As we crept through the early morning traffic slowness heading into Salt Lake City, I could not fathom why people subject themselves to this horror on a daily basis. “ Why do all these people live here?” I queried the other occupants of the Durango. Neither Bryan nor David had a good answer, as they had just endured a 4 hour drive over the length of the state which began for all of us at 3am. The effects of 3 cups of coffee on my nervous system had long since moved downward, and as we arrived at the pick up point for the shuttle, I hoped that my fast and purposeful stride into the Sinclair bathroom was not too obvious.
It is amazing that anyone ever finds this place. A non-descript mesa in a no-man’s land of mesa’s so far down in southern Utah, that if you fell off the south side of it you would nearly land in Arizona. But it is the maze of dirt roads that intricately lace the top of the formation that make even finding the trail head a mini adventure. No signs, kiosks, or interpretative placards provide even the slightest clue that you are at the trail head of one of the best rides in the country. Rather it is the condition of the road that limits further motorized travel without tank tracks, as it changes from smooth 2wd gravel to bouldery slickrock 20 feet beyond the few available parking places.