Teton bound

[USExplorer]

2150: I woke up Sunday morning in a trash-filled clearing near the Colorado River to this whopper of a thunderstorm rolling on down into the valley. 

2151: At the local Walmart, an elderly veteran was panhandling at the entrance with his back to the storm. I ran over and warned him, and he looked around behind himself and decided that a temporary relocation was a wise choice. By this time, lightning was flashing almost continuously inside the storm, and the rumbles of thunder were growing louder and louder.

2153: I take refuge at the picnic pavilion at the Rotary Park just as the rain starts. And does it rain! All the low spots in the park turn into giant puddles within five minutes. The total rain is only 0.32 inches but it falls in a very short time. 

2154: After the cloudburst passes, the the low portions of roads are turned into creeks. Cars cautiously drive through the numerous puddles and washes. 

2155: Yesterday afternoon, I checked out the riverside trail on the Nevada side. The Arizona park across the river charges seven dollars for a day pass, but Nevada is free. This cable setup was used back in the fifties when this area was a construction camp for Davis Dam. A barbed wire enclosure prevents visitors from operating the cable car, which still appears to be functional.

 

[USExplorer]

Old Bullhead City consists of a commercial strip along the boulevard, with plenty of empty lots and parking areas for cross-river casinos. It seems the primary income sources here are gas stations, cheap motels, and jet ski rentals. Off the main street is a slum of trailers. From the looks of them it appears many of them are seasonal casino employees who leave every summer. The streets are potholed, puddled, and without sidewalks. Some of them dead end in the river, others at vacant riverfront lots that are perpetually for sale. The riverfront park is in decent shape, but quite empty for a Sunday afternoon. 

2156: Davis Dam, unlike Hoover Dam, is an earthfill dam, with only some concrete used for the spillways and turbine housings. 
2157: Looking down the river from the top of the dam. I'm not sure I would want to live in the shadow of a high dirt embankment holding back millions of gallons of water. 
2159: Lake Mohave, part of the Lake Mead NRA. Large numbers of bass were congregated near the dam side of the lake in the shallows. 
2161: I am the only one on top of the dam. There is a gate a quarter mile down the hill, and only pedestrians and bicycles are allowed on the dam. The purpose of the dam is to regulate the outflow of Hoover Dam pursuant to a treaty with Mexico. 
2163: This heavily eroded mud wall behind the riverside trailhead had some deep crevices almost wide enough to crawl into. 

I spent the evening on the Laughlin casino strip. If you take all the fun out of Vegas, you get Laughlin. Nothing happens outside of the casinos here. Even the main street is lightly traveled, and bored cops drive back and forth, pulling over traffic offenders. The casino riverwalk is supposedly a big tourist attraction but again nothing is happening along it. It starts drizzling, and I pull into the Tropicana and use the free WiFi. There is steady pedestrian traffic here, between the casino and its parking lot. A local "nightclub" blasts recorded music from the second floor of a strip mall also featuring a title loan business and a dentist. No one appears to be inside the place. 

I park for the night in one of the casino parking lots overlooking the river on the Arizona side. As I am preparing breakfast in the riverfront park, a ragged guy walks by on the road with his thumb out. I hail him, and as he lives near the library, I offer to take him there after I finish breakfast. He tells a story of how a misunderstanding meant that he got dropped off over in Laughlin with no ride back. If he was telling the truth, he had been walking for nearly two hours without getting a ride, which was understandable as he was somewhat crazy-looking, a 24 year old with fake werewolf teeth wearing a baseball cap with the brim curled upwards.

After I finished cooking and eating breakfast I drove him down into what he described as "the ghetto", dropping him off at an intersection in another trailer development. At the library, people are complaining since the security guard waited until the very last second to open the library door. I think its time to move on and leave Bullhead City behind.

