t get any better than this.

Medicine Lodge Archaeological Site in Bighorn Mountains

Can a nomad soul like mine live in one section or region and never feel the pulse quicken when the next place calls? The subtle shift in the wind ignites daydreams of new adventures in the beckoning breeze.

I had to call in all my angels and guides however to uproot my heart from the enchanted Black Hills of South Dakota. National forest boondocking is free but requires a move of at least five miles every 14 days. I wasn’t ready to leave that raspberry meadow on the roaring creek in the shadow of Crystal Peak outside Hill City, South Dakota. But I respect the other wanderers who fill the places I free up, so I sang travel songs and prayers into my pack and headed north to Big Horn country.

Northern Wyoming and Southern Montana in the Bighorn National Forest and Canyon region also made my roots itch to grow deeper, faster, longer. Twenty square acres can offer snow-capped mountains, hills rolling into wide prairie valleys dropping to canyons laced with crystal streams, waterfalls, and roaring rivers. The entire universe can exist in one alluring square inch.

There is also comfort in the northwest summer temperatures. Unlike the South’s wet sweat lodge heat, it’s quite simple to find cooling shade in the northern trees and bluffs. A nearby icy creek, river, or lake can relieve even the worst heat of the day and evening breezes bring the perfect chill for snuggling in.

Those of us who prefer life offgrid are drawn like migrating birds to fish, hike, build camps, share stories, and heal in the mountains of Nature’s backbone where the veil becomes exquisitely thin.

Social and sacred gathering sites like Medicine Lodge outside Hyattville, WY invoke feelings of going to grandma’s – on steroids. The bluff along Medicine Lodge Creek has been a gathering place spanning 10,000 years from Paleoindians to the Crow people. Each left a mark, a lesson, a sharing across the bluff’s 750-foot mural.

Figures have been pecked, incised and painted by artists representing at least 60 different northern plains groups. The diversity and quality of the figures makes this massive mural one of the major rock art locations in the region. Late Prehistoric Period hunter-gatherers created most of the petroglyphs. Local tribes of Crow and Shoshone made the recent art during the 1700-1800’s. The work captures every single known, recorded figure of the northern plains artists.

That is what we know. It’s the unknown that pulls me beyond the Medicine Lodge mural and campground to nearby creeks, wet and dry, sheltered by towering, ancient rock bluffs decorated with clinging evergreens, sage, and sweet grass. Medicine Lodge nurtures solo journeys where protective filters dissolve and the soul opens to sing, dance, pray, and play with the Universe.

True to form by the end of the first day traveling to the area I was fairly aware of my coordinates but road conditions blocked access points recommended by two office-based rangers in two different national forest districts. I was beyond maps, coordinates, and certainty.

Perhaps it is part of my journey to waste energy on futile attempts to map the wilderness because I still do it every time while my gray hair laughs at my folly. Go to town. Recharge all gear. Refill tanks and food stores. Get maps and coordinates. Head out like I’m in charge.

GPS is my only hope in the city. But the more the on-grid networks fade, the more I hear, see, feel, smell the way like I did as a child. It is simple but not easy to remember the way always shows up when I have exhausted all of my skills and let go of my planned outcomes. The way waits for me to ask and wraps me in sweet encouragement and obvious signs leading me to where I’m meant to be.

I won’t try to use words to define the shelter of Medicine Lodge because it seems insulting to try to contain flow. I can assure you it is worth losing yourself to the Bighorn. May you and yours know the peace, grace, and welcome that appears when lost is found.

Manna in the Meadow

Two weeks in downtown Minneapolis can suck the last drop out of a gal like me. I travel the rough back roads of this country solo and rarely feel vulnerable, afraid, or exposed. But a lot of time in most cities is draining. San Francisco, Montreal, and Istanbul are the exceptions.

My hat is off to the founders of Minneapolis who preserved the green space along the Mississippi River flowing between the Twin Cities. Daily hikes along the downtown Nature trails infused Rocky and me. The festivals, museums, music, and food reflect an appreciation of high talent and passion. I’m grateful for the hospitality the fine staff at Town Suites on 2^ndStreet offered Rocky and me.

The St. Croix River and several gorgeous state parks are within an hour drive of the city. The flooding of St. Croix created an awesome canoe ride on a sunny Sunday.

We bid farewell to the Twin Cities with one urgent goal – restore the balance off grid. I was so depleted I loaded up enough groceries, water, propane, permits, and maps to avoid town. Forever!

