Travels with Stella! The Vermillion Cliffs and Beyond

[JayElDee]

Thanks for the kind words and glad y'all are enjoying the report. I apologize for the delay in continuing, but I had the op arise to ride to New England for a couple of weeks, and I suddenly had to plan for that. That is where I am now and I have been plagued by bad internet connections.

So, Mr Pantah, you just serendipitously happened on to the Dugway. Lucky you. I'll bet it got your attention, huh? There really should be some sort of badge for that, I think. But back to it...

The Vermil(l)ion Cliffs are the raison d'etre for the trip. It was the place. And now with two full days to explore, they did not disappoint. They are not quite as otherworldly as some other parts of Utah nearby, like Fry Canyon along UT 95, but it comes close. We all like "other-worldly."

I decided to do the loop the north way, i.e., from Page, go west on US 89 to Kanab then south to Fredonia, then back to page on US 89a.


There was only one side trip and that was up Johnson Canyon Road, and that's the route to the north from 89, nearing Kanab.

I chose this way because I would have the sun to my back, on all parts of the ride, leaving in mid morning, just after my encounter with NOLUCK.

There is a spot that deserves googling, and that is The Wave.
This route is in the heart of the Paria Plateau. The PP contains some breath-taking scenery. The Wave area is apparently one of those.

This is not my picture, I couldn't get there, but you can, IF
you are a hiker--I am not
have about 7 hours to spare
and have the luck of a lottery winner

It is on Navajo land, sacred land. There is an office in Kanab that administers the site. Only a handful of hikers are allowed in on a daily basis, handful = ~7.
Those 7 are chosen by lottery performed the day before. You can put your name on the list months before, but that does not favor your chances. Still, looks pretty cool doesn't it?
There are dirt tracks that cris-cross the plateau, so the off road crowd could get into the area, though maybe not the Wave, but still some other-worldly stuff, I'm sure.
The 500+# sport touring people, maybe not so much.
So, I am exploring the well-beaten track of this off the beaten track land.







Stella! whirrs a couple of times then kicks over, as I ponder being stuck out her, if "stuck" is an operative word in such surroundings, still it's really dry and our star is unrelenting in its burn.



I took a right up Johnson Canyon road.




Johnson Canyon Road is special among special. There was a farm or two along the road, and the cattle looked at me with bovine curiosity, or, bovine loathing, or bovine angst, it's just so hard to tell, you know? I took their picture and ridiculed their speech doing the impersonation that every dad does, though maybe a little different in ATGATT than leaning out the window of a Honda Odyssey with Sarah and Jim, Jr tucked in their Century car-seats watching The Little Mermaid for the umpteenth time, MOOOOOOOOO. I thought I saw one kind of shake his head a bit, hurt, but another turned and mooed to no one in particular, "How come that steer gets to ride a motorcycle?"

I ate a Clif Bar, and took care of a problem on the side of the road, then hopped back on Stella!, whirred her to an eventual start, and continued up into Johnson Canyon.
It reminded me of the Burr Trail, though not for its color, white vs red, or its dryness, less desert-like here, but for its tangible intermingling of sky and Earth. And that sense of significant insignificance. The isolation is similar, but the touch is also. JCR is only about 9 miles long before it turns to well packed dirt and continues northward, not my direction, and I turn around to experience this beautiful little side-ride from the other direction.
I head back to 89 and west to pass through Kanab, then Fredonia, then the ride to Jacob Lake and beyond.

As you travel to Jacob Lake, which is little more than a gas station--the only gas from Fredonia to Page, the road ascends into an alpine forest of squiggles and sweeps. It gets cooler. Jacob Lake is at the intersection of 89 and AZ67, that if taken, will send you on a fast twisty ride to the north rim of the Grand Canyon, if Ma and Pa Kettle in their RV, Soujourner, do not block your view or your fun. Did this a couple of years ago and it IS worth the detour, but not today...BTDT AND the road is CLOSED, though no explanation is given. It is a high enough road and I am early enough in the season that it could be snow, but I don't know that.
Doesn't matter, I snake Stella! through the sweeps and travel fast, as 89a begs, pleads with you to have fun...that kind of road.
My radar bleats, and I slow down in time to see officer friendly on the side of the road ready to snare, I mean protect and serve me. I wave and ride on, though no more bleating ensues.
And I know where I am heading, The Vermillion Cliffs proper, having crossed the plateau formed by them, on 89, but 89a is down below. I remembered that there was a spot as you come out of a tight sweep on 89a fromJacob Lake, in alpine forest and dive back into Arizona Desert, but WHOA...The Vermillion Cliffs!
the first view



