MY 50-STATE STRATEGY

That's Roger, right, the hard working mechanic and gas station proprietor I encountered toiling with a blowtorch on Memorial Day in Orderville, Utah. Here, he's strapping my truck onto a tow trailer for the 85-mile trip up and down the cliffs through Zion National Park on the way to St. George, Utah for a transmission overhaul.


SO I'M STUCK IN ST. ELSWHERE

Memorial Day Monday dawned cold but bright up in Bryce Canyon. After a morning meal and some chores about the trailer, I was ready to depart, with Zion National Park set as my next stop.
I had had a brief spate of trouble the day before at one of the scenic overlooks. After briefly stopping to snap some photos, I put the truck in reverse and nothing happened but a small drift backwards. Some fellows nearby, hearing the engine racing, came right over and pushed me out of that parking spot. When I put the truck into drive, it took off normally, briefly allaying my doubts. This was the last of several similar episodes in the last three weeks that kept me wary of impending transmission failure
(Truth be told, there had always been a tiny bit of slipping, the RPMs outrunning the MPHs, every once in a while since I bought the truck; and now with well over 100,000 miles on the odometer and towing a trailer through the mountains day-after-day, maybe, I reasoned, the transmission was due for an overhaul).
I had been told by several people that, at high altitudes, the thin air mixing with gas sometimes causes skipping by the engine, so I was hoping for the best, although, sensibly, fearing but ready for the worst. And my fears came to full fruition!
But first, I passed through saw some truly amazing and unexpectedly historical territory …

Hoodoos for Hollywood

Near the end of Scenic Byway 12 lies the Red Canyon . Route 12, heralded in Park Service brochures as the most scenic road in America, stretches from the west exit from Capitol Reef National Park, across the northwestern rim of the Escalante and through Bryce Canyon, before meeting Route 89.

A Route 12 tunnel blasted through stone.

The Red Canyon features hundreds of Hoodoos all its own (except here the iron dominant in the mineral mix of the soil colors these red), two short, concise tunnels blasted through the granite, and also the trailheads for 16 paths of varying grade, length, width and difficulty for hikers, mountain bikers, ATV riders and horseback riders.
Of far more note, however, is the fact that should you turn north at the end of the Red Canyon and head up Route 89, you would very soon pass by the boyhood home of “The Robin Hood of the West,” Robert LeRoy Parker, a/k/a Butch Cassidy - thanks to Hollywood - a larger-than-life western legend.
(Portrayed by then-Tinsletown titan Paul Newman, Cassidy was immortalized in the 1969 blockbuster Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The role of Sundance was ably filled by then-Hollywood up-and-comer Robert Redford, three years before he starred in another frontier flick that for me has gotten better with every viewing: Jeremiah Johnson.)

The "real" Hole In The Wall Gang.

Cassidy, The Kid (real name Harry Longabaugh) and about a half-dozen or so other outlaws formed “The Hole In The Wall Gang” and, around the turn of the last century, put together the longest sequence of successful bank and train robberies in the history of the West.
Well, right here in the Red Canyon, boyhood neighborhood of Cassidy, was the “Hole In The Wall.”
As I was passing through the Canyon, I drove by a sign for the Butch Cassidy Draw. Caught unaware of this area, I was quite curious and just had to pull over. I traveled a short way down through this semi-slot canyon, snapping several photos, one of which is below. Then I went back to read the trail marker. The marker, which was adorned with the gang's photo shown above, states that it was at this pass that Cassidy stepped out of hiding to intimidate a sheriff’s posse trailing the gang after a heist, saying, “You all have women and children and I suggest you turn around and go home before we kill you.” The posse apparently did just that, cementing Cassidy’s outlaw reputation (in fact as well as later on the big screen).

The real Hole In The Wall.

Besides its history and recreational opportunities, the Red Canyon is a camera jockey’s dream, as is the rest of southern Utah -- another sensational sight around every corner. Route 89 follows the Sevier River and fly fisherman find this area to their liking, while geologists and botanists may also have some interest. There is a well-placed campground here with fine facilities. Contact the ranger at: (435) 676-9300.

This Hole’s In My Itinerary

Instead of going north on Route 89 to check out the Butch Cassidy Hotel, or Restaurant, or Museum, I tried my luck south. And that’s where my luck ran out …
Route 89 is quite hilly, and after 20 miles or so of ups-&-downs, the truck was barely making even the small inclines. By the other driver’s actions as they passed me, it seems I was causing a traffic jam where, let’s face it, there is simply no traffic.
Along the route I had passed a sign for 24-hour towing up ahead in the town of Orderville. If there’s a tow truck, I reckoned, maybe there’s a mechanic, so, with no other options, I decided to struggle to Orderville. But, it being Memorial Day, I had low expectations of any available service.

Some red hoodoos in the Red Canyon.

