The Other Escalante

The Escalante is one of my very favorite landscapes. The main river canyon, together with its tributaries, slickrock wonderlands, moqui marbles, and verdant riparian plant life, holds an enduring appeal. Of all the backpacking regions in southern Utah, it reigns supreme, at least in my opinion.

There's another Escalante - a famed hiking route deep in the Grand Canyon's inner gorge. To call it 'awe-inspiring' would be an understatement of the first degree.

And there's another, other Escalante, this one much closer to home. The Dominguez-Escalante National Conservation Area protects a stretch of the Gunnison River in western Colorado along with several side canyons. All of these canyons burrow into the Uncompaghre Plateau, a vast uplifted region west of the towns of Montrose and Delta.

With a three-day weekend at my disposal and Steph jonesing for a chill weekend at home. I decided to explore this "other" Escalante by foot and packraft. After all, what could be more pleasant than toting six pounds of boating gear for 50 miles up and down mountains, all for a three hour float at the end? Friends, I think there's something wrong with my brain :) 

Day 1

I left on Friday evening, making the short drive from Montrose down to my starting trailhead. I walked next to some railroad tracks for a couple miles, composing in my head at least three paragraphs' worth of boring train facts, from which I will mercifully spare you, dear reader. I crossed the Gunnison River on an ornate bridge and soon headed up Big Dominguez Canyon.

Camping is prohibited in the lower part of Big Dominguez, so I hiked deep into the gathering dusk to find a legal place to set up. Along the way though, I couldn't help but follow the sound of crashing water to a little waterfall hidden behind a rock outcrop. And I saw plenty of traces of cultures from many centuries ago. The biggest highlight, however, was the night sky. With the moon nearly new, and the humidity hovering around 5%, I was treated to one of the most vivid Milky Way viewings of my life. More than once I wondered how much better the ancients had it, in terms of night skies. It really put context to God's promise to Abraham, that's for sure!

Day 2

As I continued up the canyon the next morning, the pines got taller and taller, interspersing the red rocks of the inner canyon. The trail played peekaboo with the creek and I gratefully drank from it at every opportunity. I saw a single pair of hikers along this stretch. 

Everything changed when I arrived at a campground that marked the upper end of the Big Dominguez trail. On this Memorial weekend, every Side-by-Side, ATV, dirt bike, boombox, barking dog, and slightly-tipsy frat bro in Mesa County had descended upon the ordinarily-quiet campground. I made sure to collect water upstream of the aforementioned frat bros frolicking in the water and stirring up muck, and noped out of there as quick as I could. I climbed onto the Plateau using a Forest Service road and got dusted by all manner of jeeps and four-wheelers for the next six miles. I don't begrudge others for enjoying the outdoors with the aid of internal combustion engines, but I can't say I love the noise, speed, and dust they generate.

The water situation was a complete unknown on the Plateau, so the only prudent course of action was to pack five liters up from Big Dominguez Creek. I ordinarily don't mind uphill, but underneath a load of three days' food, eleven pounds of water, and six pounds of packrafting gear, I was really struggling underneath a heavy load. Shortly before I turned off the main road, I found a decent cow pond. I figured I'd find water at one of the ~10 sources I'd mapped, but which ones - and their quality - was impossible to predict. This first source, it turns out, would be the best.

Finally, the Moto Mayhem mercifully abated as I turned onto an old, somewhat-eroded jeep track. Around the same time, the clouds started to congeal overhead. The searing heat and screaming ATV's were a thing of the past! My next water source was quite green and nasty, but between a double dose of Aquamira, the old bandana-as-water-filter trick, and the well-known antimicrobial properties* of Great Value brand Fruit Punch packets, I managed to put down a liter.

*Professional driver on closed course; do not attempt. 

Soon, my quiet jeep road gave way to a long-abandoned antiquated two-track. On satellite imagery, the way forward appeared relatively clear. On the ground, however, I had to slalom through prickly brush, down a steep, eroded gully where a fenceline once stood. It was a frustrating end to a long day, and I collapsed in the first clearing I found, exhausted after a 20+ mile day that seemed, like your father's walk to school, uphill both ways. One moment of delight as I bedded down - I startled a cow elk, and she bounded away through the brush. What a magnificent sight!

Day 3

The next morning started out with a bang - a completely trail-less descent into a canyon, picking my way through thick brush and cliff bands. I got utterly tangled in some of the spikey bushes in the canyon bottom, floundering for a good five minutes in a mostly useless attempt to get un-stuck. The only thing less dignified than bushwhacking is bushwhacking with a boat and life jacket on your back! 