 

[USExplorer]

Oatman, a tourist trap Wild West town, sits at the base of the Black Mountains on Old Route 66. Dozens of semi-wild burros wander around the street looking for tourists to feed them. The narrow main street almost looks like a Mexican town, parked cars squeezing the road down to one lane, traffic slowing to a crawl to avoid hitting the burros and pedestrians, hawkers selling souvenirs and gimmicks to the crowds of tourists on the canopied sidewalks. Live music is playing in a rustic bar, despite it being only 2:00 pm. Only a plaza is missing. Outside the town center, heavily eroded tracks lead up the hills to squalid tin-roofed dwellings, many of which look abandoned.

2167: Ocotillo in bloom along Silver Creek Road.
2168: A rock formation along Silver Creek Road. The Black Mountain foothills have dozens of heavily eroded buttes like this.
2169: My old friend, the jumping cholla. Forests of these evil plants cover the hillsides along the road.
2171: From Oatman's Main Street, looking to the ridge of the Black Mountains. Take away the tourist cars and you have a ghost town again.
2172: Main Street itself.

 

[USExplorer]

2173: The switchbacks on Old Route 66. This is the most challenging portion of the route. Back in the Dustbowl days many migrants would hire locals to drive their cars down the pass. I don't find it challenging, but maybe some people were frightened by the lack of guardrails.
2176: Somewhat below the pass is an old mineshaft. I stretched my camera out over the hole and took a picture. A dropped rock takes two and a half seconds to hit bottom. 
2177: On the Sitgreaves Pass, looking toward Golden Valley and Kingman. A rainstorm is blotting out the valley.
2178: Looking back toward the Mohave Valley and California. Evaporation from the recent rain has resulted in powerful updrafts and spectacularly lit cumulus clouds. This is the last I'll see of California for a long time.
2179: Coming down toward Kingman, I spotted this oasis and pulled in to camp just as it started raining. A small trickle of spring water nourishes two massive cottonwoods before running into a series of rock pools befouled by cows and burros. Thousands of migrants likely camped here in this spot of shade and water before setting out to tackle the Sitgreaves Pass.

 

[USExplorer]

All evening, cars went by on nearby Route 66, but none saw the steep turnoff to access my campsite. As daylight faded, the last of the clouds scudded by and the sky was clear for the first time in a week. I couldn't get a campfire started with the wet wood so I threw a pint of kerosene and an old sock into a #10 can and sat by my mini burn barrel reading. The kerosene had traveled over 10,000 miles in a Gatorade bottle in the back of my truck. 

The next morning there was dew on everything, but the sun was shining bright and strong. I spread my tent on the bridge to dry out before folding it up, and set out down the hill. The highway crossed several huge washes before passing through a portion of the widely scattered trailer development of Golden Valley.

In Kingman once again, I stopped at the visitor's center, where I got information about the Monolith Gardens Trail, a trail just outside town winding through rock formations. Several RVs were camped at the trailhead, but the trail was free of hikers. After getting lost due to an obselete map, I cut cross-country and returned to my truck.

2180: The entrance to the campsite. The bridge was a network of steel girders covered with mesh. 
2181: Unfortunately, the door only opens into a tiny cave covered in graffiti, not a giant stone castle. 
2182: The Leaning Tower of Cerbat.
2183: I meet a fellow hiker on the trail.
2184: He is not very conversational, but doesn't protest when I take a picture.

 

[USExplorer]

I decided to leave Kingman last night and camp out in the desert outside town along Route 66. I ended up parking next to a busy railroad in the dark. The nearby bridge over a small wash was supported by two rows of steel girders. One of the end girders had two neat .30 inch holes drilled right through the three quarter inch thick I-beam, and a third hole most of the way through. By the rippling of the metal it was clear they were drilled with AP bullets. The other girder was covered in numerous lead splashes which did not even dent it. 

