January 2018 | In Lieu of Postcards

Forgotten Places: Green River, Utah

Towns in decline can tell us a lot about who we were and who we’re becoming.

Small Towns in Decline

I have a fascination with forgotten places, particularly faded small towns. I’m not referring to ghost towns, which are much more rare. Faded small towns that still have people and life and schools and community and businesses, but they’re towns that once were something bigger and more prosperous, and they must wear their decline on their sleeves. They’re towns for which vacancy is a fact of daily life.

One thing I learned growing up in a larger version of one of these towns is that it costs more to demolish something than to let it sit empty. So all around my hometown of Galesburg, IL (which is currently doing okay but, like many towns of its size, declined in the latter half of the twentieth century and was walloped by factory closings in the ’80s and ’90s) there are empty buildings, shuttered and dusty. Some have stood, silently the same, since my early childhood. Their hopes seem to dim just a tiny bit each year, like they’re still awaiting the return of long-gone inhabitants.

Small towns all over the United States are currently in decline due to a number of factors: a loss of manufacturing jobs due to outsourcing and automation, a generational shift away from small communities and toward more urban areas, and the fact that national corporations and online retailers have taken the place once held by local mom-and-pop shops. I’m not here to romanticize the very real economic hard times that small towns face, but I do like to look for the beauty in these forgotten places. Empty storefronts and neighborhoods tell us about a town’s past and the people that have lived there. And the parts of the community that remain vital tell us about what the town is becoming, and how it reconciles the past and the future.

Green River, Utah

Our drive from Canyonlands National Park to Cedar City, Utah was one of the most beautiful – perhaps the most beautiful – I’ve ever taken. Each mile seems to bring more unusual redrock formations: spires, canyons, and mesas. It’s totally desolate, with no services for miles but a number of scenic viewpoints, an acknowledgement that sometimes you’ve just gotta pull off and take it all in. There are few towns along this route, but for lunch we chose Green River, Utah as our stop. And I’m glad we did.

Green River is a prime example of one of those forgotten places that I’ve always found so intriguing. According to the town’s Wikipedia page, Green River was one of the pass-through areas of the Old Spanish Trail trade route in the mid-1800s. In 1876, it became a river crossing for U.S. mail and evolved into a popular stop for travelers. A railroad boom helped grow the town until 1892, when operations moved elsewhere. But the second boom in Green River – the one we see remnants of today – came in the mid-twentieth century, when uranium mining brought more prosperity to the town. In the 1960s, an Air Force missile launch facility was also established, and the population reached its peak during that decade. But once the mining industry dried up, the population dropped to around 900, where it sits today.

Currently, most of the town’s economy mostly rests on the shoulders of I-70, as it caters to travelers and truckers, as well as mountain bikers (the town is a popular freeride spot). There’s also a natural gas field nearby. The town is quiet but friendly, and by necessity welcoming to outsiders.

Forgotten Places : Poem inscribed on another abandoned storefront in Green River, Utah — Poem inscribed on another abandoned storefront in Green River, Utah

Storefront Poetry

Downtown Green River has a large number of empty businesses, sprinkled casually between a few still-open restaurants and shops. Many of these are fairly well-preserved, with old signage still intact, offering a nice little slice of the past. The most inspiring thing I saw during my short visit to Green River was a poem someone had written in the window of an abandoned storefront. Composed by an unknown author, it reads:

Sitting on the river’s edge
The smell of driftwoo
(Not exactly driftwood; drift sticks
washed ashore from a recent
rain & subsequent flood).

Muddy water.

Sun sets behind the butte
Slowly, like when you sit [cut off]
bathtub and let [cut off]
drain, lying still, [cut off]
In small pulses as it drains
Pulling you down, increasing
gravity, pulling away the weight
of sadness, getting chilly but
also still warm on the bottom
half of you, if split longways.

It’s a small, personal poem. Maybe not a masterpiece, but way more moving than something I expected to read on the papered-over window of a shuttered business.

