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| | | Buckskin/Paria multisport adventure, UT | | | |
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Buckskin/Paria multisport adventure, UT
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| Hiking | 39.59 Miles |
5,810 AEG |
| | Hiking | 39.59 Miles | 7 Hrs 58 Mns | | 4.97 mph |
| 5,810 ft AEG | | 40 LBS Pack | | |
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| no partners | | Saturday, May 7 - My girlfriend and I drove from Phoenix to the Paria Contact Station and White House Campground. It was a drop dead gorgeous day for a drive through the Arizona desert. Deep colors, clean air, white clouds on true blue skies, wide open vistas, very high wow factor.
At the Contact station the staff thought it would be a horrible idea to ride up Long Canyon on mountain bikes, as we had planned to do as a scenic alternative to using Betty or some other method of shuttling back to the truck at the end of the trek. It seemed prudent then to preview the route by driving it, and so that's just what we did. The Jeep road up Long Canyon was in fine shape, not wallowing with sand or snotty with muck, and it actually seemed a semi-reasonable thing to consider riding up it, though we knew we'd be walking certain sections - the steep ones. Atop the plateau, views from just north of Dry Lake Flat were stunning. The Cockscomb was immediately gnarly and impressive, the Buckskin Mountains were beautiful, and in the distance beyond, another set of Vermilion Cliffs to the northwest were nearly as photogenic as the Vermilion Cliffs you see along 89A.
NOTE: Four-wheel drive *was* required when cutting through The Cockscomb down to House Rock Valley Rd some several hundred feet below. The beloved 4-Low range was very especially reassuring for driver and passenger alike!
Camping at White House is a beautiful, populace, barking dog, family time, pit toilet-having experience. We did it and were glad of the convenience and gladder still to leave the busyness of it behind the next morning.
Sunday, May 8 - We parked at Wire Pass, geared up and hit the trail around 9 a.m. in cool temps, a light breeze, warm sun. A semi-retired hiker from Eugene, who winters in Tucson, hiked with us to the intersection with Buckskin Gulch. We talked about climate change, overpopulation and how screwed the Polar Bears will be when all the ice is gone. Tom studies climate change scientifically and collaboratively using satellite imagery of various kinds. Quite interesting stuff, if a bit depressing at what it reveals.
When Wire Pass narrows it becomes the perfect introduction for anyone who has not had the pleasure of going through Buckskin Gulch. Warm light, sandstone, magic. The 8' downclimb was easy, thanks in some part to cheater rocks at the base of the drop. I made the moves wearing my full pack, but we passed the others' packs here. At the junction with Buckskin, our friend-for-an-hour went up the Gulch and we went down, marveling at how awful, ugly and mundane the views were. ;P
Miles of amazement, sandy trekking, naked geology and the story of time told in the sandstone and detritus trapped in its lifeless but beautiful labyrinth. About 4-1/2 miles beyond Wire Pass we came to the spot where, many years before, my sister and brother-in-law had clambered out on the creek-left side and made an early camp. This was well before the Middle Route exit, and it now looked too vertical to even contemplate. And there were bees. Could be it wasn't the spot I recalled from nearly two decades previous, but it sure looked right. Regardless, we went on, down one narrow corridor after another, toward certain dead-ends that suddenly opened left or right, a boulder pile, a wedged log 50' overhead, a deep shadow, a warmly lit wall of sculpted stone, and so on - for hours and miles. When finally we hit some pools, we were happy to find few of them above our knees, and the water cold but not painful or numbing. The water actually felt good on our sore and tiring feet. These slippery pools are one of the few places where I truly appreciate trekking poles. Being able to feel around for the high spots and to avoid sliding into the much deeper corners is a very good thing.
At the Middle Route Exit we lunched, photographed the various petroglyphs, and I scouted the Middle Route exit. Moki steps were treacherous with sand that had to be brushed and blown out. Our original plan was to camp here and to day hike to Cobra Arch, but the exposed class 4 moves required at the Exit and the later-than-hoped hour convinced us to move on and camp instead above the confluence a few miles down canyon. Perfectly gorgeous camp spots abound in the very obvious spot creek-left just before the confluence. Couldn't be any nicer.
