The Tale of Dust, Friends, and Beauty

Last Friday, Kim, Matthew, and I left Portland with two motorcycles and a half-empty trailer and headed for Panguitch, Utah, in southwest Utah. Actually it was about ten miles south of Panguitch, a little place called Harold's Place with "Best home cookin' around" at the junction of Hwy. 89 & Hwy. 12. They have very nice cabins and good home cookin' and they were located right on the edge of places like Casto Canyon and Bryce Canyon, reportedly some of the most spectacular scenery in the United States. We got there late Saturday night and were supposed to meet Todd and Sheryl, our friends from Missouri, as well as two friends of theirs, a couple of guys names John and Ken. When we arrived at Harold's Place, John and Ken were there, but Todd and Sheryl were nowhere to be seen. We did get a call from them saying that they got a late start out of Moberly, Missouri and were in the vicinity of Grand Junction Colorado where they were going to hole up for the night and come in the rest of the way in the morning. Next morning we got a call around 8:00 and they had a flat on the trailer (brand new trailer and tires, not Firestone, but Goodyear) actually it was more like a rip off than a flat. All that was left were two side walls on the rim and the entire donut of the tread was wrapped around the axle.

So, Kim, Matthew and I had breakfast at Harold's Place with John and Ken and had a chance to get to know them over omelets and potatoes. They are a couple of great guys that came all the way to Utah just to ride their ATVs. Todd and Sheryl got into Harold's Place about 10:30 a.m. on Sunday with their two Arctic Cat ATVs and one for us that we bought from them while we were in Missouri a week earlier. Between us we had some maps (sort of ) of the area where we were going to ride but we weren't sure where the trailheads were. So, we went to see Harold to find out how to get to the best trails. He spent time telling us about a loop trip into Casto and Limekiln canyons and we were set to do that ride until this guy (I think it was Harold's trash man) caught us in the parking lot and began telling us about wrangling horses for his Dad on property his Dad used to own in Proctor canyon about 7 miles to the south of where we were planning to ride. After a number of clarifications and looking at the map that he couldn't read unless it was upside down, we finally figured out what he was saying, jumped in the trucks and headed seven miles down Highway 89 to Hatch, Utah. He said the trail head was in the center of town just after you crossed the bridge and we could park at the visitor's center. He said the management wouldn't mind cause it was his aunt. We could tell her that he sent us. Easy, right?

We got to Hatch and there was no bridge anywhere before, during, or after we passed through town. We did find the visitors center, but it was closed for the holiday weekend (go figure). So, three of us guys headed for the nearest "diner" to get more directions. They were really friendly folks there in the diner and they assured us the trail head was in the center of town. And, no, there was no bridge. No matter though, the owner told us where the trail head was. Then he looked at us kinda funny and said, "You guys ain't goin' mountain bikin' are you?" We looked at each other and then at him and figured that NO would be the right answer. We said "No, we're four-wheelin'," and we could tell by the look on his face that we were OK with him. He said, "Good," then mumbled something about mountain bikes and said have fun on the trail. We didn't ask anymore questions and headed back to the trailers to unload.

We got the two bikes and five ATVs unloaded and packed with supplies and headed north from the trailers through town like outlaws looking for a place to hide in the hills, past the diner where the owner was probably proud to see we hadn't shaved our legs and we were ridin' something other than mountain bikes. 