You can see Stella! parked on the side of the road on the right, way down there. I think you drop about 1500-2000 feet right here, so walking back to get this pic was uphill at about 8000 feet???? Could be wrong, but my heart and lungs protested, but who needs those killjoy organs anyway. I wanted to get that picture!
Snap.
Then on down the road and for the next just under thirty miles these views are your ONLY companions. You are alone with the sky and the Earth and the breeze and your guardian angel who is just as awe-struck by the beauty as you are. It's one of those places that you know you shouldn't make a sound, or if you do it's a whisper, like it's Gaia's Cathedral, and she may chuckle when Stella! is reluctant to leave, whispering look, and listen, and smell, and touch and taste the icing.
To quote Wayne and Garth: we are unworthy. But, damn! thanks anyway!

















When I looked at this picture, following, I thought to myself that this is what long distance solo touring is all about...lightyears from usual context, but able to see that context with a clarity that is impossible when in it..if that makes sense.






And I head back into Page, the Days Inn, with the nice balcony, ready for tomorrow and a little more of the Vermillion Cliffs.

[JayElDee]

89 and 89a are are as meaty with digestible scenery as any highway circle is in the southwest.

Traveling into Page there is a sign, easily missed, pointing to the west , a turnoff from 89 going to "Horseshoe Bend."

If, fellow traveler, you come this way, take that detour as it will bring you to quite a spectacle, a horseshoe bend of the Colorado. To be sure there are many of these bends in that meandering scalpel of a river, but this one is pretty special.

For one thing, you can easily kill yourself with one false, or determined move. It is the kind of drop that allows you to "get there from here." The contrast of green water and orange red rocks, Navajo Sandstone, is probably present at hundreds of overlooks, but here you can clamber over wind sculpted slabs and boulders and explore lava-pies that look like they were laid, plopped, dumped by Babe, Paul Bunyon's Blue Ox.

" Well now, one winter it was so cold that all the geese flew backward and all the fish moved south and even the snow turned blue. Late at night, it got so frigid that all spoken words froze solid afore they could be heard. People had to wait until sunup to find out what folks were talking about the night before.
Paul Bunyan went out walking in the woods one day during that Winter of the Blue Snow. He was knee-deep in blue snow when he heard a funny sound between a bleat and a snort. Looking down, he saw a teeny-tiny baby blue ox jest a hopping about in the snow and snorting with rage on account of he was too short to see over the drifts.
Paul Bunyan laughed when he saw the spunky little critter and took the little blue mite home with him. He warmed the little ox up by the fire and the little fellow fluffed up and dried out, but he remained as blue as the snow that had stained him in the first place. So Paul named him Babe the Blue Ox."
It is a place of frozen time or a place of eternity unfolded, it is a place where "all spoken words froze solid afore they could be heard. People had to wait until sunup to find out what folks were talking about the night before."


Lava-pies belched out of the Earth long ago and far away..look out!




what a scene it must've been to see this splurt of molten rock land here, and hear its sound, sizzle, steam, sputter, spit then its glow before dying on the surface of the planet whose innards rejected it or sent it out on its own journey.
A journey from the center of the Earth.

You walk a little farther, and you come to the main attraction.










Near the bottom you can see part of my shadow. No rails, no nothing for "protection" here. It would seem that the area just speaks for itself. There were people, well, there were a couple of young guys, and me, who belly-crawled to the edge and hung our cameras over to get THE shot of the horseshoe. Don't tell our mothers we did that. No females did that when I was there. I can only guess that the daredevil ignoramus gene is dominant and/or sex linked.