Monday, May 9 - Croaking frog serenade didn't keep us from getting some d*mn good sleep, and we woke sore but ready to get back on the trail. Hot breakfast and breaking camp took an hour or so, but the temps were again very nice, and after a photo op at the massively looming canyon walls we turned the corner and voila - we were in the Paria River! It was running somewhere around 10 cf/s, and it was warmer than the cesspools of Buckskin Gulch. A few miles of walking upriver, and the canyon slowly begins to open up, letting in the sun. Before long I was plowing through the river, deliberately splashing water all over my pant legs to keep things in the nice and cool range. As we started to near White House CG we were watching to see if we could spot the trail up to Calf Spring, but we missed it somehow. Shouldn't we have seen power lines overhead? Nope - missed those too. Plans for another adventure, another time are brewing and involve fat bikes and fun on the plateau above.
It was about 2:30 p.m. when we hit the campground, and we enjoyed the shade of Junipers, the warmth of soft sand on our bare feet and fine dining from tuna pouches and Triscuits. Pro tip: The Ancient Grains crackers sold by Costco are as close to the ideal cracker as we've found, and they fit very nicely in an old Pringles can. We made due with the problematically small and square crackers and dropped some lousy, fizzing electrolyte wafer things (ZipFizz?) into a Nalgene of water and immediately wished we'd packed more Skratch instead of that artificially sweetened stuff we had.
Now, here's where things got interesting.
My master plan was to retrieve mountain bikes that we had stashed in a super secret location, and then to ride those old beaters up Long Canyon and to glorious camping on the plateau. Turns out that it was really windy this day, and also turns out that riding a bike *not* set up with racks, bags or any other way to take the load of your back really, really sucks! It became immediately clear that plan B or C or G (there were so many we discussed) needed to be put into action. Ultimately, this meant that I left my girlfriend and most of my pack's contents at the ramada at the contact station, and I went on a nasty solo ride to retrieve the truck from Wire Pass. Now, a wise person pointed out once that either you can hate the wind, or you can embrace it and accept or even appreciate it as your valuable "training partner". On this day, I was not in the mood for training - this was game time! And yet, here was my training partner doing warm-up sprints, apparently long overdue for a workout, like a dog that hasn't been walked in a long, long time. To say there were gusts well over 25 mph is no exaggeration. To say that I had to pedal that old RockHopper *hard* to go downhill on US 89 is not hyperbole. If I cursed my over-exuberant partner at the top of my lungs but couldn't hear my own voice over the gale force winds, did it ever really happen? Unsure, I bellowed profanities again and then a third time - just for good measure. And then I had to save my energy, because the highway was starting to climb up and around a corner as it cut through the rocky spine that is the Cockscomb. The great thing about the wind is that when you are nearing the top of a saddle or pass it really gets motivated to put on a show. We're talking cruel, over the top antics that can scar your psyche for a very long time. It's really bad sportsmanship is what it is. The spokes were whistling, the skin on my face was stretched into an inappropriate grin, and before the very top I could swear I heard Satan chuckling somewhere in the screaming of that wind. I'll not soon forget it.
Somehow, I made it to House Rock Rd without walking. Or crying. But then when the little downhill run from the highway to the dirt road flattened out and slowly, inexorably began to climb, I nearly called it a day. The thought of sitting in the culvert under the highway, eating all the rest of my food and then just laying down to die seemed like a pretty reasonable thing to do. Fortunately, the wind was there to keep me company - trusty partner that it was! And so we battled back and forth for mile after mile of blowing dust, dirt road, the occasional carload of trekkers effortlessly gliding by swilling beers, pointing and laughing at the stupidity of my life choices. But there was an occasional downhill section, when the pedaling was slightly less hard and the speed slightly less pitifully slow. And then it happened. To my amazement, into view came another person *not* in a car, *not* gliding along effortlessly while swilling Miller Light and singing Bohemian Rhapsody at full Galileo volume. This cat was pedaling! Another fool. Another blithering idiot out in the open (hyperactive) air, moving by muscle and willpower alone! I smiled a gritty, chapped smiled, waved, and bobbled but didn't quite crash as I passed him on the blissful downhill section just before reaching Wire Pass, the truck, and the effortless gliding it represented. Seeing that bold soul, fat bike all packed down, beard out to *there*, just spinning and grinning up the hill I was going down really made my day. I wasn't bitter that he had a 25 mph tailwind. I didn't care that he was off doing exactly what I had hoped to be doing up Long Canyon. And it bothered me not at all that his facial hair was epic and worthy of song. No, I was just glowing inside knowing that we shared a secret about what it means to take your own path, to take the hard road, to be epic. |
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Wildflowers Observation Light
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Route Editor
Route Scout
Cottonwood (247) south 
Had to hike after work instead of swim training.
