Home from Back of Beyond: Images of a Harsh Country, Part Two

The photo above encompasses so much of what captivates me about the southwestern United States. A trail formed from a natural weakness in the rock providing access to an otherwise inaccessible cliff to who knows where? To be fair, hundreds of thousands of people know where the trail leads, but I like the mystery of the image. The thing is, many people DO follow this trail every year, but they may not appreciate the fact that the last time this surface was exposed to the atmosphere, it was 200 million years ago, and on the slip face of a coastal dune. Some of the irregularities highlighted by the shadows in the picture could literally be the preserved footsteps of dinosaurs, other reptiles, or amphibians.

I am slowly working on a short series of posts with my favorite images from our recently completed exploration of the Colorado Plateau and surrounding provinces. I took 1,400 photographs, so it's a bit difficult to choose between them! As we pick up the narrative, we are eight days into a fifteen day trip. As seen in an earlier post, we'd already been to the Mojave National Preserve, Zion National Park, Grand Canyon National Park, Bear's Ears National Monument, and Mesa Verde National Park. As we left Mesa Verde, we needed to find a way over the San Juan Mountains, a major range within the Rocky Mountain chain.

Because of a major wildfire in the drainage of the Animas River above Durango, we had to find another route over the mountains, so we headed instead to Lizard Head Pass (10,222 feet/3,116 meters), which divides the drainage of the Dolores and San Miguel Rivers. There was a beautiful profile of the high peaks from the summit. The brightly colored rocks above the tree line are volcanic, part of the rhyolite caldera eruptions that were taking place around 35-30 million years ago. Mineralization related to the volcanic activity resulted the emplacement of gold and silver deposits. The old mining towns like Ouray and Telluride are picturesque, but the pollution relating to the mining is a sad heritage.

Near the town of Ouray, one of the old mining camps, there is a difficult-to-see waterfall called Box Canyon Falls. The 200 foot high falls are practically hidden in a deep slot canyon, but the slopes above reveal a spectacular angular unconformity. The underlying vertical layers are more than a billion years old, but erosion planed off the rocks and in Devonian time almost 400 million years ago new sediments were draped over the older rocks. The uplift of the San Juan Mountains caused further erosion, exposing the unconformity that represents almost a billion years of missing history.

Black Canyon of the Gunnison is possibly the most bizarre canyon on the continent. It is a nearly vertical gorge that cuts through what is essentially the top of a mountain instead of having been carved through softer rocks that are exposed nearby. The Gunnison River was forced into the present channel by a series of lava flows that diverted the river from a "normal" course. Around 2-3 million years ago the landscape was uplifted, and the trapped river cut down through all the rock in its path, including the extremely hard gneiss and granite that make up the canyon walls in the park. It's not the deepest canyon in the country, but no other canyon combines the depth and steepness of Black Canyon. It is more than 2,000 feet deep in places, and in one place it is only 1,100 feet wide.

The Painted Wall (above) in Black Canyon is the highest sheer cliff in Colorado at 2,250 feet. The rocks exposed in the face of the cliff include 1.7 billion year old gneiss and schist with numerous intrusions and dikes of lighter colored granitic rock, including extremely coarse-grained pegmatite.

Late in the day we headed down one of the most spectacular roads in North America, Highway 128, which follows the Colorado River from near Interstate 70 to the outskirts of Moab, Utah. While mostly confined to a deep and narrow gorge of sandstone cliffs along the river, there is a moment when the canyon opens up and there is an awe-inspiring view of the Fisher Towers and the La Sal Mountains.

The La Sal Mountains are an anomaly in the generally horizonal landscapes of the Colorado Plateau. Between 28 and 25 million years ago, plumes of magma worked their way almost to the surface, intruding laterally between the sedimentary layers, and causing them to swell upwards like a series of blisters in the crust. The intrusions are called laccoliths. Exposed now by erosion, the igneous rocks reach elevations of almost 13,000 feet.

We arrived at our campsite in Arches National Park as the sun approached the western horizon. I don't think there is a more spectacular place in the country to roll out a sleeping bag. The view from the group camp extends for miles in every direction. There is also a beautiful arch, Skyline, visible from camp (below). The arch more than doubled in size in 1940 when a huge chunk of rock fell from the opening.