I stopped in Peach Springs along Old 66 in the Hualapai Indian Reservation to get information about this side of the Grand Canyon. The reservation had their own radio station, playing the white man's country and folk music interspersed with PSAs. The local tourist attractions are way out of my price range. Grand Canyon West Skywalk: $75. A long hike into Supai village: booked up months in advance, $43 admission and $20/night to camp. A pass to drive Diamond Creek Road to the bottom of the Grand Canyon: $53. In the rest stop a very fat Indian sat on a bench and scowled at me. I waved but he did not wave back. Down the road Grand Canyon Caverns charged nearly thirty dollars for a short tour. No thanks.

Route 66 west of Seligman traverses a very wide grassy plain dotted with cedar shrubs, low mesas on the horizon. A high mesa capped by radio towers is accessed by a gated but unlocked dirt road. Signs say this is a private ranch. I park outside the ranch and begin the long walk across the plain to the Mesa. A mile in, I see a white SUV descending the mesa road. It is a sheriff's deputy. He stops alongside me. "Good morning", I say.
"Good morning," he replies. "Do you realize that you are on private property?"
"Yes, I saw the sign, but I believed that they only applied to motor vehicle access."
"This whole side of the valley is a private ranch owned by the Navajo Nation. So technically you are trespassing. I was only up here because someone wrecked their vehicle up on the hill."
"OK, I see."
"If you want to hike on the mountains, all the land across I-40 is open." He pointed across the valley. "But the ranch owners here don't want anyone on their property. I'm just informing you." 
"Thanks for letting me know."
"Take care." He drove off and I decided to abort the hike and turned back. 

 Seligman is a small tourist town without any of the Western charm of Oatman. Motels, overpriced gas, and souvenir shops. I continue on into Ash Fork. The main street of Ash Fork is a four-lane boulevard with a developed median. It appears the designers had great plans but they never materialized.

Less than three days until the fee-free national park blitz begins. Here in Ash Fork on the high grassy plains of the Cococino Plateau it is very sunny and clear. It feels great breathing pure air again after spending a week in the hazy muggy soup down in the Mojave Valley.

2185: A typical northern Arizona view. Mesas, cedar scrub, flat grassland plateaus. 
2186: The deputy leaving the Navajo ranch. He did not stop to run my plate. 
2187: These open plains remind me to someday visit the open high plains east of the Rockies.
2188: Old Route 66 bridge over the BNSF railroad. The railroad runs between Topock and Flagstaff.

 

[USExplorer]

I filled up my tank on Route 66 in Ash Fork and made a right turn out of the parking lot. I noticed a guy sitting in front of the gas station waving and gesturing vigorously in the opposite direction. When I saw the dashed center line was white, I realized my error, and turned around. 

The town of Ash Fork has definitely seen better days. Though traffic roars by continually on the nearby interstate, very few people exit onto Main Street, and most of the downtown buildings are in poor condition. A storefront church holds a Bible study at 6 pm. When I arrive, all the attendees are part of the pastors' family. Others from the local community trickle in over the next half hour. After the dismissal, everyone is in a hurry to leave. The pastor's daughter calls me over and hands me a twenty dollar bill. I promise to pay it forward, and then everyone leaves the building and heads to their cars. 

Even at 5000 feet, the evening is warm. The Oasis Lounge, the only place open, is populated with a few local alcoholics, and I pass it by and enter I-40. Just outside town, the Kaibab National Forest begins. I take the first exit and soon drive back into the scrubby hills on a dirt track. There is dead cedar wood everywhere, and I light a campfire. The highway is a constant background roar.

In the morning, the temperature is moderate, a pleasant surprise, as I was half-expecting frost. Williams is the next town on my route, and the cedar scrub is replaced by rolling hills of ponderosa pines, the largest such forest in the world, as I gain elevation. Williams has a rustic downtown, but with plenty of businesses. The town also has a severe water shortage; they recently had to drill a well nearly a mile deep to relieve it. I get a few maps in the visitor's center and bottle a gallon of the precious water, then set out south into the forest toward Dogtown Lake. This lake is the primary reservoir for the city. Several early morning fishermen (and women) cast their lines along the lakeshore, while I take the trail up to Davenport Hill. 

