Kingdoms of the Southern Desert

The badlands will change you. It can elevate your wanderings into something spiritual, or it can turn you savage. It is an unforgiving world with small tolerance for error or idiots. It will make you feel like the first to touch a new planet. It can uplift you to heights unimagined, or make you fight for your life.

These deserts can swallow you up and spit your bones out to bake in the dirt, or you can come to feel a gentle and peaceful part of it, connected to its sands and thorns, cliffs and shallow caves, petrified trees and dunes, and creatures strange and ancient. Colors bleed out of solid rock and life is unwelcome. It is a kingdom made of ghostly shapes and imagination; of canyons unchanged, poisoned rivers and bewildering forms that care not for the rules of nature. This is why I love it. Its challenges feel right at home, in the saddle, on the range, into the great nowhere.

Each spectacular site, every scenic overlook, all can replenish you in their way, adding new pieces to your whole. In Part II, I rejoin Bob Valerie Gibbs and Brother Tom on our odyssey through the American badlands, and it was none too soon. We needed to get back on the horse.

Rolling to the edge: the San Juan River’s Goosenecks.

The next such stop was Goosenecks State Park, just a few miles from Mexican Hat. After being pulled back down Route 163, blipping into Arizona for morning photos of Monument Valley, we turned around and rode back into Utah. Named for a rock formation that looks a lot like a sombrero, Mexican Hat seemed smaller than I remember it 17 years ago, when we last emerged. Continuing east on 163 along the San Juan River, then left (north) on 261, a quick left (west) on 361 and about five miles later we were looking 1,000 feet straight down at the U-shaped waters of the sinuous San Juan, a river you can actually swim in, if you can get to it.

Departing Gooseneck, the Brothers Gibbs and I got back on course to Bluff and a much needed meal after a breakfast of only coffee and a tiny complementary muffin hours before. There are a few rules of survival in the desert, especially when battling the elements while strapped to a land rocket, or what civilians might call a motorcycle. To avoid dehydration and maintain concentration and energy, drink before you get thirsty, eat before you get hungry. This means water, not energy or sugary drinks, and light snacks like bananas or protein bars, not slogging down burgers or pizza or steaks, which can make you feel heavy and sleepy. You can save the big meal for when you get to your day’s destination.

 In the shadow of the big sombrero.

I remember Bluff as a quirky little town, a small but interesting community with a couple of gas stations and restaurants, a 19th century wooden fort, maybe a souvenir shop or two. I was looking forward to seeing it again and taking a break after an already long day before riding the next 100-plus miles to Moab.

We rode west on Route 163, skirting the Valley of the Gods to the north. The gods looked compelling—red stone monuments rising out of the desert welcoming worship. We didn’t have the time, and most of the god-lands are locked around dirt roads so they would have to wait for another ride.

You never know where the road will take you.

We pulled into Bluff more hungry and tired than expected. It’s not just the miles, but the sun and wind and repeatedly getting off and on the bike for photos or exploration that gets to you after awhile. A respite was needed, especially considering Bob’s advanced age (68 years, three days) compared to sprightly Tom (61) and myself (a scant 68). Lunch was on the menu, but not until 4:30 p.m.

Bluff had fallen on hard times, probably because of Covid. One gas station now, the corporate kind, no shops and two restaurants that opened only for dinner. Not wanting to fill up on gas station buffalo sushi, it was time to go. Regretfully, we blew past the Daniel Boone looking fort and made a beeline for Blanding, a bigger town that was sure to have plentiful eateries.

Moab’s La Sal Mountains and valleys lay ahead.

It did not. Blanding left our bellies empty. Nothing open. Crazy. What would John Wayne do? Back in the saddle and galloped up to Monticello, a much bigger town absolutely sure to have a cookhouse or two. Eatery to eatery—all closed. How could this be? Finally found a sandwich shop, the only thing open. The line was long, we were hungry. The kind of hunger you get when you’re up early, have an itty bitty muffin, and expect it to fuel a whole day of riding and stopping and walking and doing it some more.

We were big old biker hungry and about a dozen citizens were standing between us and a chicken sandwich. Maybe that’s how all those biker rumbles start? Feeling a bit too peckish to wait. Of course, I should have pulled a page out of my own Budget Biker playbook, found a supermarket and made my own damn sandwich. But I forgot. Senior moments can leave you stuck in line. Finally, bellies full with bread and whatever was stuffed inside, we were carbo-loaded and ready to roll. Moab couldn’t wait any longer.