The Place for Everyone

I can only imagine there are many other such instances of subtle beauty in Green River, one of Utah’s forgotten places. Though I only spent about an hour there, I sensed something special in this town.

We spent most of our time in Green River at Ray’s Tavern (slogan: “the place for everyone”), one of a few local eateries, with a charmingly brief menu featuring burgers and fries, beer and wine (a selection of various Franzias, naturally), steaks, chops, and apple pie.

After devouring our burgers, it was time for us to hit the highway. But Green River and its mysterious faded charm remained on my mind. It’s one of the many small towns in this great big country that seems easy to ignore, but deserves a second look.

SaveSave

Awe & Tranquility in Canyonlands National Park, Utah

Winter at Canyonlands is beyond peaceful.

The toughest thing about taking a road trip throughout Utah is that there’s not enough time, a fact that became especially apparent on day two, when we visited both Arches and the expansive Canyonlands National Park. To thoroughly explore even the southern half of the state would take months, some heavy-duty climbing equipment, an all-terrain vehicle, and some guts. My husband and I? We had a week, minimal hiking experience, and a 13-year-old Volvo. But even with only about a day in the Moab area, we caught glimpses of magic. And we promised ourselves we’d be back.

First Things First: Diner Love in Moab

The day started, of course, in our cozy room at the Big Horn Lodge in Moab, from where we adjourned to the connected Moab Grill. The place was fairly busy for a Wednesday morning in a half-empty town, and we were surrounded by what appeared to be locals carbo-loading on their way to do some sort of manual labor or another. After I helped myself to a delicious plate of corned beef hash and eggs and we went to pay, none other than the Moab Sheriff came strolling in the door, cracking jokes and greeting the elderly gentlemen drinking coffee at the counter (“And how’s Sheldon today?”) as well as the hostess (“Hi there, Brenda”). I don’t have warm feelings for Sheriffs per se, but it was pretty cute.

Balanced Rock in Arches National Park, Utah. — Balanced Rock at Arches National Park, Utah.

The north window at Arches National Park, Utah.

A Few More Hours in Arches

Having not see quite enough of Arches National Park to satisfy ourselves, we drove back in the morning, figuring we’d get a little more time in before departing for Canyonlands National Park. Arches, after all, contains the largest concentration of natural arches in the country – more than 2,000, formed from red sandstone deposited around 150 million years ago – and each is uniquely breathtaking. The scenic drive throughout the park offers views of countless cleverly-named formations, though we decided to take the brief hikes to just the Windows and Balanced Rock. Though it was still icy and fairly frigid, it was a nice, clear morning to stroll around a bit. There were not many others out, and a feeling of quiet hung over the park.

Sitting along the edge of the north window and taking in the remarkable view of the park’s outskirts, it was easy for me to understand why Arches is one of the country’s most popular National Parks. I was certainly glad we came in the offseason, however, as the sheer volume of spring and summer visitors would make it an entirely different experience. Crowds have also put Arches in danger: these landforms are not impervious to wear and tear from visitors. And while most people try to do as little harm as possible to the landscape, there is always an idiot or two who insists on climbing all over the rocks, despite the many signs forbidding this (as we unfortunately witnessed at Balanced Rock). The NPS is currently working on solutions to curb the crowd issues, but for now I’d certainly recommend visiting in winter, weather conditions permitting.

I would have loved to spend more time at Arches, particularly to see the petroglyph panel near Wolfe Ranch. But we had to be in Cedar City that evening, and we wanted to check out the comparatively mysterious Canyonlands. So off we went.

Island in the Sky, the most accessible part of Canyonlands National Park.

Canyonlands National Park: For Three Levels of Bravery

Canyonlands National Park, though far bigger than Arches (its canyons and mesas stretch over 527 miles), is less iconic for a reason: it’s nearly impossible to capture in photographs. While still popular, its size and layout allows it to weather the impact of crowds better than Arches. The park is divided into three parts: Island in the Sky, The Needles, and The Maze.