The forest is tall and vibrant, with pines of varying sizes widely spaced apart and bunchgrass covering the ground. There are no creeks, or even washes, as the terrain is gently rolling. The soil is loamy, dotted with the occasional rock and covered with a blanket of pine needles. In parts, oak thickets have blanketed the soil with brown leaves. The trail leading up to the crest is very well-made, and I make good time. The view from the top is less than spectacular, but I do catch a glimpse of the snow-covered San Francisco Mountains, as well as a view of nearby Bill Williams Mountain. 

2189: Volcanic soil and cedar scrub near my campsite outside Ash Fork. It's been a while since I last camped in a forest.
2191: A forest road through the ponderosa pines outside Williams.
2193: Dogtown Lake, with Bill Williams Mountain in the background. The access road to the mountain is closed for the season.
2195: An oak thicket, 7700 feet up on the side of Davenport Hill.
2197: Another view of Bill Williams Mountain from the top of the hill. The oak thickets are visible as brown patches on the mountain's flanks.

The pine forest here is historically very open, though fire suppression has resulted in excessive brush in parts. Along the trail, the forest service has returned the forest to its native state with controlled burns.

 

[USExplorer]

2198: The San Francisco Mountains from I-40, approaching Flagstaff. If the weather forecast is correct they will be even snowier the next time I come through here.
2199: Between Williams and Flagstaff is the Keyhole Sink. This box canyon contains several Indian petroglyphs that suggest that this canyon was used for hunting. The rocks rise quite abruptly from the flat surrounding territory.
2200: Some of the petroglyphs. There are likely more but I couldn't find them.
2201: This semi-permanent rock pool at the base of the cliff is what makes this a great place to ambush deer. 

There is a whole lot to do in Flagstaff, but I don't plan to stay here long.

 

[USExplorer]

East of Flagstaff, the ponderosas quickly turn to cedar, and only a few miles later the cedar disappears as I-40 enters the rain-shadow of the Colorado Plateau. The land here is very flat and covered in bunchgrass and lacking most of the high desert plants found farther west. The plain in interrupted by the occasional deep canyon as it very gradually descends below 6000 feet. 

I take the exit for Meteor Crater Natural Landmark, even though it is closed, and drive the paved road six miles to the gate. The entire privately-owned crater is ringed by a barbed wire fence, outside of which numerous cows graze. There are plenty of large rocks scattered in the vicinity and a high berm of gray rocks along which the fence runs, but otherwise there is no hint of the vast hole in the ground from the outside. 

The next exit is for Meteor City Road. Several damaged signs advertise a souvenir shop ahead. I turn off the interstate and pull up beside another car parked outside the dome-shaped tourist trap. There is the primary dome, several fake tipis, and a few trailers and outbuildings. Immediately, I see something is not right: there is not a single intact pane of glass in the whole facility. 

2203: Hills outside Flagstaff. I fought traffic on the arterials for a few miles before hitting Old 66 and leaving the city behind.
2206: The very unimpressive crater rim.
2207: The terrain surrounding Meteor Crater.
2208: The geodesic dome souvenir shop at Meteor City. Based on dated materials within the facility it appears it was last occupied in 2004.
2209: A rustic cabin at Meteor City. This building was cleaned out; most others weren't.

 

[USExplorer]

2210: In the back yard of the visitors center was a 53 foot trailer, doors busted open. 
2211: Inside the dome, quiet chaos reigns long after vandals engaged in a smashing spree among the numerous display cases in the room.
2213: A massive pile of tourist brochures spilled on the floor, their holding case smashed to bits.
2214: And the favorite place for vandalism, the water closet. Another toilet was left intact and was obviously used several times, despite there being no running water.
2215: The workshop. Everything of value stolen, the rest covered in a thick layer of dust.

