Moab, November 2014

I've finally sat my ass down to write about the trip that I made with another member to Eastern Oregon, and Moab...

There will be more to come as time allows. As well as more photos when I get a solid internet connection.

But for now, enjoy.

Thanks,

Jake

 

A Journey to the Start of Time?


Removing yourself from all external stimuli; contemplating on the overwhelmingly large amount of people that will never extricate themselves from the shackles of cellular service – experience life devoid of that seemingly native sensation of constant connection. Pretty deep stuff, eh?


I like to record notes. I find that these small figments of memories, fragments of keywords and quick jots help me to remember things. Thus, the account of my trip to Moab will be retold via my notebook. More specifically, a “Rite in the Rain”... Somewhat of a non-sequitur style of writing.


Although, it would be relatively brazen of me to dive right into a rather abstract piece of writing without some form of a back-story...


For most of my adult life, (frankly, it still sounds incredibly odd to consider myself an adult)... I've traveled. No, not internationally – nationally. Across the country, back and forth to Alaska, throughout Washington and Oregon. I'm sure that my audience can agree, there is something thrilling in road-tripping. In turning the ignition key, packing the clothes (bare essentials, of course), emptying your refrigerator of all of it's perishables and pulling out of your driveway in the foreboding darkness of the pre-dawn hours; with the goal of reaching a destination that is not your own. A relative unknown. In all reality – in the simplest of iterations – the only thing separating you from that destination is miles and gasoline (or diesel, or electricity, or pedal power.. I digress). Travel of this form is a nod to our early settler's experience and plight – albeit, it's certainly pretty damn easy with pavement, smartphones and cruise control.


Moab had been on my mind as a place that was unattainable. “I'll never have the time to go there”, or “I can't go there with my truck”. That's simply not true. Often times, there may be a million reasons why not to do something, and only one single reason to do something. It's heeding that one do reason and running with it that will bring our wildest dreams to fruition. Again, miles and gasoline.


I was lucky enough to find a travel partner that's of the same mindset. Something that I feel is rare. I'm not endorsing this in any possible way; but, neither of us had any form of underlying plan for this trip, just a destination (s). Hell's Canyon, Oregon and Moab, Utah.


I'll preface my thoughts with a recording of my notes, and build each fragment of my story off of said notes. No notes will be altered, for better or for worse. Expletives included.


Begin.



Nov. 8, 2014


“Depart 0405”
Slugs/Coleman Fuel
237.1 Yakima
13:13, 14.9 264.3 Joseph, OR


Departed my house, just north of Bellingham, Washington at 0405 – bound for the Starbucks off of Samish Way, which was the mutually agreed upon rendezvous point between the two of us. The night before had been a marathon – literally installing my new bed rack (for my roof top tent) at the last possible moment. Which, translated into finally climbing into bed around midnight, all to wake up at 0330. Not the best schedule for a 9 hour day of travel. One of those nights when you're laying in bed knowing that sleep won't come, slightly aggravated when that autonomous alarm clock sounds it's maniacal, yet familiar screech at some ungodly hour. I must admit. I did have a fleeting “What the hell am I doing, why am I doing this?”, moment. Of course, nothing that a good cup of strong Aeropress* coffee can't fix. Skipped any form of breakfast, assuming that Starbucks would be open at 4 AM. I couldn't have been more wrong. Arrived on time, which for me, is impressive. Then my heart sank, we had another fifteen minutes to wait before Starbucks opened. Dammnit. Followed by musings of driving a truck through the front door, grabbing a breakfast sandwich and high-tailing it to the backcountry of Eastern Oregon – decidedly not the best thing to do for anyone's life path. Alas, 0430 rolled around and the door was finally unlocked. Maps and notepads were spread over freshly-cleaned tables, and a plan was formulated. Interstate 5 to Interstate 90, Interstate 84 to La Grande, then on to Joesph, Oregon. A CB radio channel was agreed upon, and the highway speed was determined. Largely uneventful trip, although – it is always entertaining to observe the looks gleaned from passing drivers at the sight of a fully-packed and reasonably-well outfitted rig traveling down the interstate. A mix of the bemused “Wow, rednecks” to “OMG. I'm jealous”. Either way. It is what it is.
Joseph is an interesting place. Perhaps it's apt to use the word rugged-cosmopolitan to describe the boutiques and coffee shops that abut the outfitter/gun shop. Irregardless, I like it. It was the final fueling stop before driving into Hell's Canyon, approximately 40 miles east of Joesph to Imnaha, Oregon.
Slugs and Coleman Fuel shouldn't have to be described for my audience. They are what they sound like.



