News – Dan Leeth

Through the Straight and Narrow

On Thursday, we made the long 52-mile journey to Goblin Valley State Park where we were treated to an afternoon breeze that rocked the trailer and slid our solar panels around. It was a night for dining indoors.

Under calm conditions on Friday, we loaded our packs and set off to hike the eight-mile loop up Little Wild Horse Canyon and down Bell Canyon. This is a popular slot canyon hike with souvenir t-shirts available for purchase at the Goblin State Park Visitor Center.

I expected flat, easy hiking the whole way, which most of it was. There were, however, a few obstacles to crawl over or under. A couple required that we take off our packs.

We have hiking friends back in Fruita, transplants from the Midwest, who had never been to Utah before. On their first trip into 3.2 country, we drove them down along the Colorado River towards Moab. While they marveled at the beauty of the canyon walls, we assured them that while attractive, this was not the beautiful part of Utah. For me, the hike up Little Wild Horse and down Bell exposed a far more attractive, intimate piece of Utah.

We went from sandy wash bottoms to deep slots so narrow one could touch both sides simultaneously in places, sometimes with just elbows extended.

Canyon walls made faces at us with layers of swirling color and patterns.

In the wider spots, we could look up at cliffs, dolloped with greenery and radiating nuggets of golden rock against a sapphire sky.

We met dozens of youngsters (anyone under age 50 is a “youngster”) along the way. The only AARP-aged citizens we encountered were a pair of not yet retired, old coots who went part way up before turning back. As far as we know, we became the only geezers doing the complete eight-mile loop that day.

Back at camp, we downed brews while sitting trailer-side in the late afternoon sun. Yesterday’s wind was gone, replaced by just a gentle, cooling breeze. We watched the setting sun paint the buttes out to the east. For other folks, this place would be a vacation destination.

For us, canyons like these lie just a 2½-hour drive from home.

The Oregon Coast

Camping is about roughing it in nature. The guy in the half-million-dollar motorhome with the heated floors parked in the campsite across from us knows all about roughing it. He suffers from getting only 89 channels on his satellite TV, which he must watch on his RV’s tiny, 60-inch TV screen. For him, that’s roughing it.

For us, roughing it means no cell and internet coverage. To remedy that issue, we drove 14 miles down to Florence, Oregon, where the Verizon people have so nicely placed one of their cell towers.

We figured we’d just find a Starbucks, order a brew and a hot chocolate and sit there for hours happily sending postings from our hotspot-linked laptops. Unfortunately, the only Starbucks in Florence, Oregon, is a coffee counter located in the Safeway store.

Dianne suggested we head to the local library, which we did. We grabbed a table in the back where we could quietly type away on our laptop keyboards, reviewing and deleting hundreds of spam emails. The joys of 21^st century civilization.

Now, let’s talk food. Mo’s is a chain of seafood restaurants in towns on the Oregon coast, and their signs brag about their chowder. One of their eateries was in Florence and we decided to try it out. We parked in their lot and headed for the front door where a sign said “closed.”

Mo’s here no longer opened on Wednesdays and Thursdays. We had to settle for seafood at an alfresco table on a street in downtown Florence.

Giddyup to Gallup

I grew up in Arizona and spent a fair part of my youth exploring parts of New Mexico. I’ve passed the exit to Gallup many, many times when traveling I-40 from Flagstaff to Albuquerque. Other than filling the gas tank, I’ve never had much of a reason to explore the town.

As a travel writer, I’ve been invited to countless events where tourism reps from various places promote their properties by plying us writers with free food and drink. One such event was sponsored by New Mexico tourism. The young lady representing the city of Gallup made a big deal out of the El Rancho Hotel on historic Route 66, which she claimed was a popular spot for movie actors. We would check it out.

When we arrived, the parking lot was filled bumper to bumper with cars. We finally found a spot in a side lot next to a worksite filled with rolls of carpet.

Our second-floor room was spacious and had access to a balcony shared with three neighboring rooms. It offered an excellent view of HVAC ducting with the parking lot, highway and rail tracks beyond.

The bathroom was tiny, bearing a sink with no counter. The pitifully worn-out bathtub could have been a reject from the Bates Motel.

The hotel lobby, however, was a photogenic gem, the kind of place one would expect in a classic, Indian-country hotel. The restaurant beyond, was a bit disappointing, but the food was good and the margaritas drinkable. I had planned to order a good ol’ American breakfast there the next morning but ended up with breakfast enchiladas instead. The sausage and eggs would wait.

“How was your stay?” the young desk clerk asked when we checked out.

“It was okay,” I answered, refusing to say anything more.