Back last winter when I lived in an economically depressed part of North Carolina, I had plenty of time on my days off from work to explore the numerous abandoned factories and other facilities that dotted the countryside, so such sights are not unusual to me. The vandalism is universal in any high-traffic location.

 

[USExplorer]

2216: This trailer looked almost like it was still in construction when it was abandoned. What a waste of shag carpet.
2217: The other trailer was definitely lived in. Somehow in abandoned houses personal possessions always end up piled up in an indiscriminate heap in one of the rooms. 
2218: The strong desert wind blows tattered curtains through a shattered window. 

I chose not to camp at Meteor City, and continued on into Winslow as the sun disappeared behind the clouds back in Flagstaff. I have now visited 14 of the 91 places mentioned in the American version of the song "I've Been Everywhere". After driving around the run-down factories and trailers scattered across the open plain of West Winslow, I gave up and parked in a vacant desert lot near the railroad. That evening, I continued reading "Native Son", the classic social justice novel that I never read in high school.

The next morning was sunny and quite warm. Two dollars for a shower at the Winslow indoor pool. Winslow is poor and not particularly beautiful, but if I didn't have anyplace to go I wouldn't mind staying here for a while. I leave the town around noon and drive straight to Holbrook, the gateway to Petrified Forest National Park. Holbrook looks much the same, its former Route 66 glory long gone. At a rest stop just off the highway, I pull in to eat a lunch of crackers and putrid but tasty canned fish. While I eat, I notice an Indian teenager standing by the picnic pavilion . She seems to be waiting for someone, but no one shows up, and she is getting quite anxious. I decide to ask her if she needs any help, but before I clean up my lunch she walks hesitantly over to my car and asks me to use my phone. I boot up my ancient Motorola, check that it has signal, and hand it to her. She gets through to her parents just as they pull in to the rest stop, hands me back my phone, says "thank you very much" distractedly and gets in their car. 

2221: The Little Colorado River outside Winslow. 
2222: This ugly power plant is visible for miles across the plain leading up to Holbrook. My next set of pictures will be less ugly, I promise.

 

[USExplorer]

The Holbrook laundromat is one of the cheapest I've seen, only $2.25 for both wash and dry. I am the only non-Indian customer in the building. While I am washing my clothes, a cold front rolls in, and the temperature drops into the mid 40s in the course of an hour. A steady rain-blown drizzle begins. I finish reading "Native Son" in the crowded laundry. Unlike the author, I do not see the violent behavior of the main character as an amoral product of one's environment, but rather as a manifestation of human nature. It was still a thought-provoking read, especially given that it was written decades before the civil rights movement.

I drove under the 180 bridge over the Little Colorado River to cook dinner without getting wet. The river itself looked much the same as it did outside Winslow, a wide swath of flat sandy mud, with a trickle of water meandering through a red channel and OHV tracks running along the bank. There was a long-dead campfire on the riverbank under the bridge, as well as a goodly amount of trash. The river had been fenced off but someone placed a gate in it for pedestrian usage. The banks were lined with leafless scrub brush. It being a Friday night, I drove back into downtown to see what was going on. 

After checking out the "world famous" Winner Circle bar and finding it quite dull, I drove down Highway 180 almost to the entrance of Petrified Forest National Park and pulled off into the roadside grass for the night. The plain here is all privately owned, and all the access road gates are unlocked but posted. Traffic was very light on the highway, and the temperature in the mid 30s. 

I woke up to much the same weather this morning, more rain and flurries, strong winds, and 35 degree temps. After a cold breakfast, I pulled up at the park gate five minutes before opening. I retrieved some fruitcake purchased at a steep discount at a Texas Walmart, and then entered the park two minutes after the automatic gates opened. A white Sebring with Arizona plates is already parked in the visitor parking lot. I run into the car's owner in the museum. "Weather could be better," I remark casually. "It'll keep the crowds away," she replies. She tells me she was in Sedona on business and decided to check out the park. We end up leap-frogging each other for much of the park's length, eventually joking about it every time we crossed paths.

