Jack Burns Lives!

Journey to Four Corners

Part One: The San Juan’s

There’s more than a sufficient amount of material that’s been written about the canyon country of Southeastern Utah, so as I started thinking about how I would present my own experience, I was frankly at a loss.

What can I possibly say about the area that hasn’t already been said? Is it even necessary to say something new? The place is, after all, so spectacular, its lovers and protectors probably never grow tired of reading about it.

The only thing better than reading about it and looking at photos is to actually be there in it. In the flesh, with your toes in the sand, surrounded by red rock, blue skies and its bright sun beating down upon your face.

I do believe the view is unique for someone coming from the deep South, because the contrast could not be greater. The South is a humid land with few mountain ranges and dark, rich soil. A land of water and swamps. The West is, of course, just the opposite, an arid land blessed with many mountains, canyons and red rock. And while water is a precious resource in all parts of the world, this is especially so in the West.

My keen interest in the West began with Abbey. The old curmudgeon permanently interrupted my too comfortable life back in 1991 after I discovered him while reading Outside Magazine. The magazine and the West have something in common in that both are not what they used to be. Outside is essentially little more than a collection of advertisements for gear heads, hardly worth even a few seconds of your time. And the West has, as Abbey predicted, fallen prey to creeping capitalism, and struggles to survive with the help of a few brave souls that work long hours keeping the greedy developers and interlopers from bulldozing everything they can get their grimy paws on.

The difference is that the West, specifically Four Corners, is worth more than a few seconds of your time. If you haven’t explored it, I’d suggest you go NOW, while there’s still plenty to explore. Hike through the canyons, climb the La Sals, run the river and then go back from whence you came, because there are too many folks that decide to stay.

Thanks to the National Department of Fear and the recent brouhaha in Britain, airline tickets are dirt cheap, and being the good hypocritical capitalist that I am, I seize the opportunity and book two tickets to Durango.

The airport experience is fairly smooth, but the continued announcements over the loudspeakers were comical and eerie at the same time.

This is, of course, designed to keep the entire nation in a state of Orwellian fear, and fear fuels the engine of empire. It empowers the politico-industrial elite that have planned and are now carrying out the Project For the New American Century. Pax Americana. Ad infinitum. Fuck ‘em all.

I like flying into Durango, because it’s centrally located for the Four Corners region. You can get to almost any place in the region in less than three hours, endless desert, mountains and rivers are all within a short distance.

Heading out of the barbecue capital of the world, Allison and I enjoy a smooth flight, rent a car and head north to Ridgway. The only problem we encounter is a slight bit of confusion over the car. I reserved what I thought was a four wheel drive Nissan Rice Rocket. What I receive is a Ford Behemoth, big enough to seat fifty folks. But it’s the only four wheel drive vehicle available, and last year we definitely needed one on some the approach roads to trails in the Uncompahgre.

Most Americans would just take off and thank the armed forces for protecting their freedoms and for making all this overindulgence and gluttony possible. But I feel extremely guilty, embarrassed even, as I ponder the over 40,000 civilians killed in Iraq and the future deaths that will surely come in Iraq, Iran and gawd knows where else.

It’s more than a national embarrassment. It’s a crime against humanity, and I hope its perpetrators one day face the full wrath of an International court.

Nuremberg would be a nice setting.

I’m told the military is “protecting our way of life,” and I believe it’s clear that driving monster trucks that get ten miles per gallon is the American way of life. I feel complicit in the blood soaked scheme.

As I drive northward on the Million Dollar Highway, I’m once again awestruck by the phenomenal beauty of the San Juan range and its majestic peaks and valleys. On my right are Houghton Mountain, California Mountain and Hurricane Pass, Engineer Mountain and Bridge of Heaven. To the left, Hayden Mountain, Half Moon Basin, Chicago Peak and the well known Sneffles Range, including Yankee Boy Basin.

I begrudgingly admit Yankee Boy is prettier than anything we have in the South.

These are old kings shaped over millions of years through multiple episodes of uplift, ancient seas, volcanic upheavals and glacial activity. Specifically, they are primarily composed of rocks that erupted from Tertiary volcanoes about 40 million years ago and that continued sporadically for another 30 million years.

It’s an old place that has my respect.

Anything over 13,000 feet is covered in snow. Below that altitude was a bouquet of color. Shades of gold, green, red, brown, grey and orange are provided by the impressive array of flora along the ridges. Some Aspen (Populus tremuloides) have reached full color, but most are just starting to change from green to gold. An assortment of fir trees, including Colorado Blue Spruce (Picea pungens) and Alpine Fir (Abies lasiocarpa) are in abundance, and I occasionally catch a glimpse of Rocky Mountain Maple (Acer glabrum trisectum) and Willow.

