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The Rim Huggers

Strolling the highest edges of the Vermilion Cliffs

By Andrew Gulliford

Found in: | Outside | Hiking | Where to Go |

Forget the minimalist backpacking craze. Skip the loads of gear required for river tripping. Rock gear and wet suits for canyoneering, forget that, too. Think instead of comfortable car camping with huge tents, inflatable mattresses, folding chairs, canine companions, gourmet dinners and nightly campfires. Imagine leisurely strolls around the most remote part of Arizona and you get the idea of what fun it is to be a Rim Hugger, the unofficial name of three couples from Colorado and Utah who are deeply devoted to the Vermilion Cliffs and to walking the Paria Wilderness. They even have monogrammed sweatshirts to prove it.

"You never get over the beauty out here," marvel Tom and Carol McBride from Bayfield, Colo. "Every nook and cranny has something to offer, especially when the light is just right." Darlene Reidhead and Ken McNutt come from St. George, Utah, with Bob and Emily Atwood, archaeological site stewards who protect eight of the more than 3,000 archaeological and rock art sites surveyed within the Monument. From condor watching to catch-and-release arrowhead hunting, the Rim Huggers are out to enjoy a wonderful experience. Having joined them twice now for excursions on the Vermilion Cliffs, each time I learn more about the group and why they do what they do.

The Rim Huggers' goal has been to walk from car camps the entire rim of the 110,000-acre Paria-Vermilion Cliffs Wilderness Area, an area within the 294,000-acre Vermilion Cliffs National Monument. The top of the Monument is accessible by four-wheel-drive vehicles. And the Wilderness rim, which reaches 7,000 feet above sea level, is perfect for walking.

The three couples have spent 12 years leisurely traversing the more than 100-mile rim. For the Atwoods, the Paria Plateau in the middle and the Vermilion Cliffs on the edge represent their favorite place on earth. They have seen trophy deer, desert bighorn sheep, petroglyphs, potsherds and very few people. Bob explains that in the last few years hiking the rim, "We haven't seen a soul." Emily adds, "We stroll along and march back. Always uphill, in sand, against the wind."

Managed by the Bureau of Land Management, Vermilion Cliffs is not for the faint of heart. The BLM advises, "Visits to the area require special planning and awareness of potential hazards such as rugged and unmarked roads, poisonous reptiles and insects, extreme heat or cold, deep sand and flash floods." Extra gasoline and shovels are a necessity and so is riding in a caravan. Getting stuck is a real possibility in the miles of treacherous sand.

The remoteness of the Vermilion Cliffs on the east side of the Arizona Strip is exactly why federal agencies used the cliffs to re-introduce endangered California condors, a species maybe 11 million years old. On the southwest corner of the rim, holding and feeding pens have allowed young condors to acclimate. Begun in the mid-1990s, this re-introduction has brought the giant birds back to the Southwest where their presence can surprise visitors.

While eating lunch one day, the Rim Huggers watched a tagged juvenile condor land nearby and hop toward them. As it closed in, presumably to beg for sandwiches, the bird ducked its head as though bowing, dipped its wings and, inching ever closer, nipped at Tom McBride's hiking shoe. "He thought my boot was something to eat," surmises McBride. The same bird had been terrorizing rafters on the Colorado River by landing on rocks and seeking pastrami. The bird's history of begging had resulted in it being recaptured and returned to captivity for "re-education" and a healthier diet of dead rabbits, but, apparently, once a beggar.

At sunset where you stand on the Vermilion Cliffs looking south toward the Grand Canyon, you could see the huge, dark shape of a California condor gliding above 3,000-foot cliffs. The condor's 10-foot wingspan is unmistakable, prompting the joke: What's the difference between a California condor and a Boeing 747 jet? The condor doesn't serve pretzels.

In other places along the rim, the sheer size of the landscape dwarfs the great birds. Looking across the Colorado Plateau toward Navajo Mountain and Flagstaff, even the largest bird on the continent appears as a dot. The deep, incised lines of canyons like Echo Cliffs and Marble Canyon seem to stretch forever, which is why visiting Vermilion Cliffs is like being on top of the world.

Andrew Gulliford is a professor of Southwest Studies and history at Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado and the author of Sacred Objects and Sacred Places: Preserving Tribal Traditions, among other books. He can be reached at gulliford_a@fortlewis.edu