I knew what I needed and why. I didn’t know what state or national forest would answer my call for a cold, mountain creek with deep forest shade and enough flat space to set up camp. Frequent rain is a bonus.

We drove east past the crystal clear mountain lakes of Minnesota and the blazing Badlands of South Dakota without a second glance. But the Black
Hills National Forest pinged images of moving water, cool breezes, and the smell of evergreens.

Firing up my orienteering brain, GPS, and the Forest Service’s off road maps we set off to find our next hermitage in the woods. But the answer to my call for a mountain peak and valley creek took me far beyond even Subaru’s impressive off grid GPS coverage. The paper map led me to blockades of private land, cut timber, and herds of cattle common in today’s national forests.

I could feel the place in my heart, but I couldn’t find it with my head. Frankly I thought I knew the plan but all I really had were clear visions, longing, dreams, journals, stories, and prayers guiding my life. Eyeing the setting sun I let go of outcomes. I’d make due. And due would make me as it always does.

One deep breath disabled the brain and my open, willing heart took the lead focusing with gratitude on the cool, moist breeze, towering spruce, green rolling meadows, and distant granite peaks. Each turn on the ATV trail offered more than I had planned or prepared for. What did it matter if there was no creek?

On a last minute whim I took a left on what appeared to be a wagon trail from the old west.

Never turn left, my brain piped in, reminding me of the crash statistics on left turns.

Almost there Cindy. You are almost there, my heart replied.

Right. Sorry I got in the way for so long. Thank you for this, I whispered crossing a cattle guard opening to a large meadow blanketed with flowers.

A delighted laugh flew from my heart as I rounded a bend. A small clearing created when diseased trees were removed nurtured a new meadow
bursting with baby raspberry plants, brilliant flowers, and strong, native grasses. A wide and swift creek flowed beneath towering granite cliffs framing the meadow. Centuries of evergreen needles made the ground soft, flat, and fragrant. The sun disappeared beyond the cliffs while I danced in joyful circles around the meadow laughing and singing.

I couldn’t overthink camp set up because there was only one possible, perfect option. Shade for the camper, space for the shower/bathroom, stumps and cut timber for tables and chairs. The meadow was just right for optimum solar collection and a small deer trail led to the creek. I quickly assembled a basic camp and slept deeply to the sound of running water.

The nudge at dawn was annoying enough to be effective. Quickly wake up! Look! Outside my door was a breath-taking, eight-point buck grazing in the meadow with a juvenile male sporting new antlers. I flashed on Bambi’s Dad showing him the ropes in the forest. Mimicking Bambi’s Mother’s I sadly whispered “Man was in the forest today,”and the big buck looked my way before trotting up the hill with a snort and quick flash of tail.

Over coffee a curious bumblebee with an odd flight pattern feasted on purple flowers by my chair. He might have a limping flight but was not lacking in strength and agility I noticed lighting incense and settling into meditation.

He was gone when I came back to physical awareness but returned often. His visits correlated with each new item I set up in camp. The two awnings, bathroom tent, a tablecloth over stumps to create a kitchen seemed to draw him like an inspector. He would hitch a ride on my feet, arms or hands.

I would too! I thought watching him crash land on the kitchen counter and crawl onto the raw veggies to nap.

The second day, eager to satisfy my curious brain I gathered up maps settling at the table to identify our coordinates now that we had hiked the area. I could visualize how the last minute left turn had taken me through private land with access to Crystal Peak and Creek. Now to verify that theory.

Bee arrived with a hard landing on the map and danced in circles along the winding map trail markings. Between dances he slept, so still the only sign of life was the light reflecting in his eyes. So bees sleep with eyes open?

I’ve never observed bee sleep so can only guess that’s what it was. If I nudged him he would crawl into my hand and drift back off. He napped a lot, especially in the spruce branches I had harvested from a newly cut tree to use on the altar. In the world of bee blessings I knew I had hit the jackpot even as my awareness of his declining condition grew.

No big surprise here, I mumbled acknowledging that if humans find me to midwife death why not a bumblebee?

By the third morning he had let go of gathering nectar in the meadow, preferring to stay snuggled in the altar bustling with a community of spiders, honeybees, beetles and ants. Extravert aye? I mused as I broke my “don’t kill the wildflowers” cardinal rule and placed his favorite purple flower next to him on the altar. He perked up and fed for hours between naps. I tucked him in that night with visions of angelic hives, prayers for peace, and a deep appreciation for his quiet companionship.