The landscapes in and around Arches and Canyonlands National Parks are almost beyond description. We spent two days in the area, and one of our stops was a rock art panel that is so delicate and fragile that I can't believe that it still exists 30 years after I first discovered it. Why? It's easily seen from the paved road leading into Canyonlands. But without signs and arrows pointing the way, people miss it. The first of the images are pictographs (below), those examples of rock art that were painted onto the sandstone. The ghostly figures and small hummingbirds are almost nightmarish in their imagery.

The other images are petroglyphs, the ones carved directly from the rocks. They depict some stylized bighorn sheep and other creatures. The panel has been somewhat damaged, possibly by natural erosion, but vandals have also done their evil work here.

Canyonlands National Park has many incredible vistas, but my favorite is the one that is framed by Mesa Arch (below). The arch is relatively small, but it frames the La Sal Mountains and pillars and cliffs of the Colorado River section of the park (the Green River forms meets the Colorado inside the park). Mesa is a popular short trail, and crowds are especially thick in the early morning when the sunrise can be photographed through the opening. You've no doubt seen an example on just about any nature-based calendar!

Pictures of Canyonlands are often mistaken for the Grand Canyon, but this section of the river includes only late Paleozoic rocks and thousands of feet of Mesozoic layers that are not seen at Grand Canyon. It is not as deep, but it is deeply colorful. It's hotter country in the summer, and there aren't many sources of water. Travel away from paved roads is more challenging than your "average" national park.

After we explored the Island in the Sky District of Canyonlands and Dead Horse Point State Park, we headed back to Arches for one of the greatest excursions on our entire trip, the hike to Delicate Arch for the sunset. The trail (a picture of which started this post) climbs 1.5 miles to an iconic overlook of the famous arch. I would love to say that the hike is an awesome desert wilderness trek where one can discover one's self in the isolation and serenity, but as author Edward Abbey feared in his 1968 book Desert Solitaire, the trail (and much of the rest of the park) has been taken over by industrial tourism. There is a large paved parking lot, and hundreds of people make the trek every evening.

Frame Arch view of Delicate Arch

The crowd at the top was rowdy, in large part because there are always selfish individuals and groups who insist on standing within the arch for selfies and group photos, spoiling the view for everyone else. I didn't have the heart to listen to the ruckus (I most certainly would have contributed, shouting at the jerks in the arch), so I headed instead to my favorite little arch in the park, Frame Arch. Frame is a small arch just above the trail only a few dozen yards from the Delicate Arch viewpoint. Most people pass it by in their race to get to more famous arch around the corner. What most of them don't realize is that Frame Arch has a great view of Delicate Arch, but also of the La Sal Mountains and Salt Wash. And I had the arch to myself for quite awhile even as hundreds of people were gathered just around the corner.

The La Sal Mountains and Salt Wash through Frame Arch

I had to think of my students though. There were a dozen of them who had hiked ahead of me, and they had to be worrying that their old overweight professor was passed out somewhere down the trail dying while they were enjoying the view. So I climbed down from the arch and back onto the trail and walked the last few yards to the overlook. I patiently waited while the jerks stood for their pictures in Delicate Arch and finally got a picture sans people as the sun settled into the horizon.

Our trip wasn't over. We had five more days and two more states to traverse. More favorite pictures soon!

Into the Great Unknown: Heat...and All Things Beautiful

It was our last full day on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, the Great Unknown as John Wesley Powell called it in 1869. One full day, and one more night on the life-giving stream of water through one of the spectacular canyons on Earth. We had eighteen miles to go, from our camp at Mile 202 to 220 Mile Camp (it was clear that the geographers were running out of names for the features in the canyon; it's that big).

It was a day full of the best things the canyon could offer. But it was also hot. Blazing oven hot. Merciless sun beating down hot. In other words, a normal summer day in the Inner Canyon. The thing is, we had already experienced a few hot days on the trip, but not quite the kind of 115 degree days that we were warned about in the training materials. I don't actually know how hot it got, but in my memory, it was the hottest day of the trip.

