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Into The Fold

Enjoyment and a sense of discovery await the canyons of Capitol Reef National Park

story and photos by Michael Engelhard

Found in: | Outside | Hiking |

". . . I daresay more people cursed than praised this warped land with their last breath."

". . . take your time"

Wheels are spinning, whining; they spew mud and rocks and start to smoke. I tell Steve to step off the gas. We are stuck up to the axles, bogged down, not quite in the middle-of-nowhere. But I am sure if I climbed on top of the van I could see the world's edge from there.

I met Steve, a photographer from Oregon, in Moab; with his blond mane and soul patch he resembles cult film director Jim Jarmush. It was easy to get him excited about the Muley Twist canyons of Capitol Reef National Park. Steve is a novice in canyon country and prefers not to accompany me on an extended hike but instead wants to take pictures near the canyon's mouth and just "get away from it all for a few days."

Graciously, he offered transportation and company for part of the trip. That was fine with me. Trying to drive as close to the trailhead as possible, we turned from a graded strip of dirt onto a spur road, ignoring the sign advising that this stretch was suited only for four-wheel-drive vehicles. What appeared at first glance as a solid track of washboard turned out to be a skin of dried-mud-concealing quagmire underneath: a typical trap set by spring's capricious weather.

We drove in on the Burr Trail - an old, snaking route for cattle drives to the Colorado River - parts of which had been paved only in 1986. Residents of the hamlet of Boulder had discussed pros and cons heatedly, and the faction clamoring for "accessibility" won the day. Tourist traffic in the remote southwestern part of the park soon increased, as predicted. Thirty-foot motor homes now rumble toward the pass that separates the Burr Trail from the Notom Road. A web of blacktop stretches across the desert, and year after year, escape from its sticky embrace seems harder.

After hours of scraping muck, of jacking up the beast and cramming rocks and deadwood under its wheels - after much pushing, sliding, sweating and cursing - the magic moment arrives. The van lurches forward, a few inches at first, and Steve steps on it. He catapults back to the paved section of road, desperation riding shotgun. Though grateful for the lift, I can't help thinking I have yet to get stuck on shank's mare.

We say our good-byes at the parking lot, and I start slogging up the sandy wash. So many arches in one single canyon! I count eleven, including some twinned spans, and perhaps even miss a few. Unlike the short slots that bisect the Waterpocket Fold east to west, the "Muleys" cleave it lengthwise for about twenty miles. Peekaboo Rock overlooking the wash near the trailhead is a perforated fin, a very young arch, geologically speaking. The center of an ivory-colored wall has withered away and collapsed, opening a peephole into the blue yonder, exposing a patch of cobalt sky. As erosion continues its work, it will enlarge this window. The forces of weather and time will whittle away supporting rock, to perhaps someday free another slender arc from its matrix. Delicate Arch, whose emblematic image graces Utah license plates, is by comparison a Methuselah and ready to expire.

Initially, walls loom only on my right; but as the canyon unfolds, both sides constrict. I decide to follow the rim route, for its grand views. When I top out on the rocky spine, I realize how bizarre the geology of this place really is. Upper Muley Twist squirms between two crazily tilted rock strata. The trail I'm on skirts the crest of a standing wave of Navajo sandstone, which thrusts upward to form the monocline's ramparts. Glimpses of the abyss make my stomach flinch. The opposite rim - of brick-red sandstone - flows in low, scalloped domes that overlap like scales of a dragon. (Except for Peekaboo Rock, all the arches line that distant edge.)

Wind sighs through dwarfed pi�on pines that hug the ridge. The gnarly shapes grow at a snail's pace, about ten feet in eighty years, if they survive lightning, bugs, and drought. Seeking to colonize this blustery hogback, the trees anchor themselves in finger-deep dirt. Their hardiness is impressive, and I wish for even a fraction of it.

By now the Henry Mountains stick their bald crowns into clouds, convening in somber council. The day threatens to turn sullen; but presently, the sinking sun bathes the ridge in light the color of honey. In my eagerness to capture the glorious moment, I set down my water bottle and camera case, and walk along the stone lip. One view draws me to the next . . . and on, to another. When I try to retrace my steps, I am unable to locate my stuff. A small mistake, this. But mistakes can add up, and in an unforgiving place the sum can spell your demise. Trailing the rock cairns that mark the ridge, I route-find back into Upper Muley Twist Canyon. Night falls, and my campsite is drowning in shadows, while up high, the realm of pi�ons and clouds and wind stays illuminated.

Praising the desert's gifts, southwestern writer Ellen Meloy mused that "if you are willing to put yourself at risk in its truly wild places, you can find a good place to die." You can also find a very bad one, and I daresay more people cursed than praised this warped land with their last breath. Take John Atlantic Burr for example, born halfway between Scotland and Utah, and bearing the middle name of his stormy birthplace. Pioneering a trail, through what some at the time considered the wildest and least traveled corner of the state, to move livestock from pasture to market, he died on the open range. (Supposedly, Burr was trying to relieve a severe urinary tract infection with a piece of bailing wire.) The trail named in his memory zigzags across the Waterpocket Fold, cutting upper and lower Muley Twist for all practical purposes into two separate canyons. Vehicles with four-wheel drive can climb the hairpin turns of this pass, grinding up to its climactic notch in the lowest gear. At the top, views of accordion-pleated badlands reward the intrepid driver.

Where the trail punches through the fold near the head of Lower Muley Twist Canyon, it reveals a textbook display of earth history. Usually stacked like a card deck, geological strata have bucked and tilted to near-upright angles, forming a veritable barrier. Within less than half a mile, I walk through four consecutive layers and corresponding ages - rainbow Chinle; pumpkin Wingate; lavender Kayenta; and creamy Navajo. The colors are not only reminiscent of different ice cream flavors, but each stratum also bears a distinct mark of erosion: crumbling hills for the Chinle; vertical fluting for the Wingate; layered catwalks for the Kayenta; and slick whalebacks for the Navajo Sandstone. There are places along the fold where up to fifteen rock formations lie bared to the elements simultaneously.

