Moab Memories - Dead Horse Point 2006
In the late summer of 2006, I moved my travel trailer from Kanab, Utah to Moab, Utah
for a three month stay. At the time, Moab remained “undiscovered” by
the hordes of motorized enthusiasts that now tear its out-lands asunder
for the sheer pleasure of throwing dust, dirt, and plant life into the
air. At that time, most visitors were hikers or bicyclists, with a
lesser number of Jeep enthusiasts.
“Side by sides” and “quads” were yet to become the off-road vehicles of
choice. Person-power prevailed over horsepower. At that time, no one
had heard of an electric bicycle. Yes, there was running water, indoor
plumbing, and electricity, but looking back eighteen years ago, Moab
felt like it belonged at the turn of the twentieth century, not in the
first decade of the twenty-first century.
At that time, wireless telephone and data services relied on the 2-G
network, with occasional hints of 3-G speed, but only then during the
early morning or late at 
night.
Since I was running my executive recruiting business from my travel
trailer, I was sensitive to data usage. Each afternoon, as the outdoor
enthusiasts returned to Moab and the number of emergency-calls for
assistance skyrocketed, my computer wireless data would go from slow to
zero connectivity.
After much diagnosis with my mobile phone and data provider, I discovered the truth. The entire City of Moab was running from a single wireless transmission tower, situated above the Sand Flats Recreation Area. Even in that era, before the release of the Apple iPhone in 2007, the use of mobile telephone and data networks was exploding, with the various providers falling far behind.
Additionally,
I learned that police and fire agencies took first priority, with
mobile telephony in second place and my business lifeblood, mobile data
a distant third in priority rankings. With my business connectivity
curtailed as each afternoon wore on, I learned to start earlier and to
go out and explore the land in the late afternoons.
Following are excerpts of what I wrote about our late afternoon wanderings around the redrocks areas just outside of Moab:
September 26, 2006 - Greetings from Moab Utah… The land of 4-Wheeling
and off-road biking. We have been here for about three weeks and there
is so much to see and do that we could spend months exploring and not
see the same 
thing twice.
The first weekend, we set off for Dead Horse Point State Park.
Legend has it that cowboys in the 19th Century herded wild mustangs
there and then culled the herd, taking only the best. The less capable
horses remained to die, corralled on a point overlooking the Colorado
River, below. In today’s world, one dead horse might be acceptable, but
for men to purposely leave herds of horses to die in the blazing hot
desert was indeed cruel and unusual punishment.
After taking the turn from U.S. Highway 191, and on to Utah Highway 313,
we were still on the way to the park. Looking for anything of
interest, the first vista point held a Civil War battle scene. There,
standing tall and proud in the 
desert
were two sandstone buttes, resembling the first “ironclads,” the
Monitor and the Merrimack (later known as the CSS Virginia). During the
opening days of the U.S. Civil War, those two unique ships had fought
to a draw in the Battle of Hampton Roads. The two buttes before us
aptly conjured that epic battle, one hundred and forty-four years
prior.
From Dead Horse Point itself, we could see no remnants of a corral,
fencing or of dead horses. Utah has a way of cleaning up its history
and prefers to present itself in the most positive historical context,
regardless of the carnage that often occurred in its early days. The
most egregious conduct occurred before Utah statehood in 1896. Instead
of dead horses, we viewed the potash settling ponds far below and
adjacent to the Colorado River. In my previous trip to Moab, in 1965,
the potash ponds had not yet come to fruition, since in situ mining of potash in the area was then still to come.
The Colorado River itself hid from view in a nondescript trench at the bottom of the Anticline, which encompassed the vast area within our view. In the far distance was the La Sal Range,
which remained dry and snow-less in early fall. In less than two
weeks, the seasons would change, bringing autumn to canyon country and
winter to those mountains.
Turning my camera to the south, you can see the Colorado River in the
foreground. It flows to the right of the picture and circles around in
what is known as an entrenched meander, or goose-neck. As the river
cuts down into the rock, the land itself is uplifting, locking the
river into its ever-deepening banks. From there, the river passes to
the left in the middle ground of the picture and then again south into Canyonlands National 
Park. There, at what is known as The Confluence, the Colorado River joins the Green River, which has its origins in Wyoming.
Another shot, to the east, shows the vastness of the river canyon and an
interesting pyramid, fooling our eyes, and making us think it was
human made. Each layer of strata in this vast area was once an ocean
bottom or a an alluvial plain. How, one wonders, could so much material
erode from a once great plain and travel down the Colorado River to
points south? Did it happen in a million years, or five hundred million
years? I like the concept that it happened all in one thunderstorm of
proportions unimaginable by today’s standards. As it traveled
downstream, such a flood could well indeed cut the entire Grand Canyon in a single episode.
While
we were there, a great bird soared by, and I was able to catch it at
full telephoto. I then zoomed in on the picture and cropped it to bring
it in even closer. Was it a California Condor, far from its release
point in the Sespe Condor Sanctuary or was it an Andean Condor on a
hunting trip to the Northern Hemisphere? Either way, it was the largest
bird I have ever seen on the wing. El Condor pasa.
This is Part One of a two-part article. To read Part Two, click HERE.