We found a trail heading straight east out of town in the general direction of Proctor Canyon. Todd turned on the GPS and lead the way out of town as we began our ascent into the hills. We hadn't gone more than about a mile or so when we stopped to look at the map and decide which way we were going to head. It was about that time Sheryl jumped off her bike swattin' herself and jabberin' "A bee bit me, a bee bit me!" I stood there wondering what a bee "bite" would feel like; I didn't know they could bite. Now I've been stung a few times, nailed pretty good by those little black and yellow kamikazes, but I can't say I've ever actually been bit by 'em. Anyway, after Sheryl settled down a little we figured out that she hadn't been bit at all, she done been STUNG! Now you will notice that I said Sheryl started this whole thing by swattin' herself. I mean she was swattin' "herself" because the bee actually got inside her shirt and stung her right on the...well, you know, "HERSELF." Now I'm sure you've been around someone that's been stung by a bee. The first thing they do is start rippin' and tearin' at their clothes. Then they uncover the sting and then show you where they had been stung so you can put spit, soda, are some other poultice on it that's supposed to make it feel better. Then everybody gathers around and admires the bee sting for awhile, tells stories about stings they've had, and then things kinda settle down. NOT Sheryl though, no sir! She was just swattin', no rippin' or tearin', and she wasn't about to show us her bee sting and have everybody gather around and admire HER. Nope, none of that happened. Later I learned that the bee actually nailed her twice and it was none too comfortable. Sheryl was brave though, she got back on her Arctic Cat 500 put on the bandit's steely gaze and we headed east up the canyon.

 Soon the trail began to wind its way up into the narrow canyon, no more gravel, just dirt, rocks, and ruts. Matthew and I took a side trail and found a small swimming hole, but outlaws don't take baths, so we quickly found our way back to the trail with the rest of the gang. We continued into the canyon and it wasn't long until we began to realize  
that ridin' with a pack of outlaws is different than ridin' alone. You see, when you are ridin' with six other folks in a place where they only get about 8 inches of rain each year things get kind of dusty in a hurry. So it didn't take us long to start choking and snorting and we had to stop to don our bandannas, or in this case dust masks that you can buy at a local hardware store. Once we got our faces suited up we were off again in search of, well, in search of something magnificent! As we began to get up into the hills we started seeing signs of red soil and, yes, red rocks in interesting formations and we would stop and take pictures, get back on the bikes, and look for more adventure. Now you have to understand that we weren't all seasoned riders. We happened on to this place in the trail that was rocky, steep, rutted, and just outright nasty looking, especially to Sheryl. For some in the gang, like Matthew, this is what they came looking for and he charged up the trail having the time of his life, turned around, and came back down saying "Let's go!" like a puppy enticing others to play. After watching some of our group navigate and buck their way up this section of trail Sheryl decided that this particular piece of real estate was designed specifically to cause the end of her through means that she hadn't quite figured out yet, but she knew it wasn't good. She opted to have someone else take her trusty steed up the trail, and then we were off again.

It wasn't long until we arrived on the ridge at the top of Proctor Canyon, about 8,200 feet above sea level. From there we could either continue to ride the ridge or drop down the east side into Badger Creek, a trail that ran steeply down alongside this stream they call Badger Creek which is why they call the trail Badger Creek of course. The ride down was uneventful, but we did go by this little trail on the left that seemed to go straight up into the canyon wall. There was a little sign that pointed up the hill which said Chimney Rock. I made a mental note of the trail and followed the rest of the outlaws down into the canyon toward Tropic Reservoir.

We arrived at what we thought was supposed to be a lake but it looked more like a field of grass. While Todd took a look at the GPS and the maps Matthew, John, and I headed back up Badger Creek to take a look at the trail to Chimney Rock. We found the trail, turned the bikes uphill, turned the throttle up, and began running hard up the narrow trail through the rocks and trees. It wasn't long until the trail tipped steeply off to the right, which was OK for Matthew and I on the motorcycles, but I wondered about John on his Honda ATV. I glanced briefly over my left shoulder to see John hard on my tail hanging off the left side of the machine with dirt and dust flying and a look on his face that said he was coming through. It was about then that I noticed the trail seemed to disappear right before my eyes. I hit the brakes hard thinking we were at the end of the trail and then realized that the trail zinged so sharply left that I had to slide the back end of the bike hard to the right to make the sharp left hand switch back turn up the hill. I made the turn and headed up the next stretch of trail but had misjudged where vertical was and for the next 75 feet I was riding precariously on the downhill edge of the trail, imminently in danger of falling off the trail, and the bike and I plunging head long down onto the lower trail some 20 feet below. Luckily the bike stayed on the edge of the berm and I was able to recover at the next turn. Meanwhile Matthew realized that John wasn't going to make the hairpin turn and had stopped right in the turn. Matthew veered to the left of John, hit the front brake, slid the back end of the bike around John, and bolted up the hill behind me. Kids make it look so easy. It wasn't long until we realized that this trail was an "experts only" trail and we radioed the group that we should find a place for lunch. We weren't riding up to Chimney Rock today.