The first trail I walk is the Big Logs Trail at the visitor's center, where some of the largest petrified logs rest. The logs are drab on the "bark" side and garishly colored on their "cut" ends. Some of them are over three feet in diameter. They lay on top of rocks and all over the grassy desert floor. A stinging wind blows snow in my face as I walk down the path. 

2223: A typical log field. Logs of various lengths and shapes are scattered across the ground. The logs are solid rock and are very heavy.
2224: A close-up of a typical log. The color pattern varies by region, with some logs being almost entirely white.
2225: Big log laying on a flat rock.
2226: More big logs. 
2227: An entire tree lays on the ground here. Note the drab coloration. I do not believe the tree was assembled by natural processes.

 

[USExplorer]

Just past the visitor's center is another trail with more wood along it, as well as a rebuilt pueblo structure made from petrified wood.

2229: This mangled tree base is almost four feet wide. 
2230: A close-up reveals that while the minerals crystallize in vaguely cyclical patterns there is not the slightest hint of woodfiber remaining. 
2234: This pueblo room was built by the CCC in the 1930s out of petrified wood and mud mortar. 
2237: A bird, hunched against the cold wind, perches on a petrified log that exhibits mainly red and black coloration.
2239: Very round petrified logs along the asphalt hiking path.

There is no shortage of petrified wood, in fact the number of logs and color patterns is overwhelming, more so for the drabness of the desert plain surrounding them. But the desert won't remain drab for many more miles.

 

[USExplorer]

North of the largest concentration of petrified wood in the world is the beginning of the Painted Desert badlands. A paved loop road leads across a drab mesa to the edge, where erosion cuts through numerous colorful sediment layers. Petrified wood is often exposed on top of the sediment, but the progress of time will result in the wood falling to the bottom. 

2240: Erosion has broken up this petrified log. 
2241: Did they build the path by the log, or the log by the path?
2243: A solitary pile of heavily eroded sediment at the base of Blue Mesa. The broken rocks had fallen from an overhanging ledge higher up.
2245: The Agate Bridge, bridging the gorge over the only trees for miles around. Must be a spring here.
2247: Rainwater trickling down the mesa continues the process of erosion for these wondrous badlands.

Still too drab? Scroll down.

 

[USExplorer]

2248: Seemingly endless badlands, looking along the edge of Blue Mesa.
2250: The gullies have been filled in with sediment from above, recapturing some of the fallen petrified wood that had only recently been exposed.
2252: OK, yes, its still shades of gray and gray-blue, but this isn't the Painted Desert yet.
2253: Dry as a bone, for sure.
2254: The Tepee sediment formations.

 

[USExplorer]

The parkway leaves the mesas behind and progresses across a flat plain to I-40, which it crosses without connecting. Shortly after, it crosses the old Route 66 alignment, long abandoned...
2255: ...like this Studebaker left here. 
2256: And like these empty telegraph poles running along the overgrown road in both directions, parallel to the new highway and the new telephone wires.
2257: North of the interstate, the mesa abruptly drops off to a panoramic view of the Painted Desert. Red is the dominant color here, red badlands and buttes extending as far as the eye can see.
2258: The Puerco River meanders through the long-abandoned ruins of an old river-based civilization.
2259: A desert vista featuring many different shades of red.

This portion of the Painted Desert is roadless wilderness. On a nicer day I would be strongly tempted to take a hike but today I leave the park and drive back to Winslow. It has warmed up to about 50 degrees by 12:00 and the rain is over, but it will be a windy 25 degrees up in Flagstaff tonight. Nevermind that two hours away it is sunny and in the 80s.