Temperatures are in the high 40’s as we move northward, but they will warm to the high 60’s by the next day. The blustery skies and a mixture of grays and blues, hint of more snow.

Along one of the few stretches of straight highway, just after Silverton, I notice a figure slowly making its way across the highway. It isn’t moving very fast. I let up off the accelerator and gently braked, eventually stopping since there were no other vehicles anywhere in sight.

Lynx rufus or Bobcat. He or she makes it across, stops and turns around. We face one another, momentarily looking at one another before the cat scampered off into a creek bed.

I wonder what this cat thought as we gazed upon one another. What constitutes the cat-experience and cat-mindedness? The truth is we don’t know. We may never know. Humans often attempt to make other animals resemble ourselves in order to believe that we understand them. Tautologically having projected our limitations we are then constrained to operating within our own transference and can no more understand our cats than we understand ourselves.

All I know is the cat “is.” I was intruding in his or her home and the glance seemed to suggest we needed to move on. We do.

We once again chose Ridgway and Orvis Hot Springs as our first destination. Ridgway is my favorite Colorado town, but there have been some significant changes since last year. The official population figure is still less than 720, but I can state for a fact that estimate is low.

There’s new development in the center of town, including construction on a new retail complex. The sign in front of the complex describes it as part of the “revitalization” of Ridgway, a word that should send chills down the spine of any thinking person, since it’s really a code word for growth and unneeded development.

Ridgway seems pretty vital to me as it is. My suggestion to the current residents is find a way to preserve it “as is” and vigorously fight the real estate lackeys with every tool available before they turn Ridgway into another Telluride.

Thumbing through a local rag that features real estate for sale in the Telluride area, I don‘t see a single home for sale that is less than $1 million dollars. Most are over $2 million and many are as high as $5 million and higher. Today, the average price of a home in Ridgway is approximately $250,000 ($359,000 in the county), but thanks to “revitalization,” that will surely change.

Instead of the sleepy little town it is today, Ridgway will become an overpriced haven for tourists (with plans to stay) and real estate vampires. They’re like alien invaders, killing everything in their path while setting up ill-conceived pods that produce vile, profit motivated offspring.

It’s the War of the Worlds. A quiet, largely agrarian, mountain community trying to hold its own against the megamachine. Growth. Development. Maximum profit and at the expense of all native life forms.

The signs are everywhere that native Ridgway is losing. Many long time residents may no longer be able to live there because of escalating costs, particularly taxes. All over Ridgway and neighboring Ouray, I noticed “Help Wanted” signs in store front windows, a work shortage created by real estate speculation. The bottom line is retail workers cannot afford to live there. They move to Montrose or Durango and find jobs in those communities.

To the north, towering over Ridgway, is Log Hill Mesa. Most of the area is as it was last year with a couple of notable exceptions.

Weapons of Mass Destruction are located, shockingly at the driveway of my fellow Abbeyeistas, Roger and Gail. They’re building a lovely home next to the old cabin, which is apparently too confining for two people, three cats, one dog, several mice and three computers.

It’s well engineered, fits in nicely with the landscape and is in many respects a dream home. Not too big, not too small. Not anything like the 10,000 square foot megastructures being built around them.

As for me, I’ll take the cabin. It’s more my style. Rustic. Adequate and sufficient, although confining for more than one human. The water line being run to the new house would have been a nice addition to the cabin, but Roger and Gail are wise enough to not connect the cabin to the new line. That would have made things a bit too cozy and too easy and resulted in a never-ending supply of guests that don’t know when to leave.

Roger and Gail join us for an exuberant and delicious dinner at The Drake where we are served by a beautiful young lady who charms me into leaving a more than generous tip. She’s a genuine blond genetically blessed with piercing blue eyes, great skin, a warm smile and intelligence.

To me, intelligence is the most attractive quality a woman can possess. I’ve always been more attracted to strong, smart women. Bimbos do nothing for me. I want brains. Women that love books, poetry, music, good food and wine, the outdoors and that will stand and fight when necessary.

Eye glasses are oddly attractive, as well. No makeup. Come as you are.

She’s the kind of girl that used to launch Abbey into what he called “satyrmania,” but I forget her by the time we reach the truck.

Well fed and drunk, I feel like a stuffed anaconda slithering into the water as we return to Orvis for a soak. The hypnotizing, pitch black San Juan sky is filled with a million stars, and the water is soothing and warm, a perfect 103 degrees. But unlike last year, there is a crowd. More people than I have ever seen at Orvis, and Roger concurs it is a high count for him, as well.

Too bad. It seems the secret is out.

Part II: To the Canyonlands Of Utah