Identity and Nature in Utah's Canyon Country
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Utah State University DigitalCommons@USU All USU Press Publications USU Press 2003 Landscape of Desire: Identity and Nature in Utah's Canyon Country Greg Gordon Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.usu.edu/usupress_pubs Part of the Rhetoric and Composition Commons Recommended Citation Gordon, Greg, "Landscape of Desire: Identity and Nature in Utah's Canyon Country" (2003). All USU Press Publications. 142. https://digitalcommons.usu.edu/usupress_pubs/142 This Book is brought to you for free and open access by the USU Press at DigitalCommons@USU. It has been accepted for inclusion in All USU Press Publications by an authorized administrator of DigitalCommons@USU. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Landscape of Desire Landscape of Desire Identity and Nature in Utah’s Canyon Country Greg Gordon UTAH STATE UNIVERSITY PRESS Logan, Utah Copyright © 2003 Utah State University Press All rights reserved Utah State University Press Logan, Utah 84322-7800 Manufactured in the United States of America Printed on acid-free paper Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Gordon, Greg, 1963- Landscape of desire : identity and nature in Utah’s canyon country / Greg Gordon. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 0-87421-560-9 (pbk. : acid-free paper)—ISBN 0-87421-566-8 (cloth: acid free paper) 1. Utah—Description and travel. 2. Moab Region (Utah)—Description and travel. 3. Landscape—Utah. 4. Canyons—Utah. 5. Natural history—Utah. 6. Geology—Utah. 7. Gordon, Greg, 1963—-Journeys—Utah. I. Title. F830.G67 2003 917.92’50433—dc21 2003000242 For my students, who have taught me much ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors of the following publications in which portions of this work first appeared: “The Landscape of Desire,” The Road-Riporter. January/February 2002. (The Road-Riporter is the quarterly newsletter of the Wildlands Center for Preventing Roads— Wildlands CPR. This small, but dedicated organization has effectively raised the issue of the impacts of roads to a national level. Wildlands CPR provides information and tools for citizen activists. For more information contact Wildlands CPR, POB 7516, Missoula, MT 59807; (406) 543-9551; www.wildlandscpr.org.); and “Muddy Creek: Wilderness and the Bomb,” Redrock Wilderness 18, number 3 (Autumn 2001). (Redrock Wilderness is the newsletter of the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance—SUWA. SUWA is the primary organization dedicated to the preservation of Utah’s remaining wildlands. For more information contact SUWA, 1471 South 1100 East, Salt Lake City, UT 84510; (801) 486-3161; www.suwa.org.) I would also like to thank the following individuals for their contribu- tions toward making this book a reality: Robin Sherman, Leslie Ryan, Ed Grumbine, Ed Lueders, Hope Sieck, Ann Whitesides, The Missoula Writing Group, and of course, all my students without whom it would not be possible. I would also like to thank John Alley and Brooke Bigelow of Utah State University Press. CONTENTS Preface: The Rim viii Author’s Note xi i. Mancos Shale 1 ii. Morrison 11 iii. Summerville 21 iv. Entrada 30 v. Carmel 37 vi. Wingate 51 vii. Chinle 61 viii. Moenkopi 72 ix. White Rim 78 x. Moenkopi 86 xi. Carmel 92 xii. Asphalt 101 xiii. Unconformity 109 xiv. Carmel 120 xv. Navajo Revisited 127 xvi. More Navajo 137 xvii. Navajo 147 xviii. Kayenta 156 xix. Wingate 168 xx. White Rim 179 xxi. Organ Rock Shale 187 xxii. Inundation 198 Bibliography 206 prefaceTHE RIM Was somebody asking to see the soul? See your own shape and countenance, persons, substances, beasts, the trees, the running rivers, the rocks and sands. —Walt Whitman Everyone remembers the first time. It attains a degree of mythological importance out of proportion to the actual event. I was eleven or twelve, in the midst of those buoyant days before adolescence, when my father con- vinced his wife, two bratty kids, and his parents to undertake a camping trip to southeast Utah, places he had known in his youth. In Arches National Park, my brother and I crawled through arches, ran around in the Fiery Furnace, followed the crowds out to Delicate Arch, went on an interminably long jeep ride, and played cards in my grandparents’ RV. Somehow I’d gotten my hands on a copy of The Journey Home by Edward Abbey and was reading it during the trip. (The following year I read The Monkey Wrench Gang and was warped forever.) At the canyon rim at Dead Horse Point I stood on the cusp. Half of me ran around the slickrock chasing lizards, picking up rocks, and crawling under overhangs. The other