It's about a quarter mile from the parking lot to the edge, through sand as deep and fine as any beach, so bring water.
I hop back on Stella!, and she protests a little more with each succeeding restart, but I can always coax her to carry me on, and we head south on 89, now over familiar territory on our way to Lee's Ferry Road.
When you're in Page, you are actually on top of the Vermillion Cliffs, that step in the Grand Staircase. So, coming and going brings you up and down the face of the Vermillion Cliffs. I never tire of seeing them.

.

and looking the other way, the face of the cliffs near the top.


Lee's Ferry Road follows the valley of the Colorado. It is the place where John D Lee ran his Colorado river crossing, significant because, until the early 20th century, Lee's ferry was the only place, the only means, to cross the Colorado for 260 miles. It's pretty damn scenic also with, in addition to the cliffs and mountains, very large and oddly shaped boulders festooning the arid landscape along the way to the end of the road.



























At the end of the road, I came across this group,

who were embarcking on a 16 day float down the Colorado. They were loading up their supplies and just about ready to shove off. Most were middle aged and white. Most had done this before. I was informed that this was a "minimum impact" trip, meaning leave only footprints, albeit wet ones. It also meant that theey left nothing behind. NOTHING.
Oh, yeah, we don't leave anything behind.
Really?
Yeah, we even carry out our waste.
What?
Yeah, we carry it out also.
I asked how they pack it away and was informed that plastic bags were the answer. I admit that my mind did a bit of a tumble about this. I hoped that they were not biodegradable plastic bags, and then that, non-biodegradability, kind of flies in the face of (I'm sorry for that image) the No Burd (with a T) Left Behind policy. Just switching one site of pollution for another? Yeah, I thought about all that, but what I said was:
Eeewwwwwwwww!

This lady


said,
Oh, it's really not that bad!
I said 16 days? Not that bad? That would make it onto my short list of bad things!
and she laughed
I then added that she must be easy to shop for and both she and her husband laughed, and we parted, each bidding the other well.

I headed back toward 89a on Lee's ferry Road and decided to take a few pix at the Navajo Bridge over the Colorado.
As I am parking, I see a woman roaming the parking lot with a laptop. I mistakenly think she is from the visitors' center taking some sort of survey. From a distance she looked to be Native American, but when I got a better look she was Asian, Asian accent. She sees the fleur de lis sticker on my side case, The LSU sticker, puts 2 and 2 together, and arrives at a solid 4. She starts quizzing me about the recovery of New Orleans, the corruption of city government, the state of the levees, the displaced people, what is the population now, and all with a big smile on her face. She knew so much about the underbelly of the city, I asked if she had studied it...evasive answer, with another question. I try to quiz her...Where are you from?
Grinning, I am here.
Ok, where is your residence?
Here
You don't live at the visitors center.
No, I live in my car, and she gestures over to the cars in the rest of the lot.
Why are you asking me all these questions, and as she did she in entering my answers, I think, into her MacbookPro. I am thinking that she is going to hit me for some money, now, and beginning to think I have found a real crazy, or not? It did cross my mind that she was only crossing the country, finding adventure and logging it into her MacBookPro. Everything I asked she turned around into a question for me, we covered a lot of territory, from the state of the city, to making money, she needed it and I suggested a life of crime, to which she added that she could not get caught, and I suggested becoming a member of organized crime. It had somrhow come out that I was Italian and she suggested that I could get her in. I asked her name. Her response?
What is your name ?
ready for this I answered John, Now what is your name?
She opened a bit, just a little crack and said Soon, pronounce like Sun,
Like the star?
Yes,


I want to take your picture, I said.
I want to take YOUR picture! she said


This "conversation" went on for easily 20 minutes, but I started to drift over to the bridge and she began to follow me. She wanted my real name and my email address.
I was not about to give her my name, other than John, but I did give her my email address and as she entered it

she wanted to know why it wasn't my "name@gamil.com?"
And for a very brief time I held the information strings...
Because it's not that,
But why?
Because it's not
And then I added look it up, see what it means.
My everyday email is scylla@ whatever . com and I was a bit surprised she didn't recognize "scylla." Again I told her to look it up, and as she entered it, she labeled me in her MacbookPro as
"BMW Guy."
Aside--from Wiki: In Greek mythology, Scylla (play /ˈsɪlə/ SIL-ə; Greek: Σκύλλα, Skylla)[1] was a monster that lived on one side of a narrow channel of water, opposite its counterpart Charybdis. The two sides of the strait were within an arrow's range of each other—so close that sailors attempting to avoid Charybdis would pass too close to Scylla and vice versa