The next morning he was gone. I searched but never found him. My mind filled with images of Elijah the Bee ascending in a chariot of meadow flowers.

Seemed fitting. Like Elijah, Bee reminded me to be bit more mindful of daily manna in the wilderness that defy life or death polarities. This elusive, often fleeting awareness deeply restores a vibrant, healthy, happy harmony in every part of me and has since I was a girl living in the woods with creeks and ponds.

Profoundly simple. Nothing fancy. Just Nature showing up as Bee leading the way through miracles and magic in the great outback.

Off-Roadside Assistance

“You need help?”

“I did it this time didn’t I?”

“Thorough job.”

“I’ve driven from coast to coast on backroads but never experienced this one yet,” I chuckled surveying the tire so flat it had collapsed in on itself with an angry pop and forceful hiss after I clipped the partially buried wedge of shale forcing a split in the sidewall of the tire.

I also didn’t mention I’ve never experienced a flat, had no tire changing skills, and am often confounded by tools, although more often than not I do sort it out, given enough time. “Chin up ol gal. Somehow things will soon be right as rain,” I whispered internally pushing back the image of a spring shower exploding into an Oklahoma tornado.

“So can we help you then?”

“Are you in a rental? I know you probably need to get it back in time?” I replied with false bravado to honor the southern code of “thou shalt not impose.”

“No. These are ours. We’re in no hurry,” he nodded to the four rumbling ATVs waiting on the side of the remote narrow forest road across from my Outback.

“I don’t have cell service but a family drove by and took my information to call AAA and Subaru Roadside Service. It’s ok if you’d rather not. I’m sure someone will come,” I explained oozing ignorance about the likelihood of a service vehicle maneuvering the rough ATV trails half an hour off gravel roads and another hour to the first town on paved road.

“Then we’d better get to work. You guys ready?” he replied with reassurance that soothed the hard lump in my gut.

I held up my hand to stop him. “There’s just one more thing I should show you before you volunteer to help. It’s quite the hassle,” I warned moving to the rear of my car to open the hatch and reveal the solid wood chest of drawers built to fit in the full cargo area of the Subaru. My favorite carpenter had built it for me to haul my gear. With all the drawers removed it still takes two strong people to lift. Someday I’ll find someone to build it out of lightweight aluminum but for now this 300 pound behemoth serves me well.

Until now.

“Deal is the spare is under this. It’s hard to remove. You sure you’re still up for this?” I asked turning to him fully prepared to see serious back peddling. This would not be a simple tire change.

“I’m going to need one of you to help back here,” he quietly motioned.

At his signal engines shut off and a crowd of men and women gathered around. I recognized the quiet, exquisite manners, and warm compassion of these Black Hills folks who respectfully restrained their comments. My wide-open Oklahoma plains girl quickly threw open the door to release the mounting pressure.

“I can’t believe not one of you has laughed yet!” I allowed.

The tallest man released a short, healthy guffaw and the women began to softly chuckle. Everyone began sharing thoughts, opinions and good-natured jokes and one began videoing my predicament. I doubled over allowing my own belly laughing to release the tension and fully receive the openhearted gift of this remarkable family.

And family they are. Three strapping brothers, their sister, mother, and a sister- and brother-in-law out for a picnic near beautiful meadows and old mine in Castle Peak wilderness area of the Black Hills National Forest in South Dakota.

I quickly declined their invitation to join them for their picnic even though I couldn’t imagine a lovelier opportunity. I would be dining with angels in one of God’s most beautiful settings. These folks are so good to the bone they didn’t even trigger Rocky who is well known for his keen ability to read the true character of folks. He will not allow anything unsavory near me. He slept soundly through the entire ordeal until I shuffled him out of the back seat and into the front to make room for the ruined tire.

I also knew I’d not only be intruding on family time but also would never make it back to camp on a spare. My tires are not common stock either. It was another miracle of the day that Tires Plus in Rapid City was able to track down one tire in the whole city. One is all I needed! (I highly recommend this business on Haines in Rapid City, South Dakota).

With a grateful heart we shook hands, hugged thank you’s and good byes and went our separate ways. Just as I was getting in my car a mammoth, cobalt blue 4×4 pick up pulled up and offered help. I shook his hand in introduction and George swore I was the spitting image of his cousin. He may have missed out on the heavy lifting but he did stay in my site until we hit paved road where he waved good-bye.