If I had the right gear, the determination, and the time, I’d go for the latter two. The Needles requires lengthy hiking and/or driving on rough roads, but offers incredible views of the colorful Cedar Mesa Spires and prehistoric petroglyphs. And The Maze is the most intriguing of all, so named due to its extremely limited accessibility. The Canyonlands NPS site warns that visitors rarely spend fewer than three days in The Maze, simply because it takes so much effort to get into and back out of. But this remoteness is key, as it offers protection from the kind of degradation Arches is suffering. Horseshoe Canyon, the most famous part of The Maze, houses some of the most notable and well-preserved prehistoric rock art in the country, including the Great Gallery, a detailed panel featuring both petroglyphs and pictographs of human figures.

Due to our short time frame, our two-wheel drive, and the season, we saw only Island in the Sky, which has paved roads, a number of scenic overlooks, and perhaps the park’s most famous trail, Mesa Arch.

Silent, Vast, and Beautiful

To say that Island in the Sky is simply third-best ignores its incredibly still, vast, staggering beauty. Even the drive out from Moab to the Island in the Sky entrance offers a meditative experience. While Arches is practically in town, the entrance to Canyonlands only appears after driving miles of empty, Mesa-lined roads. Cell service is gone in a heartbeat. Man-made structures of any kind and even livestock quickly disappear from the landscape. For miles it is just you and your thoughts, framed by jagged red rock as far as the eye can see.

Our first stop was Mesa Arch, to which there is a fairly easy trail (with a few ups and downs). This is the most classically picturesque spot in Island in the Sky, and the view through the arch reminded me of an ancient city, the spires of the canyon like precariously built castles and fortresses.

Island in the Sky also offers a series of overlooks (the view from one pictured at the top of this article). On this particular cold, sunny Wednesday, there were few visitors, so we were able to have some overlooks completely to ourselves. One of my favorite memories of our trip is standing stock-still next to my husband at Grand View overlook, trying and failing to take it all in, hearing nothing but the soft, flapping wings of the occasional raven circling overhead.

The experience we had at Canyonlands is difficult to describe and even harder to photograph. My advice is simply to go yourself, and be present in it – to look, listen and feel, to breathe the air and hear the silence.

Sources:

https://www.nps.gov/arch/learn/historyculture/people.htm

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/national-parks/arches-national-park/

SaveSave

SaveSaveSaveSave

SaveSave

Winter Adventure in Arches National Park, Utah

Braving the ice and avoiding the crowds at Arches in the off-season

Utah: The Quintessential Western State

Growing up, I was pretty naive about the American West, picking up associations as I went from pop culture. I knew there were giant cacti and Joshua trees, mesas and red dirt, canyons and tumbleweeds, retro roadside motels and diners galore. I didn’t really know what was where, but I knew I wanted to go someday.

My first adult journey west of the Mississippi (not counting the distinctly non-western state of Iowa) was, at age 22, to New Mexico, a state that appealed to me but of which I was utterly ignorant. I was hosted by my then-boyfriend (now-husband), who grew up in Albuquerque, and I prepared to be wowed by the Land of Enchantment. I was picturing big mesas, red rocks and canyons of the type featured in Looney Tunes – but my bubble was burst. “That’s Utah,” he explained to me gently. And before I could even ask, he added, “and real roadrunners are small and brown.”

New Mexico did turn out to be as enchanting as advertised, but that’s a story for another post. What took me by surprise back then is that Utah — a state I hadn’t given much consideration — was actually the quintessential Western state. Thanks to the large number of classic western movies filmed there (those that inspired the iconic Looney Tunes backgrounds), when we imagine the “American West,” most of us will, by default, picture Utah.

Fast-foward 12 years, and I still hadn’t been to this mystery state. So when we were planning our recent winter break, my husband and I decided it was finally time. We would already be in relatively nearby Crested Butte, Colorado, where his parents had rented a cabin for New Year’s weekend. Why not take off from there, we thought, and embark upon a weeklong road trip through the heart of Western fantasies? There was the question of weather — we weren’t quite sure if we would regret venturing out in our 2-wheel-drive Volvo, given the January potential for ice and snow. But the forecast was clear, so off we went.