Scylla was a horrible sea monster with four eyes, six long necks equipped with grisly heads, each of which contained three rows of sharp teeth. Her body consisted of twelve tentacle-like legs and a cat's tail and with four to six dog-heads ringing her waist. She was one of the children of Phorcys and Ceto. Some sources, including Stesichorus, cite her parents as Triton and Lamia.

Traditionally the strait has been associated with the Strait of Messina between Italy and Sicily, but more recently this theory has been challenged, and the alternative location of Cape Skilla in northwest Greece

Looking back at the encounter with Soon, and no followup email has surfaced, I am a little puzzled by her. She was obviously well educated, aware, but was she crazy, schizophrenic, or just really talkative? Don't know. But I suppose I'll possibly find out one day when I appear in her round the world adventure memoir and I am BMW Guy.
Time will tell as it does in this time-rich land.

Oh yeah...the Navajo Bridge...
where sanity reigns







The most profound graffiti I have ever encountered...ever.
There is a Joan Baez song, Diamonds and Rust

I'll be damned, here comes your ghost again
But that's not unusual
It's just that the moon is full
And you decided to call

And here I sit, hand on the telephone
Hearing the voice I'd known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

Well we both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust
Yes we both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust

But Rust equated with Eros is something else, beyond, parched, lifeless, long since dead. The roadkill of memory, desiccated, dusty, ready to cease existence with a less than stiff breeze.
Rust-Eros 412
How depressing is that?
Do I want to end it all here? On the Navajo Bridge, on 89a? It's a far drop, instant, no pain ,a thrill til the end and the emerald beyond.
Jolted back!

Maybe a day at a time, crawl then walk, baby steps, Blue skies ahead? and then...
HAYDUKE LIVES!

There is another day, another road to travel, another crazy, another
another
another
Days Inn or Super 8 or, well, let's just leave it at that, no wait...Comfort Inn.
And on that night, my last in Page, I dream of Fern and her Ho-Made Pies, but cannot (yet) bring meaning to that dream...

[JayElDee]

Page is in the area of Antelope Canyon.

Antelope Canyon is a "slot" canyon of Navajo Sandstone, on Navajo land and can only be accessed by Navajo guides. It is universally thought to be one of the prettiest photogenic spots on the planet, yet is infuriatingly crowded most times and attended by guides that are often more interested in the tunes on their iPods than taking visitors to this sacred spot. TripAdvisor has reports of guides getting downright surly with guests. I do not know if the guest deserved surly or not, but the point is that, though it is often photographed by professionals and is admittedly gorgeous, sometimes you "just can't get there from here."

What's a tourist with a big-ass camera to do?

This

Great outfit to deal with.
What they offer is small group travel to other slot canyons. In my case I was one of three people. And one of the other two was a very professional photog.
They have regular tours and what they call "photographic tours" that are dedicated to photographers who want to take more time and with no chance of someone being in their shot, unless desired.
Our tour was going to a place called "Secret Canyon" and it is hard to believe that Antelope could possibly be prettier. And our guide told us he thought this one was prettier.
The tour was three hours long--a 900 foot long canyon; so we had lots of time to take pictures. I had a monopod and used a 16-35 zoom with VR2 (Nikon). Our guide, Brian, told us how to change our white balance for best rendition.
Everything about this organization and our guide was top notch and recommend them without reservation. To be clear, "reservations" are needed.

Secret Canyon is reached by Hummer. Only by Hummer. Lots of sand to wade through as well as some 45degree ascents/descents. It was a very cool ride. Takes about 30 minutes to get there on the "Manson Ranch." (Another Manson).

