Day 7: Bryce Canyon and Kanab, UT

The Red Canyon was an unexpected jewel on the road to Bryce Canyon. We stopped at a viewpoint and were able to walk along the natural crushed red rock paths that had no doubt been carved out by other trekkers. We were so up close and personal with the iron rich red rock, we could hug the hoodoos.

But Bryce Canyon was breathtaking. There is nothing like the rugged beauty of British Columbia’s Fraser Canyon in a rain forest sort of way. But Bryce has an exotic almost indescribable beauty. But, I’ll try - to describe it, that is. Pillars of varying intensities of red, orange and yellow known as hoodoos shoot out of the red mountainside, each telling its own story of the fault shifts, water, and wind that have brought them into being. Every turn of the road and every scenic outlook presented a different vista. Striated cliffs overhang deep gorges sprouting with scrub pines. Boulders sit impossibly atop conical monuments and foretell their eventual topple into the canyon below. Caravans of horses can be seen strolling along the natural red rock paths that weave throughout the valleys, gorges and cliffs.

Even if one were a non-believer, one would have to consider the talent and power of the Sculptor that could create this 2500 foot deep sculpture garden purely for our enjoyment; I can’t think of any other reason for its existence.

I learned something about myself today: high altitude and I don’t agree. We had climbed to 9,115 feet by the time we reached the end of the road and the final lookout over Bryce Canyon. By that time, I felt tightness in my chest and I was light headed. Walking even a short distance, particularly uphill made me short of breath. These are probably fairly common reactions to altitude but I have taken the Himalayas off my bucket list.

We left Bryce Canyon quite late in the day but decided to head south toward the Grand Canyon and stop for the night along the way. We chose Kanab, Utah. But, once again, there was almost no room at any inn. It’s quite possible we got the last room in town. We are staying in an Atco style trailer that resembles a school portable. But we feel quite fortunate not to be sleeping in the car.

Sometimes you meet the most colourful people in the oddest places in small towns such as Kanab, UT. We decided we would like some wine with our in-room dinner but the liquor store closed about 15 minutes before we got there. Unlike most other states, wine is only sold in liquor stores in Utah. But Kanab is only about 3 minutes from Arizona. So we made a run for the Arizona border. About 100 meters from the border was a free standing liquor store. It was half in darkness but there was an “Open” sign in the window. It was stifling inside and smelled of something unpleasant mixed with wet dog. It was a long narrow gloomy room, and was so cluttered with boxes of papers and other flotsam and jetsam it was hard to tell what was for sale. At the end of a long row of miscellany and a short counter sat an old woman with long grey hair half in rollers. She welcomed us with a smile full of crooked teeth. We told her that we were looking for a bottle wine and she gave us the price of the one we chose. (There were no prices on the bottles so she may have been charging whatever price suited the type of day she had had). She didn’t move from her chair. She told us that she doesn’t come in very early - nobody needs to drink at 10’clock in the morning – but she stays very, very, late. There was limited selection, but, by way of what was probably her best marketing technique, she told us that she also had some Yellow Tail – in a box – up front. She still didn’t move from her seat. Another customer came into the shop and wanted two bottles of vodka. The old woman pointed to the shelf above her head and said to him, “Do you want to get that?”   

When we left with our two bottles of wine, we had the distinct impression that she had arrived around noon, turned on the lights over the book she was reading and there she sat until closing which was very, very, late.

 Until tomorrow . . . .