1/31 – 2/4/23
1-31
Every February, I take a road trip. Since austere winter landscapes are more my style than lounging on a beach, I usually remain in the northern tier, drifting through snowbound state parks and empty motels. This year, I decided to attempt something a bit more grandiose than my usual one-week sprees: a grand circuit of the west, taking in some of my favorite national parks, that would tag the Pacific coast before bending back over the plains to Chicago.
Just after the morning rush hour, with the temperature three above zero and sunlight sparkling on a blanket of fresh snow, I left home. Merging onto I-80, the familiar smokestacks of Joliet already on the horizon, I steeled myself for the first in a series of very long drives. Illinois blurred by in a succession of snowy fields, glazed by a recent storm. Just before crossing into Iowa, by the banks of the ice-choked Rock River, I stopped for a “loose burger” at one of the Midwest’s few remaining Maid-Rites – one of the first hamburger chains.
As one does when traveling westbound on I-80 through Iowa, I fueled up at the World’s Largest Truck Stop, a sort of Disneyland for long-haul truckers. Then onward through the snowy fields of Iowa, which were than a little reminiscent of the snowy fields of Illinois. The only visual relief came in the form of wind farms, whose turbines sent great swooping shadows over the road. The dome of Iowa’s state capitol appeared mirage-like on the southern horizon. So, in the fullness of time, did Nebraska’s. Then it was dark, as only central Nebraska can be dark, until the exit for Grand Island, where I was lulled to sleep by the thunder of semis idling in the icy lot beside my motel.
2-1
Shortly before dawn, I emerged into the bitter cold – my water bottle froze nearly solid overnight – and resumed my westward trek on I-80. Crossing and re-crossing the frozen Platte River, the temperature just above zero, I raced a hundred miles to North Platte, Nebraska. After venturing out into the sparkling snow to see Buffalo Bill Cody’s ranch, I headed to the city library.
Just before leaving on my trip, I had agreed to an interview with Poland’s leading history podcast to promote the newly-released Polish translation of Naked Statues. Prevented by various delays from doing the interview at home, I decided that the next best setting would be the library of a quiet country town – a town like North Platte, where the lady at the library desk assured me that the genealogy section would be quiet. It wasn’t. Over the course of the 45-minute interview, a series of children ran by behind me, and two old ladies stood just out of sight, discoursing about their hip problems.
Then onward and westward, through a part of the country where God’s keyboard got stuck in copy-paste. Despite the monotony of the scenery, there was something satisfying about whipping through the snow-covered immensity of the plains at 85 miles an hour.
I crossed into Colorado through rolling hills blanketed by two feet of wind-sculpted snow. About an hour east of Denver, the gleaming peaks of the Front Range began to saw into the blue sky. As they grew, the temperature – warmed by downslope winds – rose above freezing.
After taking a conference call in a Denver library, I followed I-70 through the mountains, where – thanks to a storm the day before – fresh snow was piled high on the shoulder, the trees were sparkling, and the ski resorts were bustling. On the western slope, as the sun set, the interstate followed the Colorado River, here little more than a mountain stream. I followed too, down to Grand Junction.
2-2
Stomach ballasted with breakfast waffle, I continued my westward trek through a perfect winter day: crisp, calm, and clear, with a temperature in the mid-twenties. My eagerness to hit the trail made the ride to Canyonlands National Park, my first destination, seem longer than it was. When I finally entered the park, I drove to the end of the road, parked in the lonely lot, and walked reverentially to the mesa rim. Below was the view I had driven a thousand miles to see: an infinite tracery of canyons, buttes, and mountains, all dusted with snow.
Boots crunching on the icy trail, I hiked a mile or so along the mesa top, the Colorado snaking through its tremendous canyon a thousand feet below. At the trail’s end, I clambered up to an outcropping that offered a spectacular view of the surrounding landscape – fissured and fractured stone, every boulder and ledge picked out by snow, rimmed by blue sky and shimmering peaks. I sat and wondered, hardly noticing the chill of the rocks.
