Listening to Desert Voices

By Gary Lee Parker
Outdoor Columnist
 Note: This is the latest in a series of first-person articles by Vernal resident Gary Lee Parker who writes about the outdoors and the area's rich history. There are lizards everywhere. Scampering about on their tiny legs like miniature all-terrain vehicles who've lost their riders and are loose on the dunes; Scaly little cold-blooded snakes with legs, warming themselves in dappled sunspots across the rocky slope.

A large and lethargic patriarch breaks away from the herd, craning his plump head over a nearby ledge for a good, long look at me, curiously cautious.

His tan scales glisten in the sunlight with a silvery sheen, and he looks to be slyly smiling, as if he knows.

I'm certain he does.

The sandy floor of the little cavern I stand before is pocked with the conical depressions of the ant lion; hundreds of them, each the private hunting ground of the next creature up the food chain from the lowly ant.

But the ants seem unaware, and dozens of six-legged multi-noded creatures scurry among the traps as though they simply don't exist. None are captured as I watch, but the ant lions must feed well, considering their numbers.

I look up, and my lizard friend is still there, still watching. Silently.

Autumn is in the air, and a cool breeze blows up from the Green River and through the arroyo I'm ascending, chilling me pleasantly.

The turning leaves speckle the ground with golden pools of shimmering light, and I dance among them in a winding arc up the wash, watching for life, and listening.

Listening to the desert voices.

And they do speak to me, though not aloud. Rather, they whisper to my soul, an inner voice of calm and reason; a voice of rustic joy.

It's not just my location. All deserts speak to those who listen. But it probably helps that I'm walking along the Desert Voices Nature Trail, a two and a half mile round-trip looping trek along a beautiful interpretive trail, near the mouth of Split Mountain, that winds up a dry wash to the west, twisting among massive slabs of sunburned slickrock and along the twisting turns of the runoff channel.

A thin stringy snake slithers out of my way a short distance into the wash, then another lizard darts into the oily brush. Massive cottonwood trees arch overhead, their leathery bark peeling away in large chunks, sloughing off entirely in places, and I linger in their gentle shade among tufts of amber flowers.

Behind me rises the massive sandstone face of Split Mountain, towering over the northeast ridge in its tawny glory, decked with puffy white fall clouds that cast mottling shadows across its craggy crest.

I stop at each interpretive signpost to read and learn, and learn I do.

I learn of waste decomposition in arid environments and the problems humans are creating for their future generations. I learn of the root-holes in the hillside and the squirrels who make them their homes.

I learn of desert evaporation rates and semi-arid climates, and of sandbars in the Green River made of silt from this very wash.

I'm reminded of the delicate nature of the cryptosoils in the area, and of desert hiking etiquette; of the mariposa lily and the berries of the juniper bush; of desert vandalism and plant adaptations.

Each stop feeds my mind and rests my feet.

Walking along this dusty red route is settling. With the onset of fall the crowds have left the Monument for other pursuits – school, work, and warmer climes – and the trail is empty. The interpretive signs, both a set for adults and a set for children, educate and inspire those who venture here. The elongated autumn shadows soften the setting and sooth the soul. And the crisp air carries on it the scent of musty earth and cooling waters.

As I turn up the hillside toward a narrow gap in the canyon wall, following the winding path through rippled slabs of ancient stone, I look back at the scene below, and sigh. The painted hills, streaked with crimson and gold, stripe the far valley.

Far below I trace the line of the wash along a narrow strip of trees until it disappears between the cliffs on its way to the mighty Green.

Miniature versions of the lizards of the valley floor scoot through the low brush at the trail's edge, their tiny tails skimming the sandy desert surface in their wake.

I'm reluctant now to give up my time here. I'm reluctant to give up the long summer days, the easy warm hours on the trails of the Uintah Basin, the afternoons spent climbing among the domed peaks of the High Uinta Mountains.

Winter brings its own trove of treasures and delights. But, for me, just for now, I think I'll hold onto summer for one more day. Then, perhaps, I'll be ready to move on...
 The Road:
From Vernal, travel east on highway 40 as it turns south through Naples, then east to Jensen. In Jensen, turn north on highway 149 (S. 9500 E.) toward Dinosaur National Monument (Follow the signs). Enter Dinosaur National Monument and follow the main road past the visitor center. Approximately three miles past the visitor center and quarry entrance road, turn north (left) toward the Green River Campground. Park at the campground parking area. The trailhead is just to the west (left) of the boat-ramp, near the main road.
 The Details:
This is high desert country, nearly a mile above sea level. It is usually dry, and is very hot in the summer months. Pace yourself, as the oxygen is thinner at this altitude. Bring plenty of water, as none is available along the trail. Bring sunscreen, even in winter, and sunglasses. A season-appropriate hat is advisable also, for use as a sunblock or for warmth in winter. Wear appropriate clothing, and bring extra layers for winter travel. In winter months, entrance to the national monument is free and solitude abounds. During the summer there is a monument entrance fee. This area is home to bobcats, mountain lions, pygmy rattlesnakes, and scorpions. Be aware that this is their home, and be cautious and courteous. And listen to the voices. Sometimes, the desert speaks.