I emerged from the inner canyon bleeding and sweating, but I'd crossed it! I found a terrific series of elk trails going up the other side, and followed them until I rejoined yesterday's old eroded fence-gully thing. The climb was steep and unrelenting, but not nearly as brushy as I'd feared. I treated myself to breakfast once I finally hit the road I'd been aiming for. It was another quiet jeep track, and a welcome reprieve from the bushwhacking. 

I broiled in the hot sun over the next nine miles on the roads. I found another stock pond with water in it, but surrounded with a moat of mud so thick and loathsome that losing a shoe represented a virtual certainty. I checked out several other possible sources - all dry - as the sun crept higher in the sky. 

And then - a surprise! A source I expected to be dry had water in it - and clear water at that! Whoopee! I pounded 1.5L of water and tanked up. It was going to be a good day after all. Only after another mile, when I stopped in the shade to treat my water, did I realize my mistake: this water carried a pungent odor of sulfur. Horrified, I tried not to think too hard about it. Only three liters of good water remained, and my next source, the Gunnison River, lay 24 hours ahead. Rats.

I tried to limit my water consumption all afternoon as I trudged through the hot sun, but it was useless - there was no getting around the fact that I'd have to consume the Rotten Egg Water. More double-doses of Aquamira. More Great Value fruit punch packets. And yes, there were plenty of sulfury burps on the menu.

I turned off my quiet jeep roads onto a "trail". that led down from the highlands via a sloping prong of land toward the Gunnison River. Like many trails in little-used corners of our public lands, this trail probably hadn't seen a hiker - much less any maintenance - since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Cryptobiotic soil was growing in the treads of the trail itself, and cactus fields covered the entire area - trail and non-trail alike. At one point I lost the trail entirely for about three miles, and just made my way overland, trusting the trail would be there when I needed it most.

As I kept dropping in elevation, the trail became more consistent and apparent. And after two hard days, each 20+ miles with a heavy pack, I was tuckered. I curled up under a juniper, made a calculated gamble that the menacing clouds wouldn't rain on me, and passed out. 

Day 4

For the third day in a row, I was up at the crack of dawn. My foot protested a bit, only deciding to cooperate after about a mile. From above, I spied the thin ribbon of the Gunnison as the sun rose over the West Elk mountains to my east. I dropped steeply to the trailhead and pounded out a couple quick road miles down to the river.

Speaking of the river, it was really ripping! I inflated my boat and set off into the current. Even with a few float breaks, I found myself cruising along at 4 mph. The rapids and riffles along this section were a bit sportier than I'd been led to believe. I stopped a couple times to bail out my boat, and was grateful for the bright sunshine to keep me warm - even as thunderheads metastasized over the surrounding high terrain.

One notorious rock at the mouth of Dominguez Canyon, called 'The Undertaker', demands portaging around. The BLM's website led me to believe that the best way to do that was on a small island. Unfortunately, when I got there, the the water had risen so high (several feet higher than when I'd scouted it from shore on the hike in) that I was forced higher up on the island, and ended up bushwhacking through ten-foot tall reeds while carrying my boat over my head. Once around the rock, I bashed through the reeds to the water's edge and belly-flopped onto my boat, a most undignified-but-functional landing. Next time, I'll take the very nice mainland trail instead. So much for good info from the BLM!

The last couple miles were uneventful. I paddled under that ornate footbridge and arrived at my takeout point. On Friday, there'd been a very nice beach to land on. Now, all of it was several feet underwater. I squelched my way up a short trail to the parking area and my waiting car, just as the rain clouds started to threaten overhead. 

Overall

I hadn't had a true thrasher of a weekend in quite a while. I managed to cover about 66 miles - 52 of them hiking - over the course of two very full days and a couple short ones. Throw in a dash of bushwhacking, plenty of vertical gain, intense heat, and a crappy water situation, and you've got a challenging trip. I loved it. It felt like the adventure of a thru-hike - particularly one on a seldom-traveled route - compressed into a weekend. And best of all, it was less than an hour from home. It may not be the world-class landscape of the "real" Escalante, but I found it beautiful nonetheless. And as always, any time outdoors is time well-spent.

 

 

Oppressive Heat and Impressive Scenes

From a backpacking standpoint, the last couple months have proved rather profitable. Steph and I recently took a pair of trips with friends - first with Paul and Joan to visit some archeological sites in southeastern Utah, and then with Justin and Emily to a pair of beautiful slot canyons in the Escalante region.