Once there though it is one whispered OH WOW after another, one picture after another. It is not something to wax poetic after, or to get spiritual during, or to be anything but a kid in a photographic candy store, eye candy all around.
Maybe it is spiritual in a way, many times it was just silent, me and my guardian angel and she enjoyed it too, sure...I was paying, but what a view.

So, with a picture being worth a thousand words and in homage to my second grade teacher...This is what I did on my summer vacation, Mrs Brocato.



the entrance. This is the wife of the prof photog with her point and shoot...Jean-Louis and Cynthis were very nice and very knowledgeable.


































































And we overstayed by about 20 minutes. Secret Canyon was an amazing place and is an otherworldly destination. To do it with a small group people, essentially by myself, was one of the highlights of this trip. It's one of those places where words just fail, or at best are inadequate.
But it was time to hit the road, and I would travel again on US 89




to my next stop, my date wit Fern and Sunshine and Zion

[Ivyleague]

Great! Thanks a lot - I've been to many of those places and went back and looked at my pictures. Now I guess I'll just throw away my camera

[JayElDee]

After Secret Canyon and Vermillion Cliffs, I had met the goal of this trip. I knew I wanted to get that far, I thought that anything farther would be lagnaippe.
When people ask where are you going, there is an answer that is emitted from your mouth, that is one thing, but there is fluid turbulence that ebbs and flows in your brain.
All the what ifs and buts and hopefullys race around competing for conscious thought, though they never make the cut to be spoken when having a coffee pot conversation with those who think you're crazy for thinking about such a trip, much less actually doing it. And there is the adrenalin laced trepidation, the jitter, that arises as departure day approaches, reaching a max in the 24-12 hours before you pull out.
Not saying anything new to those who've done anything similar to this. Hell, it is crazy, it is dangerous, but you pays your money and you takes your chances; and you've come to the conclusion that the risks are worth the rewards. It comes to a point where you just do it.

Zion was that for me, well, sort of. When asked I said I was heading for the Vermillion Cliffs and of the people I told, only one knew what I was talking of, and I would follow up with, "and Zion if I make it that far." These trips do not have a check list, you do what you can, and realize that there will be the unexpected. That's part of the adventure, part of the risk, and considering what you're doing in the first place riding a motorcycle to areas that are real dark on nighttime photos from space,

well, that's the deal. So, deal.

So, after I said, "Vermillion Cliffs," I always added, "and Zion if I make it that far." And I did make it that far, in fact beyond that. I could've done Las Vegas, NV, if I wanted. I didn't.
So, I stop in Mt Carmel Jt, Utah as my base for the next three nights and hunker down at the Best Western East Zion Thunderbird Lodge. A great place. Dating from the 40's it was put together by Jack and Fern Morrison.

One day, Fern was coerced into accepting a blind date. After that first date she was asked what she thought of the man. She smiled and then let out a mighty laugh as she now tells the story. "I was plumb disgusted with him," she said. Yet, it seemed everywhere she went after that date, the man was there. Despite her initial reaction, Fern, however, quickly grew to love him and, after a short three month courtship, Jack and Fern were married on October 22, 1926. Their idea of a fun date was to drive to the lake where the bootleggers were and make the bootleggers think they were the "feds."

from http://www.zionnational-park.com/hist.htm

So, the motel itself looks not to be out of the 40s or 50s, but more from the early 60, until you walk into the attached restaurant where a larger than life Fern greets you


holding one of her "Ho-Made Pies," cherry, I think.
Jack Morrison was a bit of the artiste and did this rendition of of the love of his life, Fern. Fern was a babe, you think?

Fern was delighted to attend high school (in Springdale, Ut.) and model for the JC Penny stores. Fern had often dreamed of being a model and having her own dress shop.

I asked what the story was, and a waitress told me that Fern's Jack did this stand-up Fern, and would use it on the sign for their motel. He originally wanted to say "Home-Made Pies," but when doing the oevre realized he had run short of horizontal space and shortened "Home" to "Ho," the term not yet achieving its full potential as a sexist slur.
However, the play on words, pitting 40s kitsch up against urban decay was too much to ignore and the logo was rolled back out after some years in storage.
I met a couple of women eye-balling fern and I told them the story of Fern and her Ho-Made pies. What they didn't say was "This guy is strange," (but I saw all over their faces they thought this while I just thought I was performing a public service for a couple of 50-ish BMI north of 32, aesthetically-challenged, ambiguous gender Identification females of the same, or similar, species) and what they did say was, "she has good legs." Yes she does.