My first calls when I reached cell service were to cancel the service requests made on my behalf by the family who first stopped. The call center folks couldn’t find me even with member and car VIN numbers as well as my name, address, and phone. There’s no way that family could have filed a service request with these computer system blocks. Indeed no call was registered at either company. Had I refused the help I might still be stewing in my own vulnerable pot of pride and self-sufficiency.

A week earlier when I entered the deep forests, meadows, creeks and cliffs of the Black Hills I immediately felt peace, safety and belonging in my marrow. My sleep has been deep and filled with adventurous dreams of close-knit family living here for generations. My camp in the pine and spruce forest has been busy with visitors of all kinds. The same bumblebee lived with us for three days. Two majestic bucks visit the raspberry field by the river every evening while I’m fly fishing for leaping brookies. Hummingbirds dive for my morning maple syrup. Angels dance with fairies and family long gone embrace me with a smell, a warm breeze, and memories of laughter and love. In all my travels it’s the longest I’ve stayed in one spot and I have no desire to leave.

It is exquisite living even with the occasional hassles and bummers. I do keep my guardian angels on their toes.

The West Family of Watertown, South Dakota appeared within minutes of my need and blanketed me in quiet efficiency, gracious humor, and willingness to make my problem theirs without batting an eye.

I briefly explained to Mother West how I came to be found solo on the back roads in need. She quietly listened and to my great surprise and delight she observed, “You are free! Having many adventures! And you are a writer aren’t you?”

In that instant I felt her unity with my journey in the very empty seat beside her. Yes the blessing of close, loving, grown children surrounded her. But she too knew unbearable loss and lonely, dark grief. I’ll never forget the glow of her face when she observed “you are free!” I think like me, she lives a celebrated recovery beyond the losses with a grateful mindfulness of the gift of each breath every day simply because we are alive.

Dear West Family and blue pick up George know that I still feel your infusion of safety, reassurance, and rescue. Your big medicine is now a part of me available to ground and guide me during the next calamity. May your blessings return to each of you in the gentle breeze with my grateful hug.

This One’s For You Daddy

I practice a Native Hawaiian active meditation I learned long ago. When someone you love is suffering you can help by having a grand adventure and intentionally sending the vital life force to the one who needs help. It is powerful medicine.

When I began traveling solo Daddy longed to go with me. Growing up my friends called him the Marlboro Man because of his outdoorsman persona, rugged good looks, and obvious membership in the Man’s Man Club. He was definitely someone who loved a wilderness adventure.

Advancing arthritis began to block his path to hike mountains and fish rough rivers. I knew I could send magic mojo home to infuse Daddy, ease the pain, and lift his spirits. What I didn’t realize is how much he was responsible for my growing wilderness skills.

Daddy would start trip planning in the dead of winter to cure our cabin fever. “Trip foreplay” was the best part of any adventure he’d say. He scouted out coordinates of some of his favorite mountain trails and streams, camping spots, even archery ranges. He’d send satellite images and I’d chart the maps first with orange dots that I would later connect at the end of each leg.

He lived vicariously through my trips in mountains, deserts, and rivers. I used his courage to head out on my own and navigate tough spots, trusting that he would find me if I didn’t report in.

Every time I got back on grid I would call and send pictures. He tracked me via satellite and always had specific questions about “that hole in the stream by that stand of oaks” or “the switchback trail to the peak.” He often warned me about tornadoes heading my way on prairie drives. The more details I could give him about the flying trout at dawn in a mountain lake or the razorback hog my dog blocked from my path the more he would belly laugh or quiz me on my marksmanship.

During a bout of vertigo on a fly-fishing trip in Basalt, Colorado he alone knew why I didn’t come home or go to the doctor and he never nagged. Instead he taught me – over the phone – how to fall down a mountain without breaking anything. Soon after I was hiking down a steep, gravel ravine with a guide when a spell hit and I rolled and skied my way through it. “Man you fall like a 30-year-old!” the guide noted. At the time I was 50 and still don’t know if that was meant to be a complement.

Our talent of living vicariously through each other expanded over the 14 years of this particular partnership. I believed in him and he believed in me. He had raised me to hike, hunt, fish, shoot, track, and live in Nature. If he ever worried about me he never mentioned it. Any bravery I had was because of his confidence in me. Our shared stubborn trait forced me to make a way out of some impossible situations just so I wouldn’t have to worry Daddy.