They said a few things in the training videos for rafting the river. To drink before you get thirsty. To drink a gallon a day. To always wear a hat. Seek out shade when possible, and don't hike between 10 and 4. They said it takes a human body about two weeks to acclimate to extreme hot temperatures, meaning a river trip was not long enough to do so.

We were seeing all kinds of adaptations to the heat as we explored the area around our camp during the relatively cool morning hours. We had dropped nearly 2,000 feet during our two weeks on the river, and the desert vegetation was characteristic of the Lower Sonoran Life Zone (or whatever the biologists are calling it these days). Cacti had been rare in the upper reaches of the river, but now they were common.

There were a few shrubs with their characteristic waxy leaves taking advantage of the recent storms by putting out a few flowers.

Best of all were the ocotillos that we had been seeing for the last two or three days. They too had taken advantage of the recent storms, and had put out thin leaves along their green branches (most of their food production happens in the branches rather than the leaves). There were none of the beautiful  red flowers (we'd need to be here in May for that).

We took advantage of the relative cool of the morning to search out some pictographs that were said to be up in 202 Mile Canyon. It took a while (which is why I had given up and photographed the plants instead), but eventually we found them. It was a small measure of the rate of geologic change that some of the blocks of rocks containing the rock paintings had tumbled down from the ledge.

Once the sun reached our boats, we set off down the river. We continued to see remnants of the lava flows that had once produced high dams, and which had continued downstream for many tens of miles (above).

We also saw another gigantic landslide that had involved the entire canyon wall (above). Lava flows aren't the only things that have produced dams on the river. As noted in an earlier post, landslides have altered the course of the river a number of times.

We saw more evidence of human occupation in the canyon. We discovered roasting pits in several of the debris fans at the mouths of some of the tributary streams. Along with the cracked and shattered rocks we found bit and pieces of pottery.

A short hot hike up Indian Canyon offered a fine view up the river. But it was hot and there was no shade. I shiver to thick how quickly I would have been in trouble here had I not been carrying a quart of water at all times. I was drinking at least a gallon and a half of water on days like this, and when it got too uncomfortable, I could splash in the river water to cool off. Despite being 200+ miles downstream from Glen Canyon Dam, the water was still in the mid-to-upper fifty degree range.

The scenery continued on a grand scale, with high cliffs at every turn. We saw another bighorn along the riverbank. It was as if the river was giving us reminders of why the canyon was precious. And that was the way I was feeling. This was the last full day, and while I was wanting to see the people I was missing in the outside world, I was also feeling like I wanted to hold onto these incredible experiences that I felt were enriching and transforming my life.

We crossed the Hurricane Fault again, and the ancient Vishnu Schist was exposed at river level once more.

 In the intense sunshine, the polished surfaces of mica, quartz and feldspar reflected brightly.

 It's amazing what the silt-filled water can accomplish!

 As we searched for (unsuccessfully) for a shady lunch stop, we encountered an unusual looking ledge of Tapeats Sandstone on the left bank.

The top of the ledge had been scoured and eroded by river currents, and it looked recent, yet the bench was 15 or 20 feet high. It looked extremely fresh.

 At the lower end, there was a strange orange-colored edifice called Pumpkin Spring. It was a warm spring deposit that was redepositing travertine that had been dissolved from the overlying limestone formations. The heat probably came from nearby active fault zones. The water was green and uninviting. The river guide suggested not drinking it because of high concentrations of arsenic (is that a poison or something?).

 We set up a canopy and crowded underneath it to eat lunch. There was a hot breeze blowing so the shade barely helped. Unfortunately the wind was trying to destroy the umbrellas that most of the boats had, so there was really no place to retreat from the sun. For pretty much the first time voluntarily, I spent most of the time soaking in the river as long as I could stand it (cold!), then getting out and warming up until I was dry and hot, and then getting back in the river!

Despite the heat, we wanted to check out the unusual terrace in the Tapeats Sandstone that we had just floated by. We grabbed some water and headed back up the canyon. The edge was pockmarked with huge potholes, many of which had carved right through the rock, forming little tunnels and caves. Many of the potholes still had the pebbles and cobbles that had carved them.

