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| 1995 landslide at Zion NP |
I have been totally jammed up with decisions
about my Rebel Puritan ebook, so while I finish a post about New England
witchcraft, here is a travel tale:
Our
friend Jerry said we were crazy to take a road trip above the Arctic Circle in the
Northwest Territories. “You could have broken down and been stuck for a
week.” Since then I learned that you
don’t have to drive 24,000 miles to get stuck.
It can happen much closer to home.
Friday, April 14th 1995: This was an El Nino year, and southern
Utah had 24” of rain by mid-April. On
the 14th we learn that there is a huge landslide at Zion National
Park. A swath 200 yards wide dammed the
Virgin River and buried the road. When
the river overtopped the earthslide, it tore out both the blockage and the
road.
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| Smithsonian Butte, Utah |
We come
to Zion anyway, and head for a favorite primitive campsite on Smithsonian
Butte. It’s beautiful red-rock land, used
by mountain bikers and ranchers. The rugged
access road climbs over 1,000’ from the Virgin River, most of it in a half-mile
that leaves me holding my breath. This
Horrible Hill is narrow, rocky, and rutted, with a long drop on the passenger
side. Signs warn that the Smithsonian
Butte road is impassable when wet.
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| Solar halo |
The evening sky is the
color of skim milk, and there are two glowing rings around the sun. I have never seen two haloes before – or
since. Later I read that a halo is
caused by ice crystals in the atmosphere.
Lots of ice; caused by loads of moisture and very cold air aloft. One halo is a fairly good indicator that rain
is on the way. To me, it is very pretty,
and no more than that. Now I wish I’d
taken a photograph.
Saturday: We are overjoyed to find that hikers can take
the temporary road into Zion’s inner canyon today. Richard and I have never experienced Zion Canyon
without constant vehicle noise (though private traffic is largely barred now). The swollen river’s roar dominates the canyon,
and reflects weirdly from roadside boulders.
Warblers, grosbeaks, and flycatchers are migrating, and their songs fill
the air when we get away from the river.
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| Angels Landing |
Richard and I promenade
down the road, watching Angel’s Landing get closer. He can't resist climbing
to the top of the Landing, so we trade his down
coat for my lighter sweatshirt, and off he goes.
At
the base of Angel’s Landing I munch my lunch and watch for peregrine
falcons. The clouds are thickening and a
few light sprinkles dot the road as I turn back. A ranger on a bike tells me that I should
head back quickly because the temporary road is washing out. At the landslide I am instructed to stay near
the cliff and don’t stop for anything. It’s
another half hour until Richard returns after his 12-mile hike, with a 2,500’
climb thrown in.
The
forecast calls for rain over the weekend, but we carry plenty of food and water
in our pickup camper, so let it rain! It’s
supposed to turn sunny and warm on Monday and stay that way for the rest of the
week. Believing that optimistic forecast
was our 1st
bad decision, and we bounce up Horrible Hill to Smithsonian Butte.
About
10:00 pm we hear heavily amplified guitars and drums nearby. Public lands are often used for target
practice or loud parties, but this is the first garage band we’ve heard. We joke for a while about the Rockville
Rockers’ lack of talent, but if we want any sleep we must move. A couple of miles deeper into the back
country we find a level spot. We can
still hear the band, but we get to sleep as the first raindrops patter on the
camper roof.
Sunday: We stay in camp and I write several pages of
manuscript for Rebel Puritan. Despite
the forecast of sun on Monday, it begins to rain late in the afternoon and
continues most of the evening. No
problem – we stay warm and dry in our little camper. This proves to be our 2nd bad decision: we didn’t leave
when it started raining and we could still get down Horrible Hill.
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| Doesn't this look like fun? |
Monday: We wake to a surprise: 6” of snow. I finally get up about 10:00 to build a
snowman on the hood. We spend much of
the day under the quilts, working on respective writing projects. The sky slowly clears and we dry our damp
clothes on the hood. By late afternoon
the road is passable, but we decide to stay. This is our 3rd bad decision, and by
evening we know it. It rains
while I cook spaghetti and hot tea, and continues through the night. Now we are both anxious about getting out tomorrow,
because the road surface will be more like Vaseline than mud. Neither of us get much sleep.