“Lower Imnaha, Dug Bar @ 15:00, Air Down”


It's funny. As the Dug Bar Road winds closer to the trail head, the houses becoming increasingly grandiose. From the modest traditionally-styled ranch houses and ending with a sprawling sportsman's inn.


Tires were aired down, the customary, seemingly obligatory pre-trail photos were taken, and the run out to Dug Bar (or thereabouts) commenced. Sweeping vistas of burnished green and yellows, the living fertile plants of a high-mountain landscape mixed in with the grays and darker browns of staleness. Instantly breath-taking. That sensation of knowing that you're about to insert yourself into a wilderness. Cell service dropped out thirty miles ago, Google Maps won't help here. Switchbacks intertwining with rapid ascents and descents, passing by abandoned ranches – wildlife. The animals in this country are pretty damn brazen: Deer that will only exert enough energy to pivot their heads in your general direction – eluding a glance that could perhaps be anthropomorphically embodied as “Yup, I'm eating right now. What the hell are you gonna do about it, hotshot?”. The Mountain Goat that stopped about ten feet directly in front of my truck would've been a little more gruff, “Fuck you, asshole!”. Forgive the language.
Passed by the Imnaha Dam, with the remote research station around 16:00. Shortly thereafter, passed by an innocuous cattle gate (which marked my turn around point in July of 2013). Darkness descended upon us around 17:00. I feel that the darkness of any given place has an immense descriptive ability. This darkness is sudden. Abrupt. The trucks were running well, and all of our collective auxiliary lighting was in use. At least for me, it's justification for spending money on something that at the time, can seem so incredibly frivolous – that is, until you're navigating winding mountain roads in a pitch black night. You can't fuck up here, kid. AAA isn't going to be kind enough to activate their “mountain rescue truck” to save your ass from an ignorant mistake.
Reached Dug Bar at 17:30, decided to investigate an area just out of sight of the horse trailers and wall tent that had been set up at the boat launch. Success. Well, at least until we saw the flicker of an LED headlight just below us, closer to the Snake River. There was a brief discussion as to whether or not we should relocate; well, a short discussion. It essentially consisted of “Well, if they were truly bothered with us being here, they'd come up here and ask us to move..”. I resorted to a relatively primitive method of leveling my truck, (placing a large rock under a back tire), and setup my roof top tent. It worked. Tent was setup in about ten minutes, Robby prepared his “nest” in the back of his truck – our respective habitats had been setup amidst the omnipresent gurgling of the Snake River. I must admit – I feel guilty of having such luxuries like fleece, synthetic sleeping bags and propane stoves. Something that the original occupants of this land never had, or never needed. Does that make me a “glamper”? Now that I've begun to dig this proverbial hole, I guess it will only increase it's depth to add that I gorged myself on Mountain House's version of Beef Stroganoff for dinner. It's a feast. Seriously. Continue that indulgence with a can of Rainer (shaken, not stirred) – and I may have well been wearing a tuxedo and making small talk at some swanky martini bar in Seattle. Maybe that's an exaggeration – I'd far prefer the dehydrated food anyways. The light from the campfire illuminating the other side of the canyon – the flickering light bounding effortlessly over the river, the stars shining above our heads – the stiff cold of a light breeze. Why attempt to use words to describe this? How does one use something so utterly clinical as english words to describe such an ethereal and soul shaping experience and environment? You feel this in your soul. In the essence of your being. You're in the wild. Well, with a 4WD Toyota truck as your mode of transport at least...
Sleep came fast, aided by a full belly and a slight buzz (embarrassingly, I'm a lightweight). Thoughts of that Aeropress*, and the liquid gold that it would bestow upon the two of us in the morning. (Is it odd to go to sleep thinking about the cup of coffee that you'll have when you wake up?)
Coffee. Odd to think that I swore it off for three months whilst working aboard a Bering Sea fishing boat. Amazing how seemingly mundane morning routines can manifest themselves into rituals. The water was boiled, the coffee press was stoked, and the end product was derived. Dispensed into two cups – enjoyed amongst a backdrop consisting of mountains, blue sky and river. Would this be an appropriate time to insert that I dutifully applied my Old Spice deodorant before exiting my roof top tent? Of course, an appropriate post-script to that would be that it was one of the only times that I used deodorant during the entire trip. I mean, honestly. Why bother?

