Moab in the Rain
Originally published in Utah Adventure Journal Fall 2019
Anna and I walked through fog along a ripping desert creek. The October rain came as a drizzle, and the conditions warranted a shell and a puffy. Desert clay clung to our boots as we wandered up the canyon, away from the little pass we drove down. We stopped and listened. An engine groaned over the top, and soon the red hood of a Jeep came into view. They shifted down and crawled to the bottom. It was the trailhead to the popular Steelbender after all. The four jeepers had grey rain hoods pulled tight over their heads and kept their eyes down as they crossed our trail and slipped over the first of many technical slick rock drops. Soon they were out of eye sight and ear shot and we continued our walk in rainy solitude.
We wandered away from the main creek and into arching red walls of small side canyon. Where it ended, we found a pour-off. On the sunny, dry days in the desert pour-offs are just black and brown painted cliffs that remember rains past. But not today. Today the drop was a steady flow of water, falling from the top and splashing down into a clear pool below. Our dog Aspen and I slipped around the sandstone edges of the pool and stood on a small sand island below the waterfall. Its cold mist caught my eyelashes. We were there alone witnessing the most powerful and blessed thing in the world: water in the desert.
So what were we doing down there, soggy in the desert? Surely the 300 clear days a year would be more enticing for activities and comfort. Well a few years ago Utah started its “Life Elevated” campaign, targeting the five national parks and the premier ski destinations. Slowly over the last couple decades, the Life Elevated coupled with an explosion of population and development have created a massive traffic problem in the canyons around Moab. Since Abbey’s prolific essays, we have been warned of “industrial recreation,” and now it has really seemed to have arrived.
Am I mad about this? No, mad is not the right word. It is good that people are coming to Utah to recreate, to have outdoor experiences. I hope in time, they will learn to care for these astonishing wild places. It is hard to see throngs of traffic clogging up the road and popular trails, but I say, go explore. I know the dilemma of growth well. I have spent years grappling with crowds both in the Wasatch and in the desert. And one way to deal with it is to go out there when no one else thinks it’s a good idea.
We watched the clouds roll over the melancholy canyon and left our waterfall, hiking back to the car and driving through the notch and up into Moab. Over coffee in town we checked the weather. More rain through the day, maybe sun that afternoon and a rainless night. Thundershowers the next day. I knew it would have to be perfect in order to dry the trails enough to ride them. When ridden wet, trails shred and rut. All we could do was wait and see how dry the desert really gets. I watched a couple of cars heading north, out of town. Otherwise the town was quiet. Anna loves her coffee and we sipped it slowly, letting it warm up our bellies.
The next day we unloaded at Grandstaff Canyon, another popular trail that we had to ourselves. The vibrantly green willows and grasses drank deeply from the creek. Their leaves heavy with moisture. We trotted with our pup, who stopped to grab sticks from the eddies along the creek. The walk eventually lead us away from the stream and up onto a slickrock bench. Terraced sandstone worn from the foot traffic of a million tourists brought us to an arch at the top of the canyon. A massive piece of stone was separated from the wall, but just barely. Through the gap I could see the clouds breaking, and the sun started to beam through. It hadn’t rained in a day and with the sun a ride was looking good. We wandered back down to the River Road.
We started out going slow up Porcupine Rim but we soon realized that the desert had sucked the moisture from the ground. We peddled up the track, twisting around boulders and sage. We encountered a couple other riders, but nothing like one would expect from a “normal” fall day in the desert. Usually going up Porcupine would be downright painful as there would be many people descending on you. But not today. On the rim we looked out toward the La Sals shrouded in clouds, and back down to the river far below. A dark grey mass loomed back across the sky to the southwest, and we raced down the track returning to the car right as the next round of drops started to fall.
That night we camped in the shadow of Castleton Tower. The rain returned and wind whipped our small tent, howling through the little washes and canyons around us. It was cold but we were cozy in our bags. As the drops pattered on the tent, we knew we wouldn’t be biking in the morning. We chatted about the storm and about our funny freezing stay in the desert. We still had a big weekend, full of waterfall chasing, hikes, and biking. We were tired and I let the storm lull me to sleep.
We woke to sun in the morning and some folks with a German accent were racking up to climb the tower. With wide eyes, I said, “make sure that rock is dry before you place any gear.” Wet sandstone is dangerous and climbing on it can break the rock, changing the route and putting the climber at risk. As their route was getting morning sun, they didn’t seem worried and away they marched up the trail to the tower. We loaded our tent and drove towards the mountains, which were stripping off their blanket of storm clouds.
As we entered the La Sals, we realized it had not been raining here. It had been snowing. Our first snow of the year, in Moab. A beautiful two inches of fresh lay on top of red boulders and shimmered on stubby juniper and the changing aspens. We drove up to a trailhead on the north side of the small range. There were no other cars around, and the only other mammals we saw were some free ranging cows. We parked at a high pass, and walked west towards the canyon country. After a short stroll in the trees and around a pond-sized puddle, we popped out at the beginning of one of the most beautiful hikes I have ever done.
The vista looking out over the Fisher Towers and down into Castle Valley was astonishing. The canyons were deep and saturated with light and shadow. The walls that I normally only see one at a time were layered upon one another, giving new depth to the landscape. I looked down on giant spires, from hundreds of feet above. And at the same time, the new season came alive in front of me. The clouds burned off of the La Sals and exposed the storm-ravaged alpine. Snow shone fresh and frozen on the mountains. Along our hike it melted from the branches and dripped down my collar onto my back. The feeling of snow down my shirt and numb fingers warned of the coming winter.
For me, the first snow of the year is always welcomed. With it comes excitement. It foreshadows adventures in high places. It also reminds me that both the natural and human worlds are not static. A change comes and it helps us shift, adapt, and to reset. To experience the changing seasons is to realize the two of us are not all that separate after all. We can gripe about the crowds and the busy-ness or we can learn how to manage it better, and see the place anew.
Why go to Moab in the rain? You mustn’t rock climb. Biking is bad for the trails. Canyoneering is a death sentence. I’m not sure what the verdict is on that lone Jeep we saw. But Moab is one of the busiest tourist destinations in the West and I will now let you in on a little secret; in order to avoid the crowds, go when it rains. Go when it snows. Go when the temps are close to freezing and the activities are uncertain. Go prepared for anything. With some luck, the sun will come out. No matter what, you’ll still be doing and seeing amazing things. And, you’ll be out there, alone in the wilderness. Isn’t that what it’s really all about?