Named after the Old Testament Moab and roughly translating to “flowing from the father,” as in, you know, the seed of the father, the father being Lot from that big Sodom and Gomorrah party. Lots (sorry) of incest followed. Lot and his daughter conceived Moab after surviving the smiting. I guess no lessons were learned, but at least we have new Moab, and to us, this was the promised land.

Arches National Park is Moab’s crown jewel.

Just about 50 miles south of Moab, anticipation built as we rode by Big Ears National Monument and Newspaper Rock State Historic Monument to the west. The Newspaper Rock surface contains one of the largest collections of indigenous petroglyphs known. We had to mark that detour down Route 211 for another time. Another 15 miles up the road and to the west was The Needles, mountainous rock spirals stabbing at the sky. There is an overlook, but we had miles to go before we could drink cold beer. Passing La Sal Junction and the snow-capped Manti-La Sal National Forest to the east, we eased into Moab.

Some days it feels like you could ride all day, somehow drawing on endurance and strength from the much younger you, or maybe your ancient biker ancestors. In these native spirit-lands, it’s not hard to imagine an ancestor or two giving you a nudge. Today, though, was not one of those days, at least for me. Maybe it was eating almost nothing all day until I wolfed down a whole foot-long, which didn’t sit well, or just the rigors of the ride-stop-ride-stop-ride some more day, or maybe because I snapped off the face and ear protection on my modular helmet. Whatever it was, I arrived exhausted with a ringing in my ears that wouldn’t stop. Bob and Tom checked out the town while I tried to regather my brains.

Next morning it was kickstands up at dawn (ish). Ok, it was more like 10 but we still had plenty of daylight to burn and needed every minute of it. Helmet ear panels back in place, rolling through town on Route 191 north, I was stunned to see how much Moab had changed since I had last been there, some 25 years ago. It’s gone from a desert outpost filled with mountain bikers, hippies and river guides with one bar and two restaurants to a bustling small town with trendy eateries, glitzy bars and souvenir shops lining its now 4-lane Main Street. Can’t say I like it.

None of that would matter in a few minutes. Turning right (northeast) onto famed Route 128, we were immediately spellbound. The Colorado River flowed on our left, flanked by sheer red rock cliffs and glimpses of Arches National Park just to the north. Our right was walled off by magnificent sandstone bluffs. It felt a little like riding through a geologic tunnel of time.

The crossroads lie not far ahead, waiting for our decision: continue on the fabulous 128 or ride over a mountain. We chose the mountain. The La Sal Mountain Loop Road Scenic Byway intersects Route 128 near Castle Valley, then twists and hairpins and white knuckles its way through the range, peaking at 8,343 feet, which make no mistake is officially chilly. It was late May and snow was still lingering in the La Sal forest.

Just off Route 128, La-Sal Mountain Loop promises thrills galore.

The 60-mile loop is not well maintained and there are no services through the entire route. Expect uneven, sometimes gravelly pavement throughout, as well as breathtaking views and daredevil-like short and narrow stretches that left us seriously close to oblivion. Occasional wind gusts on exposed mountain passes kept us all squeezing the handlebar. This was not a ride for the faint-hearted. In fact, we saw no other motorcyclists that day; only we three knuckleheads hellbent for leather and the next heart pounding view. Stunning vistas amped up with some extra adrenaline made it all the more memorable.

The loop road spilled us gently back out to Route 191 and back to our motel for needed rest. The second part of our day would come in a few hours. The idea was to eat and nap-up, then head out to explore Arches. There was a chance of rain later but this was our only shot before a 330-mile ride the next day.

The strategy worked. The overcast skies may have washed out a little color but it also kept us cooler. Entering the park, the drama built as we passed rolling rock fields, a result of sediments being laid down over different epochs, and deep salt beds pushing rock to its surface. The park boasts more than 2,000 arches, from the famed Delicate Arch in the eastern part of the park and Landscape Arch in Devils Garden to the north. In the middle of the park stands, inexplicably, gravity defying Balanced Rock, which doesn’t look like it should exist. The arches were formed by wind, rain and ice erosion over millions of years.

The otherworldly beauty of Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.

Late in the day, the skies turned menacing and we could smell the ozone in the air, signaling the unmistakable approach of a lightning storm. Having left my insulated tin hat at home, I thought this might not be good. Fortunately, only gusting desert dust blew at us, the storm passing by to the north.