When we caught up with them the entire gang of outlaws turned north along the west side of the grassy area and soon found water. They have had a real dry year in Utah and the lake level was quite low. We continued along the lake until we were about mid way up the west side and there we found a short trail that led directly down to the lakeside where there was a grassy area that looked like a good place for lunch. Now when I said the trail led directly down to the lakeside Sheryl knew that the emphasis here was on the word DOWN, and she would add the word rough. The entire gang of outlaws headed down the trail for lunch, all except Sheryl who decided that this piece of mountain was designed specifically for her terrification. OK, so that isn't a real word but it sure enough describes what I saw going on is Sheryl's face. She sat glued to that 500 Arctic Cat, fingers cutting new patterns in the handle grips, staring at the rutted incline to the lake while John did his best to explain the effects of gravity, brakes, body English, engine braking and all manner of things that would help to coax Sheryl down to the lake. At last he got her to move down the hill, at least 3 feet. Todd was somewhere near the lake saying something about being glad John was here 'cause Sheryl wouldn't listen to him and without John she may never make it down that hill. It was after moving three feet that Sheryl began to complain about cramps in her left hand that were unbearable and insisted that she needed to get off the machine and back on to tera-firma. John explained that you simply squeeze the brake lever to stop the machine, not crush it. I believe she remodeled the brake lever on a brand new machine with her bare hand. Eventually John talked her into getting back on the machine with him while he demonstrated how the descent was accomplished. Then he proceeded to back up the hill and again descend to the lake. When all was said and done Sheryl seemed happy with the instruction, gave John a high-five ,and realized that she had just conquered one more steep place in life and was ready to meet the next challenge of the day. With that out of the way we were ready for lunch.

Kim brought out the sandwiches, beans, potato salad, and water. That, along with the fresh air, sunshine, and a beautiful lake made for a great lunch. We loaded the plates and followed Ken's lead to find some shade and a place to sit while we ate and rested.  

When it was time to pack up our two new riders Sheryl and Kim hopped on their Arctic Cats and charged up the hill as if they were being chased by a posse and we all headed south along the Sevier River and then straight west up Skunk Creek Canyon trail to the top of the ridge. When we reached the top of the trail, it seemed to just end right at the edge of a cliff overlooking a magnificent view of red rock formations and a breathtaking view of the valley that we had left some three hours earlier. If we looked real close through binoculars or telephoto camera lenses we could see the grassy area around the visitors center and a small white speck which was Todd's 25 foot trailer. Try as we might though we couldn't find a bridge across the river in the middle of town. I suspect that Harold's trash man was  having himself a good laugh about us foreigners looking' for that silly bridge. We all took turns walking out onto a peninsula like rock that jutted out from that cliff. All of us that is except Sheryl. From the rock it was straight down into the trees and valley below. She cautioned us about the effects of gravity and conjured up visions of what might happen if we got too close to the edge. She didn't care to get anywhere close to the edge of that rock and we all thought that was sort of humorous like but the bare fact of the matter was that she was right, gravity would do a real number on you if you tripped, slipped, or sneezed. When it was all said and done we were very careful and got some great pictures of the rocks, valley and us dusty bandits.  

Back on the trail again we headed south along the ridge and up hill through some terrain that was a bit more challenging than the trails had been earlier in the day. It wasn't long until again we came to a cliff, even more beautiful than the earlier vista. John rode his ATV right up to the edge of the cliff, got off and sat down with his legs hanging over the edge, pulled out a snack and looked just as relaxed as you pleased perched on a cliff at 8,800 feet, not to be out done Sheryl decided to do a little relaxing of her own and fell asleep right on her ATV.

