Road Trip 2012 Part One: Exfoliation: Home to Grand Canyon

7/14/12: My vacation began at about 7:20 PM on Saturday night.  I was lined up with about 1600 other people at the start line of the Davis MOOnlight Half Marathon.  It was hot and clear; I was tired from a day of final trip preparations.  Also impatient; the race was starting late.  Finally, a countdown, and we headed out.  One hour and about 55 minutes, 13.1 miles, and many, many turns later, I crossed the finish with a good sprint.  I was satisfied with my time given the heat and crowded trails.  My running companions finished; we staggered around the rapidly cooling Davis night, hydrating, eating, stretching, and debriefing our runs.  Home and a final night in my bed. 

MOOnlight Half Marathon medal and recovery items

 7/15/12: A deep stiff sleep, enough to get Trixy packed up and get on the road.  East across the Great Valley to Manteca, then southeast towards Bakersfield.  The day heated rapidly.  The Great Valley is underlain by a thick pile of marine sedimentary rock – muds and sandy landslide deposits - shed from the volcanoes that once capped the granites of the Sierra Nevada.  Today’s Andes Mountains are a pretty good analogue.  These marine rocks are covered by a veneer of yet more sediments – largely terrestrial - shed from today’s Sierra Nevada and its associated halo of metamorphic rocks.  None of this was visible; only the road and numerous towns – Turlock, Merced, Madera, Fresno, Kingsburg, Visalia, Tulare, Earlimart, separated by numerous fields and orchards.  The air was heavy; I felt like I was at the bottom of the Great Valley when it was marine.  I kept drinking water laced with enough coffee to keep me functional.

Finally, Bakersfield; the south end of the Sierra finally looming out of the haze.  Time to turn east and over Tehachapi Pass.  Trixy climbed out of the Valley, transecting us over the southern Sierra tip.  Great Valley sediments, granodiorites (sensu lato), metamorphic rocks, and granite all in various states of deformation sped by in the outcrops.  Tehachapi was bigger than in memory; a Home Depot looming over the road.  Downhill into Cameron Canyon, and suddenly I was in the Mojave: high desert and the western margin of the Basin and Range Province.  Goodbye to the Sierra and anything resembling normal tectonics, i.e., what I’d dare explain to my classes.  Joshua trees dotted the landscape.  The road turned northeast for a while along the Garlock Fault, which offsets the south end of the Sierra Nevada., giving it a sort of geographic tail which extends out to the southwest.  I’d noticed this anomaly in college, and learned the Garlock’s origin at least twice in grad school, but forgotten it each time.  Oh well, the current interpretation is probably different anyway.

East again, past Mojave town (no sign of weird airplanes in the 100 degree heat) and Edwards Air Force Base (ditto) to Barstow, my first stop.  I was beat from the road, the heat, and the half marathon.  It was hard to think, much less pull my tired body out of Trixy.  I forced myself to indulge in a cheap motel to ensure recovery for the rest of the journey.  But gawd, I was in Barstow.  The nexus of I-15 and I-40 was necessary for tomorrow’s travel, but Main Street was full of tired people on the way to somewhere else: like me.  I could not feel a reason to be here.  Frustrating, uncomfortable, no sense of the place.  Nothing to do but sleep and move on tomorrow.

7/16/12: Awake at 6, up and off for a quick look at the Rainbow Basin, north of Barstow.  I’d come across this geological attraction in a general travel guide; it sounded photogenic.  So a good 45 minutes post sunrise, I turned onto Fossil Cliff Road, bathing Trixy in dust for the first time this summer.  This being America and a BLM-managed site, the Rainbow Basin was largely a driving loop.  Fine, I wanted to move on soon.  I stopped and hiked up a very narrow drainage that cut through deeply eroded and highly deformed muds and silts.  More ignorance.  I don’t know the origin of the Rainbow Basin strata, but they certainly predate the current extent of the Basin and Range.  The drainage was also full of sand, pebbles, and boulders of at least three kinds of granite and a black volcanic rock.  Where did they come from?  I diligently took pictures; the early light was stunning in places as it highlighted the sharply cut rocks.  But not an inspiring landscape; the pale olive, gray and pink rocks felt too washed out; not the spectrum I was expecting.  Maybe I was just tired from the road.

Rainbow Basin, north of Barstow, CA

Rainbow Basin, north of Barstow, CA

Escape from Barstow, across the high desert northeast towards Las Vegas.  I-15: I was still in the Basin and Range, which I’ve written about before, but this southwestern part of the province unsettled me.  It wasn’t pretty.  The landscape looked shattered, worn out, abused.  The mountains here are relatively broad and low in elevation, and buried deeper in fringing sediments, creating a gentler terrain; isolated smashed-looking peaks poking up through the alluvial fans.  I speculated to myself that this reflects the bedrock geology – lots of easily weathered metamorphic and volcanic rocks – and a longer period of extension- the Basin and Range is older here.  The colors were washed out, dull greens, buffs, and grays.  The topography was erratic; there was little apparent pattern to the orientation of mountains and valleys.  Again, I speculated that this reflected weirdness in the geology.  Whatever the varied causes, I was uncomfortable here, even at 70 mph.

