Confessions of a Bookaholic: Book reviews about red rock country

This year I decided to write my book reviews a little differently instead of focusing on what I read chronologically, I want to group similar books together by topic and write about them that way.

Mormon Country, by Wallace Stegner (5 stars). Stegner spent a lot of time in Utah during his formative years, and his grasp of Mormon culture and idiosyncrasies while still respecting their faith is, frankly, refreshing. This was published in the early 1940’s and while there have been some big changes in many aspects of Mormon culture since then as the LDS church has grown exponentially, some of the idiosyncrasies are now just bigger issues, and some have disappeared completely.

In addition to describing the people and culture of Utah, however, Stegner spends many chapters discussing the land, the settlement (small agricultural towns based on community and irrigation, not the stand-alone ranches of the Midwest), the working with the natural resources instead of exploiting them (Mormons did not mine, despite settling in mineral and oil rich country), history of native tribes and people, history of battles (actual and political) with the federal government in the early days of the Utah Territory, Spanish explorers, Butch Cassidy’s outlaws, legends and stories from the Colorado Strip, dinosaur hunters, and the “colonizing” Mormons who settled from Idaho to Mexico, from the Rockies to the Sierra and even outposts at San Francisco, San Bernadino, and San Diego, California.

Mostly, this book just made me homesick. Stegner’s descriptions of the wildest places of the Wasatch mountains and south-eastern Utah’s red rock country made me long desperately for home. Stegner’s predictions for Utah have almost all come true, which was really interesting to read about.

Beyond the Hundredth Meridian: John Wesley Powell and the Second Opening of the West, by Wallace Stegner (4 stars). The high desert, red rock canyon country of south-east Utah was the last part of the contiguous United States to be mapped, and with good reason. That country is harsh, blistering, and difficult to navigate by foot, horse, boat, or, frankly, jeep. Terry Tempest Williams says Utah has “a spine like a stegosaurus” and I think that’s quite apt. Powell is the first (white) explorer to attempt this country and try to map the rivers and mountains and plateaus. This book is that history and follows Powell’s political career for several decades as he tries to convince Congress and the public, so hot for the Homestead Act, that agricultural farming just will not work in vast areas of the arid, desert West. He failed, and it wasn’t until decades later that the US Government started to understand his points. The subsequent water war that has lasted and heightened in the last 15 or 20 years was predicted by Powell over 150 years ago, he knew exactly what would happen to the lands of the West if farming and ranching were left unchecked and the water resources were not protected.

The most exciting part of this book is the first 150 pages where Powell and a small group of adventurers run the Green River from Wyoming down through the Uintas and eastern Utah, finally meeting up with the Grand/Colorado River and continuing on through southeast Utah and northern Arizona, running the Grand Canyon, and ending up in the tip of Nevada. His descriptions are fantastic and, in many ways, a love letter to the red rock country I hold so dear. The rest of the book is more political and details the history of homesteading and immigration through the western United States, bits of the wars and treaties and decimation of the Native American tribes, and a lot of congressional arguments and acts and vetoes that led to the “opening” and settlement of the West. Stegner wrote this in the 1950’s and it is fascinating how much still holds true 75 years later on the fight for water and other sustaining resources in the hot desert mesas and mountains.

High Tide in Tucson: Essays From Now or Never, by Barbara Kingsolver (4 stars). When I picked this book up I thought it would be include essays about Kingsolver’s life in Arizona, experiences in and around Tucson. It does not. The essays are well written and thought invoking, but only one or two has any direct ties to living in an arid desert. Just shows you shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover. Kingsolver discusses politics, environment protection, family, travel, and many of her own childhood experiences. Excellent read.

Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place, by Terry Tempest Williams (4 stars). This book is part environmental treatise, and part family history. While I sometimes did not identify with the connection Tempest Williams feels to the women in her family, I certainly felt in my bones her love for the Salt Lake valley and the Great Salt Lake herself (yes, the lake is a woman). Tempest Williams is a gifted storyteller and writes beautiful, poetic descriptions full of emotion and feeling.

Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert, by Terry Tempest Williams (3 stars). This collection of essays about red rock and canyon country was a little hit and miss. Some of them I *loved* and re-read immediately. Other essays didn’t really affect me much, or even made me angry; but, in most ways, this book is a series of love letters to the wild, rocky country I call home.

Other Reading Recommendations:

Desert Solitaire, by Edward Abbey

The Anthropology of Turquoise, by Ellen Meloy

 

When mountains beckon

I grew up at the feet of a soaring mountain range, granite-topped peaks that often retained snow year-round melted into forested skirts sweeping down towards my small little town. Mountains ground me, they keep me centered, and are my true heart-home. I mean, LOOK AT THEM! Snowy peaks, springy-green trees that show no trace of the browned, brittle wild-fire dryness of July and August.

I have been in Salt Lake this week for work, and I have made the most of the daylight hours after leaving the office by getting into the mountains and soaking in the gorgeous views, the nature-y noise, and fresh pine-y smells.

The melting snow has turned the creeks and rivers into white thunder, storming down the mountains and smashing into rocks and trees. This cold, terrifying sound is like a lullaby to me. I mean, I don’t want to go wading or anything, but I could listen to spring runoff rush down the canyon for hours and hours.

A friend and I hiked up Little Cottonwood Canyon to the Bell Canyon waterfall and reservoir (photos above) and while the climb was brutal for my suburban, lower-altitude legs and lungs, it made my heart so, so happy.

The mountains are so close to the Salt Lake valley, truly you can be immersed in Nature in under 20 minutes. Watching the sun set over the Great Salt Lake, painting the sky in coral and orange and purple, and feeling the chill of the mountains, talking with friends about things important and trivial…all of this soothed my ragged soul and was a balm to my anxious heart.

Horseshoe Bend and Highway 89

For the first part of March I was lucky enough to be back in Salt Lake for some work-stuff, but also to spend some much needed time with my mountains, the city that holds my heart, and dear friends and family. The road to my northern home is approximately 700 miles long, and it’s primarily desert. But, the desert is, in ways both figurative and literal, my other home. I was driving by myself, which meant I could stop as often as I wanted to for pictures and little hikes. Frankly, I don’t know why I don’t do that EVERY time I make this drive!

There are several places in Utah and Arizona with these stripey hills and cliffs. Most are red, but the ones here are a greenish-gray with purple-y stripes and I have always loved them. They kind of look like enormous elephants taking a nap, and you know how much I like elephants. As you near Page on the Utah-Arizona border you wind your way to the top of the plateau that towers over Lake Powell and instead of looking up at the cliffs and formations you have the somewhat-stomach-dropping opportunity to (lay flat on your belly, inch towards the edge and) look down into the beginnings of the Grand Canyon at the famous Horseshoe Bend of the Colorado River.

I really wish that I had a lens to capture the enormity of this view, a major wide-angle or something so you can comprehend the vastness of the space, but also, comparatively how this tremendous bend doesn’t seem enormous when compared to the horizon and the knowledge that this is the northern end of the Grand Canyon plateau.

I mean, yes, it’s huge. Those are scrubby trees down there on the shore, not sage brush. But to think about how small this one particular place is on a river almost 1,500 miles long. This water started as snow in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado and winds it’s way through the deserts of Utah and Arizona, supplying power for Las Vegas and Southern California, before emptying into the Baja and on to the Pacific. And this is just one, tiny little bend of that river.

Bryce Canyon National Park in the fog

On one of my trips between Salt Lake and Phoenix I decided to make a slight detour and stop at Bryce Canyon National Park. I was hoping for some gorgeous photos of soaring ruddy cliffs and orangey spires in the setting sun. The weather had very different ideas. The entire canyon was smothered in fog, from the rim you could hardly see anything below.

On a whim I decided to hike down into the canyon, hoping for a few awesome shots. I was absolutely unprepared for such a hike, I was wearing sandals, no water, and no real rain protection. But, the Navajo Loop trail is just a little more than a mile, descending down the canyon walls, through Wall Street, wandering along the bottom of the canyon with the creek and the pine trees, and then back up again. I figured it couldn’t be that bad.

