July 30: Trendsetting

Our intention in heading north from Moab was to camp overnight in the Wellington-Price area and spend Tuesday, July 31, slowly visiting the rock art sites along the forty miles of “Nine-mile Canyon.”  (Don’t ask.  Nine-mile canyon is some 70 miles long.)

This was a major “highway” for canyon people a thousand or more years ago.  It is the only clear way to cut through the torturous canyons of the Tavaputs Plateau of central eastern Utah.  It not only connected the Green River to the central interior, but also connected travelers to many of the north-south canyons and valleys.

It is littered with hundreds of Fremont and Anasazi rock art sites.  It is also the historic home of scores of nineteenth-century cattle ranches, many of whose ruins can still be seen or visited.  The scholarly book I am using lists about 80 “must see” rock art sites in the canyon and claims to have catalogued upwards of 10,000 individual images.  These sites were featured in the January, 1980, National Geographic Magazine.  Check it out.

Unfortunately, when we got to Price, the kindly volunteer lady at the Visitor Center looked quizzically at us when we told her our plans.  She had just received warnings of thunderstorms and flash floods in the area.  “You don’t want to be in Nine-mile canyon,” she said cheerfully.  “The roads are all clay and mud.”  The next morning, we asked the attendant at the Sinclair station if she would risk driving the canyon.  “No.”

(We later discovered that the canyon has markers along the road to let motorists know how deep the water crossing the road was.  The markers went up to six feet and were placed every other mile or so.  That is, assuming one could stay on the road in the first place.)

OK.  When we ate out the first time in Moab (at the Moab Brewery) the young man waiting on us thanked us and told us to be careful.  Why?  Was this a sign?  So we decided not to drive nine-mile canyon yet.

Worse.  Neither Price nor Wellington had campsites.  Not even state parks.  There was one RV Park in Wellington, but it had no RV’s.

We asked (Janet asked) the women at the truck stop that owned the RV park if we could camp there.  For $12 she let us put up our tent and stuff in the small (fenced in) picnic area behind a motel.

  A nice grassy spot.  Not only did our $12 give us grass, a clean picnic table, hot showers, and fairly private rest rooms.  It entitled us to us their heated, indoor swimming pool (40” x 20”) that was tile-lined.  We spent two hours in the pool.  Only two young boys also used the pool.

It seemed like a nice spot.  Private.  Except for the truck stop next to us.  But I have ear plugs.  It sure beat the $49 room at the “Pillow Talk” motel that was the only other option.

As we were leaving the next morning, a young, black Philadelphian asked us if he could have the same site for his tent.  No problem.  “But is it safe,” he asked.  “Still alive,” I said, “and the pool is great.  Buy some ear plugs.”

Five days later, as we were passing through Wellington after seeing Nine-Mile Canyon, there was a tent in the very same picnic area.

We started a trend.