Nov. 9
Depart Snake River Camp 0830
End of Air Strip
0930 Salmon Station “Paddle Wheel” ~ 50 Degrees F, Ovrcst.
Wind 25 + Knots W/SW
Pavement 10:30, 89.5 ODO
Imnaha Boat


The trucks were packed, maps were checked and a rough travel plan was outlined for the day.
We'd both decided to cut out Lord Flat/Hat Point from the itinerary. No, this wasn't some form of off-road snobbery – it was purely a function of operating under a schedule. We simply didn't have the time to run out and back (~8 hours) and make progress South to Utah in a 24 hour period. Largely uneventful ride back to relative humanity, aside from the howling wind and darkening skies. Incredible how as a species, we've still retained our innate ability to sense incoming weather, usually harkened by that fast moving cloud formation, or better yet that “feeling” in your gut. Almost as if by clockwork – the skies opened up with an intense rain the instant we reached pavement. It was mutually concluded that a fresh coffee would greatly aid in airing up our tires – we'd run back to Joseph at reduced speed.

Imnaha Boat..

I can't let a fragment as auspicious as that one slip away from further explanation. Yet, does it really need explanation? Rounding the corner on the road back to Joseph, there sits a classic wooden sailboat on boat stands. No, not some rotting testament to Man's dedication to perpetual projects – a nice, restored and smart-looking sailing vessel. The how's, why's and what's were left unanswered. It is what is was, a sail boat in a front yard. It must've been quite a chore to move a 50 foot-plus vessel into such a land-locked locale... Being a boat person, I of course was obligated to photograph it.
Reached Joseph around 11:30, that fresh coffee was a boost to morale. Tires were aired up, maps were once again referenced and a newer plan was formulated. We'd head to La Grande, then South to points unknown. Well, maybe that's a nod to some ancient proper “overland” expedition. We'd drive until neither one of us felt like driving any more. Fairly simple.

12:05 125.2 ODO to Enterprise, OR
STAY IN VEHICLE WHEN FUELING!
35th Parallel 13:56


Again. Largely self-explanatory. Don't attempt to pump your own gas in Oregon. No, not just Portland, a la Portlandia – the entire state. It's a piece of legislation dating to the mid-fifties. Oregonian writer Joseph Rose provides an intriguing anecdote:


“Oregon can be a silly place. Self-serve suicide (with a physician's assistance) is legal, but you still face a $500 fine for filling your own tank. But its residents get stubborn about tradition. Live here long enough, and you'll find your own reasons to buy into what once seemed crazy.”


True.


Reached Twin Falls, Idaho at 19:15 – devoured a Subway sandwich. Subway can be a challenging place at times. Albeit, none of theses daunting challenges are due in part to anyone else, they're internal. It's that freedom of choice thing, man... 6 inch or Footlong? Toasted/Not Toasted? Cheese? Vegetables? Traveling in this fashion generally lends itself to gaining an appreciation for the simpler things in life. Case in point, the speed at which a generally boring Subway sandwich can reach levels of culinary accomplishment never thought possible. Or, at least, that's what I think.
Fueled up and got back on the road. Utah bound.
That final stretch of highway into Utah, passing through the US Ecology Waste Site, was easily one of the most isolated and lonely portions of pavement that I've ever travelled. Reminiscent of the Canadian Yukon, our rigs provided the only source of man-made light for at least 150 miles or so. It's an interesting duality. Amazing that that proverbial lone highway still exists in this nation. Scared shitless that if something happens, you better be able to deal with it.