This is Wall Street, it’s easy to imagine these soaring cliffs as enormous sky scrapers, right? The trail was wet and pretty slick, I carefully picked my way down the switchbacks, big camera in hand. It’s hard to imagine how enormous these cliffs are, how tiny the hikers seem. But, lawsy, those views!!!

From the bottom of the canyon looking back towards the rim, I felt like I was in a completely different world from the one at the surface. There weren’t may people there, and it only added to the creepy-beautiful feeling, eerie and other-worldly and heart-breakingly quiet.

The weather cleared up as I made my way out of Wall Street and onto the rest of the Loop trail, there were cedar trees and sherberty colored stripes and outcropping hoodoos everywhere.

As I began to ascend the canyon wall, the weather began to make me a little nervous. The drizzle of rain turned much more sleety, it got colder and the wind whistled through the formations. The trail was slick and muddy, my sandals slapped and slipped on the rocks. I carefully picked my way upwards, trying to shield my camera from the rain and simultaneously keep my balance with my very inappropriate footwear. It got foggier and foggier, I could really only see about 20 feet ahead of me when I came across Thor’s Hammer, one of the more photographed formations in Bryce Canyon.

Within 30 seconds, the fog had swallowed this formation completely. I hurried as quickly as I could back to the rim, picking my way, slipping and sliding on the now completely empty trail. The fog topside was thicker and heavier than before, I was relieved to get back in my dry car and crank up the heat. Even though this was a very quick stop, I really loved my short hike and these images.

Have you been to Bryce Canyon? Have you ever hiked in the fog? Tell me your stories!

The best of times, the worst of times: I’m there

Have you ever been hit with a sudden, overwhelming sense of happiness? Can you pinpoint what person or event triggered the rush of endorphins? For me, it seems that it takes hitting a super rock-bottom low with ugly sobs followed by a few days of increasing positivity for me to really hit the natural high of so-happy-you’re-crying.

I’m there. And yes, I cry a lot. Whatever.

This all started about a week ago when I started packing up some boxes for Mr. Blue Eyes to take to our new house in Arizona. The idea of leaving this place, my home, was suddenly very very real. And it was heartbreaking. I sat on the floor and cried. And cried. And cried.

Now, I am not rejecting the idea of actually living with my spouse, that all sounds lovely. But I am in deep mourning for leaving this place; the city that sheltered me after a really terrible divorce, the neighborhood that has been a tangible comfort to me when I’m stressed, the friends who are my people, and the physical walls of an apartment where I became an adult. I am far more attached and invested in this little space of mine than I am in the house of my childhood. FAR more. Often times the idea of driving away from this oasis of happy and comfort leaves a physical ache in my heart.

Packing and labeling boxes, stacking them up and seeing that tangible tower of “you are leaving this place” sent me into a tailspin. A million thanks to my sweet friend D for stopping in to check on me (you know, after I didn’t answer phone calls or texts for a day and a half; see: tailspin). She invited me to go on a hike, and that was the beginning of my upswing.

Hiking a pretty low-key trail with two dear friends and their chattering 3-month old was so good for my soul. The sights and smells of my beloved mountains calmed and soothed my aching heart and watching the sun streak my sky in orange and magenta and gold felt like God was giving me gentle hair pats, telling me it would all be okay.

A day or two later, several hours spent with my oil paints and an audiobook brought me back to my happy place.

Sunday evening was spent with family, not my own siblings, but close enough. I have the same hands as my aunt, the same eyes as one cousin, the same feet as another, and my uncle called me by my childhood nickname the entire evening. There was no anxiety, no passive-aggressive comments, lots of laughing and giggling and jokes, and as much cookie dough as I wanted.

Mr. Blue Eyes will be here this weekend to remove the packed-up-boxes situation and I’m sure a few days snuggling him and laughing with him and just being together. I feel like so much of my life is in this extended period of uncomfortable limbo. Part of me wishes I could just quit my job and move next week, just rip off the band-aid. The other part of me is so grateful for these last few months of savoring my life and friends and experiences here, slowly saying goodbye. The truth is, both are hard, and I’m sure I will continue to have these emotional swings, both until and after I leave.

But, hopefully, I won’t have to pack up any more boxes until December when I actually move.