The next day took us up 191 again, bidding farewell to Arches and passing by Route 313, the road to Canyonlands National Park. This was regrettable. Don’t expect to experience even the “best of” Moab in one day or two. The area could easily use a week, not even getting into other activities such a river rafting, ATVing, camping or mountain biking.

Looking through a window of time, Arches.

We picked up I-15, otherwise known as the Old Spanish Trail. We were riding west in the direction of our inevitable departure, but we still had a lot to see. This highway isn’t too bad, as highways go, offering scenic views left and right. We weren’t on it long, exiting on to Route 24 south. To the west, the San Rafael Reef Wilderness accompanied us as we rode in search of goblins.

The turn-off was well marked, but then the direction got a little blurry. Somewhere down that road, flanked by Little Ocean Draw and Little Wild Horse Canyon, just north of Middle Wild Horse Mesa and west of Molly’s Castle, we found Goblin Valley State Park. It was well worth the ride-about.

Arches keeps many secrets.

Soon as we rolled into view, the hobgoblins greeted us. They are stone bogeymen of irregular shape and strange temperament. They are more like fleshy brown boulders stacked upon each other than the straighter, leaner hoodoos we saw at Bryce. Softer sedimentary rock erodes quicker than harder layers, creating the unpredictably haunting shapes we see throughout the Southwest. Sometimes, the hoodoo doesn’t make it, crumbling back into geologic time to someday take another form. These squat, mushroom-headed goblins almost seem to herd on the desert floor, unflinching in their defiance to creatures who walk or crawl or creep.

The March of the Goblins.

During the 1950s, as the Cold War heated up, nearby uranium mining was cracking away, stacking up the end-of-days ore for an armageddon barely averted. There remains abandoned miner cabins, a few tools, old trucks and the usual detritus of a life trying to scratch out a living from solid rock. We didn’t search for these ruins, preferring to not raise our Geiger count.

Continuing south on Route 24, we turned west at Hanksville, continuing on the scenic highway. Be advised, this is a good place, and one of the only places for miles, to gas up and get something to eat and drink. You can also buy a tiny stone goblin figure at the convenience store/gas station. I got one that looked a lot like Tom.

Desert rolls up to the Henry Mountains.

Capitol Reef sits around a long wrinkle in the earth known as the Waterpocket Fold, revealing layers of golden sandstone that have reformed into unimaginable rock formations. Chimney Rock, Hickman Bridge Arch and Capitol Reef, known for its white sandstone domes, headline the attractions. The north end holds the striking monoliths of Cathedral Valley.

After seeing just the surface of the park, it’s hard to understand how it could be underused. Underrated, more remote and not as famous or developed as Zion or Bryce or the collective of alien wild-lands that is Moab, it feels like the imperial kingdom of southern Utah’s deserts. As we galloped west on Route 24, roughly following the Fremont River, majestic towers of burnished rock soared all around us. Some resembled reefs, others imposing capitol buildings. There were no busy towns, strip malls, souvenir shops, hotels, housing developments, trendy restaurants, nary an overpriced coffee shop, maybe the occasional small generational ranch and wandering weirdo. Even gas stations were few and far between. Capitol Reef stands quiet and alone, not needing celebrity nor the company of others. To me, this only adds to its grandeur.

The lush lands of Fruita, Capitol Reef. Photo by Capitol Reef Country.

At Fruita, named after the orchards that once flourished there, we turned onto the Scenic Drive, an 8-mile road into the heart of the park, but were turned away after less than a mile. The drive closed for “rehabilitation” only a couple of days before we arrived. It is scheduled to reopen this fall, but that offered no consolation. Believing all rules are just suggestions, I thought about making a run for it. But the barrier was big and there was a ranger parked nearby, already eyeballing us. Didn’t think he would buy I misread the sign, “To Rehabilitation” rather than “Under Rehabilitation.” All we could do is peer down the road as far as our necks could crane and imagine the waiting wonders.

We just figured that’s another reason to return, not that we needed more reasons.

When you’re ricocheting around national parks, taking back roads, jumping off and on the bike, walking from point of interest to interest, it’s important to remember 330 miles is not 330 miles, not in any normal human sense. It’s like riding in dog years; everything feels times seven, give or take a time. As much as we wanted to stay at Capitol Reef, maybe rent a tent and hope some good people invited us to their barbecue, we had to rejoin our journey.

