The Prettiest Place
I met an old man in Tropic, Utah, who said he’d never been farther than 50 miles from home. He said tourists would come by and exclaim that the scenery around there was the prettiest they’d ever seen. Asked if he ever felt a desire to travel and see the world, he said no. He already lived in the prettiest place — everyone said so — and seeing anywhere else would be a disappointment.
Friends have told me Patagonia might be the prettiest place, and I’ve also heard that said about the Tetons and the San Juan Islands. Robert Redford likes Sundance. Willie Nelson moved to Hawaii, and it could have been for the beauty. But on a certain morning in April, the prettiest place anywhere was the Bureau of Land Management’s North River Allotment. There were five of us there, and we all had the same thought at the same time, so I know it is true.
The North River Allotment is a narrow, isolated strip of sage and sand and grass and red rocks, bordered on the southeast by the Colorado River and on the other sides by the huge red rock cliffs of the Dome Plateau. The river is the centerpiece of Professor Valley, with Highway 128 and some small ranches on the south side. But north of the river, there is only wild land. The only access to the North River Allotment is by boat, swimming, or picking your way down a thin, treacherously steep trail used by Indians thousands of years ago.
The trail goes from Arches National Park, through Cache Valley, and then suddenly climbs up a steep hill over a rise. The view is spectacular, with distant red rock mesas, and beyond that, the snow covered peaks of the La Sal Mountains. Then the trail winds down a steep slope, crossing cliff faces onto a cascade of boulders, zig-zagging from about 6,200 feet at the crest to 4,200 feet at the river, and coming out about 15 miles east of Moab.
My friend Colin Fryer owns the Red Cliffs Lodge across the river, a winery, and the Red Cliffs Ranch in nearby Castle Valley. He has many cows, 40 of which had permission to spend the winter on the North River Allotment. They’d birthed their calves, and after April 15th, would become trespassers on the Bureau of Land Management acreage.
So the North River Allotment began. It included six friends: Colin, who hadn’t seen his cattle since fall, except as a few black dots from the highway on the other side of the river; James Dixon, the ranch manager; Sand Scheff, songwriter; Devon, James’ son; and Melissa Strickland, one of the dude wranglers, 29, and a far cry from some of the old cowgirls I’ve known — those made of unwashed leather, smoking pipes as they cook possum for their husbands.
Friday morning we saddled and loaded horses, had breakfast in the lodge and were on the road by 7:30 a.m. Colin would meet us at camp after noon, coming across the river by boat with hay and oats for the horses, and tents, sleeping bags and hobo pies for us.
We unloaded in Arches National Park, and rode through the little Cache Valley, greeted by early light on the far mesas and distant snow-covered peaks. Then the land before us fell away steeply to the Colorado River far below — a kodachrome moment.
From there on, it was single file, walking and leading the horses. The trail was barely a path, steep and scary, sometimes marked only by the scratches of hooves and horseshoes across rock faces and boulders. It was like a double black diamond ski run with no snow.
We set up camp by the river. We would gather cattle the next day.
Sometime well after dark, after many Budweisers and Crown Royal, we rolled aluminum-wrapped hobos out of the fire. With flickering light on our faces and pitch black wads of foil on our laps, we stuck plastic forks into the dark nests and pulled out bites of potato, onion, ground bull. We talked about how great it was, eating under the stars. We all agreed that the hobo dinners were the best food we’d ever tasted. The real world couldn’t reach us. Or maybe this was the real world that had been lost somewhere along the way.
The next morning, with coffee and muffins digesting, we rode out by 7 a.m. Dawn had come at 6:00. Devon was sleeping in, and Melissa was going to stay in camp, too. It was the Crown Royal talking, and we knew she’d be back in the sack as soon as we were out of sight.
Mist was in the air, and the red rock mesas appeared layered in the distance. The world seemed moody and soft, not the usual crisp blue sky and sharp red rock spires that attract tourists from around the world. There was rain to the south, and pretty soon, we were in yellow slickers or oil cloth. But it was only sprinkles and just good, clean fun.
We traversed to the northeast end of the North River Allotment, almost three hours of riding, and then collected cattle as we returned. About noon, we passed camp, and then pressed on to an area Colin calls “the hole” — a narrow sort of rocky pass leading to a grassy area by the river. The cows were tired, and the calves were between two weeks and two months old. They would stay put until the next day, when we would push them up the cliff to Arches. Melissa and Devon had caught up with us. We took our lunches out, and sat on a hill, watching the river, eating.
Then there was the long ride to camp and time to relax. Devon had to leave us and Colin took him back across the river where he stayed a bit to do some business. The rest of us were free for a while. When James and Sand lay down to nap, I fell into my tent and closed my eyes.
Two hours later, I awoke. Sand and James were stirring. It had gotten cooler, and the fire had been coaxed to life. Although rested now, we were dirty and wrinkled. But Melissa, usually just another cowpuncher, looked clean, young and refreshed — pretty as a picture. She had been to the river, she said, a ways downstream where there was a gravel entry to the water. She had bathed and washed her hair. When she got out of the river, she had lain on a big flat rock to dry in the sun. Our little cowgirl drying in the sun? She was stirring fantasies. We could have gone all day without Melissa’s news, but I think she sort of enjoyed telling us.
Budweisers soon came out of the cooler, and Sand played his guitar ’til Colin arrived and we started supper.
The next morning, we headed out to the “hole” to finish our gather. Looking south toward the La Sals, we all realized we were in the most beautiful spot in the world. The sun was low, just coming up, the red cliffs orange and side lit, sculpted with purple shadows. The clouds were parting, their silver linings tinged with gold. The threatening weather was moving east, the air full of crisp promise. The horses felt good and so did we. There were no cell phones and no Starbucks. Everything was right with the world.
Three pair of cows and calves hid in the Tamarisk by the river, but once discovered, they joined the others and allowed themselves to be marched up the ancient Indian trail toward Arches. When the climb got serious, we dismounted and led the horses. Once into the narrow, steep trail, the cows and calves stayed pretty well in line. They hadn’t much choice. There was some predictable yelling and rock throwing to keep the parade going, and there were serious worries that the horse you were leading might jump onto the same rock on which you were standing before you could jump out of the way onto the next foothold. One misstep would mean serious scrapes and bruises at least, and on many turns, would mean a long fall and the end of the line for keeps.
And of course in my case, there was the constant worry of having a heart attack from fear or exertion. But after a while, the cows were safe and everyone collapsed on top of the cliffs, eating lunch, horses tied to the bushes.
Finally, settled by a pond not far from the Delicate Arch viewpoint, we left the cows for the night. James would return the next day, set up panels to load them and bring them home. Colin would collect our camp by boat. We were done with the roundup.
On the way home, we stopped at a Maverick store so the younger types could at last experience civilization and candy bars. It had been three days since I’d washed my hands or changed my socks. We hadn’t seen so much as a moist towelette. I sat in the truck with Colin, waiting for the shoppers, listening to one side of a cell phone call from Colin to his girlfriend that included the mention of a hot tub and food.
By 5:00 I was in my car, headed home. But by 6:00, I was in a motel room in Green River, soaking in a tub of dirty water, talking to my wife on the cell phone, 60 Minutes playing on Channel 2 in the other room. Then, with fingers turning to white prunes, I drained the tub, re-filled it with clean water and soaked some more. The last of the North River Allotment was down the drain, but the world’s most beautiful place was still in my mind.
Writer and painter Don Weller is a big kidder. He knows full well that Park City is the prettiest place.
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