half gazed into the void. For the first time, I saw a world much greater than my own, one beyond human contrivance, one that stretched back into the ancient past and continued into a future far beyond human imagination. Yet I was a part of it all. Existence was no longer the vacuum experience of growing up in Denver. The world was infinite, and its origins were so far back in time as to be beyond the horizon of knowledge. Time flowed up the canyon layer by layer, through my feet and out the top of my head and kept right on going. I was a connected part of the geology of the earth, just like a dinosaur fossil or a layer of volcanic ash. A whole country spread out before me beckoning; the possibilities were endless. As it had for thousands of others, the canyon country held my imagina- tion captive, demanding tribute. I returned as soon as I could drive. By the time I was in college, my pilgrimages increased in frequency, and the year after I graduated I took a job as a park ranger in Canyonlands National Park. This landscape on the edge of perpetual collapse added dimensions of depth viii The Rim ix and time, perceptions which had been lacking in my daily life. The canyon country reached out, grabbed my soul, and refused to let go. I didn’t resist. However, the price of love is eternal yearning. When I moved to Montana to attend graduate school, I found I needed the desert’s clarity more than ever. The cold, grey Missoula winter seemed to drain the vitality out of everyone. The weather suggested hibernation, and I burrowed myself in smoky bars and dim coffeehouses, twisting the threads of my consciousness into a tight self-absorbed ball. Eventually, the March winds began to melt the snow revealing geologic depositions of dogshit. I began to feel a slight tug pulling me southward, a tug that grew as I cut through Idaho and became undeniable as I entered the Utah sunshine. Instead of the direct route from the interstate, I always took the old road that followed the Colorado River into Moab, Utah, the starting point for most of my journeys. The River Road, as it was known, began at Cisco, a ghost town of collapsing buildings and rusting machinery where the cease- less winds had impaled generations of tumbleweeds against the barbed wire fence surrounding the town. From Cisco, the road traveled across open flats and dropped toward the river. A rickety wooden bridge spanned the Colorado. This was my favorite part of the drive. The bridge could only hold one car at a time, so I had to stop before crossing to make sure no one was coming the other way. I could- n’t help thinking what might happen if the bridge collapsed into the murky river swirling below. One year as I drove toward the bridge with the same delighted anticipation that an eleven-year-old has for old bridges, I braked suddenly. The old bridge was gone, replaced by a new two-lane overpass. I loved that old bridge. I depended upon it to bring me from the world of the interstate to the world of rock and river. It slowed me down, with the corresponding drop in heartbeat and anxiety. When we’ve pinned our soul to a place, we resent imposed changes. They invalidate our memories, which cease to be living things and become consigned to the realm of ghosts. Such irreversible changes hurl us against our will from past to present tense. Even as the wild landscape disappears, we become enamored of it and seek it out to infuse the empty spaces in our souls that we are busy paving over. This annual spring pilgrimage to the slickrock country never failed to stretch and pull me like taffy. As a snake sheds it’s skin every year, I found I needed to shed those winter layers. Although I was motivated by the physical need to shed caffeine and clothing, I was always surprised by the psychic shed- ding that occurred, often unintentionally. The demons of my consciousness shriveled up and flaked off, and I was left with a distilled essence of self. x Landscape of Desire For the past ten years I’ve shared this experience, leading university stu- dents on a two-month field studies program. I’ve witnessed how extended time spent living in a small group in the wilderness engenders a fundamen- tal shift in the way we regard ourselves and our place in nature. Perhaps it’s Thoreau’s fault that we equate wilderness with solitude. Nevertheless, wilderness has traditionally been a solo male journey, a quest, a search for self-identity. For better or worse, we are humans, not bears, and I’ve found that more than anything else the wilderness teaches us how to live in com- munity, as citizens of the biotic community as well as a human community that we actively create. It turns out that we need each other.