Later, I noticed something, though. Jack may have been real good with all those female body parts, Fern looked good, but there was something seriously adrift in his rendition of her left hand. In researching Fern's life I found no evidence of any traumatic mishap, or reconstructive surgical misadventure, still...



I sat down for a late afternoon lunch and ordered the greasiest, fattiest thing on the menu The chili/cheeseburger, with fries, and a cup of coffee. A very perky young girl, easily described as "cute as a button," is my server.

2. The origin of the phrase “cute as a button”…it actually has nothing to do with a button as in a button on a shirt. the button quail is a very small gray super, super fluffy squishy looking (or ‘cute’ if you will) bird. people used to say “cute as a button”, meaning “cute as a button quail” b/c the bird was considered so adorable.

She called me "Hon" and "Honey," and I really liked it. I was definitely old enough to be her father at least, or more likely her leering uncle on her mother's side that sometimes attends family functions and is tsk'd tsk'd by every other member of the family, and she kept my coffee filled.
I look at her nametag. "Sunshine."

This is not a particularly good shot of her. Her eyes are partially closed giving her a bit of a "Deliverance" look. Pert and perky and talkative were the operative words. I asked about her name, it sounded like her parents were refugees from the 60s. She was sweet and very nice. We talked about her family, her husband her children, about how Hurricane, Utah is mispronounced there: HerKane, vs HurrAcane, and New Orleans. People from New Orleans always work that into the conversation.

So, This place at Mt Carmel Jct Utah, founded by Fern and Jack, Home of Ho-Made Pies,

and staffed by the likes of Sunshine is a keeper.

No, thank you!

But I was here for Zion, so on Day One, ie the next morning, I head that way.

Zion was just as beautiful as anyone would think it would be. To get around you park where you can, there are lots, and then take a shuttle to the various spots. It's a good system and on this warm day in early May, I would just as soon let someone else do the driving while was free to gawk at the wonders.

Zion is so gorgeous that it becomes almost ho-hum??? Not really, but the surplus of majesty lessens the wonder of it all. It's sort of like being in the Loire Valley of France and getting "Chateau'd out."
It's one pretty awesome view after another. Bryce was stranger geology and had magic with it. And I think that for me, that made Bryce hold my interest more. To be sure I am being way too critical, so let me show the pix.















I'm going to really exaggerate here. Zion is reminiscent of the scene in the original version of the movie Bedazzled, the one with Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, when Cook, as the devil, explains why he was so ready to rebel against heaven's claim to paradise.

















There are a couple of roads that skirt the boundaries of the park and are off the beaten path to view it. One is East Kolob Canyon Road and the other is Kolob Reservoir Road. Both are very worthwhile and after the inundation of one postcard view after another, offer a welcome contrast. Still beautiful, but by far a more remote feel. And nice roads to boot.






The above photo...I wanted to walk to the edge and look into the Valley, but as things in the west go, it was farther away than it would appear and as I was walking to it, about 200 yards from Stella! I was reminded that I was pushing the edge of any perceived safety zone. These parts, I think of a mule deer, were about 15 yards apart, and there were no other parts to be seen, ok, Mr Bear, or whatever, your point is made...got a couple of shots and returned to my ride.











The road I planned to take back to Sunshine and Fern was closed due to a landslide so I had to detour over Brian's Head and nearly 11,000 feet. Damn it was cold, those never freezing. There were fields of snow and I was the only one up there for miles. I had on every layer I could and I could feel hypothermia trying to take hold, as the sun went down and I rode through ever lengthening shadows. I felt noticeably warmer when I made it past the pass, above the tree line and began to descend. I made it back to the Thunderbird and the sun was still up, warmed up with a bit of Balvennie and made it to the restaurant for comfort food and hot coffee.



Stella!'s whirring at start is getting more frequent, more worrisome, and I have to start thinking about the way back home, but there is one more day at Fern's




One more day in Mt Carmel Jct and then time to head back. I took a joyride. down through Kanab and then west.

