Moab, Utah: Becoming a Missing Person

Moab:

Just imagine a 1999 Ford Escort packed to the brim with two travel-hungry ladies,
barely fitting up front, tapping hands and feet to Leadbelly - "In the Pine"
John Hartford - "Don't Leave Your Records in the Sun"
and First Aid Kit - "King of the World" on repeat and repeat and repeat.

Corinne soaking up the sun by UT 128

We just drove.
We didn't mean to go missing,
it just happened.

Corinne and I traded cold, white mountains, frosted pines, snow-piled roofs and sidewalks

for ancient red walls, steep, dry buttes and sandstone baked by time.

The canvas of Moab wasn’t powdered white, it was chiseled crimson.

We had no signal, but we had no need for phones there anyhow.

Besides, we'd wandered dead-zone wilderness plenty by now.

On Highway 191, we shed our winter skin and let the sun caress our shoulders, carefree.

We followed La Sal Loop Road at sunset,

The view from La Sal Loop Rd.

Smack in the middle of the desert, we drove to castles of snowcaps
surrounded by moats of hot canyon cliffs.

Corinne and I set up while the sky set from blushing sun to waking stars. We used headlamps to stake our tent.

Our fire at the La Sal Loop Campsite

And it got damn cold.
 Our socks weren’t thick enough and our jackets were jokes.
We shivered like nervous Chihuahuas until I remembered what Zoey, a friend from Taos, had mentioned about warming stones for sleeping bags. I wrapped three hot rocks in a fleece pajama-top, tucked it by my toes and hid in my bag until morn.

Frost caked our tent by morning. I read Kerouac and stayed put.

Soon enough, sun cooked the cold, woke Corinne, and amped us up to hike the mountaintop. At the snowy summit, the red-rocked city fit into my hand.

We gobbled the views and descended into them, finding a hidden beach in the buttes of UT 128.

The day-shelter we found by the river

Down the path, a man-made shelter looked out to the Colorado River and a huge tree shaded the stretch of shoreline.

We threw down a blanket and sunbathed through siesta. 

We found the Sand Flats at sundown and climbed their sandstone mounds until we had shadows ten times our size.

Long shadows on the Salt Flats

Realizing it was Corinne's father’s birthday,
she found signal by town to leave a message.
Just after, she heard her phone ring. Expecting it to be her pa, she answered and instead heard Toby’s voice. Toby from Taos was driving from Albuquerque with Dave to climb crags. He said they’d be there that night. Hence, we gave them directions and expected them at camp around 11PM.
Then 12AM came and went. 1AM snuck up. At 1:30, Corinne and I killed the fire, giving up on their arrival.

Just as the last coals dimmed, a smoking truck chugged up the gravel road.

Toby and Dave arrived, barely.
Their radiator had a bad leak, but they’d worry about all that tomorrow.   
Welcome to Moab, y'all.

Negro Bill Canyon:

Tomorrow came quick.  
Corinne and I left the boys. We roamed Negro Bill Canyon, bouncing our voices off acoustic-rich trails. The trail was full of sandstone towers the heights of cathedrals and lengths of city blocks, so shade blanketed most of our hot afternoon. We welcomed it.

The straight cliffs eroded into stories of age,

their sedimentary timelines all unveiling through the course of millennia.

The canyon was still morphing, constantly meddled by the winds and streams of time. 

Some spots were babbling streams, moist and flower-filled.

Steps thereafter would scald sun rays into our bones.

We climbed, we hiked, we waded while the boys fixed their car.

When we found them at the day's end, Dave and Toby were car-less.

They needed a new radiator. The mechanic waiting for the part until tomorrow.
Hence, everyone had to miraculously fit into my car.

We did some rearranging, took a lot of stuff out, then mashed the boy's things and them into the auto.

Toby rode on top of the stuff in the back, sprawled an inch from the roof. Dave and Corinne shared the front seat. Every bump, I may or may not have heard Toby's head clank with the car roof a few times. 