But it'd been a solid six months since we'd backpacked by ourselves, and Steph's brand-new packraft was just begging for a test-run. So we snagged a Canyonlands permit and prepared ourselves for a classic "triangle trip" - hike down to the river, paddle a a section, and then hike up a different trail back to the car. 

We parked our car on Saturday morning at a little-used trailhead that isn't even afforded the dignity of a proper parking lot. We stuck our thumbs out, and in short order, caught a ride a couple miles down the road to our starting trailhead. By time we hit the trail, the sun was beating down, and the heat only grew more intense as we dropped in elevation. We descended a steep series of stair-steps before reaching a wash bottom. There, we found occasional scraps of shade, but mainly broiled in the oppressive midday sun as we trudged toward the Green River. 

Oh, the river. That sweet, sweet river. We immediately belly-flopped in a small lagoon, allowing the cool water to cool our core temperatures. We both laid there submerged for about ten minutes, pure bliss overcoming us. In all my years of backpacking, I've very rarely experienced such a sudden transformation in circumstances. 

By and by, we inflated our boats and set off downstream. The heat proved much more manageable on the water, particularly because we took a mid-afternoon swim break and guzzled water continuously. It wasn't good water per se - the Green carries too much sediment for that - but it did the trick, as long as you didn't mind drinking brown water with an unmistakable dirt flavor.  

And the scenery! Lovely green cottonwoods in full leaf lined the shore, and occasional plump cumulus clouds framed our photos. It's impossible to capture the scale and depth of such a scene with a camera. The river made a huge loop, nearly doubling back on itself as it meandered southward - and with it, our little boats.

We paddled for a couple hours, eventually pulling ashore on a convenient rock ramp. We stowed our packrafts and filled every water container we owned, in preparation for a long, dry walk across the shadeless White Rim formation. Thankfully, by this time in the evening, shadows had grown long, and the walk was actually quite pleasant. Before long, we made a simple camp under the stars and gulped a little supper before turning in for an all-too-brief night of sleep.

Photo: Steph Seitz

We began hiking by headlamp the next morning, trying to beat the heat. God blessed us with a conveniently-placed cloud for the first part of the walk. Eventually, we left the White Rim formation and snaked our way up an increasingly-bouldery canyon. And then, the big climb. A giant slide of rubble between two huge rock towers marked our exit from the canyon. As we climbed up, we found an excellent, well-marked trail - an unexpected and much-appreciated surprise! While steep, we both found the climb far easier than expected. Atop the central plateau once more, we enjoyed some incredible views before meandering a toasty but easy mile back to the waiting car.

Photo: Steph Seitz

This was my first packrafting trip of the year, and Steph's first packrafting trip ever. Though we spent barely 24 hours in the backcountry, the world of work and ringing phones receded deep into the background. An excellent, adventurous weekend. What more could we ask for? 

2024 - In Review

On the evening of Groundhogs Day 2023, I plopped down on an ottoman in my living room surrounded by half-packed boxes and plastic totes. I was preparing to quit my job, move out of my apartment, and hike the PCT. And I was sick of the packing-up process.

So I took a break. I spent a few minutes researching PCT snow conditions. Though it was only February, it was already clear that 2023's snowpack would shatter every record on the books. I started googling hiker blogs from previous high snow years in order to understand how numbers on a snowfall map would translate to actual hazard at different times in the melting process.

I came across one particular 2019 PCT hiker's blog. She'd successfully completed several Sierra passes before a close call with a snowmelt-swollen creek spooked her into skipping the rest of the Sierra, at least for the time being. She kept a fairly detailed day-by-day journal, and it contained quite a bit of valuable information on the hazards I could expect to face.

More notably though, this hiker could write! And in her writing, an evident love for Jesus oozed through. This sincere faith took me by surprise. Committed, visible Christians are a tiny minority on trail. I've only met a handful in my decade-plus in the hiking community. Intrigued, I sent her an encouraging message. We soon struck up a lively correspondence while I hiked the PCT and she hiked the 1,200-mile Pacific Northwest Trail.

We kept in occasional touch through the following winter and spring. And when I happened to be in her neck of the woods (Montrose, Colorado) in June of 2024, I swallowed hard and invited my erstwhile pen-pal out for a day hike.

You can probably guess the rest. An in-person friendship developed into a relationship, and by the end of the year, I found myself packing all my possessions into boxes yet again. But this time, I was moving to Montrose to be closer to Steph.