Ice-Hiking in Arches National Park

Our first stop was Moab, where we planned to spend parts of two days exploring what little we could of both Arches National Park and Canyonlands National Park. We rolled in around 2:30 p.m. – just enough time to see a bit of Arches before it got dark (which happened at about 4:30, it being January 2nd and all). After stopping at the Visitor’s Center (one of my favorite National Park activities), we set out on the scenic drive up to Delicate Arch, that most iconic of formations. I’ll admit I felt like a bit of a cliche going right for the money shot. But if Utah feels strongly enough about Delicate Arch to put it on their license plate, we figured we’d better lay eyes on it before sundown.

The beauty of Arches National Park in a winter dusk.

There are a number of ways to see Delicate Arch: two different viewpoint areas and a hike. We briefly considered the viewpoints, but we had been in the car all day and the weather was a balmy 40 degrees. “Let’s do the hike!” we said. The sign at the trailhead warned the hike was “difficult,” but the fact that we saw all manner of people on the return trail – children, the elderly, dudes in athletic shorts and young women in inappropriate footwear – we figured it couldn’t be that bad. We’re not avid hikers, but we’re in reasonably good shape. How bad could it be?

Truthfully, it wasn’t that bad. It is truly a strenuous hike, with a particularly lung-busting climb up a never-ending stretch of sheetrock and a final ascent up a gravelly cliff-edge to the arch, but it’s just 3 miles roundtrip. The issue – a drawback, I suppose, to visiting in winter – was the ice. The steep section leading to the arch was completely coated in the stuff, a fact that boggled my mind when I thought about all the people I had seen returning from the trail, including an elderly man carrying an enormous tripod. Had they turned back before reaching the arch, or simply scrambled their way up – and back – somehow?

The most insidious element of the situation was that but the time the ice became a problem, we were so close – you’d have to be truly terrified to turn back at that point. So we soldiered on at a snail’s pace, watching a number of the people around us (this time of year, the park was particularly popular with German, Chinese, Korean, and Japanese tourists, which made for a cool, sort of international experience) falling frequently in a cartoonish, leg-flailing style. My palms started to sweat and I clung to the boulders at my side, imagining the various ways I might slip and slide off the edge, just another footnote in one of those books about people who fall off of cliffs in National Parks (they have those). My story would be sold in the gift shop.

Sign warning of ice on Arches trails. — Actual footage of us on the Delicate Arch trail. Unfortunately, this sign was posted on a different trailhead – one that wasn’t icy at all.

Reader, we did make it to the top, where I observed the breathtaking arch (pictured at the top of this page), lightly snowed-upon and glorious, before a cloud-streaked blue sky. We stood for a few minutes, watching much smarter people than us strap on their crampons (duh! taunted the voice in my head, unhelpfully), and looked at each other. “We have to go back down,” my husband said regretfully, “before it gets dark.”

I have what I consider a minor fear of heights – nothing life-altering, but when I get close to, say, the slippery edge of something, my hands start to go clammy. I solved this problem on a 2016 trip to Ireland’s Skellig Michel (a subject for another post), by using a tactic suggested by the island’s intimidating UNESCO agent: “A lot of people just sit and scoot down the steps that way,” he said, no hint of a smile whatsoever. “There’s no shame in that.” As it turned out, there was in fact a fair bit of shame in that. But shame is preferable to ending up in a book about National Parks deaths, so down I sat for the second time in my life, scooting along the most treacherous parts of the trail, staggering to my feet, and repeating until I’d cleared the hairiest bits.