Sorry, bud.

We reached Porcupine Rim while the full-moon beamed. La luna era enorme.

I wanted to sleep under the moon for once. I never had, not without a tent.

The whole canyon stretched in front of me with just a baby pine and a foot of solid ground between me and the cliff face, so I had a perfect view. I had a perfect night.

I slept with a twinkle in my eye, revitalized.

Indian Creek:

The next morning, Toby and Dave invited us to join their rock climb in Indian Creek.

Sure, we thought. We could tag along.

They didn't mention the distance, the need for 4-wheel-drive or the length of their intended stay.

But who needed all that? 

We drove our half-empty tanks to camp a day or two with our favorite set of Taos folks.

Toby, Dave, Corinne and I at our campsite in Indian Creek, Utah

Along the way, we met a witty retired man traveling in a welded airplane-frame camper.

The man, Dave (who we called Dave #2), said he lived in the desert all winter, skiing and mountain-biking, then returned north to sail the great lakes all summer. 
"Do you climb?" Toby asked, and Dave #2 said no, but he did have the right shoes.
Hence, he joined us.
Up the east face of Bridger Jacks we went.
Shoes in tow, Dave #2 became a part of our camp.

Dave belaying Toby on Sunflower Tower.

At our first climb, Dave took the lead. 
He organized his cams, checked his figure-eight rope knot and slapped chalk on his palms. 
"Ready," he announced, initiating the climb with Toby on belay.
He said the climb was rated 5'10.

On the way up, Dave's feet were en pointe and his face was flat.
He climbed in well-calculated, graceful movements, anchoring to the top with ease.

Next was Toby. He marched up with no hassle.
I followed suit.
The climbing crag became a zen space. 
It was a vertical hideout from gravity -a perfect, beautiful adrenaline rush.
The climb demanded a lot.  
It required a lot of trust as well, 
both in the tiny rope and the partner holding it.

Dave #2 went next, nervous at first, but completely committed and quick to pick up technique.  
"What a rush," he kept exclaiming. A rush, indeed. He sped all the way up that crack climb.
Corinne took a go and held tight to the rock, casually cursing like a sailor on her way up.

We all made it.

At that point, the sun was coming down but Toby and Dave continued climbing. 

Dave climbing the East wall after dark.

 Corinne granted Toby her dimming headlamp and we split up.

Dave #2, Corinne and I went down the darkening trail and lost our way.

Luckily, everything trailed downhill and downhill was where we wanted to be. 

Without sunlight or an official trail, we bushwhacked through the sagey, boulder-filled alluvial fan until we reached our camp.

The boys joined us later and said Toby's headlamp died while climbing, he fell in the dark but kept going. They sure had an appetite for ascension.

Mostly, they had a constant appetite. We found food.

We feasted on "self-checkout bananas", pounds and pounds of them, and rested for day 2 of climbing.

 Day two (to a few):

Dave #2 and Corinne waiting their turn at Bongo Flake.

Supercrack was the name of the wall we would climb- you know, 

once we made coffee, ate breakfast scramblers, did yoga, translated Neruda and hid from an afternoon dust storm.

It was 2'oclock by the time we started the truck's engine.

We packed in and double-checked our essentials- 

rope, harnesses, chalk, cams and 

lest we forget 

beer, cheese, crackers, yerba mate, water and Dave #2 snacks.

We rock climbed into the evening once more, getting familiar with twilight trails and talked about tomorrow's climb.

"We'll get up early tomorrow," I heard Dave say, just as he said the day before.

Dave free climbing while Dave #2 backs up my belay.

Once more, dust storms and gloomy clouds doomed our early start.

We climbed Donnelly Canyon. The day ended too soon.

The next day would be Sunday, Corinne and my day at Canyonlands National Park.

We would leave the boys to climb on their own. 