Photo: Steph Seitz

Wait. Who?

Like me, Steph has roots in the Midwest. Somewhere in the mid-2010's, she became aware of the PCT, and started plotting a thru-hike not long thereafter. She took a couple years to develop her skills, save up money, and prepare for a major life change. And in April of 2019, she found herself departing the southern terminus of the PCT, walking northbound to Canada. Along the way, she picked up the trail name Calzone.

A couple years after that pivotal PCT journey, Steph moved from Indiana to western Colorado, where she's lived ever since. Almost ever since, that is. In 2023, she once again found herself on a long trail, this time in Glacier National Park. She hiked the 1,200-mile Pacific Northwest Trail westbound to the Pacific Ocean on Washington's Olympic Peninsula. The PNT has a well-deserved reputation for being wild, underdeveloped, and arduous. On the PNT, Steph found herself reprising her PCT experience, while also being stretched and challenged in new ways. 

Consequently, Steph is perfectly comfortable exploring a seldom-used trail deep in the wilderness, bushwhacking up a canyon overgrown with poison ivy, or casually cooking in her tent while lightning crashes down all around us. Birds of a feather flock together, I suppose!

There's so much more to Steph than just her outdoor exploits, and I trust a fuller portrait will emerge here over time. But I get all tongue-tied when describing someone this special, so here my exposition ceases, lest I fall into the trap of excessive saccharine adjectives.

An Achievement

Anyways, that's the big story of my year! It's so big, in fact, that it overshadows an accomplishment ten years in the making: I went backpacking at least once in all twelve months of 2024. Normally, I miss a month - usually December, sometimes January or February - but this year, I hit 'em all! While the goal was admittedly silly and arbitrary, it helped motivate me to get out there. Sometimes just that little extra push is all I need to go have a splendid time. 

Speaking of splendid, let's start with some splendid stats and cheap jokes!

Gear:

• Tents: 3
• Tents panic-purchased from the Houghton, MI Walmart at 8pm on Labor Day: 1
  
• Weight of that 'backpacking tent': 27 pounds :)
• Extra-large tents stakes panic-purchased after my tarp transformed into a prairie schooner during a Mojave rainstorm: 6
• Sleeping pads used: 2
  
• Sleeping pads despised: 1
• Uncomfortable sleeping pads I finally came to terms with after using for a month and a half: 1
• Poncho-tarps: 2
• Miles that my original poncho-tarp had on it when it suddenly gave up the ghost: 9,000
  
• Pairs of shoes: 3
• Sleeping bags found in the middle of the wilderness that were larger and heavier than my backpack: 1
• Power banks: 2
• Power banks that suddenly shorted out and died in the middle of the wilderness: 1
• Reasons not to rely on an all-electronic navigational strategy: 1
  
• Packrafts: 1
• Packrafts that won me someone's heart: 1
  

Trips:

• Thru-hikes: 1
• Named trails that I don't consider a 'thru-hike', but others might: 1
  
• Number of crossings of Isle Royale on foot: 2
• Weekend backpacking trips: 12
• Packrafting trips: 4
• Solo trips: 9
• Trips with friends: 6 (this may be a new record!)
• National Parks: 5 (not counting the Black Canyon, which is more of an 'after-work' National Park)
  

Highest/Lowest/Fastest/Slowest:

• Miles hiked: 1,100
• Miles packrafted: 50
• Highest point (literal): A random lake in the San Juans at 12,600'
• Lowest point (literal): Amboy Crater, 100' (Desert WTH)
• Longest day, in miles: 28 (Desert WTH. It involved some night-hiking)
  
• Highest point (metaphorical): Meeting a random internet pen pal for a dayhike in the San Juan mountains ... little did I know!
  
• Lowest point (metaphorical): Watching my tarp sail away from above me in the midst of a driving rainstorm 
• Longest waterless stretch: 35 miles

Experiences:

• Hitchhikes: 9
• Hitchhikes required to get to the beginning of the Ouachita Trail: 6 (I do not recommend this!)
• Visited friends/family on trail: 5
  
• Solar eclipses: 1
• Eclipse glasses given away: 10
• Snowstorms: 1
• Atmospheric river events: 3
• Old friends randomly bumped into on trail: 3
• Cute mini-flash-flood things: 1 
• Found a fresh burro carcass laying in the middle of my only water source: 1
• Received the Triple Crown award: 1
  

Camping:

• In an AT-style shelter: 5
• Had an AT-style shelter all to myself: 4
• Under a sweet rock overhang: 3
• In a mine shaft: 1
• In a bathroom: 0 (shocking, I know!)
• In a ditch: 1
• In a motel room: 3
• In a campsite shared with complete strangers: 3
• In a tent: 30%
• Cowboy camping: 70%
  

Previous years in review: 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017, 2016, 2014.