After all the bandits had rested we had to make a decision about the route that we were going to take back to the trucks which were, by this time, a long way from where we were. Todd studied the maps and GPS and decided we should take the left fork of Blubber Creek down into the valley on the east side of the ridge where we could intersect a maintained road and run fast back to Tropic Reservoir where we had eaten lunch. From there we would head straight west up Badger Creek again to the top of the ridge and then make a run for the trucks down the west side of the mountains. By this time it was getting late, we could tell by the shadows, the rich color on the side of the canyons, the temperature cooling and the dust hanging heavier in the air. Oh yeah, the watches told us it was gett'n late too.

We began running faster on the trails cause we didn't want to get caught on the mountains in the dark. We made it down to the road and headed north after Todd. It was really dusty as we picked up speed, really dusty for everyone but Todd who as I mentioned was in the lead. We were running fast and it was getting cold but we stayed with it 'til we got to the lake. 

There we stopped and opened the packs to find warmer clothes then headed up the canyon again. We took a wrong turn, not a good thing to do when you are running late and it's getting dark. But, it wasn't long until Todd stopped the whole bunch of us and said that the GPS showed we were headed in the wrong direction, and unless we wanted to take a great sightseeing loop in the dark and end up back at the lake we had better turn around. It was about this time that everyone began to realize that we were going to be riding in the dark unless we picked the pace up a bit. Nobody talked about it but you could tell by the look in the bandits eyes and the white knuckles as we gripped the handlebars that we were a determined bunch of bandits. Actually, you couldn't see the knuckles through the gloves, but I'm sure they were white. As for the eyes, you couldn't see the bandits eyes through the thick layer of dust on their goggles.

That is except for Ken. This guy, about half way down the canyon to the road, took his goggles off because he couldn't see though 'em. Todd told him he could wipe them off but Ken told Todd in no uncertain terms that he had wiped 'em off a whole bunch of times and it didn't do any good. He got his ATV close behind Todd, stuck his face in the dust, pinched the throttle and bolted down the trail like a dust devil with blood shot eyes. I really don't know how he managed to see. We were moving fast and kickin' up more dust than we had all day. At one point I managed to get up front and take some pictures of the gang coming past, when Ken came by I couldn't tell if he was grinnin' or grimacing but one thing was for sure he was movin' fast and nothing was gonna stop him.  

 Dust was flying, machines were bouncing over rocks, around trees, logs, and ditches and kicking up even more dust for the riders because at this point we were running very close together and there was no wind. We got to the top of the ridge and headed down into Proctor Canyon. I was bringing up the rear on my Motorcycle, and running about as fast as I cared to behind John on his ATV. We were running so fast that I began to wonder if he and I were on the wrong trail. I couldn't imagine that Sheryl was running this fast. Then I thought about Kim. She had never done this before. How in the wild wild west could she be staying ahead of us? It was about that time that Ken held up his hand, so I immediately hit the brakes and slowed down as he slowed up beside me. As we rode side by side he yelled, "How much riding has she (Kim) done?" I said, "Nothing, this is the first ride." He yelled back, "She's ridin' like she's been on these for years!"  

With that I knew she was ahead of us and apparently keeping the dusty side down. What I didn't realize at the time is that she was having the time of her life and thinking "Matthew thought this Arctic Cat was his...It's mine now!" We rode hard all the way back to the trailers and got there just after dark. We were all tired, dusty and ready for a good meal. But, we were safe, happy, and glad that we had ventured off into unknown territory for a grand adventure. We got back to Harold's Place just before they closed. We were a mess: sweaty, dusty, smelly, and still in our riding gear, and they still let us in. I suspect that they had seen the likes of us before. But Kristy, the hostess/waitress/bus person/cashier/security guard/manager showed us some good ol' hometown hospitality and cooked up some great food. While we ate, we talked and recounted the events of the day, realizing that it was a grand adventure. We made new friends, John and Ken (you are two tough bandits). We enjoyed your company and it was great to eat your dust all day. Todd and Sheryl, thanks for inviting us to be a part of the first day of your seven-day adventure. I'll be looking forward to the story of the adventures you had during the next six days. I believe the title of the first chapter of your story would be "Cactus Butt Rides Again." Until next ride, happy trails. By: Tom Russell.