It turns out the terrace has been flooded by river water in historic time during the big spring floods, but only rarely since the floodgates of Glen Canyon Dam shut in 1963. The dam is still altering the river, even 200 miles downstream.

 We made one more stop that afternoon, at Three Springs Canyon. Like so many tributaries, it had a small stream of clear water that we could use for drinking. Some of the crew pumped the water filters while others hauled the five-gallon buckets down the trail to the boats.

 Yours truly found he could make a human dam across the trickling creek and have a nice bath.

It was the hottest part of a very hot day, and a hot breeze was blowing up-canyon. No one felt like rowing against the wind, not in the hot sun without the umbrellas. We holed up in the shade behind a ledge at Three Springs Canyon for quite awhile, letting the afternoon shadows extend across the canyon a bit.

 We arrived at our site for the night at 220 Mile Camp. As if to make some kind of point so late in our trip, it was one of the most beautiful camps of the trip. There was an island of Vishnu Schist in the river decorated with a few wispy tamarisk saplings. Our camp was in the shade (relief!), but the sun was shining brilliantly on the cliffs across the way, reflecting on the river.

The view upstream was gorgeous as well. At this late point in the day, no one else was on the river; the feeling of isolated wilderness was complete. It was strange to think that only six miles away a road reached river level, and that we would be driving out of the canyon in the morning.

We drank the last of the beers and the sodas, ate most of the remaining food, and sat in the warm air watching the sunlight drain away from the cliffs as night fell. After a while, a cool breeze wafted off the surface of the water.

The moon was a touch higher in the sky than the previous evening (it always happens that way), but it soon dipped below the cliffs. It was the 11th of August and the Perseids Meteor Shower was scheduled to debut in the night sky. It did not disappoint; as we talked and sang and played the guitar, I counted maybe a hundred shooting stars, some of them blazing a trail all the way across the sky. I had been turning in early on many nights of the trip, but on this night I was still awake staring at the show in the sky until well past midnight. I'll not forget it any time soon. I didn't want the night to end, and yet I did.

Tomorrow we would be back into civilization, and I would be starting the journey home...

Into the Great Unknown: Vulcan the Fire God says "You Call That Little Piece of Concrete a Dam?"

Dam engineers sure love their dam creations. The Colorado River, being the only river of note draining the Colorado Plateau, was a target of their fevered dreams, and major projects have "tamed" the river, most notably at Hoover Dam/Lake Mead, and Glen Canyon Dam/Lake Powell (above). Those who administer the giant concrete plugs love to cite the statistics: Hoover holds back 28 million acre feet, Powell 24 million, Mead is 112 miles long when full, Powell is 186 miles. It can't be denied that the concrete monsters have had a huge effect on the ecosystems of the river. Glen Canyon is entirely submerged. The river downstream runs cold all year, and surges high and low in response to electrical production needs. Native fish and flora struggle to survive in the new regime.

We were at the end of our thirteenth and starting the fourteenth day of our journey into the Great Unknown, a rafting trip down the Colorado River from Lees Ferry to Diamond Creek. I had taken an involuntary swim through Lava Falls Rapid that afternoon, but with the swim having been a far less terrifying experience than the first flip back at Crystal, I was feeling okay. Passing through Lava Falls represents to many the climax of the trip, and the last two or three days are sort of a winding down of the journey, with few large rapids.

For me though, the last two days were some of the most astounding because we had reached the site of one of the most extraordinary geological stories in the entire history of the Grand Canyon. Visitors to the main tourist areas on the north and south rims of the canyon never see the rocks that lined the canyon walls around us, and are often surprised to find they exist at all: miles and miles of basaltic lava flows!