When life as a single mom got me down Daddy pulled out “The Plan” to roam the country full-time in my retirement. He supported every step including my home and lifestyle downsizing to free me to retire early, buy an RV, and expand opportunities. Last winter we began charting my first outback adventures in the teardrop. He didn’t live to see my launch in the spring.

This first Father’s Day without him I look at those orange dots on the map and grief gut kicks. Control urges me to fast forward, avoid the pain, and just connect the orange dots! But control is a dangerous trickster and shortcuts in grief can leave big marks.

For now I lean into my old, honest companions Death and Time. I trust the divine alchemy these two create if I can muster the patience and courage to stay right here, right now.

When my heart soars down a mountain pass drive, or at the pull of “OMG it’s a monster fish!” Daddy is no longer stuck in his rocking chair waiting to hear my stories. His surge of joy feels stronger than my own and I often exclaim “Oh Daddy LOOK!”

If I ever do get in over my head I know I won’t face it alone.

Happy Father’s Day Daddy! Thank you!

Boondocking Sedona

Arizona’s Red Rock Country Oak Creek River parallels HW 89A curving through miles of breathtaking canyon vistas and shady oak forests between Flagstaff on the North and Sedona on the South.

But on Sunday Oak Creek Canyon reminds me of ants at a summer picnic. Sedona tourism has tripled in the last decade with over two million annual visitors. On any given weekend thousands pack the roadway, parking lots overflow both sides of the highway, and bumper-to-bumper one-lane traffic inches through the gridlock. The highway flows into downtown Sedona and every artery is an organized bottleneck thanks to abundant roundabouts.

Yet even here you can camp alone for free with spectacular views of colorful cliffs, soaring pinnacles, juniper and pinion forests, and abundant wildlife.

If you’re willing to take the roads less traveled.

It’s 20-30 minute drive from town to campsite. The road is part gravel with some wash boarding, but is very passable. (In a rain the mud becomes goo so plan to settle in and wait for things to dry out rather than bog your rig in headache and heartbreak.)

Take HW 89A west from Sedona to mile marker 365. Turn right on Forest Rd 525 – Red Canyon Road. From entry to Palatki Ruins are many clearly marked pullouts. Some can accommodate numerous rigs while others are perfect for a small tent.

I prefer the area north of the Boynton Pass Road between the Honanki and Palatki Heritage Sites. Nestled in Lincoln Canyon of Red Rock Secret Mountain Wilderness you are encircled by the Mongollon Rim with Secret, Bear, and Lost Mountains on the east and Black, Sugarloaf, and Casner Mountains on the north and west. Like all of Sedona it can get crowded and it’s worth venturing past the first spots. The area has many OHV trails so the biggest drawback is abundant Jeep and ATV traffic during business hours.

But sunrise and sunset offer gorgeous slivers of solitude and silence in stunning natural beauty and fragile desert wilderness. The dark night skies envelop you in a velvet blanket of dazzling stars, planets, and galaxies that seem close enough to touch.

There are other dispersed camping sites closer to town, but like the private RV parks they appear to remain crowded. Veteran boondockers say many of these sites are in the process of being temporarily/permanently closed. Even the dispersed camping sites on forest roads are becoming sparse as forest officials try to balance human access with protection of natural resources.

Motor Vehicle Use maps show dispersed camping options in Coconino National Forest. Be sure to get a new map as many areas have closed. These are available at any of the three visitor centers – Red Rock Visitor Center, the Sedona Chamber of Commerce Visitor Center, and Oak Creek Canyon Visitor Center. Also look for the free recreations guides for area maps, hiking trails, plant and wildlife guides. The Sedona Outdoor Recreation Map by Beartooth Publishing is an excellent waterproof, topo shaded relief map. (Oak Creek Visitor Center has copies for $11.95. Amazon is $17.95)

Other Camping Options

The Forest Service operates Pine Flat, Cave Springs, and Manzanita Campgrounds along Hwy 89A north of Sedona in Oak Creek Canyon. Pine Flat and Cave Springs are open seasonally, and Manzanita is open year round for tent camping only.

South of Sedona are Arizona State Park Dead Horse Ranch and National Forest Service camps Clear Creek and Chavez. These are all open year round.