Of the other trails I hiked in Canyonlands, the clear highlight was Mesa Arch, a sandstone window framing the tormented geology of the river bottom and the La Sal range beyond. I ate my usual peanut butter sandwich at an overlook nearby, drinking in the view.
On the way out, I stopped at Dead Horse Point State Park. Though ambitiously priced – and not covered by my National Park pass – the park occupies a long spit of long that juts out over the Colorado River valley, providing spectacular views of the river, its red canyon, and the mountains beyond.
In mid-afternoon, as a swollen moon began to peer over the eastern horizon, I entered the otherworldly landscape of Arches. During my last visit, in May 2016, the park had been overrun by visitors. Now, though not quite as deserted as Canyonlands, it was mostly empty. During a leisurely walk around the arches known as the Windows, I found myself drawn to Turret Arch, which presided over the snowy landscape with the solemnity of a primeval temple.
I saved the best for last. Delicate Arch – the famous, fragile ribbon of sandstone that appears on Utah license plates – stands at the top of a stiff two-mile climb. After strapping on my spikes to negotiate a treacherously icy stretch of the path, I emerged at the ridgetop overlook, and was confronted by the arch, brilliant against a backdrop of snowy mesas and peaks, ethereal as the gate of a ruined palace. As the sun set, the arch’s color deepened from rose to crimson to bloodred.
After the sun finally sank behind the adjacent ridge, I descended the trail in gathering twilight, the moon brilliant overhead. Back in Moab, I demolished a Subway footlong while reading the geological sections of two park newsletters.
2-3
I had forgotten how desolate south-central Utah is. Along a hundred miles of two-lane highway, I saw only a dozen or so cars, and two untidy jumbles of buildings bold enough to proclaim themselves towns. The landscape was a Biblical desolation – deserts of broken rock and snow-striped sand, from which mesas jutted like ruined cathedrals.
After bobbing and weaving through a wildly eroded landscape, the road descended into Capitol Reef National Park. I hiked up to an overlook through the timeless calm of a winter morning, the valley below and peaks beyond perfect as a painted backdrop.
On the other side of Capitol Reef, I ate my lunch on a promontory overlooking a spectacular canyon of snow-slashed red rock, a frozen stream flashing serpentine five hundred feet beneath.
Then west to Bryce Canyon National Park, the roadside snowbanks climbing with the elevation. The snow in the park was at least three feet deep, tufting and pillowing each pinnacle and hoodoo. My trusty spikes underfoot, I explored the famous amphitheater, its sandstone stark against a darkening sky. I returned to the rim just after sunset, a full moon presiding serenely over the distant mountains.
2-4
Leaving my motel just behind a mouse that squeezed under the door, I emerged into a morning that was cold – 13 degrees, according to my car thermometer – but clear, with a brilliant sunrise just crowning the eastern hills. I continued southwest through hills bristling with cedar, punctuated here and there with snowbound little towns clustered around Mormon churches.
My destination was Zion National Park. In 2016, I made the mistake of visiting during Memorial Day weekend, and spent three days fighting the hordes at Angel’s Landing, the Narrows, and the park’s other iconic hikes. This time, in delightful contrast, the crowds were light. I began at the Canyon Overlook trail, which – as might be expected – overlooks a canyon. But even this jaded traveler was impressed by that spectacular panorama of snow-dusted stone, glowing softly against the rising sun.
In the summer months, visitors to Zion are required to use shuttles departing from the visitor center to access the hikes along the main canyon. The hardy few who visit in winter, however, can drive their own vehicles to the end of the canyon road. I did so, pausing again and again on pullouts and shoulders to take in the sheer visual drama of the sandstone peaks, kissed by morning light.
At the road’s end, where the canyon contracts to the ribbon-thin Narrows, I parked and walked a mile or so along the Virgin River, snapping picture after picture of the soaring cliff walls, veined with ice and framed by the bare branches of cottonwoods.