 

[USExplorer]

Winslow - Flagstaff - Sunset Crater - Cameron - South Rim - Tuba City - Katenga - Monument Valley - Mexican Hat

After making my last updates in the Winslow library, I turn up I-40 toward Flagstaff, passing the Meteor City gift shop again and climbing into the juniper scrub. Twin Arrows Casino is about 30 miles and 1500 feet below Flagstaff, just outside the boundary of the Cococino National Forest, operated by the Navajo Nation. The old joke is that the Indians operate casinos as a form of reparations, but there are more Indians than white people at the slot machines. The bar has Coors Original in a classic stubby bottle for $2.50, much better than four bucks for a plastic cup of watery beer in a downtown Vegas casino. The bartender wishes me luck, and I wander around the gaming room, but choose not to play. 

Just outside the massive casino parking lot is a cattle grate and a rough unpaved road leading off into the juniper. I bump slowly down the road, looking for a dead juniper to break up for a campfire. The road ends at the fenced boundary of the Navajo Nation, and I turn along the fence and continue my search, with no luck. I end up parking about half a mile from the casino, with the blue grassy plain glowing dimly under the moonlight in one direction and the casino lights in the other. A search of the area reveals a large collection of tumbleweeds under a live juniper, and an illegal dump containing among other things rotted pieces of an upright piano. I get a fire going with the tumbleweeds and some other dead twigs, and toss some of the scrap wood on the fire. The wood feels wet but is dry inside and burns fiercely. The key board of the piano is dragged over. I pull the keys off and throw them all in the fire, where the white plastic covers bubble and blacken in the flame. The entire key board is then propped over the fire. Eventually the support burns through and the key board is slowly consumed. While the fire is burning I am reading a somewhat sick supernatural horror-thriller novel called "Golgotha Falls". The plot involves a God vs. Satan battle, fought under the scrutiny of modern scientists in a decrepit old church in Massachusetts. On its dust cover is a picture of a grinning demon holding a gold cross. I toss the dust cover in the fire absent-mindedly and the demon blackens and dies. The little metal pieces that held the piano keys down heat in the fire and randomly "ding" like tiny bells. The wind has completely died down and the night is silent but for the roar of the fire. 

I turn in past 11:00, waking up undisturbed by evil dreams. The sun is out this Sunday, and the last of the clouds have disappeared. I drive into Flagstaff to attend church. Even though it is sunny, it is very cool and windy in the ponderosa pines. Walnut Canyon does not open until 9 am, so I decide to skip it. I find a church of Christ in East Flagstaff. Also attending are several other visitors visiting the national parks like I am. Some of them grow impatient and leave before the service is dismissed. I do not stay long afterwards, driving out north along Route 89.

A mile outside of town, I pass an Indian with his thumb out. I make an O-turn and stop to move my clothes bin into the back. The Indian approaches at a half-jog. He is dressed rather strangely, wearing a neon orange coat, a red ski mask, and a bright blue cap worn backwards. Despite his garish attire, he is a quiet and solemn middle-aged man. He is heading up to Cameron, and as I am going that way I continue north past the very white San Francisco Mountains. I mention my intention to detour down NF-545 to Sunset Crater and Wupatki, and as he is indifferent I make the turn.

No fees are assessed at the entrance gate, and I continue on toward the crater. Snow lies upon the north sides of the lava flows near Sunset Crater, in brilliant contrast to the black flows. Some of the lava is in rough boulders (aa), and other portions is in smooth sheets on which a few hardy trees clung. My passenger takes out his smartphone and appears to be showing someone the landscape via video, frequently remarking on various features. 

The brown cinder cone volcano is passed, and the highway continues on into Wupatki National Monument. I do not stop in the monument, but simply take a picture and drive on back to 89 and barrel north, losing elevation. The land becomes more barren as the miles go on and we enter the Navajo Nation. Cameron is a charmless collection of trailers and stores scattered near the Grand Canyon east entrance highway. The ground is red and mostly devoid of vegetation. 

2261: The aa fields. The hills in the background are covered with snow from the recent storm.
2263: The lava slopes along Highway 545, snow remaining everywhere the sun doesn't reach.
2264: The volcano itself.
2265: The hills around Sunset Crater, splotched with black lava flows which are in turn streaked by white snow.
2266: The ruins of a pueblo in Wupatki.