National Forest campsites are larger than the private RV parks, but remain booked solid. National Forest camps are reservable at (877) 444-6777 or rec.gov. Dead Horse can be reserved at (520) 586-2283 or azstateparks.itinio.com/deadhorseranch. Some sites are walk up reservations. Best time to secure those is early on Sunday through Wednesday.

The best private camping option I’ve found is Camp Avalon. Once an organic farm Camp Avalon is now a nonprofit spiritual retreat center with private, “dry” camping options by Oak Creek. There are fire vaults and portable toilets. It can accommodate small RV’s and tent campers on acres of open pasture and forested shade. Rates range from $20-$35/day. Camp Avalon is located at 91 Loy Lane in West Sedona off of 89A. Reservations available at www.avalon.camp.

Passes

The hiking trails of Sedona are some of the nations best so it’s worth the realities of camping in a heavy tourist area. The Red Rock Pass is required in most trailhead parking lots. A one-day pass is $5.00, a weekly pass is $15.00, and an annual pass is $20.00. The Coconino National Forest Recreation Guide also lists the few areas where the pass is not valid and an additional $9.00 per-vehicle parking fee is required.

The Federal Interagency Recreation Passes are honored. These annual passes are honored at most federal forest fee areas and many other federal fee sites. The annual pass is $80, or $10 for seniors (62 and up), free for any US citizen who is disabled and any active duty military and/or dependents. The “Every Kid in a Park Pass” is free to any us 4^thgrader and accompanying passengers in a private vehicle.

Palo Duro Canyon Texas

100 million years ago an ancient river carved its way through the Southern High Plains, slowly exposing the previous 150 years of geologic stories in vast, panoramic canyon vistas. Today the Palo Duro Canyon near Amarillo, Texas is the second largest canyon in the country at 120 miles long and 600-800 feet deep.

Home to abundant wildlife, wild grasses, hardwoods and evergreen junipers, the canyon also holds the memories and artifacts of 12,000 years of human habitats. A little over 200 years ago the native Southern Plains tribes were decimated and relocated to reservations in Oklahoma. Wild buffalo were slaughtered to make way for a few white barons and their herds of longhorn cattle.

In 1933, private owners deeded 27,173 acres to national parklands. Over the next year companies of young men and military veterans working for the Civilian Conservation Corps created roads, a visitor center, cabins, shelters, bridges, and trails throughout the park. Today visitors to this Texas State Park can camp in tents, RV’s, and cabins. Visitors can explore canyon rim to floor on miles of hiking, horse and dirt bike trails.

This is a great state park in winter, spring, and fall. (Summer heat and humidity can be a bit much.)

The Hackberry Campground offers the perk of electricity, water and showers without the annoyance of massive RV’s stacked on top of each other. This camp has 30 amp hook ups and attracts folks with smaller RV’s and tent campers. There is vegetation for shade and privacy. Abundant wildlife gathers at the creek running along the cliffs at the back of the canyon.

Electric and water hookups are $22/night. Camp sites on outer loops back up to the creek and offer more privacy. Reservations can be made online, as walk up, or by phone (512) 389-8900.

The Texas State Park Annual Pass is accepted in Palo Duro. The $70 pass provides unlimited free entry to 90 state parks and discounts at campsites, park stores, gift shops, and recreational equipment rental.

Camping Around Arches and Canyonlands National Park

The heart and soul of the Colorado Plateau in southern Utah is expressed through canyons, arches, spires, and mesas carved by the Green and Colorado Rivers.

It’s almost impossible to wrap my mind around so much stunning beauty but it is as natural as breathing to allow all of that to become all of me. In my prayers and practices it also flows to each of you.

If you’d like to experience it yourself two national parks help millions access some of the area annually – Arches and Canyonlands. Fortunately most stay on the paved, scenic routes highlighting the parks.

Inside both parks there is no food, gas, or other amenities. Each has one national parks campground.

Most of the roads in this region are unpaved, camps are primitive, and rivers are free-flowing. Native plants and animals still live in much of this remote, rugged, and wild countryside. Lots of folks call it “The American Wild West” but it’s been around much longer than we have and God willing will continue long after we’re gone.

Trying to balance recreational use with protection of these amazing resources requires effort by all of the major stakeholders – the Bureau of Land Management (BLM, often called public land), the National Park Service, charitable associations, and YOU.

Please do your part to protect this ancient, wild land. Follow “Leave No Trace” rules especially in designated and dispersed camping, hiking, biking, and OHV adventures.