Monoclines like the Waterpocket Fold form the margins of uplifts and adjacent basins and are a trademark of the Colorado Plateau. Compression pushed blocks of earth's crust upward while neighboring blocks sank. The deep-seated faults lie buried under sediment and scar the plateau like poorly healed sutures. Over millions of years, runoff has eroded monoclines like the San Rafael Swell, Comb Ridge, or the Cockscomb, giving birth to countless canyons and slot canyons. Strings of cavities that line the Navajo Sandstone and act as rainwater catch basins - and reservoirs for thirsty hikers - inspired the Waterpocket Fold's name.

Unlike its twin north of the Burr Trail, the lower canyon shoulders apart Wingate cliffs right from the start. The rubble of talus fans backs up smooth narrows. A quirky pioneer immortalized his sense of humor by naming the canyon. And these bottlenecks could indeed twist a pack mule's rump. "Molly's Nipple," the "Bishop's Prick," and a host of other colorful monikers were less fortunate. A bureaucratic sense of propriety erased those place names from all topographic maps.

A storm hurtled down canyon last night, tearing at my tent, a bully looking for someone to pick on. I had to crawl from my sleeping bag repeatedly to weigh down the tent stakes with rocks. The flapping fly kept me awake for long hours, and I feel like Jell-o this morning. Frozen slush encrusts my nylon dome with a second skin. By noon the last tattered clouds have beaten a retreat, and the sky is rinsed Prussian blue. My spirit soars.

Navajo cliffs gradually replace bands of Wingate, contrary to the way layers normally superimpose each other (oldest at the bottom). This hike feels like a crabwalk through time. With each eastward turn of the creek bed, varnished headwalls block my way - more than a thousand feet high and seemingly without a single foot or handhold. But the cornered canyon swings west again without fail, gnawing its way through the bedrock. Band shell-sized undercuts flare the walls. I lunch in the largest of these, amidst dry cow pies. The alcove easily measures 180 feet in depth and sheltered cattlemen in the 1920s. Hunters of the Fremont culture also camped here, but cows or pothunters destroyed any signs of Pre-Columbian occupation. Fortunately, the hoofed locusts are now banned from the park, and the removal of artifacts has become illegal.

The gusting has picked up again, roaring outside like a waterfall. Heeding the weather's temper, I decide to stay put. Toward evening the wind subsides, temperatures plummet, and downy flakes tumble from a bruised sky. They settle on the ground in a barely audible whisper. I spread my pad and sleeping bag in the dust. Before sleep comes, my thoughts drift, dwelling briefly on John Atlantic Burr . . . .

Farther down canyon, a rock crevice beckons, a white gleaming behind ruined hills of red shale. A cottonwood veteran guards the entrance. One second, sunlight envelops me, the next I plunge into crisp shade. Perpendicular cliffs swallow me after only a few steps; there is no gradual deepening of the gorge. Walls lean like drunks in a topsy-turvy world, ready to fall down any moment.

En route to Hall's Creek's watery narrows, Surprise Canyon breaches the monocline's flank. Like the Waterpocket Fold's slots, it is best reached from the Notom-Bullfrog Road. But best is a really a euphemism. The track of baked, rutted dirt that parallels the scarp all the way to "Lake" Powell hardly qualifies as a road. Joseph Wood Krutch, a naturalist and philosopher of arid places, realized even forty years ago that "there is nothing like a good bad dirt road to screen out the faintly interested and to invite the genuinely interested." At this time of year, in this part of the park, the genuinely interested tend to be few, and rather non-intrusive at that. They all know that Desert Rats are territorial and wont to bare teeth when crowded.

Within a mile or so, cabin-sized rocks turn the gorge into an obstacle course, and I have to use hands and feet to proceed up canyon. A brittle-leafed barberry sprawls on a cleft boulder. I half-wonder if the bush clings there to weight itself against the wind's raving, but conclude that it seeks nourishment instead. Its roots finger deep into cracks, filching pockets of water or soil - further evidence of plant tenacity. A few simple climbing moves at last launch me over a low wall at the head of steep talus. A basin previously hidden from view falls open in front of me, enclosed by Navajo Sandstone. The bulges mimic broken-toothed pinnacles in the Italian Alps more closely than Jurassic dunes of the Southwest. Is this the surprise alluded to in the canyon's name? A bonsai forest of scaly Mormon tea greens the dell, mixed with ubiquitous junipers and pale mops of bunchgrass. It looks as if cattle never grazed here. The ghost of a trail drifts from the basin, and I follow suit. Turning a blind corner overhung by a ridge, real surprise awaits me. A feeder canyon joins in from the east, affording easy passage back to the Notom road, visible from where I stand. I complete the hike, circling back to my starting point at the mouth of Surprise Canyon.

The average stay of a visitor in Capitol Reef has been estimated to be four hours. People probably while away a good portion of that at the park's interpretive center. It took me about the same time to explore this gash in Earth's rumpled sheets. A three-mile loop hike through Surprise Canyon has yielded more enjoyment and sense of discovery than many a longer and more renowned trek. Sometimes it's best to just leave guidebooks, maps and itineraries at home. Leave the car keys (or stuck van) and take your time. You may end up where you started - if you are lucky. But it's the in-between that matters.

Michael Engelhard is the author of Where the Rain Children Sleep, as well as the editor of two anthologies. He is currently working on a collection of canyon country vignettes, Redrock Almanac, and commutes between Alaska and the Colorado Plateau.