Tuesday: Though it stops raining before dawn, the sky
is choked with by dark clouds. Richard walks
the quarter-mile to the road. A couple
of vehicles go by and he thinks we’ll have no trouble driving. Now we make our 4th bad decision: we
decide to stay put because it’s supposed to be sunny for the rest of the week.
We
have a NOAA weather radio, but can’t reach any station. At 2:00 we idle the engine to charge the
battery and listen to the only radio station we can reach; pop rock from St.
George. They have a new forecast – lots
of rain and snow. Really alarmed, we
make bad
decision #5 and decide to drive without checking the main road again. We are fooled by the spur where we are
parked, which is covered with bits of shale and quite drivable.
There
are two ways to go when we get to the byway – Rockville is only 4 miles away,
but we have the muddy Hill From Hell to navigate. Not a great idea without a Sherman Tank. The road south is a much longer drive – about
15 miles of gentle hills and flat sagebrush before we get to the paved highway
– but it’s better than sliding off the Hill.
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| Our home for three days |
We
turn south and we fishtail through greasy mud.
Then we reach a dip where water has puddled, and the clay hasn’t dried
out at all. We slide uncontrollably to
the low side of the road. Putting
branches under the tires for traction doesn’t help. We aren’t dug in, but now we are stuck on a
bad slant.
Now
it’s clear that the “impassable when wet” signs are absolutely true. The Hill From Hell is only one of the hazards
on Smithsonian Butte; the other is fine volcanic clay that covers much of
southern Utah. It absorbs water like
crazy and when saturated the locals describe it as axle grease or “slicker ‘n
snot.” At its worst, even 4WD vehicles
come to a standstill
A
local guy offers to pull us out, but this is our mistake #6. His own truck can barely move, and he merely drags
us 15-20’ further into the bog. Our back
tire slips over the edge of the road just as his improvised tow rope snaps. Now only a blob of greasy clay the size of a
watermelon keeps our truck from sliding down a 3’ embankment.
Our
would-be savior offers to drive us out, but we decide to stay. We have plenty of water and food, and don’t
want to leave our truck to be stripped by looters. He will come back in a couple of days to
check on us, but casually mentions that he’s concerned about getting through
“The Big Mudhole” ahead. He will tell
the BLM in St. George that we’re here, but there’s not much they can do, short
of sending a helicopter.
With
a folding Army shovel we dig water diversion channels around the truck. The clay sticks to our feet in huge clods,
and we stagger like drunks on ice skates. The driving rain and sleet changes to snow; fat
Christmas-card flakes which pile up fast.
The St. George pop station gives us another light and fluffy forecast. A bit of rain today, but beautiful weather will arrive soon. We also learn that they
are selling tickets for a charity baseball game, and apparently don’t want to
discourage fans. We no longer believe
the optimistic forecast and I cry while snow builds up on the windshield.
We
stuff mud-caked footwear into bags and crawl into the camper, which slants footward
at a ridiculous angle. I build a shelf
of laundry and spare clothing so I don’t roll down onto Richard. We move cautiously, fearful that we could
slide further off the road. However, our
last look out reveals stars among patchy clouds, and hope sends us to sleep.
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| Now this is fun - right? |
Wednesday: Richard finds a rock slab to use as a
porch. We stand on it to take off our boots,
and stash our trash under a nearby bush to get it out of the way. Next
we get the truck back onto the road. While
I hunt for flat rocks, Richard digs through the churned-up slime to drier, more
solid ground. The clay won’t fall off the shovel so he scrapes it onto nearby
bushes. We shove sticks and rocks under
the tires, then I drive and Richard pushes.
