Elizabeth Rose - Desperate Times on the Mormon Tundra; photos by Elizabeth Rose; click on photos below to enlarge
Passing fewer and fewer In-N-Out Burgers, adult toy stores and drive thru wedding chapels, my fiancé and I watch the jostling electric chaos that is Las Vegas slip into the dust of our tiny rented excuse for a car.

The 100 or so desolate yellow miles to the Utah border offer little aside from the thrill of the open road and Wal-Mart oases, but soon my pulse quickens as we begin gaining elevation.

We reach Bryce Canyon National Park, a tiny green streak on the Utah map that would leave an immeasurable impression on us. Shinny new park pass in hand, we approach the gate with anticipation-fueled grins. But, upon rolling down the window, a blast of artic air momentarily dampens our enthusiasm.

“It’s going to be very cold tonight,” a matronly park ranger informs us, smiling as though delivering her bit of painfully obvious knowledge in a sweet, grandmotherly fashion would help keep us warm. “Lows down around 30.”

Apparently there are thousands of feet of elevation change between our last stop in Zion and Bryce, a crucial fact that I’d overlooked when preparing for this leg of our journey. But it’s day two of our three-state 1,800-mile outdoor odyssey across the Colorado Plateau and there is no time for getting cold feet.

Parked at the canyon rim for a peek at our tomorrow’s playground, we emerge from the car, eagerly imaging the natural wonders waiting below. “Holy crap” is the only semi-respectable phrase that comes close to describing this moment. A shock wave of bone-chilling wind assaults us – rubbing in the painful fact that we neglected to pack coats, thermals or any of our handy dandy cold-weather gear sitting at home the in closet.

A Russian couple strolls by, leisurely as if walking down a Carolina beach at sunset. For some odd and unknown reason we are like a globe trotting magnet for Ruskie travelers. Our last run-in was on the top of Mt. Sinai, where a whole busload of them invaded our peaceful personal space at sunrise. I foam at the mouth, rabidly eyeing their furry hats and downy parkas. They seem extremely confused as to why we are dressed for early fall on the southern AT and not mid-September in the Mormon Tundra. They smile with pity, thinking, “I guess they didn’t get the memo.”

OK, there’s the canyon. Good stuff – now let’s go. No honey, no photos now. We must seek shelter and stockpile wood. It’s time to swallow our pride and succumb to the overpriced park store for more provisions. Only two bushels of $5 firewood left? We’ll take them. Ridiculously cold pizza and shriveled hot dogs that are half price after sitting there for 8 hours – we’ll take them too. Shabby fleece mittens for $18? Oh yes please, those too.

With nightfall nipping at our heels, we pitch the tent, pile on all layer-able articles of clothing and start dinner. Cooking duty is split into shifts, so the off-duty soul can hover by the fire. I nearly ignite my hands and feet several times, but am admittedly not entirely opposed to the idea. We eat hunched beside each other on our sleeping pads, wrapped head-to-toe in those cheap blankets you buy at interstate gas stations for $9.99. Gulping down deluxe cheese-in-a-pouch macaroni has never brought me as little satisfaction and as much joy as in this pathetically beautiful moment.

Now what? It’s only 9:30 and I long to be sleeping, temporarily evading the elements with unconsciousness. As our meager supply of wood dwindles, we boil water to fill bottles for heaters. Mummified, I hunker down into my Cat’s Meow bag, the only item that I brought that can stand up to the weather. All I can think is, “Please don’t let me have to pee.”

I awake without incident and, thankfully, morning has broken. Oh good, I can still feel all of my appendages. It is still immensely cold, but the apparent warmth of daylight and prospect of new trails quickly buoys the spirits. We eagerly return to the rim to experience this mystical, unforgiving place.

After a mile into the canyon, I gleefully shed two shirts and a pair of pants. We have escaped the crowds and found ourselves on what seems to be another planet. It’s a dramatic landscape whose many faces reflect eons of graceful aging, intricately chiseled by the skillful hands of time. We are like children at our first circus, oohing and aahing at parade of sights and colors. Enchanting hoodoos tower above in unfathomable shapes and sizes – chimneys protruding from some primeval world.

To this day, I’m convinced I can still see snot stains on my over-priced park store mittens. Or maybe it’s just the melted patch where I nearly semi-intentionally engulfed myself in flames to get warm. Either way, I smile and am thankful for the time I get to spend enjoying nature – no matter what befalls me in the process. There is no being a fair-weather fan when it comes to the great outdoors.

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