 

[USExplorer]

I turn down Highway 64 toward Desert View. Along the way, I see a deep gorge off to my right and a sign for the Little Colorado River Gorge Tribal Park. The fee booth is closed, and several visitors and I walk out to the overlook and look down into the canyon. This canyon is deep but very narrow. The river does not appear to be flowing at the bottom. OK, time to see the real canyon.

Highway 64 climbs out of the barren red desert into a limestone-looking juniper forest. A higher mesa to the left of the road is covered in pines. The forest grows denser, and the highway briefly enters the Kaibab National Forest. Places to camp are numerous, and roads lead everywhere. Then, the national park boundary is crossed, and I pass numerous signs prohibiting many activities allowed right outside the boundary. At the entrance station, the ranger waves me on. I call out a cheer for Centennial Week and drive into the park proper.

The first view of the Grand Canyon is at Desert View, a very short distance from the entrance book. My first real-life view of the Grand Canyon, the first grand Western vista where I look down, not up. My old friend the Colorado River a blue ribbon traversing the center of the canyon. The reason it is called the Grand Canyon is because it is composed of hundreds of small canyons. The red sun-baked bare rock of the canyon contrasted strongly with the cool green forests of the rim. 

2268: The open red desert near Cameron.
2269: The Little Colorado River Gorge. 
2270: A side canyon of the Little Colorado looks to have squared-off rocks. 
2273: The green forests along 64 as it climbs to the rim plateau.
2274: My first view of the canyon. It was an appealing and intricate visual experience but after so many spectacular sights in the past few months I was not spellbound.

 

[USExplorer]

2275: A quiet canyon musician sitting on a rock outcropping was just part of the scenery.
2276: Much of the rim drive looked like this. The unknowing driver would have no idea of the abyss that lurked just a stone's throw away. 
2277: A trickle of water flows toward the Colorado through this deep side canyon.
2280: The slanting rays of the sun cast the inner canyon in foreboding shadow and haze.

I stopped at the occasional viewpoint, ending up eventually in the visitor's center. I then took the free shuttle bus out to Mohave Point to catch the sunset.

2283: The lowering light on the rugged rim trail, lighting up the grayish limestone cliffs.

 

[USExplorer]

2285: This is where Grand Canyon became spell-binding for me. The pictures don't do it justice.
2287: Earlier, the bus driver joked of California pollution creating brilliant sunsets. It is true, the whole sky lit up as the sun disappeared behind a distant mountain range. The cliffs in the foreground turned brown with the reflected red light.
2288: While the clouds are rimmed in red, it is the glowing polluted sky that makes the view so wonderful. 

After the sun set, the wind inexplicably picked up, and I grew quite cold waiting for the bus to come. Eventually I got tired of waiting and walked back the mile to the more popular bus stop. When I stepped in, the female bus driver remarked, "Well there you are! We were looking all over for you." Thinking she was joking, I replied, "Thanks, it was getting cold out there." After I took a seat, I heard the driver call into her mic something to the effect of the individual reported walking along the road has been picked up. I didn't realize the park service babied their visitors so.

I returned to the visitor's center quite late and drive south. Just outside the park boundary, I turned down a forest road and crossed the Arizona Trail. I pulled to the roadside less than a quarter mile from the park boundary and turned in for the night. Around 4 am someone drove past and honked at me, but no one else showed up. The next morning, I got an early start at the Grand Canyon, grabbing a good parking spot. The lots were filling up fast, and two hours later they were completely full. 

2289: The South Kaibab Trail descends to the bottom of the canyon. This is the view from the top down the steep gorge the trail switchbacks down through. 
2291: Looking down from "Ooh Aah Point" at a far lower mesa and another viewpoint. Being lazy, I turned around and walked back up. This is the only nature trail I've hiked so far that starts out going down.