My 2024 actually began on New Years Eve. I flew into Tucson the previous day, and spent an absolutely delightful day with friends Ralph and Sue. After much laughter, deep conversation, and a touch of introspection, they dropped my off near Saguaro National Park to begin the 800-mile Desert Winter Thru-Hike (WTH).

I awoke to the sound of distant fireworks at the end of that first day, as December turned to January. I spent the next several weeks on familiar terrain in the Sonoran Desert, before transitioning into the Mojave at the end of the month.

February brought a series of drenching rains to the desert, bone-chilling wind, and even a bit of snow. Aided by some truly wonderful friends, I staggered to the end of the WTH... and promptly scampered to Florida to relax on a beach with my family for a few days!

In March, I took advantage of record-breaking temperatures to hike and packraft a section of the North Country Trail in Michigan.

April brought my other long-ish walk of the year, a hike of the Ouachita Trail in Oklahoma and Arkansas. I had a perfect bluebird afternoon to watch the total solar eclipse - what a treat! I wrote up the experience in TrailGroove Magazine, in case you'd like to read it.

At the beginning of May, I headed from Michigan back out west to Utah, kicking off a flurry of long-awaited desert trips. First was a packrafting trip down the Green River...

...followed by another packrafting trip in the lower canyons of the Escalante...

... and then a quick visit to one of my favorite sections of narrows in Capitol Reef National Park.

As the calendar changed to June, I finally checked off a long-standing goal, visiting the remote and inaccessible Maze district of Canyonlands National Park - via packraft, of course! That trip was shared with my good friend Paul.

Immediately thereafter, I headed up to the San Juan Mountains for a short but very beautiful overnighter. And a few days later, Steph and I went for a rather consequential dayhike and paddled around a lake in the packraft afterwards.

July brought only one trip, another quick overnighter in the San Juans where I bumped into my good friend POD on the trail! 

In August, Steph and I headed up into the Uintas, exploring a few trails that were new to both of us. The weather forecast was dire, but aside from a stinging hail storm at the top of one of the passes, we managed to dodge most of the rain.

September was a profitable month. Things started out with a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Isle Royale with my sister Nichole...

... included a midweek jaunt to a normally popular set of lakes in the San Juans, where I took my coldest swim of the year...

...and continued with a lovely desert excursion into some of the upper canyons of the Escalante with Steph.

 

One final trip September trip straddled into October - a three-day jaunt along the Ruby Crest Trail with my good friend Blue Moon. 

November brought a delightful long weekend with Steph in the Needles district of Canyonlands...

...and I rounded out the year in December with a quick excursion down to the San Juan River.

Grieving Grandpa

This blog exists primarily for my grandparents - and my grandpa in particular - to keep up on my adventures. Grandpa was (and is) my biggest single inspiration to get outside. He was a life-long runner, competing in the same 25k race every year for decades on end. Yet somehow he never ran a marathon. Until he retired, that is. Grandpa ran his very first marathon at the age of 70-something. And when he crossed the finish line in triumph, he was shocked to learn that he'd qualified for Boston. So he ran Boston. And a couple other marathons. All north of his 70th birthday. An impressive accomplishment, to say the least.

Grandpa and Grandma visited me on the Appalachian Trail in Virginia in '13. One of my favorite memories.

In mid-October, Grandpa suffered a stroke, and died a few days later. While we obviously miss him terribly, we take comfort that he's now with his savior, Jesus. Moreover, when Jesus returns to Earth someday, Grandpa will be given a new, glorified and perfected body, in which he'll be able to run without heel spurs, hip issues, or any of the other travails that plagued him in the last few years of his life. Grandpa, this one's for you.

What's Next

For the first time in a few years, I don't have any long-distance hiking plans for 2025. That doesn't imply a sedentary year - it just means that shorter trips will have to scratch the backpacking itch. And that's okay! The constant drip-drip-drip of adventure means even more to me than any long-distance adventures could. I've got a whole new suite of local terrain to explore in western Colorado. And I've got an incredible companion with whom to share it with.

A year of great mourning and great rejoicing. God is faithful. Onward to 2025.