Naked Southwest

We had a pleasant meal on the porch, seated beside a large family visiting from France. The uncanny bridge between two worlds prompted me to exchange a few pleasantries and to mention my recent return to the US after four years in their nation’s capitol. Inside the restaurant a pair of online computers were available, so I checked my email and made a website update before heading off to the adjoining trading post for several obligatory purchases. It’s actually a neat spot. A fair cry better than so many like-named tourist traps that dot the Southwest. I actually met the owner who speaks Navajo despite the fact that he’s Anglo, who has been trading with regional Native American artists and artisans for several decades. His is an upscale boutique selling everything from rugs and blankets to kachinas, pots, baskets and jewelry. He’s an informed and cordial dealer. I enjoyed my visit. And, of course, we pulled out with several news bags of loot to stuff into our already brimming ride, including a pair of Sioux talismans for MHD’s nephews.

If it hadn’t been for the northward pull of Arches and Moab combined with the scarce days remaining in our trip, I would have happily remained in Bluff for at least another day. The pace, the agreeable people and the total lack of pretence makes for a damned comfortable fit. But MHD kept us focused and before I could come up with an excuse for lingering, she had us loaded up and rolling. Her one concession was a pit stop at Sand Island Petroglyphs, an impressive rock art site at the far end of town before doubling back and sticking the pedal to the metal.

We pulled up alongside a cliff that paralleled the San Juan river and fumbled along the short rocky trail, eyes glued to the ancient graffiti. Chipped into the dark chocolate desert varnish which coated much of the smooth reddish stone were hundreds of wonderful images. Rams and serpents and hunting men. While I was wandering along and snapping photos, a red pickup pulled up to MHD who had already returned to the car as a sort of subliminal motivator to speed me up, and an elderly Indian couple peddling homemade bracelets launched into their smiling dog and pony show. At last we headed north with a pair of new bracelets adorning MHD’s slender wrist and a glowing orb making its may toward the western horizon.

An exceptional drive. Not just the setting sun, but the stone formations erupting out of the dry topography, transported us into quiet and reflective moods. And then, Moab.

Out of nowhere, the ugliest city around is plunked in this otherworldly geography. A bit of a buzz-kill, but we were on a mission and forgot to lament civilization’s blight on an otherwise magnificent world. We pulled into Western River Expeditions where upbeat and super-helpful Jeremy not only booked us on a river rafting trip but also drew us a map so we could find a local camping and hiking supply store to stock up on provisions. GearHeads Outdoor Store would have been a fun “candy store” within which to squander several hours on a rainy day, trying on, experimenting with and ultimately acquiring an impressive collection of outdoor equipment, but rain’s rare in Moab, so we got down to business right away.

First, a refill of white gas for our cook stove, an extra mess kit, some energy bars, some biodegradable soap and whatever else our helpful GearHeads aficionado could talk us into. Before leaving he gave us a map to the campground at Arches National Park—our preferred lodging for the night—and a backup campsite on the top of Slickrock. He recommended Center Café in response to MHD’s tricky catalogue of dinner whims and preferences and sent us on our way with our routes highlighted on the map. Of course, he did suggest that it would be prudent to head on out to Arches before dinner to secure a campsite, but we opted to risk scrambling for a campsite in the middle of the night in lieu of enjoying a good dinner.

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