Salt Lake City Wal-Mart @ 00:15... Nap Location

Sure. A nap. “We'll just stop here to take a 3 hour nap, and get back on the road.” Sounds great in theory. Harder to execute when you've been on the road for 18 hours. That 6 hours of sleep was luxurious. Seriously. Yet, there was the: 0615, Wal-Mart – Crazy Dreams!
Crazy dreams. Those things that also occur when you've been on the road for 18-plus hours. That exhausted mix of steady sleep and vivid pulsating thoughts. I'm certain some psychological analysis could be applied; yet, I choose to purge them with a cup of strong coffee in the morning. It's cheaper for now.
Departed at 0615, reached the visitor's center in Moab at 11:30. I Must admit, it felt incredibly stereotypical having two built rigs sitting at the visitor's center, wallets poised to purchase trail maps. Tacomas attract quite a bit of attention, especially one with aftermarket bumpers, antennas and lights placed throughout it's structure. The first passer-by with some truck-related question is greeted with enthusiasm and a long, detailed answer. The second is greeted with a somewhat shorter, yet still incredibly congenial chat. The third is met with a rather short “Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but we were supposed to leave an hour ago..”. It's all relative, I suppose. Off to the trails.

* Aeropress – In spite of contradictory philosophy and beliefs, one of the single-most important inventions of the 21st century. An unbreakable feat of human engineering. A life-changing piece of culinary appartii.. Coffee Press..

 

Run South to Kane Creek Springs Road, Loop to HWY 191
Air Down 13:45 Kane Creek, SPECTACULAR!



Are we still on planet Earth? The landscape in this region is so incredibly alien to those not accustomed to it. Of course, we've all seen the proverbial Utah license plates with “The Arches” on them – as well as the photos from National Geographic back issues... But, surely – it can't really be like that out here, right? It is. Huge columns of reddened rock, endless vistas and canyons that seems to have nearly infinitesimal depths. I must force myself to only utilize three adjectives, as it would be entirely too easy to turn the remainder of this paragraph, (hell, the entire piece of writing), into a list of words that could describe such a place. Yet, how can something so feeble as words describe this place? Alright. One final word. Magical.
Reached the fork to Chicken Corner/Lockhart Basin – a mutual decision for Lockhart Basin was made, in hopes that we'd press through to the Needles Area. On we went, as the sun rapidly continued on it's descent towards the foothills on the horizon. Shortly after the fork, we reached our first obstacle. I find it humorous how this first derision brought about feelings of, “Oh shit. Can we get around this?”. If we only knew what we'd be up against at the conclusion of the following day... Some planning combined with concise spotting, and we navigated both rigs up and around a relatively large crevasse – pressing onward into a slot canyon. Weather was cross-checked shortly after entering into the canyon, as a local had highly encouraged us to “Get the hell out of any slot canyons if it's forecasted to rain!”. We were alright, for now. The forecast sounded wonderful – with three days of clear skies and moderate temperatures. Shortly after a rapid ascent, we were confronted with a few other challenges – the most pressing of which was the rapid loss of daylight. Again. Little did we know what we'd face tomorrow.
At 18:00, we made a decision. Pressing on into the canyon wasn't going to be safe at night, and if we proceeded any further, it may be another hour or so to a viable campsite. Adding to the appeal of backtracking was that campsite approximately half a mile to the west. It was a good decision. Of course, there's always a figment of self-doubt when you've decided to turn-around, or abort a mission. It's inherent to human nature. I suppose the ability to acknowledge when it's best to abandon a plan is one of the things that separates the ardently prepared from the foolhardy. Or, maybe that's just something manufactured to make one feel better about their decision. Needless to say, after a couple of beers and a Mountain House dinner, the camp site had been rapidly transformed into a relative Shangri-La. Admittedly, we're both guilty of being cheap dates.
The clarity of the stars is so prominent here - the collective brightness affording enough illumination to clearly define the primal and foreboding silhouette of our enclave. This is where the aliens would land. I have an underlying ambition to seek these places out – to venture forth into the remote areas of this country; much like the sea. Interesting, how I spend so much of my life in a small environment on the waters of the North Pacific, only to look for that same sense of adventure and excitement when I'm back in the lower 48. Maybe it's an illness... Sleep came fast. Much quieter than a Wal-Mart parking lot in Salt Lake City.
We both awoke around 0730, Robby stirring from his truck bed habitat – myself rising to a drool-fettered pillow in my roof-top tent. Wonderful. I've found my internal biological clock to be an incredibly accurate time-piece when it's necessary; often rousing me a minute or so before my alarm clock sounds. Weird. Yet, when I'm home – in the comfort of my bed – it rarely functions as ardently. Funny how that works. Cups of Aeropress coffee, the sound of sausage sizzling in a cast iron skillet resounding off of the canyon walls – this is picturesque. Well. Was picturesque. Not that we're the only ones allowed to make noise at this hour, yet – there is something startling about a Jeep crashing through the trail at 0745. A veritable convoy of sorts, with three dogs trotting ahead of their masters in the Jeep – greeting us with wagging tails and curious noses. The friendly dogs made the whole loud Jeep thing awash. The driver stopping to ask for some cursory directions, “So this goes to Needles, right?”. Robby tepidly responding with, “I'm pretty sure it does, but we decided to turn around about a half mile to the west, it was getting a little tricky.” Quickly the convoy was off and running again, the exhaust note of the Jeep engaged in a symbiotic relationship with the sound of steel on rocks as the driver made his way over those “tricky” obstacles. “You know, it would be kind of fun to come out here with a beater vehicle like that.”, I exclaimed to Robby, with a glimmer of jealousy.