 A small town of just under 600, Orderville, as I later found out, was founded in the late 1800s as a fundamentalist commune by a group of Mormon missionaries. And, by golly, these folks still got quite a work ethic. I found the service station open, and a father and son welding a muffler onto a four-wheeler jeep. We talked briefly about the transmission, and the owner, Roger, told me that St. George, Utah would be my best bet for repair and, if I could wait a while, he would gladly tow me the 85 miles down there.
Thank You, Triple-A!
First I had to go and find a place to store the trailer and make ready for a stay down at St. George while I waited for the truck. I had passed a rundown trailer park on my way into town and I doubled back to it. Normally I would never stay there, but it would be fine to store the trailer. I made a deal with the woman in charge for a storage fee of $5 per day, packed and went back to the garage.
After finishing the muffler job, Roger got out the tow trailer and we got the truck up on it. Roger’s wife, Connie, an EMT, joined us for the ride and off we went, three abreast in the high-riding truck with the talkative Connie acting as tour guide.
Roger and Connie are both Mormons and, since I was curious about the subject, we had a wide-ranging and candid conversation about the religion and people’s perceptions of it. I had planned to investigate this phenomenon anyway as I traveled through St. George, stopping at the Mormon Temple there.
Roger was bit reserved but I could tell he was warming up to me, even smiling several times at my self-deprecating jokes, while Connie clued me in on Zion National Park, as our path took us right through it.
The highlight of this trip through the park, one of three I eventually made, was that we passed a flock of bighorn sheep, about 10 in all, perched high up on a huge cliff. Unfortunately, my camera was packed in my bag sitting of the front seat of my truck back on the trailer, so I was unable to snap a photo. There may be other opportunities on this trip to capture the elusive bighorns on film, but for now they will have go down on the list with the rattlesnake and the antelopes as ones that got away.
We reached St. George, Roger showed me the location of the transmission shop he recommended, then let the truck down off the trailer and we parted ways.
I found a motel locally and plotted my next action. I decided to rent a car and visit Las Vegas and the Hoover Dam in the next several days, along with another, fuller trip through Zion, incorporating Connie’s tips. This way I would not lose so much time just sitting around St. George.
The next morning I brought the truck over to the transmission shop, and then began to put my plan into action. I will soon report on those side trips.

To read about an midnight-to-dawn period spent stalking the Las Vegas strip and visits to the Valley Of Fire and the Hoover Dam, click HERE

Some Friends In Deed

I told you in my last post that I had met a wonderful couple of transplanted Cajuns, Tom and Linda, during my time at Bryce. They now reside in St. George. Just as I arrived at my motel, Tom returned a message I had left for him before I left Bryce and we quickly made plans to meet for dinner the following evening.
Tom came by the motel to pick me up at 6 sharp and said that Linda was busy preparing a Cajun feast for us back at their house. I was thrilled!
Tom’s a gregarious and gracious host, generous to a fault and Linda’s just as sweet as the chocolate cream pie she served after dinner and also quite skillful with the spatula & spoon, whether gamely wrestling with iron skillets over the leaping wood-fired flames in a Bryce Canyon windstorm or creating Cajun magic in the comfort of her own kitchen.
After a cocktail, Linda served Cajun crawfish over pasta alongside a wonderful salad. Their son had recently delivered the crawfish to them, when he traveled over from Baton Rouge for a visit. It was my first time having crawfish, and it was quite tasty – a dish I would surely order from now on. After dinner we enjoyed desert on their patio, and discussed a wide range of topics.
I felt warm and welcomed in their home and though I’ve had some great camping cuisine lately, this was the first home-cooked, come-sit at-the-table meal I’ve had in several months.
There’s nothing like just food and friendship; it’s good for the soul.

Belle Isle Bon Mots

True story! You know, I took the boy far away from Boston, but Boston just keeps following the boy around …
I chose to stay at the Quality Inn in St. George, which is located on a main drag, nestled between a Best Western and an independent motel, the Claridge.
One afternoon, I was walking back toward my room after an errand when I heard a voice call to me from across the parking lot. It was coming for the Claridge Motel pool area nest door.
I stopped and looked over and saw a large, rotund barrel-bellied fellow, swaddled in towels and a robe, poking his head through the fence spikes. Our conversation began with him asking ...
Hey? Heeey! There a baaaahr over theeeere?
Hunuhh?
There a baaaahr there? … Awwww, I got a Bahston accent, nobody here knows what I’m sayin’.
Tell me ‘bout it … Boston! Where you from in Boston?
Ipswich, but I lived East Bahston like last six years.
Yeah?… I grew up in Winthrop….
Aaaaay… Hoooo ... No (way)! … We stick out like sore thumbs out here…
Yep! …. You got it!
Hey, where’s there a baaaahr ‘round here? Ya knooo…. Watch a game?