Photo courtesy Dr. Eoin Brodie at Lawrence Berkeley National Lab and Dr. Ferran Garcia Pichel at Arizona State University.

Here’s the deal. The biological soil crust is extremely fragile in the desert. The cyanobacteria and other materials in the soil are some of the oldest life forms, trapping and storing water, nutrients, and organic matter not otherwise available. It’s suited for harsh, arid conditions but vulnerable to compression.

A thin, fragile veneer of biological soil crushed by your footprints alone (compression) may require five to seven years to recover. Cyanobacterial growth can take 50 years and lichens/mosses even longer.

If you’re going off-road to visit the area, be ready to rough it and take care of your own needs. Pack in what you need. Pack out everything – including human waste where restrooms are not provided. Remember that five to seven year recovery time just for a footprint? Enough said.

Each national park has one developed campground with vault toilets, tables, and fire rings. Maximum length for RVs is 28 feet. There are no hook ups or dump stations in either park. Most are first come, first served except group campsites and a few individual sites. To reserve online go to http://www.recreation.gov or call 877-444-6777 (toll free) and +1 518-885-3639 (international).

Backcountry or Primitive Camps in the national parks require permits. These can be reserved four months in advance. Day use for 4×4 vehicles, motorcycles, and bikes can be reserved up to 24 hours in advance. Permits can be obtained online at http://www.go.nps.gov/canybackcountry

The BLM maintains 26 designated campgrounds with vault toilets, tables and fire rings. Drinking water is available at Lions Park (Hwy 191 and SR 128). The Windwhistle and Hatch Point campgrounds have drinking water on site from mid-April to end of September.

BLM On-line information about camping in Moab area.

BLM Moab Field Office, 82 E Dogwood Moab, UT. Phone is 435-259-2100.

Here’s some of my favorites and soon to be favorites. For a complete list of camping options check out the Discover Moab site.

BLM Camping Outside the National Parks

The Moab BLM Field Office manages over two million visitors annually on 1.8 million acres in the heart of the Colorado Plateau.

Reservations are not accepted except group camps. All are first come first served. All BLM developed campgrounds have vault toilets, picnic tables, and metal fire grills. Fees are $10-$20/night.

Weather can make unpaved roads impassable. Check with rangers for latest conditions.

The Visitor Centers at Arches and Canyonlands have detailed maps for 4×4 routes, hiking and camping. Topo maps are also available.

Developed Campsites

SR 313 Camps Between Arches and Canyonlands Island In the Sky National Parks

Lone Mesa Group Camp

(5 spaces)
Gravel road and camp

Cowboy Camp at junction of Scenic Byway and Island in Sky

(7 spaces)
Dirt road and camp

Horsethief off Mineral Point Road by Deadhorse Mesa.

(56 spaces)
Dirt road and sandy, flat area for camp. This is where larger RV’s park.

HW 128 Camps Closest to Arches

The further you go the prettier and less congested the sites. Fisher Towers and Onion Creek sites are my favorites.

Granstaff 3 miles ( 16 spaces)
Drinks Canyon 6.2 miles (17 spaces)
Hal Canyon 6.6 miles (11 spaces)
Fisher Towers Campground
Oak Grove 6.9 miles (7 spaces)
Upper Big Bend 8.1 miles (8 spaces)
Upper Onion Creek 21 miles then .7 miles SE on gravel road (2 spaces)
Fisher Towers 21.5 – dirt road (5 sites)
Lower Onion Creek – 21.5 miles then 1 mile NW on gravel road (4 spaces)

HW 257 South of Arches

Jaycee Park – 4.2 miles (7 spaces)
Williams Bottom – 6 miles (17 spaces)
Goldbar – 10.2 (5 spaces)

BLM Dispersed Camping – No Services/Facilities

The BLM offers over 30 single or small, primitive camp sites with no services. These are first come-first served and free. Sites are marked with a brown post and a tent symbol.

This is serious “Leave No Trace” camping. You must use portable toilets. All trash must be packed out – including human waste. No wood cutting, creating new camping areas or fire rings. Do not drive, hike, ride off road. Please.

There are 25 sites in the Mill Canyon-Cotter Road/Dubinky Road Area.