Packed/Rolling @ 0815 Gorgeous...Back track to Kane Creek


0945 @ Hurrah Pass, 4,780 Feet – To Kane Creek Canyon Road, To HWY 191 ~ 11 Miles
Kane Creek @ 10:10 32 ODO.


Sounds easy, right. What can take seconds to write can take hours, if not days to execute. Fortunately for us, we would only be using hours. Alright, this is tricky... Kind of makes yesterday's “difficult” sections on Lockhart Basin look like cakewalk, doesn't it? Yup. Of course, there was the UTV with two passengers that blazed past us and over the trail with not even the slightest bit of hesitation. Whatever. Soon however, the realization that a fuck-up in this remote terrain could cost days began to creep into our minds. More specifically, the line that I chose around that relatively innocuous-looking rock would prove to be detrimental. I knew what had happened within a millisecond. That hissing sound of air escaping from my rear passenger tire only served to solidify my mistake in my mind. Creeping away from the rock, and planting the truck on a flat piece of trail (off the main transit route), we set to work. This is why you carry a full-size spare mounted on some fancy steel bumper, right? The lugs were loosened, the Hi-Lift Jack was deployed and a new tire was shortly thereafter in place. All is good again in the world. Rather than fiddling with trying to plug the sidewall in the backcountry, I decided to run on the spare for the remainder of the trail. Lunch commenced shortly thereafter, at 12:30.
Onwards and upwards. Well, the latter didn't come for another couple of hours; and it happened in a big way. Around 13:45, just ahead of one of the larger water crossings, there was a Toyota 4Runner off to the side of the trail. Odd, we thought. What was even odder was that the driver had the gauge cluster in his hand, and was shaking water from it. That's not good. This required investigation and questions. Approaching Robby's truck, he very strongly advised us to detour around the water crossing directly ahead of us. Odd, because it looked harmless. Well, it wasn't. He'd been out here for two days reaping the effects of not doing any depth sounding prior to charging through the crossing.
In a surprisingly calm tone, the driver exclaimed, “The stream was up to my dash, and I had to reach under water to unhook my battery. I've been here for two days – the guy on that UTV was bringing me wiring diagrams for the truck, I'm not getting any power to my injectors.”
That sucks. Of course, assistance was offered – yet, he said he was all set. Again. Don't screw up out here. Sometimes easier said than done.

 

This was such an awesome trip. Great job on the write up so far. I gotta hand it to ya Jake, you are a great writer!

 

Good read so far

 

This thread sucks.....jk it's cause I'm just jealous you left me to suffer in the rain on Kodiak while you went and had fun in moad. More pics!!

 

When's the rest of this story coming Jake??!

 

The same time the bench is going to be done haha!

Girlfriend is in town..

 

Great story so far.