And we would try fasting, a new activity Dave #2 sparked our interest about.

Canyonlands National Park:

Canyonlands' Chesler Park hike

Dave and Toby ate up while Dave #2, Corinne and I drank our caffeine-free tea and dreamed of grapefruits in the morning. 

Dave #2 recommended we hike Chesler Park.

He said it was an acid trip for the sober mind, made up of nothing but pinnacles and needles.

"The farther you go in, the better it gets," he suggested.

 "And if nothing else, the park has running water, gas and WiFi."

Those were the magical words, as we needed all three of those things.

Dave #2 said he was off to civilization but we'd grown used to having our Celtic-flute playing pseudo-uncle around. It would feel awfully quiet and barren with no awesome Canadian or his '70s airplane camper.We didn't want to think about it. We said our goodbyes to Dave #2 and wished him luck on his journeys.

Corinne and I left. We wandered, ambled, sat on, jumped off and explored all the rocks that Elephant Hill offered our sluggish, hungry bones. 

We filled our 5-gallon bladder with bathroom water, washed our face with running taps, tried to find a signal for home and failed to find an open gas station.

We figured our parents wouldn't worry too much about our lack of reception. 

Our cars, however, would worry about their emptying tanks-

both Toby and our car would soon be running on fumes.

Toby and Dave showing off their wicked-great finger painting skills.

We paid extra attention to our resources. 

Toby said, if all else failed, he could siphon some of our gas. At least then they wouldn't be stranded. (We had more gas at that point than them.)

As days progressed, our climbing confidence increased

and our water and gas decreased. We, at this point, had only a gallon of water left and another night to go.

Water-wise, we worried less about the quality of our dish rinsing and began "camp cleaning" with paper towels sprinkled with as little water as possible. 

We ate our morning oats and didn't bother rinsing cups before putting milk in after.

We implemented  baby-wipe baths rather than using soap and water to clean off. 

 Things got "campy",

and by the last morning, I ate oatmeal with a stick because we couldn't find a spoon- who cared?

It was the end of our 5-day camping bit.

We ran into adieus far too quickly.

Corinne and I wrote our love notes to everyone and hoped Toby and Dave would find enough gas to make it out of the creek.

Leaving:

Indian Creek from the top of Bridger Jacks.

What a week.

We felt different, not just because our hygiene was dreadful.

Sure, my head was dreading. Yeah, my legs were hairy. 
But we had working hands, climbing hands.

Corinne and I were spent, sore, satisfied. 

I placed my hands on the steering wheel, stared at their reptilian brown 
and felt proud.

We started driving to our next destination, 

the Grand Canyon.

A few miles down, the moment our phones gained signal, they blew up with messages. 

Corinne told me to pull over.

She repeated herself, the second time with more urgency. 
"You need to call your parents," she pleaded. 

She told me my parents posted to Facebook that we were missing.

I pulled over.

I dialed dad's number.

He answered.

His tone, upon hearing my voice, was the sound of a man hearing a ghost,

of a father hearing his daughter's voice after believing she had gone missing,

or worse.

He told me he'd called the Moab Sheriff.

I was an official "missing person", as was Corinne.

He needed to call them back to let them know not to pull me over if they saw my license plate. I told him he should do that.

He added that he was discussing my eulogy.

The way it came out wasn't disciplinary, but rather sad and sincere,

still shocked that his daughter was on the phone.
A eulogy?

"Buried or cremated?" he asked. Cremated. Buddhist funeral. What?

He was writing my eulogy.

He was writing my eulogy...

I had no idea what stress I had put on my folks.

I lived in the woods for summers at a time without calling them but once a month,

how was this any different? 

I empathized.

I felt a heavy burden of guilt.

I set a daily alarm to remind myself to share travel plans with them.

A eulogy.

They thought I was dead. I was at a loss for words. I kept driving

pondering mortality

and wondering what he would've written.