I couldn’t understand why no one else on the trail was taking this approach, as I witnessed at least 50 percent of them – my husband included – falling hard like amateur figure skaters. Pre-emptive falling seemed to me a superior solution – but it didn’t to others. During my brief scooting phase, I fended off help and pity from a number of strangers, who implored me to take their hands, to lean on them, even though moments earlier I was sure I’d seen them flailing, arms in a windmill pattern. I wasn’t about to take anyone over the edge with me, thank you very much. So I assumed the role of Trail Loser, prompting worried murmuring and the shaking of heads. Say what you will, but I went home bruise-free and merely a little damp, which not even some of the well-cramponed could claim.

A Peaceful Dusk in the Park

It was then that we came to my favorite part of any hike: the descent. My husband and I were both giddy after our icy escapade, so happy to be on familiar, less slippery ground that we could actually enjoy our surroundings. The sky was already darkening, casting a dark blue light on the snowy terrain surrounding us. While there were still some people on the trail with us, they were growing fewer and fewer. Winter in Arches National Park feels peaceful, vast and, in the dark, somewhat alive, the shadows of mesas, arches and other redrock formations looming like mystical creatures or fairy tale castles. Despite our harrowing hike, I was instantly glad we had come at this time of year, with smaller crowds, less heat, and the chance to see the beautiful sunset light play across the snow.

The Big Horn Lodge in Moab, Utah: a decent night's rest and a great sign. — The Big Horn Lodge in Moab, Utah: a decent night’s rest and a great sign.

We’d be back in the morning to explore more, so on still-shaky legs, we checked into the charming Big Horn Lodge for the night, stopped by the delightful hole-in-the-wall El Charro Loco for delicious enchilada platters, and went to sleep knowing there were more adventures in store.

I’ve got more to say about Arches National Park and Moab in my next post. Stay tuned!

Specifics

Hike: The Delicate Arch is trail is 3 miles round trip, and it is categorized as “difficult” by the National Park Service. Take a look at the official Arches National Park page (which we failed to read) for details before embarking.

Eat: El Charro Loco, Moab is a delightful hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint that seems to be popular with both locals and tourists. There are not a lot of really good, cheap places to eat in Moab, so even though you may have to wait for a table, it’s worth it.

Sleep: For its low off-season prices and retro charm, we chose the Big Horn Lodge in Moab for our accommodations. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean, comfortable, and has a great diner attached (featured in my next post). In winter, rooms start around $60/night.

SaveSave

A Love of Travel…and Where It Comes From

There is something about travel that quenches some essential human thirst — to understand the lives of others, to see the earth that we live in and exploit, to experience the truly novel, to feel uncomfortable and awed and like the most rock-solid version of oneself.

A Childhood of Road Trips

I’ve had a love of travel for as long as I can remember. I think one reason for this is that I’ve always felt I’ve had multiple homes. My father is a professor, and with the academic life comes uprootedness: my parents, both from eastern Pennsylvania, moved to a small town in Illinois before I was born and, despite initial misgivings, remain there to this day. For me as a child, this meant lots of road trips “back east.” Every summer (and some winter holidays), we would load up in the car for the one-and-half-day’s drive to Mountain Top, PA, the tiny town near Scranton where my maternal grandparents lived, tucked away up a steep road in the Appalachian mountains. I loved these trips, and the regular contact with relatives far away made me feel not-quite-midwestern, but not-quite-northeastern, either. Though my home was in Illinois, I never remember feeling completely owned by it, always aware of the fact that it is possible have roots all over.

These early road trips meant a lot to me. I loved the chance to go to a different place — to breathe different air, see new landscapes, and be someone just a little bit different. But I also loved the journey itself. My family became pros at the road trip: we would compile bags full of travel games, books, and magazines, load up a cooler with a picnic lunch (bologna and cheese with a mustard happy face, please), and crank up the oldies radio. We’d play wiffle ball at rest stops and splash in the hotel pool — no matter how rinky-dink. Though my brother and I would have our occasional backseat squabbles, and certainly, things went wrong, I can’t remember much of that now. My memories focus on the bliss of being on the road.

