More Travels 4-Rough Road

Rough Road in Valley of the Gods

Lack of rain and silt washing into Lake Powell affect
water levels at the recreation site. 

"Lake Powell or Monument Valley?" Andy asked this morning, He had been debating the question for a couple of days. During breakfast at the San Juan Trading Post he laid out his arguments. "We've never been around Lake Powell, but it's a 280-mile drive. I want to explore Monument Valley, but the dirt roads there are very poorly maintained. Maybe we should give it another day to dry out from Sunday's rain."
We headed back up the eleven-percent grade of Moki Dugway toward Lake Powell. We made it to the top without passing a car. "This wasn't all dug out," said Andy. "Some of it was blasted."
Built in the 1950's during the uranium boom by Texas Zinc Minerals to provide a route for ore haulers from the mines on Cedar Mesa to the mill near Mexican Hat, the Moki Dugway is a nerve-shattering climb along the cliff face on rutted gravel. "I think I prefer going down to going up," said Andy, as we neared the top.
I couldn't look! I just held my breath for three miles.

The road from Lake Powell climbs to the Colorado Plateau.

As we zipped along at 60 m.p.h.--the speed limit was at least 65 m.p.h.--toward Glen Canyon, clouds of dust swirled behind the little Ford Focus. The cloudless sky showed why no one lived within miles: there is no water here. The closer we got to Lake Powell, the more parched the landscape became. By the time we reached Bull Frog, 92 miles later, only a dozen cars had passed us going the other way.
"We'll take the ferry across and drive around," said Andy. The sign advertised vehicle prices at $25 a crossing.
 "Ferry closed for the season," I read on another sign on the grocery mart door. Inside, the clerk explained that the ferry had closed on September 15 due to mechanical problems. "The lake is up about two feet," he told us, "but it's still down probably 60 feet, so two is nothing." He shrugged.

Clay Hill Pass carves its way through the mountains.

"Every week three or four drive all the way out here to take the ferry. You're not the only ones."That's when we shrugged. "Oh well," said Andy. "Sight seeing trip!"
Forty mile-per-hour wind gusts whipped up white caps on the lake, but the bathtub ring just emphasized the seriousness of the water shortage in this part of the country.
The clerk insisted there was a sign on the highway alerting drivers about the ferry closing. We had not seen one. The saddest part of our inadvertently bad decision was that all the hiking trails were on the other end of the lake. The positive was that we drove the shortest leg. We could have driven all the way to the other end first to take the ferry back.

Not much grows along the
peaks of Clay Hill Pass.

On March 5, 1880, a Mormon Latter Day Saints contingent of 83 wagon loads of men, women and children faced Clay Hill mountain pass in their search for a place to settle. They spent three days of backbreaking labor cutting a road through the Clay Hill pass so the wagons could head down a thousand feet."I guess none of them decided to stay," said Andy. In the 35 miles since leaving Lake Powell, we hadn't passed a car. In addition, there were no signs about ferry closings, not that it mattered.

Every view is spectacular in Valley of the Gods.

We didn't stop along Moki Dugway going back. The wind kicked up clouds of dust, blanketing the valley in haze. Last night we met a truck of more than 10,000 gross weight going up just after we had come down. Andy said again, "Sure glad I didn't meet him on the gravel Dugway. Once he started up with that monster, he was not backing down." The truck had filled the entire roadway.
At the other end signs prohibited trucks of more than 10,000 pounds.  "It's probably brakes," I said. "Trucks can go up, but they can't make it down."

The unimproved dirt road circles the unusual rock formations.

Andy agreed. "I sure wouldn't want to drive one going up though!" he said.
The whole road through Valley of the Gods is 17 miles long. Years ago we only made it about 2.5 miles before deep ruts, unimproved gravel and unmaintained washes forced us to turn back.
"We'll give it a try," said Andy. "I won't take any chances. I'm not quite as adventurous in my old age."
We set out slowly, about 10-15 m.p.h., on the rough gravel. Washes presented a particular challenge for the low-riding Focus.

Too bad that just maneuvering the car takes so much attention!

But before we had driven two miles, two vehicles came from the other direction."Passable, oui," said the first driver in broken English, "but no water."
"Yah," confirmed the second with German intonations. "Ve come from road to Bluff."
It was comforting but not much help on the steep stone inclines and through the deep rutted washes.

Spires reach skyward
in Garden of the Gods.

"We've made the turn," said Andy, as the ribbon of gravel swung to the right. "We're more than half way."
I breathed a sigh of relief and took another picture.
"I'm glad it's front wheel drive," said Andy, shifting into low for the umpteenth time, as we rolled through a low gully. "I would not want to break down in there. That's one expensive tow!"

Scattered boulders weighing many tons each dot the roadside.

"At least you got to do it," I reassured. "And you never would have if the ferry had been operating."

Garden of the Gods is a fairyland,
except for the inhospitable climate.

"I also wouldn't have done it if I had not seen three cars turn in way ahead of us," he answered.
Coated with red dust from the Garden of the Gods, the three of us--Andy and I and our little black Ford Focus--headed back to Mexican Hat. There were still no signs for ferry closings.
Devil winds swirled across the mesa, building and then petering out, as we drove into Goosenecks State Park for a view of the San Juan River. More than a thousand feet beneath us, the San Juan flowed in four twisted gooseneck legs, almost totally doubling back on itself more than once. I could only fit two of them in the camera viewfinder at once, even on the widest angle.

In the Garden of the Gods, this must be Zeus's throne.

Out on the overlook, winds of at least 50 m.p.h. whipped around us from up the valley.

Two of the four legs of the San Juan River snake below us
on the mesa overlook.

"You can go to the edge," said Andy, "The wind won't let you fall off."I ignored him. Geological formations from the Colorado Plateau were exposed in even layers beneath us as the San Juan carved the canyon far below. "Wild, rugged, desolate country," I said to Andy.
We were four miles from Mexican Hat.
At night we headed back to the Gooseneck Overlook to see the stars in a dark night sky. The Milky Way streaked across the heavens in a huge white swath. Everywhere, everywhere there were a billion tiny lights. It was another version of the Garden of the Gods.