It’s luxurious, as far as rest stops go. Not only does it have the requisite rest stop building with bathrooms, maps, and snack machines but outside it’s surrounded by a pretty, manicured lawn with several picnic table scattered throughout, and a few trees to provide shade; along with the huge pinkish rock wall that rises behind the park, it makes for a pretty stellar place to wake up in the morning. I set my camp stove up on one of the picnic tables to make coffee and here’s where I meet Rest Stop James.
He’s milling about raking leaves, changing garbage bags, weed whacking while I make my coffee. I tip my cup to him when he glances in my direction and he eventually ambles over to introduce himself. James is a 68 year old retired grounds keeper/janitor. For the past 10 years he’s been paid 9 bucks an hour to shovel snow and mow the grass here at this rest stop. “Keep it up man, the place looks great” I tell him, then about my trip when he asks and we fall into comfortable conversation. He lost the first 38 years of his adult life to booze, is how he puts it. Back then he would drive the truck that delivered blood to hospitals and blood banks. The bags of blood were always packed in dry ice to preserve it in route. James found that the dry ice would do the same for a six pack of PBR, so he always had one jammed into one of the coolers with a few blood bags on top to hide it. It’s a good story and he’s full of them. He rattles them off as he leads me to the back of the building where he loads a small glass pipe with weed and offers it to me. I graciously accept and continue to listen as I spark up. James has lived in Texas, West Virginia, Georgia, all over the place. He can tell me every turn one must make along the route from West Virginia all they way to Moab, Utah. He enjoys his little spot in the world here at the rest stop on highway 191. It stretches form Canada all the way to Mexico, you know? So he gets to meet people from everywhere. It’s the type of chance encounter I really enjoy, and not just because I got to smoke free pot. James seems sweet and wise……and strong too, considering his battle with the bottle. I shake his hand and thank him dearly on my way out, but before I begin the drive to my next park I scribble a few of my favorite quotes from our conversation.
When I told him about my trip, and my anxiety about how it might not be the right thing to be doing, his response was “Why not!? Columbus took a chance!” His take on growing older is “I got young blood, it’s just got an old package.” And one of his favorites, I could tell because it was said with pride while we were smoking behind the rest stop, “God made weed, man made booze…..Which one do you choose?” I think you chose right James, well played.
The Colorado and Green rivers meet here in Utah and the deep canyons that house them separate Canyonlands National Park into three parts and the area is so remote that no roads lead all the way through. My stay at the rest stop and my meeting Rest Stop James occurred while I was in route from the Island in the Sky section to the Needles section. The two are right next to each other, separated only by the canyons but it takes 34 miles to drive from one to the other. Vast like outer space.
When I arrive in the Needles district I’m much lower, physically speaking, and looking back up at the cliffs that form the Island in the Sky. This section, The Needles, is named for the rock formations that are abundant here. Lines of tall rock cylinders, rising out of the desert floor. I guess I can see the flimsy connection between them and needles, but it's a stretch. There’s also fatter rock formations with rounded tops that sort of resemble mushrooms, so who knows who gets to name these kinda places.
I hike a small loop called Pothole Point to have a look around. It’s all slick rock dotted with hundreds of potholes surrounding the trail, each filled with rain water springing entire ecosystems. Don’t touch the water they say, but I forget if it was because it can upset the entire self contained pothole ecosystem or because it can make you really sick. Always the Boy Scout, I chose against a soak.
Needles!?.....I guess...
I break for lunch in a deserted picnic area just off the main park road. I carry my food box over to a picnic table and return to the car for my camp stove. Now I’m parked maybe 50 yards away from my picnic table, maybe even closer, the point is it isn't terribly far. But by the time I’ve retrieved my stove from the Jeep and turned back, a dozen huge ravens fight for space on the table top, pecking through my box of food and at each other. I run and scare them off before they can make off with anything, but they were fuckin’ huge, jet black, evil looking things. The incident is funny but a little spooky at the same time, how fast they showed up. I just shake off the spooky and sit down to fix myself a meal. While I'm rummaging through my provisions a minivan pulls into the lot and parks between my Jeep and where I’m sitting now, blocking my sightline. I think nothing of it and continue to fire up my stove. The man in the van seems to consult a map and then begins to reverse, like he's just turning around. In the middle of this maneuver he looks my way and rolls down his window. Leaning out, in what I believe to be a Russian, maybe Austrian accent he shouts toward me “Uh, Sir?” I look up and raise my eyebrows at him in a yeah-whats-up sort of gesture and he continues, “Zare ah ravenz in yo ca.” It takes me a second to decipher what he’s saying but after I do, I’m up and shuffling a few yards away from the table so I can see around his van to the Jeep. Sure enough, I left all the windows plus the sunroof open and there 5 or six of the ornery bastards perched on my hood and roof rack. Three more are actually IN the jeep yanking at my blankets, tools, and other personal effects. “What the fuck!” I laugh as I run at them, flailing wildly. “Get outta here, ya animals. Ah, for christ sake.” Their chatter as the fly off sounds like laughter, I brandish my fist and curse them like a grumpy old man. I shake my head in stunned disbelief at the man in the van, all shrugging shoulders and upturned palms, and I thank him. “No probe-lom” he mutters with a giggle and pulls back out of the parking lot.
The departure of his van is like the shot on a game show where they reveal the prize. The door slides slowly open and it’s a brand…new….car….the crowd goes wild. The Russian's/Austrian's van acts as the door in this case and reveals my picnic table with my box of food on it is now completely covered in more damn ravens. Clever little fuckers aren't they? I secure all windows and sunroofs in the jeep and then run back over to the table to scare them off again before they get their filthy beaks on anything of value.
After, I eat my lunch with a conspiracy of ravens milling about nearby. That's really what a group of ravens is called...I looked it up...."a conspiracy of ravens". Google says it's also sometimes referred to as "an unkindness of ravens" which I might like even better! Seems apt, considering how stupid the greedy little fuckers made me look today.
Man, remember when you still had to wonder things? Google has made wonder obsolete.
I head back towards the highway. For some reason I feel like the Canyonlands is the least impressive park I’ve been to yet. But that opinion waivers a bit on the drive out. The road, the same one I came in on, is flanked on both side by massive flat-topped buttes. It’s a beautifully rugged, unforgiving terrain, and driving back through it, actually noticing it this time, endears the Canyonlands to me a bit more, but I'm still headed out to my next park.
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