 

P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; } Of course, there were the thoughts of how deleterious it would've been to the entire trip if either one of us had charged through that water crossing without first stopping to do even the most rudimentary of depth soundings. Not good. Or fun. Naturally, we both mutually agreed that every preceding water crossing would be approached with a cautious trepidation for the reminder of the trip.
Lest I be remiss about describing the terrain, in the midst of all of the mechanical aspects of this day; with a swamped truck and a popped tire, I'll once again attempt to use merely feeble words to describe Kane Creek. It's truly quite varied and vast. Similar to yesterday's trail, there's the red rock that's nearly omnipresent throughout the entire area. It's foreboding and sharp edges still holding fast after millions of years of abusive weather. Yet, the section of the trail that we were on currently almost had a tropical desert feel to it. Perhaps it's what I'd picture a caravan of British explorers and their obligatory Land Rovers plodding through on some expedition in early Africa. Sand, intertwined with scrub brush and flowing streams – on the whole, quite a contrast. There is plenty of life here, one just has to seek it out. This would not be a fun place to be stranded in the height of the summer season – where temperatures routinely hover in the 100's.
Plodding onwards, we were making good progress. The spare that had taken the place of my injured tire was holding up alright – although, I did deem it the “shitty trail spare”. Yet, there was one thing looming ahead of us on the trail map – that cluster of “double d's” that was separating us from pavement. Shortly thereafter, we were given a collective realization of exactly what we had embarked upon. Needless to say, the next to last obstacle – known so fondly as Hamburger Hill – was a challenge. We parked both rigs at the bottom of the hill climb that was strewn about with boulders, washouts and various other smatterings of crevasses and drops. Oh, and this is all on the edge of a sheer drop off to the outboard side, meaning that you really can't screw up... Unless of course, you'd like to accompany that Jeep carcass about a quarter mile ahead and a few hundred feet down the embankment. Nice. I'm sure some of you are reading this thinking “What? I cruised right up that last year, these guys are clueless!”. Kudos to you. This was easily one of the first “real wheeling” segments for us. Ever. No, not some Overland jaunt where the route to your destination has been optimized to minimize the amount of shaking that the bottle of Dom Perignon is subjected to. This was more like feel your balls working their way up your throat, yet intensely driven to get your rigs to the top of this fucker. Sounds easy, right? A good spotter is crucial. Clear, concise directions and direct hand gestures. It's essential. Navigating Robby up the entirety of the obstacle, attempting to visualize exactly what choosing that line would mean, or – how we'd get out of a screw up. Sooner than later, his tail lights were cruising by me. Which, was pretty damn good. One more rig to go. As I meandered down the hill towards my awaiting truck, carefully trying to be mindful of how I should approach what felt like endless obstacles – my heart begin to race. We've gone too far to turn back now. This is freakin' awesome. Definitely felt like this is where the V6 has a clear advantage over my 2TRFE. Low end torque. Thus, some of the obstacles that Robby was able to steadily ascend directly over, I had to work my throttle and clutch steadfastly to hop over. Then I felt it. Looking to Robby for guidance just as I knew what I had done – shortly thereafter, I felt the crunch. Damnit! I numbed out while backing down to attempt a particularly hairy section, and slid my driver rocker right against that asshole boulder with it's sharp, jagged edge. What was even more ego-damaging was the fact that instant I did a brief mental calculation (couldn't have been that good, as I flunked High School Math), I cruised right up and over that fucker with not so much as a hesitation. It's a badge of honor, and really not that bad. We did it. Needless to say, that “double d” was marked with a relatively bold “FUCK!!!”. You should be used to the foul language by now..
Another quarter mile and we were approaching the last “double d” of the day. A pleasant stream had somehow worked itself in between two rather large, steep and rocky inclines – of course, the trail was in the middle somewhere. Building up the gumption to charge ahead and go for it, “At this point, fuck it. Let's go”, we both made it up with one tire chirp each and no spotter. Almost there. We can hear the vehicles and trucks on the highway at this point. Which, is nearly perfect timing – since the sun has readily commenced it's descent toward the West.
Clear and sandy road marked our approach to the gated trail entrance. Wait. It's gated? Shit. If it's locked... Well, it wasn't locked. Parking at the trailhead just past the gate, tires were aired up – several minutes of bullshitting was had – and most importantly – that small nip-sized bottle of Kraken Rum was split between the two of us. The Dos Equis man would've been thoroughly impressed with the both of us.

 

Well done Jake. I know you're busy but keep it coming!

 

Finally around some of that darn interwebs..

 

Great pics, bummer about the door. Where are those river pics from?

 

Thanks! Yeah, my talent isn't anywhere near a lot of people on this site. I haven't even edited any of them.

River pictures are from the Snake River in Eastern Oregon.

 

Nice, that looks like an amazing spot, thought it might be the Green in UT.