Nomadic Rag

There was arguably no better stronghold on the National Park system than Utah with its “Mighty Five”, renowned for otherworldly grandeur by travel purists yet for every beauty it had there were shadows, none more potent than among their “beehive” bureaucracy as it was run entirely, not-so discretely by Mormons…

Of all the states to put a fence around, why couldn’t it be so that they switched with somewhere less remarkable, like Iowa or Indiana? That felt more natural in my mind—farmland and rolling acres to pervade their agenda, not over mountains and rock gardens. I was only half-joking of course, but if they really wanted to be successful why not relocate to a population already “polygamy inclined”? Low-hanging fruit?

Nevertheless, we were enamored with their inheritance and perhaps it contributed to how pristine the landscape actually was. The people of Utah took pride in nature. Much like their cocky cousin Colorado to the East, they incorporated activity into their daily lifestyle that was infectious. The “Mighty Five” which consisted of Capitol Reef, Arches, Canyonland, Zion, and Bryce Canyon inspired even the most sedentary, benign lumps to action.

It was that very call which brought us to Orderville. Perfectly situated between Zion and Bryce, an unassuming elbow of a town that gladly welcomed the stone’s throw. Forever sleepy with desolate sidewalks and juniper trees, we found ourselves alone with the grazing cattle much of the time. Which, in contrast from the bustling tourism that Zion and its round-the-clock buses had, the Disneyland of National Parks, was cozy to come home to and much needed after a physical day of sightseeing.

Though in the heart of town drummed up a sense of urgency. An unmistakable shift that was easy to detect because for hundreds of miles beforehand there was nothing. But when we looked at the building it belonged to on the surface it resembled an ordinary Sinclair gas station.

“What, are they giving away gas in there?” I said.

Then making no mistake of it Ashley’s eyes grew to the size of saucers, “That’s a coffee shop!”

I squeezed my foot on the brake a little so that we eased into a glide, there was nobody behind us, and looking through the paned glass garage door I saw the hanging greenery, and exposed brick, and the texture of the midnight coffee beans in the hopper, and the baristas mulling about. A plume of steam displaced the bangs on one of them as she leaned over to grab some exotic milk for a greasy looking man that was no doubt a liberal.

“Ohh honey, it looks cute in there,” I mumbled mindlessly, still entranced with the warm glow that pressed out into the brilliant blue of autumn.

“It’s got 4.8 stars,” she had already looked it up. “We have to go tomorrow. They have spiced chai.”

The name of it was “The Shop Coffee Co.”, which I thought was a bit uninspired, yet it quickly became one of our favorite cafes we ever found.

We awoke the next morning from the motor lodge a little ways past town, still on the main drag. They were nice enough to give us a corner suite, although I wasn’t exactly sure who “they” were as the tiny gazebo outfitted as their reception desk was more vacant than the lodge itself. Throughout the course of our stay, the few low-pile carpet swatches provided for towels became tired, and, in pursuit of fresh ones I tapped upon the door only to find an emergency maintenance number boldly typed on a single printer sheet—which sat on a lone executive desk next to a lone vending machine.

“Wring out the towels and blow dry ‘em,” I told my wife, jokingly.

This wasn’t Rolling Stone or Esquire. This was Nomadic Rag—where glamour met with sacrifice and travel met with detours.

The spiced chai made our clammy skin feel better. We sat on a leather davenport while admiring each other’s eyes; finding all the colors through the silt in the bohemian rugs. Ashley realized that the adjacent desk to the cafe was where our horse-riding appointment would initially meet. Held by “East Zion Adventures”, a partnering business in the space, their eclectic services cycled through on a small television screen: ‘Jeep Tours’, ‘Canyoneering’, ‘Guided Hikes’, ‘UTV Tours’ and of course the horseback riding we planned for Ashley’s birthday, which was tomorrow—October 4th.

Eagerly waiting out in the car for us was Ophelia who snuck into the driver seat. For a moment our presence went undetected. Despite being occupied with imaginary noises we saw resentment building through those milky eyes. She knew we were on a tight schedule, because she ran one. Of all the dogs that ever roamed Ophelia’s internal clock was striking in that for such a long period of time it worked uninterrupted and without fail.

We didn’t do much in Bryce after taking some photos at Rainbow Point which was the furthest south the park road went. Though it also presented a moment to test out my new polaroid I bought from a camera shop in Denver before the overlooks went too oversaturated.