One of the things I loved best about traveling was what one might call roadside Americana: truck stops and rest areas; motels, hotels, and lodges; the people, signs, and oddities that flew by the window. When I was only six years old, we took the quintessential Americana road trip, a journey across the western U.S., taking in the Badlands, Mount Rushmore, the Corn Palace, Yellowstone National Park, and a multitude of other things I can’t specifically remember, but which left an impression on me. I recall a big horn sheep perched on the edge of a mountain, aisles of glorious kitsch at Wall Drug, the unfamiliar and thrilling sights, sounds, and smells.

The degree of adventure, however, was beside the point: We went a number of exciting places, like Walt Disney World and New York City, but I never lost my love for that familiar summer road trip, through the flat plains of Indiana to the Cross Country Inn in Toledo, Ohio to the quirky Appalachia of my parents’ hometowns. The trappings of the road were everywhere, and they were enough to satisfy me.

The Magic of Study Abroad

Photo from my semester in Ireland, 2004, which contributed to my love of travel. — One of the few non-blurry photos from my semester in Ireland, 2004. This was taken on Inis Mór, in the Aran Islands.

If those summer road trips were the first way travel changed my life, then the second was the semester I spent in Dublin, Ireland as a junior in college. I had been to Ireland once previously to visit my brother on his study abroad, and briefly to France on a class trip, but that had been the extent of my international travel. My semester in Dublin was a revelation. Difficult at first (and I should note that I wrote a whole essay about this experience for proFmagazine.com), the semester turned into the best of my life. I grew up that semester, came into my own, fell in love with my now-husband, and fell in love with both Ireland and Europe. After a period of poverty and graduate school (don’t they always go hand-in-hand), I was able to go back, and have since been lucky enough to travel more in Europe — particularly Italy.

I realize that my stories are not unique. There is something about travel, whether it’s a simple day trip or an international adventure, that quenches some essential human thirst — to understand the lives of others, to see the earth that we live in and exploit, to experience the truly novel, to feel uncomfortable and awed and like the most rock-solid version of oneself.

Why Write a Blog?

As a writer, I’d never before thought about writing a “travel blog” — one reason for this is that I never considered myself that much of a traveler. Sure, I traveled more than most people, but constricted as I was by a full-time job, I couldn’t be constantly on-the-go, nor could I spent long periods of time away from home. But in 2016, I realized it was time for a change, and transitioned from my full-time university job to a life of freelancing and teaching (more thoughts on that here). My husband is an Art History professor with summers free and many opportunities for travel, and we decided the small hit to our income was worth it for the sheer flexibility of my new career. And it has been 100% worth it, not least because I’ve made travel a central component of my life, and I haven’t looked back, traveling for work (teaching study abroad students), to visit friends and to simply see as much of the world as I can on my limited budget.

I share my love of travel today with college students, leading study abroad trips in Italy. — With our study abroad group in Napoli, learning about the mafia, 2017.

In Lieu of Postcards won’t necessarily be your typical travel blog, however. While I do travel frequently, my husband and I don’t live the #vanlife that’s so popular these days, that nomadic existence of life constantly on the road. We are middle-class people with jobs and responsibilities, after all. I see this blog as an outlet for my writing, not simply to document the places I’ve been and the experiences I’ve had there (though it will certainly be that). I’d like to explore travel and wanderlust more deeply, as states of mind. I plan to supplement the travelogue model (went here, did that) with investigations of the quirks of places I visit, their history, and the attendant pop cultural and literary associations that whirl around in my thoughts. I’m not a mountain climber, a gear-head, or much of a foodie (though like any traveler worth her salt, I appreciate good cuisine — and good puns), and you won’t see me striking meticulously glamorous poses or doing yoga on the edge of a cliff (spoiler alert: I fear cliff-edges). To summarize: I hope to write a blog that’s not just navel-gazing but thought-provoking, not aspirational (did I mention I don’t have much money?) but simply interesting — and perhaps occasionally inspirational — to readers out there who also love travel, whether it’s just a few hours or half a world away.

Did I scare you away with my long-winded thoughts? If not, I hope you’ll consider visiting me here from time to time, whenever that wanderlust mood strikes.

SaveSave