Bryce Canyon

Monday morning, we took the entrance ramp onto I-15 and began driving south to Bryce Canyon.  We thought we had waited until rush hour was over, but the traffic not only did not let up, it increased.  There were twelve lanes in all and it was Martha’s turn to start out driving today, but there was no place to pull over so that I could take my turn.  I had been studying Google Maps on my phone and thought I saw an opportunity to change routes as we approached Provo.  “Would you like to take an exit and continue on a two-lane road?” I asked.  “It would mean thirty more minutes.”

 

Martha quickly agreed to the change of route and we exited onto relatively quiet Route 89, stopped for a morning snack and a cup of coffee, and I started driving.  We were very glad we did, although the voice on Google Maps (the American one this time) kept insisting in an almost frantic voice that we had made a drastic mistake and urged us to make a U-turn or take a side road back onto I-15 at our earliest opportunity.  I turned down the volume and finally she gave up.  It would have been futile to try to explain to the disembodied voice that we preferred taking 30 more minutes to arrive at our destination over continuing to battle tractor-trailers out on the interstate.

 

The road was a spectacular one, with high mesas and cliffs off to the east and little traffic.  We could see heavy rain gathering off to the west – you can see a long distance in this kind of country – and realized it was rain from Hurricane Hilary, which had come ashore in southern California a couple of days ago and was making its way north through Nevada and Utah.  But it never did materialize.

 

We were enjoying driving through small towns, a joy of which the traveler is deprived if he sticks to the interstate highways.  In one of them, Manti, we found a picnic table behind the Town Hall – serendipity once again! – and stopped for our mid-day picnic.  On the other side of town, there were horses and cattle grazing out in broad valleys, and then sagebrush, so thick that it looked like a crop that had been planted.
 

We completed this leg of the journey on Johns Valley Road, winding beneath rock formations on both sides of the road.  We were running a little low on gasoline and the road was pretty rough, with potholes everywhere and only one or two farms along the way.  There was absolutely no signal on the cell phone.  Finally, we arrived at a major intersection, and then began passing some lodges and stores, where we stopped for gasoline.  The entrance to Bryce Canyon was just ahead.
 

The lodge itself had been built from logs in the 1920s by the Union Pacific Railroad and Utah Parks Company, and was a fine old building.  But Martha had reserved us a private cabin, one of several behind the lodge, and that is where we were directed at the front desk.  “Where is the Canyon from there?” I asked.  The desk clerk said, “Right down that path.”

 

We unpacked and went “right down that path” as quickly as we could, and found that we were only a short distance (perhaps 400 yards) from the brink of one of the more spectacular sights we were to encounter on this road trip.  We walked reverently through tall ponderosa pines, which finally opened before us into Bryce Canyon itself.  It was truly amazing, as stunning as the Grand Canyon, with its steep sides and tall narrow rock chimneys (called hoodoos), all painted from a palette of reds and oranges.  Beautiful.