On the second try we get our rear tires on solid rock. We build ramps, but only have enough rocks
for a couple feet, so we drive, dig out the rocks, build more ramps, and drive
again. Soon we are back on the road and
much more level.
Thursday: It miraculously remains dry all night and we
have a sunny morning. The road is still
very boggy where we have walked, but 30 yards ahead the surface is solid. I tell Richard, “Hey, let’s get out of here
now.” He is oddly reluctant, and I argue
that it’s insane to wait any longer. But
Richard’s back is sore, and he fears getting stuck in “The Big Mudhole” we heard about.
He
won’t yield, and that’s probably the worst bad decision #7 of this entire debacle. I wait in the front seat until time to turn
the engine on and listen to the radio.
At 11:30 big gray clouds swoop in from the southeast, the ceiling lowers
and a few big drips plop onto the windshield.
I grip the steering wheel as I stare ahead at the beckoning road.
The
12:30 forecast is horrifying. The next
major winter storm will get here this afternoon, with very dangerous
conditions, especially in the high country – exactly where we are sitting. The giggly DJ has “lost” the extended
forecast but she’s sure the weather will be great on the weekend for the benefit
baseball game.
I
tearfully tell Richard that we are leaving now. I can’t stay here another week and we’re
getting low on water. We decide to move
a few feet to see how hard it will be to get out of the churned-up mess that
surrounds us. Out comes the shovel for
more rock ramp work. It’s drizzling, and
there is heavy rain off to the north and east.
I
drive, Richard pushes, and though we slither another inch toward the edge, we
gain two feet and the road is getting firmer.
On our second try I find enough rocks to build roadway for both front
and back tires. We gain another three
feet, and specially angled ramps move us another foot away from the edge. Our third set of ramps reach the end of the
slimy zone, and Richard cautions me to drive only to the end of the rocks. However, one of the tires bounces over a rock
and the truck lands rolling. We effortlessly
bound twenty feet toward freedom, as though our Ford is also anxious to get out
of here.
We
whoop in delight, collect shovel and trash stash, and heave the biggest rocks off
the road. I lived in upstate New York
where 100” of snow is considered an “easy winter,” so with my bad-road
experience, I do the driving.
At
the crest of the first hill we look anxiously into the dip, wondering whether
we can get through the puddle at the bottom.
Splash through easily, and on to the next dip. The puddles get bigger but I get more
confident, and barely pause for a look at the third dip. We aren’t sure which is the true Big Mudhole,
but it gives us no trouble. This is
getting to be fun! Still, I am nervous
enough that I’m sweating and ask Richard to dry my eyeglasses several times.
The
last section of the road crosses a sagebrush plain, and proves to be the most
treacherous part. The truck fishtails
like a fire hose with nobody holding it.
We stop at cattle guard with monstrous puddles on both ends. A slip here could leave us hung up or bashed,
and we want a good look before driving over.
4WD
truck stops behind us, and the driver promises to pull us out if we get
stuck. There really is a bottom to the
ponds on either side of the guard, but I slip and slide worse than ever trying
to keep up with our savior. I don’t want
to lose him, no matter what! Ahead we see
the Promised Land; paved highway with cars and trucks rolling along free and
easy.
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| Free at Last! |
We finally hit pavement just as it starts
pouring. Behind us the sky is blanked out
by hard rain. If we had delayed another
30 minutes, we’d have been there another
week, drinking muddy meltwater from the ditches.
People get stuck on Utah’s back
roads all the time, sometimes with fatal outcomes. While Richard and I were bemired on
Smithsonian Butte we were uncomfortable, bored, annoyed, and occasionally
frantic, but we were never in serious trouble.
Whenever we travel in the
backcountry, we always carry eight gallons of water, enough canned food to last
a couple of weeks, and our Army shovel proved invaluable in 1995. We always have more than enough warm bedding
and clothes. But now Richard and I pay
better attention to weather forecasts and don’t believe everything we hear,
especially from radio stations trying to sell baseball tickets.
Photo Credits:
Personal photo collection
Halo - http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/halo
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