Home to the world’s greatest assortment of “hoodoos”, a name given out by indigenous southern Paiute meaning “to fear or represent something scary”, it was believed that ancient beings or “Legend People” had been turned into stone as punishment for their bad behavior. This vast sea of erosion and spires looked handsome in the valley and I recalled saying that I wanted to find a trail away from the crowds.

Ashley pointed my attention out of the park entirely to a network suited for Phi Phi’s joints. In fact, we passed by it on the way down.

“We’ve landed on Mars, Ash. Look at that—,” I said trailing off.

Red sand kicked up from under her delicate stride, with each step sounding both crunchy and soft. Just ahead of me her feet froze and we both felt the individual grains sift back into the Earth like wind on the skin or a distant rainfall close enough to barely hear.

“It’s like Moab, so peaceful.”

The contrasting hues clashed along the ridge if not for hardy trees and yellow whispers of dead things that took root long ago. Part of us knew the connection we both had to dying moments, in our own lives, but greater was the life that grew in the face of it. She smiled at me and no matter how often it came it always felt like the first; I knew even before then that she was to be my wife. So seeing a new shine catch off her finger those first few months filled me with great joy.

Ophelia relieved herself near Ashley’s foot with the biggest grin and after a while these territorial squats resulted in mere performance, as nothing was coming out. I imagined it inflated her hubris to think of all the places she had marked throughout our travels. She possessed spontaneity and toughness and a yearning spirit; all the attributes of a perfectly sound nomad, tucked inside an economic vessel—not too big to transport yet not too small to get kicked around either.

Back in Orderville, we stopped by an irresistible build that we had eyed for nearly a day, which it demanded going to and from the motor lodge. What with dinosaur statues surveying over mine carts of glistening jewels, tall jungle leaves swaddling the rock-shaped shoppe, the smell of strong joe and cider doughnuts served in wax paper; it was the stop for curiosity, and it came with great restraint that we had not stopped sooner.

But when it was morning we did not return as the coffee selection was more diverse and ironically tastier at the Sinclair, which of course had their own less-charming green Dino out front. Sellout. Our guide was also there, a petite blonde named Maggie dressed straight out of a western. She even tipped her cowboy hat at us when saying hello.

“Did y’all want to ride with me or tail behind? It’s about a couple miles to the neighborhood where they’ll be a dirt road that goes a-ways up to our ranch—it’s seen better days from monsoon season which-, just finished up last week, but your call.”

“We’ll meet you there!”

The last time I rode a horse was back in New Jersey at summer camp and it bit a kid’s leg. Our cabin blotted out the afternoon to ride them up to the ridge to catch the sunset, where their stables were. He ended up going to the nurse only to find out that he was deathly allergic. Hay pollen or something. If it wasn’t for the intuition of my horse to bite that kid, well, his throat could’ve closed, seemingly forever…

I thought of this when looking at Maverick. What a freaking spirit animal. Maggie informed me how much he was favorited amongst the townsfolk while helping me up with a rope from the other side. In one clean motion, I pushed against the leg strap and took hold of the horn, which protruded at the top of western saddles, until my other leg got round. His great age undoubtedly showed in his stoicism, unlike the modern desk slave who pouted in their role. Maverick did so without contempt, even welcomed his purpose by looking back at me to ensure I was settled.

It wasn’t the same horse from my childhood, I knew that much, yet it felt like a continuum of moments to loosely remind me of a unique story being told.

“If you want a cowboy on a white horse, riding off into the sunset. If that’s the kind of love you wanna wait for, hold on tight girl I ain’t there yet.” — Chris Stapleton

Ashley had a bit more trouble with her mount since her horse, called Aztec, was somewhat of an inverse to mine. He was young, hard-nosed, and mischievous. Whipping his head about as we got along to munch on every juniper berry he came across. I recalled her constantly correcting him, like we did with Benjamin, and giggling when he did the opposite. Thankfully as we climbed up into the slot canyons, we hitched all of them to a wooden fence so that Maggie could show us around.

When asked if she was a native she told us that she came from New Hampshire. Figuring life out through drips of school to please family and western sunsets for the soul. She weathered some lonely nights as a result, which lessened the more she spent as a farmhand looking after the horses, “a full-time job” she emphasized, but overall took to Mormon living quite well. It was opportunistic that we were trailing her again for I felt my face wrinkle when hit with the news. Miraculously not a speck of her was frostbitten by the northeast, her dialect was palatable and warm on the ears. Either Maggie had been changed by Utah, disillusioned by New Hampshire, or there really was something in those horses.

“Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God” —(Matthew 19:24)

Encouraged by transformative tales, we met our match when faced with the Mt. Carmel tunnel. At over a mile long, traffic control was necessary for the narrow squeeze. There was no stopping once permitted inside, like the slow and steady ascent of a roller coaster. Six arched windows passed one by one until we burst from the rock face into an all-encompassing, breath-taking picture of paradise. Our jaws fell and our troubles fell with them.

We took the most enjoyable winding road down to the doorstep of Zion situated in Springdale—the only way to enter the park’s epicenter was to hop a ride on one of the buses there. Many of our fellow sunrise passengers wore bib coveralls that they rented in town for the sole expedition into the “Narrows”. Notched at the final loop of the bus route, the full trail required permits and wavers signed, which took up a whole day, wading against the temperamental torrent atop precarious river rocks for sixteen whole miles. A feat we joked about experiencing for ourselves, if we weren’t such mountain junkies.

“Let’s ride it all the way and see where they hop in,” I said curiously. “Then we can hit ‘Weeping Rock’ before ‘Scout’s Lookout’.”

Ashley groaned at the thought, for she loved sounding the alarm of any big hike and what toll it would bring on our bodies. Scout Lookout via West Rim Trail encompassed over 1,100 ft. of elevation gain in under two miles, one way—3.8 total…

Even though the sun had long acquainted the day it was dawn in the valley. Cool air full of moisture felt good in the nose while adrenaline pumped to keep my chest warm. Looking out on those colder than I, about two dozen now, as they adjusted to the icy riverbed with excited laughter and screams. I saw the moon wink at me from atop the ridge, jeering like it beat me to it with legs of its own. We didn’t stay a moment more and got on the next bus out.

Diamonds painted the ‘Weeping Wall’ with the sun reflecting off the West Rim. It was a short ascent to hide underneath the rock umbrella, which made for a surreal view of what looked like meandering twine, of a lighter brown, that scratched out our impending journey. It also left us some time to process any second thoughts.

“I’m not doing Angel’s Landing,” Ashley confessed.

“I don’t think I am either, not without you.”

Not that I could anyhow, at least, not by regulatory means for a lottery system was in place to prevent congestion along the rail-lined tightrope known amongst climbers as a “knife’s edge”—or a dizzying, doom-filled abyss on either side. To obtain a coveted spot took months of premeditation—long enough to deter the average selfie-stick flailing tourist. It was ubiquitous with death, even internationally recognized, averaging one every two years since 2000.

Of course, we knew better than to purchase a selfie-stick, and we were no stranger to the trail, but every trail was a stranger to us so there was a reverence we knew to give it. The only way across ‘Angel’s Landing’ at this juncture was to sneak on.

Hiking up to the first vantage point had been steep and steady and predominately without a patch of shade to lap up any of that remaining cool on our messy tongues. The scorched shrubs were selfish in that regard, for they took it all for themselves. But turning into the mountain shortly after was ‘Refrigerator Canyon’ where extended shade and water brought the fuzz out of our eyes. The coolest transition, quite literally, of any hike for the remainder of it ascended along the backside.

Another notable locale, one of the final ones before summiting, was ‘Walter’s Wiggles’. A collection of twenty-one switchbacks held up by brick retaining walls; an optical illusion when looked at plainly, like Walter was a mid-century painter, so we adapted our necks down the rest of the way…

At long last, we tasted victory atop the giants. Bushy-tailed chipmunks greeted us there and took peanuts from our hands. Delighted in the view, I gave Ashley a kiss and listened to other hikers gearing up for ‘Angel’s Landing’. The trail ahead was unguarded, vacant. I thought if I were to go, now was the time. But something in me refused and I relayed that to Ash.

I thought it better than to sit with my fiancé and listen to other things. Things I found on the blue wind. What if life was meant to be this after all? Our displacement, our intimate suffering, we searched for a savior in status to clothe over nakedness. What if it was our job to find beauty in everything like the angels? Instead of currency at another’s expense for an insatiable number, it was a currency of praise to the one who gave us everything. Both undoubtedly infinite, yet one clung to desire and the other to refuge. What if existence was submission of that fact—through Him we could do all things.

Then I thought to myself, “I better go home and dust off that ‘ol Bible.”