Smokey Mountain Road

Last week, I took off down a 70- or 80- mile long dirt/gravel/rock road called Smokey Mountain Road. At the north end, up near Escalante, it's called Alvey Wash.

I filled the gas tank before heading out, but I now realize--almost a week later!--I forgot to check the fluid levels in the rest of the engine. Praise Jesus nothing went wrong way out there in the no-cell zone!

As one of the last mapped places in the lower-48, I was headed toward wilderness. I had no idea what to expect. I'd gone the first several miles, down to the Alvey Petroglyph. Beyond that, everything was mystery.

The road wasn't bad. Sandy in some areas, but not too bad. Going through the wash, I could see how the summer monsoons had flooded it. I thought about the three 20-year olds caught about 8 miles out in the wash. They stayed at the hotel for three days. A dude in a Jeep Wrangler rescued them. His car was covered from tire-to-top in thick, spattered mud. I wished I'd taken a picture. I'd never seen a car so muddy...and I've seen muddy cars! I know what it looks like to go muddin'. This wasn't muddin'. This Jeep had been on a rescue mission. It took three days for the mud to dry enough where the pick-up truck could be pulled out. Then we had more dry weather, and everything turned to dust again. Dust and sandstone. Dust and sandstone. So much dust and sandstone.

Some road crew must had brought back heavy equipment because when I got to a place where two canyons merge, and the mud had been pushed back into the wash. Now it had a solid mass, hard and dry. This is why you don't drive your car down these roads when it rains. "The bentonite will lock your tires like cement," Adus had told me a few years back when I asked about the quality of Utah dirt.

The sun had barely cleared the canyon when the first-breakfast pangs hit me. I'd need something to eat.

I didn't pack much because...well, I tried to hurry out of work. I threw the bare minimum in the Xterra. But Jesus told me to keep the big water jug in the car, even though I'd thought about taking it out so I'd have more space in the back. (The plan was to find a place to car camp when I got tired.) The cooler was filled with seltzer waters, so I dug around in my backpack/purse. I knew I'd thrown a couple of Clif Bars inside.

Between the bites, I navigated the road. I was now in a little valley with several sandy ruts across the roadway. At one point, I got to climb some large rocks up the side of a hill. My eyes scanned back and forth, paying attention to what lay ahead while also honing in in the immediate. Four-wheeling is kind of like skiing: you have to pay attention to where you are and where you're going. In the Xterra, I'd reached that zen moment: at one with the vehicle and the road, while paying attention to the high and low points on the roadway.

At the top of the hill, I took another bite and grabbed the map. There are supposed to be ruins out here. I looked at the map and checked my mileage: 20.1 miles in, and only 50 or 60 more to go.

I started to notice little side turn-offs. Maybe those went to ruins?

I pulled down one of them. Since it was only a 2-track, the wild bushes and grasses grew closer, and less road dust blew in through the open windows.

As I rolled across a long plateau, I smelled something sweet, no...sacred. It had a sacred smell, like frankincense. The smell faded, and I slammed on the brakes.

What was that smell doing here?

I put it in reverse and sniffed. sniffed. sniffed. Then I saw it: smoke. Turning off the engine, I suddenly understood why Jesus had me bring that extra water. A whole area...the size of a parking space...filled with warm grey-black coals and pieces of smouldering charred wood.

Grabbing Buena's gallon jug, I ran to the largest piece of wood. At about six-feet long, the end closest to the coals smoked like it was about to flame. I dumped the water on it. Then I went to refill the jug. I went around to each smouldering piece and doused with water until I was certain it was out.

With the area now secure from fire, I'd lost interest in continuing down the side road. I headed back to Smokey Mountain Road.

I may have found bones (or at least an effigy) when I pulled over to walk with Buena. I wanted to be out of the vehicle and get a walking feel of the land. My eyes caught on the unusual shape of this cluster of rocks. The hooked snake-like rock appeared to have red, white, and black coloring.

I took some pics, then dusted the items with loose dirt.

My friend at the original BLM (Bureau of Land Management) said I should send him the pics I took so he could forwarded them to a staff paleontologist. I was in an area where there are known bones, so this is of interest to scholars.

I sent the pics, saying if it's a new species of dinosaur, it will have to be called the Pyrasaurus.

At another point, I stopped in a small grove of cottonwood trees and yellow flowers.

At another place, I passed a rattlesnake on the road. I could hear his rattle above the hum of the engine. Making sure the windows were securely up almost all the way, I rolled back to look at him and listen to the rattling.

I counted the mileage to Big Water. I'd seen and heard two separate numbers: 70 miles and 80 miles. So, 40 miles into the drive, I was either over halfway there or exactly halfway. With no cell service and no place to "be" at a set time, I wasn't in a hurry.

By early afternoon, I arrived at the point I'd dreaded: the south end of the road. The few trail guides I'd read online all said something similar: You really want to start on the south end of Smokey Mountain Road near Big Water and drive north to Escalante because it is one lane for long distances on the shelf road. The only descriptor they'd left off was the word "crumbly." For long distances on a crumbly shelf road.

A shelf road is a road cut into the side of a mountain or mesa. From the ground, shelf roads aren't always visible because they hug the landmass, almost becoming one with it. This particular shelf road hugs a coal seam amid crumbly dirt and rock.

Many vehicles passed this way before. It was safe. I repeated these words while making my way down toward the desert about a thousand feet below.

Suddenly...just like that!...I was on the desert floor just outside of Big Water, Utah.

Later, I learned that no one thought there was a way to connect Big Water with the plateau above. But one man got his equipment together and said, "I'll do it!" And that, according to word-of-mouth is how the Kelly Grade was built.

The whole trip, from Escalante to Big Water took me about 7.5 hours.