Primitive Camping – Island in the Sky Section of Canyonlands National Park

Accessible by 4×4 Taylor Canyon, White Rim, Potash, and Shafer Roads

4 primitive camps along Green River

Labyrinth – Where Taylor Canyon Road meets White Rim Road on the Green River in Upheaval Canyon

Hardscrabble – South of Hardscrabble Bottom

Potato Bottom – along the 14.8 mile Potato Bottom straight stretch of White Rim Road

Candlestick – Southern part of Holesman Spring Basin. South of Wilhite Trail on White Rim Road

4 primitive camps on southern loop of White Rim Road

Murphy Hogback – near Murphy Point trails

White Crack – in the Lower Basins at end of 1.4 mile road

Gooseberry – where trail meets road near Gooseberry Canyon

Airport – By Airport Tower in Lathrop Canyon

1 primitive camp near Visitors Center

Shafer Canyon Overlook by Visitors Center

Shafer Near Visitors Center NE of where Potash Road meets Shafer Trail Road, Shafer Canyon. This gives access to the spectacular Goose Neck area of the Colorado River.

Can you find me and Rocky in this photo?

No matter where you may set up camp you’ll discover tons of ways to wear yourself slick having adventure fun. Remember to take some time to sit and stare for awhile. You’ll be glad you did.

The Canyon

Following trails that beckon is life at it’s best. Free wandering with no schedule or goals has served me well since childhood exploring creeks and prairies. I’ve been trained to watch and wait for the guidance but I’ll admit there’s is a new learning curve with the addition of the off-road teardrop camper. It’s keeping my guardian angels – and me – wide awake.

This day was for exploring the BLM off-roads outside Moab, Utah. No map, no cell service and no worries. It’s a Subaru with ample off-road GPS coverage right? A dropped pin marked the starting point and I was free to breathe in jaw-dropping vistas. It was an easy trail with occasional rough rocks or sinking sand spots.

The road transformed to true 4×4 when I turned a corner and hit the brakes. A gate in the middle of nowhere? Prying it open was easy since it wasn’t locked so I squeezed my rig through. That’s when the reality of The Canyon slapped me.

Narrow, ridiculously steep grade, no safety rails and the most amazing, adrenaline-inducing experience calling my name! The Subaru and teardrop had torn up off roads for days and I was primed for the grand prize dive down The Canyon.

I glanced at Rocky’s wide, trusting smile and immediately saw my four spectacular adult kids expecting me home for the holidays. A raven flew overhead mimicking Daddy’s familiar refrain “pull your head out of your ass Cindy!”

Perhaps a bit of recon was in order. Rapid, shallow breathing and heart-pounding adrenaline with knees bent, eyes straight ahead helped resist the abyss tractor beam pulling me over the edge on the switchback curves. Barely. There was just enough width for the car and RV. No margin for error, changing my mind or turning around. There might be a clearance and mud issue. But I was a hound dog on a scent. Ride The Canyon or bust!

Admittedly I’ve got a few marks from life “or bust” experiences and a bit of a hang up about being the only surviving parent.

Time to pull out the big guns and use a technique honed over eight years in the halls of MD Anderson Cancer Center. Call in my angels when stakes are life OR death high. Employ the hallowed Coin Toss. Best two out of three wins. Heads means I go for it, tails I turn around and find a camp for the night.

First toss – heads. Second – tails. Standing inches from the cliffhanger I breathed in the delicious knowing that the outcome of that third toss would be my best option. No doubts. Pure faith. In that breath all the hooks and attachments of the adventure, adrenaline, and drama vanished. No need to do anything. Just lean in. Be still and know. The final toss and knowing occurred simultaneously. Tails. I’m out.

My best guess is I was in the Sheep Canyon area. GPS noted Mineral and Dead Horse Point Roads. I found an OHV trail map sign post indicating I was somewhere in the Dubinky area. Maybe The Canyon was a piece of Hell Roaring or Chicken Corners Trails. The coin toss occurred at the point requiring gate entry, is pinched between rocks on the right and the abyss on the left and drops over 1,000 feet via narrow, rocky, muddy switchbacks. Chicken Corners is where Moab area guides allow “chicken” passengers to walk, rather than ride. And Hell Roaring Canyon descriptions involve the word “pucker.”

I probably have too much faith in Beverly (my Subaru Outback) but I think she’d make The Canyon. Pulling my Outback teardrop camper affectionally dubbed Hillbilly? Sheer lunacy.

I can count on two things in life. My free spirit is comfortable with blind, ignorant leaps and it can heal more than it hurts if my heart stays open. May this inner knowing, my guardians, and the sacred Coin Toss always have my back!