Kanab looked like a neat little town, mostly given to outfitting outdoor adventures, but also a little artsy. It looked straight out of the fifties.







South of town, in Fredonia, Az., a short distance away, AZ 389 splits from 89A to the right. If you have the chance, take it. This was a cool road to ride, mostly because of the scenery, but it personified out west isolation. This road above all others on this trip was the surprise road. It heads in the direction of St George, Utah.







At breakfast that morning, I was scoping out where I'd go on this last day before starting the long ride home. I saw on the map "site of Mountain Meadows Massacre," and I started to do a little google and wiki research.
What I found was that a group of settlers from Harrison, Arkansas, led by a man from Jasper, Arkansas, were emigrating toward California in 1857. Many had gone before and this group was later known as the Baker-Fancher Party. The group was entirely families, many with small children. They had spent some time in Salt Lake City before continuing southward. The Mormons had wound their way to Utah after much persecution in the midwest and were now situated in Utah, full of paranoia about outsiders, possibly because of their experiences with their own persecution. These Arkansans did not make the Mormons feel particularly warm and fuzzy toward them, but probably through no fault of their own on the part of the Arkansans. They were just passing through hoping to find a better life in Cali.
Neurotic paranoia can be a very dangerous thing and it seemed to run rampant among a certain group of Mormons, who were such xenophobes that the ultimate solution to this band of Arkansans seemd like a good idea.

The Arkansans made their way south and were following a mountain valley when they stopped to prepare for crossing the Mojave Desert. While in preparations for the crossing, they were set upon by a militia and a group of Paiute Indians. The plan was to make it look like it was the Indians' doing. The Mormon militiamen went so far as to wear makeup to appear Native American. The siege lasted for days, and it was going nowhere, a stalemate of sorts. Their makeup was starting to wear off and the militiamen feared that they were recognized as white, thus blowing their alibi. The militiamen decided that the party need be "annihilated."
A white flag was brought out and one of the militia walked into the camp convincing the settlers that if they would only lay down their arms and walk out of their fortifications, they would be free. The settlers agreed.

They were marched about a mile away to a point and then slaughtered, men, women, children.












It is a moving and somber place in a similar way as Little BigHorn is. You can see that there were many many teenagers and young children killed cold-bloodedly. It is impossible to understand under any circumstance, for whatever "cause," how this could be.

The Mormon church has really attempted to distance themselves from this murderous act, and has constructed a memorial. After the massacre the remains were left out and wolves ate the flesh. Later, much later, the disjointed bones of the victims and hair from the women and girls were interred and some were brought back to Arkansas, though this area remains hallowed ground as many human remains are still there.









That evening Back at the Thunderbird Motel, it was the night of the Supermoon. I caught it coming over a nearby ridge.





The next day I had to start my way home. Getting Stella! started was not a problem first thing of the day, but later on it was a dicey maneuver. I decided to stop on the way back at Sandia BMW in Alburquerque and a shout goes out to them for looking at my bike so quickly. They confirmed that I needed a new starter and also that its lubrication was fine. I guessed I had to start her about 15 more times or so in the next couple of days, and decided to chance it and get going, planning to change out my starter when I got home. I did that for $191, vs prob close to $400 at the dealer. She got me home though.

ON the way out of New Mexico I took one last picture of a typical east New Mexico scene.



After that it was blasting down the highway, making miles, stopping for gas and not much else.

Total mileage for the trip was 4741 and as the days rolled by it was one of those trips that grew as time elapsed. That's a beautiful part of the country and I would not hesitate to return.
Thanks for riding along.

John

[Serbchaser]

John -

Absolutely awesome report. What a trip. Awesome pictures and great narrative. Thanks for memorializing it so thoughtfully.

Regards,

Chris

[JayElDee]

you're very welcome, Chris; glad you enjoyed it.

John

[fishwich]

Excellent thread. I travel through a lot of the area in an 18 wheeler every week and I'm finally planning my 1st bike trip to the 4 Corners/ Colorado Plateau next month.Those pix make me drool.