Tropic was a nice little town. It seemed to be doing quite well. It had a brand new high school, new sidewalks, and every business was open. Lindy had leftovers from dinners, so he didn’t join us for breakfast. I had a veggie omelet and some blueberry pancakes. Mm Mm good.
We packed up and walked out of town on Highway 12, stopping briefly in Cannonville to buy beverages, water containers and to check in at the BLM/Monument Office.
Finally free of the towns, we strolled along dirt roads with views across to the top few steps of the grand staircase, capped by the high cliffs of Bryce Canyon.
We finally came to the end of our road-walk at Willis Creek. This leg of our journey could hardly start out any better. Willis Creek’s famous stretch of narrows was lit perfectly by the afternoon sun. The sensual golden walls seemed soft and warm. Sweet deception!
Eventually the Navajo sandstone spread wide and we found ourselves in the massive canyon of Sheep Creek.
This one could have been in Zion, if it had had a little more color in it. What it lacked in hue though, it made up for in the petroglyphs intricately etched into stained walls. Massive murals in which I found my own constellations.
The canyon of Sheep Creek grew steadily. When we reached Bull Valley Gorge, Sharon and I investigated the short sections of the narrows near the confluence. Each time we rounded a bend we would look at each other.There’s a mammoth and over there an archer—OMG—There’s the Virgin Mary! The junction of Willis and Sheep Creek is also graced with a petroglyph panel surrounded on all sides by modern carvings—names/initials/dates. It least I didn’t see any profanity. It did get me to wondering . . . like trash, graffiti after a certain amount of time becomes historic art or archeological record. Why is a cowboy’s name on a rock wall history, but “Crystal 1988” is defacement? I wouldn’t have minded so much, but the modern carvings were far too close to the ancient ones.
“One more?”
“One more.”
Eventually though, we had to return to Lindy, who had taken the opportunity to rest. We were rewarded by an excellent flow of cool water in the Paria surrounded by soft, gooey mud. My new shoes were quickly encased, no matter, crossing back and forth across the river soon cleaned them. Of course the mud and sand resoiled them, and on and on. Oh well, what are new shoes for if not to be broken in?
Our walk down the Paria was simply musical. Golden Aspens and Cottonwoods lined by the side of the canyon mingling with dark green junipers and the occasional pine. The setting sun cast long shadows over the now golden and scarlet walls. Through it all, the wide clear stream cut a cool, bright line, at times reflecting the scene back to me. Then the waking crescent moon came out.
Camped next to the river, all I can see when I turn my headlamp off are the stars, all I hear is the water flowing past the bank, the wind blowing through the leaves, and the occasional movement of my companions The air is cool and sweet. My heart is happy.
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