There is an ineffable allure to the desert, showcased in Utah’s town of Moab, where tourists from across the world come to see the strange and almost alien landscape that the desert offers. This landscape recounts a geological story that began millions of years ago and continues to present day, being carried on by weathering and erosion. The Overcast Adventurers had visited Moab before, most notably, when we ventured into the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park to find the towering Druid Arch. This past weekend, thirteen months after our last desert adventure, I decided to return to the Needles District of Canyonlands for more.

After comparing several topographic maps in search of an interesting destination within the Needles District, I noticed one of the three had an ominous landmark: the Thirteen Faces. After some internet research, I learned that these faces were ancient petroglyphs that the National Park Service kept fairly clandestine, not making an appearance on their maps or website. This landmark’s remoteness caught my attention, but the side canyon one need traverse to find it was along a four-wheel-drive road. This road started near the visitor’s center and followed Salt Creek, then branched off and followed an unnamed creek that lead to Horse Canyon. I called the Park Service in an effort to gauge how busy the road might be, and a ranger informed me that the road was temporarily closed to vehicles due to road conditions. This made Horse Canyon considerably less accessible to  those fainter of heart. Without vehicular traffic, my trepidation concerning the hike subsided, and I arrived at the trailhead the next morning, confident and under-prepared.

Setting off, I quickly discovered some of the pros and cons of following the road. Unlike the trails in Canyonlands, the road was made of entirely of sand. This salmon-hued sand underfoot made the way forward arduous. However, few must have known about the road closure, so the sandy toll came with the return of solitude: even on a busy Saturday, I only saw one other person in the twenty-one miles that were to follow. The isolation was sublime but forced me to exercise utmost caution, lest no one hear my cries for help in the event of disorientation or a disgruntled rattlesnake.

The skies were partly cloudy, making for captivating lighting and variable temperature.

Parts of the first several miles of the road had been washed out and flooded by Salt Creek.

This formed tracts of quicksand and was likely why the National Park Service had closed down the road.

A couple miles in, Salt Creek branched off from the road I followed, and in turn, I began following the bone-dry unnamed creek. I sallied forth, the sun raging overhead.

The first designated natural landmark on my map that I encountered was named “Paul Bunyan’s Potty”: a large, horizontal, circular opening in a weathering section of sandstone, some hundred feet above the ground.

For such an impressive geologic feature, it almost felt disappointing it was named for its toilet-like visage. That being said—given the size of the opening—I sure hope Paul Bunyan goes to Costco for his toilet paper. I entered the beginning terminus of Horse Canyon, which was wide and devoid of shade. Hoodoos beckoned the way forward.

The road snaked annoyingly back and forth between the canyon walls, adding mileage.

I was tempted to cut across these bends, but was stopped the presence of delicate, ecologically crucial cryptobiotic soil.

Nestled in an enclave in one of the canyon walls, I found the first of the ancient Puebloan or Fremont ruins I would encounter (both groups of Native American people occupied the Salt Creek area, but I am not knowledgeable enough to differentiate the archeology of the two).

Regardless of their origins, these ruins were well-maintained—maybe because of their proximity to the road—and were likely over seven hundred years old. I continued down the road after taking several photos, eager to see where it would lead next.

Oxidation of iron in the rocks (and sand) had given way to their maroon hues. These maroons and the unsaturated greens of the sagebrush and juniper on the desert floor weren’t the only colors to be found; a keen eye could locate wildflowers in the dry canyon, wonderful specks of vibrant color that provided variability in the palette of the hostile environment.

I passed by Gothic Arch, a small window in the sandstone perched hundreds of feet above and to my east. Its appearance betrayed just how far I was from my objective, and I opted to table my inquisitive tendencies, pick up the pace, and take fewer photos.

I covered several miles in under an hour and eventually found what I thought to be the side canyon I’d bushwhack through to find the faces. No trail lead the way forward from here, so I struggled through the thick underbrush where unforgiving flora scratched my arms and every other step felt like a near-miss with cacti.

I scoured the walls of the side canyon searching for the petroglyphs. I did not find the illustrations, but I stumbled across something else: unmarked and secluded ruins concealed in the wall of the side canyon. While I am certain I am not the first to find these, the difficulty in discovering them leads me to believe they are seldom seen. I have been intentionally vague concerning the location of this side canyon in the event the National Park Service is keeping these (or the petroglyphs) sub rosa, and subsequently won’t include any photos for such circumstance.

How strange to encounter a vestige of someone who lived almost a millennium ago! I spent some additional time probing for the faces, but after six hours in the desert with  temperatures rising and my water vanishing, I knew I needed to turn around.  I retreated to the road, tail between my legs, now heading back. How frustrating: upon later review of my GPS track, it would appear I made it within a hundred feet of the petroglyphs, hindered in finding them only by the too-high, crumbling creek bed walls that governed my path.

The clouds cleared and the temperature turned torrid. Having already traveled thirteen miles on the sand and through thick underbrush, my steps became pained.

My pain can be seen in the photos—moreover, the lack of them. As the temperature surpassed the ninety-degree mark somewhere around mile sixteen, the number of photos I captured didn’t just decrease; I stopped taking them all together, an ominous sign of extreme fatigue. Around mile seventeen, I toppled into the sand in the only bit of shade I could find. My thoughts became jumbled in the desert oven, where, for having bitten off more than I could chew, I was baking my just deserts. I slept in the shade for half an hour. Roused though I was from the rest and cool-down, continuing, I could still feel my mind limping from fatigue to anguish.

All of my being hurt. I drank my remaining water, knowing I had another gallon in my car. From my napping stop, it probably took another three hours to make it back to my car, all of which are a desert-hued blur. I remember the colors of sunset spilling across the hoodoos in the canyon and onto the sandstone walls high above, but it was difficult to appreciate the spectacle. Paranoia of the consequences of being alone and without help rooted itself in the recesses of my mind, but with a grimace that felt permanently etched into my face, I let my modicum of remaining resilience take the reins. Familiar terrain began to appear; I knew I was close. Relief flooded my synapses upon the sight of my Subaru. I carelessly tossed my belongings in the back, collapsed in the driver’s seat, and dozed.

In conclusion: this intense adventure came with reward, but at a great price. Most of our adventures may be ambitious and inherently laden with risk, but it’s only once in a blue moon that they entail unnecessary peril. We learn from our most difficult journeys, and I offer Canyonlands my most humble gratitude for the instruction on my resilience and limits.

Until next time my friends, stay adventurous (and safe)!