The edge of the Colorado Plateau is punctuated by a series of north trending extensional ("normal") fault zones. They represent the boundary zone between the thick crust of the Colorado Plateau, and the thin extended crust of the Basin and Range Province that reaches across Arizona, Nevada and eastern California. When the crust stretches and breaks, pressure is released in the Earth's mantle below, allowing partial melting of the hot pliable rock. The resulting magma follows the fault zones to the surface. Between 1.8 million and just 1,300 years ago, at least 150 eruptions took place in the vicinity of the western Grand Canyon, covering 600 square miles, forming the Uinkaret Volcanic Field.

Most importantly, at least 13 of these flows spilled over the edge of the canyon and filled the canyon bottom. Vulcan, the fire god, had built his own version of Bureau of Reclamation dams. They weren't small dams. They were hundreds of feet high, and one topped out at least 2,500 feet (Glen Canyon Dam is 710 feet tall). It was the remnants of these lava flows and lava dams that surrounded us as we floated down the river. It was the first time I had seen these rocks. I was mesmerized (yes, we geologists are a strange lot).

What's even more incredible are the lakes that formed behind the dam. The largest dam formed a lake that backed the river up into Utah. If it happened today, the lava dam lake would inundate Lake Powell. It would make for a long hard rafting journey, but the rapid at the end would have been memorable...

Even more mysterious would be how the lakes met their end. It's still the subject of some research, but evidence suggests that at least five of the lava dams failed catastrophically, collapsing and ending the lake in days rather than years. What kind of evidence? The most compelling would be river deposits containing basalt boulders 115 feet across. How do you move boulders that big?

The amount of water unleashed on the lower canyon by such a failure is almost unimaginable. A modest 'fake' flood produced by releasing water from Glen Canyon Dam up the river might involve flows of 40-45,000 cubic feet per second. The largest historically recorded flood (in 1884) produced flows of about 300,000 cfs. A researcher has found evidence of a flood of 400,000 cfs around 4,000 years ago. Estimates of major floods during the Pleistocene ice ages range in the vicinity of a million cubic feet per second.

The collapse of a 1,500 foot tall lava dam may have produced a flood of 15 million cubic feet per second. That's more than 30 times larger than the biggest flood ever recorded on the Mississippi River. That's how you move 115 foot boulders.

Pictures of gigantic floods filled my imagination as we drifted past lava flow after lava flow. At first, the most vivid outcrops were the flows that had spilled over the rim in the vicinity of Lava Falls and Whitmore Wash. As we floated downstream, the basalt flows tracked along the river, forming low cliffs that went on for miles. The longest flows traveled more than sixty miles down the river bed.

In places the lava flows were thick enough to develop columnar jointing, similar to places like Devils Postpile in California or the Giant's Causeway in Ireland. The columns form when the lava flow pools and then contracts while it cools. The contraction causes the vertical fractures to develop, and they characteristically form hexagonal columns or sometimes rosettes. All in all, the day had been fascinating.

Lava wasn't the only feature of the day. At Whitmore Wash we had a chance to hike up to some interesting pictographs on a sandstone panel a few hundred feet above the river.

 The view up the river was fantastic...

We camped at the very creatively named 202 Mile Camp. While I was cooking, my nephew came up to report that the bank of the river was collapsing. I wandered down to have a look and found that an underwater slide was causing large slabs of sand to be pulled towards the river, forming a large arcuate landslide scarp. After seeing a gigantic normal fault to begin the day, it was interesting to see a small-scale version of the same kind of faulting along the riverbank. The little collapsed block in the center would be called a graben.

The slide ultimately ate up a lot of the shoreline, more than 30 feet, and it was clear that a lot of sand was being lost to the deeper part of the river channel. Ever since the floodgates of Glen Canyon Dam closed in 1963, sand has been disappearing along all the shorelines of the river. There have been a few attempts to produce artificial floods that have temporarily moved sand back onto the beaches, but without the sand that is now trapped in Lake Powell, the beaches are going to continue to disappear.

At the end of the day, the moon made an appearance. It was the first we had seen of it on pretty much the entire trip. I had enjoyed seeing the Milky Way each night, and the moon would have obscured many of the stars, but it was nice to see the beautiful crescent setting over the basalt cliffs.

With the last of the twilight, I hit the sack, realizing we were down to our final two days on the river. Our takeout at Diamond Creek was only 24 miles downstream.