South on Route 12 near Torrey, we were making a beeline for Boulder and what we had been told was a not-to-be-missed restaurant. The road took us over the Boulder Mountains, cresting at 9,600 snowy feet. The chill penetrated my jacket, and this twisty road was taking forever. The wooded mountain scenery was nice, but it’s funny how that doesn’t matter when you’re cold and hungry. Finally over the pass and down the hill, we spot the place. It was our happy reward for a saddle-sore long day.

It was closed.

Contemplating the road.

Fortunately, an amiable sort came out of nowhere, took one look at us and said not to worry, there was food just around the corner. We literally didn’t know where our next meal was coming from so this was a huge relief. Note to self, call ahead. Unexpected business closures seemed to be a running theme, especially in the smaller communities. Boulder was tiny, looked like maybe a big city escapee enclave, just a feeling that was based on nothing but the pricey menu and the look of the patrons, a bit too stylish for rural mountain folk. The food was good, though. The helpful stranger appeared again, sat nearby and chatted awhile. His own journey seemed right out of Blue Highways (William Least Heat-Moon). A little too similar, I thought, and something else felt off about him. Maybe it was the serial-killer-on-the-road vibe.

Staying on Route 12, from Boulder we rode right into the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. A labyrinth of roads and trails spider out from Route 12 and into the park’s interior; all tempting, all dirt, no time. Its rock arches, shallow streams, petrified trees and timeless secrets would have to wait for another kind of visit.

So much to see, so little time.

Heads floating with images of the day we still couldn’t comprehend, thirsty, bodies tiring, bellies rumbling, throttle hands going numb, all we could think about was someplace called Panguitch and a place to stretch our backs. Is this what it felt like to be a pioneer?

We skirted the Dixie National Forest, passed Calf Creek, Box Death Hollow, Kodachrome Basin and The Blues Overlook, riding through Henrieville (not to be confused with the apparently competing settlement of Hanksville, up the road). Route 12 would once again take us by Bryce, through Red Canyon and right into the blinding setting sun of Panguitch. A more welcome sight we had not seen for days.

Beautiful, quaint Panguitch City. Aerial photo by Visit Utah.

Set in the Sevier River valley, Panguitch was settled by Mormons in 1864. Its name is based on the Paiute word for “big fish,” likely a reference to the nearby lakes and their abundant trout. Many Southwestern towns grew from timber, mining or cattle camps. If the tent towns held on, then wooden buildings would rise up, usually later to burn down. If the local industry still thrived, tougher materials were used, like brick, even if architectural design and civil planning often remained an afterthought.

Following timber and livestock, brick making became big business in Panguitch. The material was the same as seen in the red dirt of the surrounding desert, the same hues that make Zion and other areas so stunning. Panguitch brick was a lighter red than usual, marking a distinctive look and sign of prosperity in these Old West buildings lining Main Street. There was a certain charm about this small town, even long after the local brick makers had given way to corporate manufacturing. Some 1,800 people still call Panguitch home. It looked like a nice place to live.

But we didn’t live there. We were headed home.

Top of the mountain, west of Panguitch.

Picking up Route 143, we climbed up in elevation, and up. Stopping for a photo at Panguitch Lake, we were instantly swarmed by hordes of flies of some sort, or maybe they were flying ants or some other crypto-creature. Whatever the pests were, they had a taste for leather and human blood. Quickly back in gear and up the mountain, temperatures fell. The landscape changed from semi-arid desert to alpine forest. At 10,000 feet, I could reach out and make a snowball.

From burning desert to frozen forest, what more could we ask for? Keeping eyes peeled for black ice and gravel, we gingerly navigated the tight turns and steep declines. Cedar Breaks National Monument loomed to the south. The view from the road would have to do. Cedar City lay ahead, and a much needed hot cup of coffee, even if it was a hot day in town.

Out of Panguitch and up 10,420 feet, it wasn’t summer anymore, bud.

From Cedar City, we toed the shifters into top gear and bombed down I-15 to St. George. Then the next day into Las Vegas and a ciao-for-now dinner at an amazing Italian restaurant called Ferraro. It was a long, hard, soul-expanding ride, the kind that changes you. You’re never too old to see the world differently all over again. We are already looking forward to our next ride, now scheduled for 2041 if our 17-year circadian pattern holds.

Problem is, I want to go now.

J. Joshua Placa

Below: The author, Cool Hand Bob, Brother Tom

Author’s ride: 2024 Harley-Davidson Hydra Glide Revival, courtesy of Harley-Davidson Motor Company.