Disquiet was a fine introduction to entering Nevada and soon passing through Las Vegas, which has always felt very profane to me.  A quick fuel stop in the smog, and I headed further northeast towards Utah.  At about the Rt. 95 junction, the Basin and Range began to feel familiar.  Why?  I looked at the exposures – oh, the ranges were now held up by limestones, the diced up remnants of the western margin of North America: Paleozoic reefs.  Limestone erodes slowly in deserts, so this made steeper, more dramatic ranges.  They were more linear too; maybe some fundamental change in the bedrock.  All this felt more rational; I could see and track any number of sedimentary layers.  I could relax. 

Fifteen minutes through Arizona, and into Utah.  The Virgin River appeared to the right of the freeway; wow it was deep orange brown; there must have been a lot of monsoon upstream.  I-15 headed up the Virgin River Gorge; this cut transected the eastern edge of the Basin and Range, and exited onto the Colorado Plateau, where I’ll spend the next ten days or so.  Like so much of the other geology of the Western United States, the Colorado Plateau is weird; it’s a thick sequence of Phanerozoic and Precambrian sedimentary rocks which sit on an amalgamation of older metamorphic and igneous basement.  That’s not weird; this basically describes the geology of much of North America.  What’s strange is that the Plateau – encompassing the Four Corners region, has risen more or less upwards over a mile, without much faulting or folding.  The Phanerozoic stratigraphy dips gently to the north (more or less) forming the Grand Staircase – the progressively exposure of younger rocks from south to north from Grand Canyon, Zion, Bryce Canyon, through to Cedar Breaks.  Now this is rational geology; a layer cake on a gross scale, but a lot of interesting variety. 

The Virgin River Gorge was stunning.  Besides being narrow, it exposed the effects of the normal faults that cut the western edge of the Plateau; big slices of rock sliding off to the west, becoming Basin and Range.  I managed to stay on the road.  Also nice to say hello to the strata of the Grand Canyon.

Fatigue was setting in; the slightly cooler temperatures (I was now at about 4000 feet) helped a bit.  St. George, Utah, and a relieved adios to I-15; time to turn southeast to the North Rim of Grand Canyon.  Hurricane, Canyon City, Fredonia; the small towns of the Arizona Strip.  I passed the turn off to Toroweap, in the Western Grand Canyon.  52 miles of dirt to the Rim; a spot where recent volcanoes once dammed the ancestral Colorado.  I badly want to go to Toroweap, besides the geology, it sounds barren, unpopulated, and scenic.  But not in Trixy, who would loose vital underparts; a field vehicle would be nice. 

The road climbed the spine of the East Kaibab Monocline towards Jacob Lake.  The East Kaibab Monocline?  The Colorado Plateau is far from flat; besides the erosion generating the Grand Staircase, it’s gently warped into to a series of higher and lower areas; the East Kaibab is one of the former.

Higher, 6000 feet, 7000 feet.  Finally the turn south and the run to the Canyon.  I had a camping spot in mind in the National Forest north of the National Park, which I’d used in 2008.  The road transited a number of meadows; scant wildflowers gave them a slight color: nice touch.  I found my turn, and went onto gravel.  Thank god the bedrock here is limestone; not much dust.  I found the campsite; empty.  I climbed out of Trixy, stretched, picked out a tent site, and then the afternoon monsoon started.  45 minutes of lightening, hail, thunder, and rain later, I climbed out of Trixy, stretched, and realized the ground was too soaked to contemplate making camp.  So I went for a long walk in the forest.

Eventually, camp, dinner, and the warmth of my sleeping bag.  I’d driven about 870 miles in two days.  This was intense and exhausting.  Hopefully it was transition time, leaving the normal behind and getting into journey mode.

7/17-19:  I camped at this spot for three nights.  Being familiar, I knew it would be a good place to transition from home and drive mode into a slower, observant frame.  At about 8000 feet, it was also right for altitude acclimation. 

If you know me you know that the Grand Canyon is as close as I have to a spiritual center anywhere on this planet.  The developmental and experiential reasons for this are many; it’s something I feel in my core.  While my connections have been deepest when I am below the Rim, I knew this trip needed to start with touching base here.  So I got up the first morning, tweaked my camp, and drove the final twenty miles to the Canyon.  I parked and walked through Grand Canyon Lodge, scoring a relatively strong cup of coffee, out to Bright Angel Point.

The Canyon was still there.  I was still here.  I sat at the point and watched the light change for an hour.  The air was very hazy; the San Francisco Peaks were visible but without much detail, 60 miles away.  I am not sure if this unclarity was from the regrettably ambient pollution from California, Mexico, copper smelters and coal power plants in Arizona or the severe drought conditions much of the Four Corners have been experiencing for the last couple years.  Oh well, I did not need pristine conditions, although it was a bit harder to sense the scale of the gorge due to the decreased contrast.  Home is home.

The Eastern Grand Canyon, from Point Imperial.  Note the haze!

The next two days passed in a succession of drives, hikes, and contemplations.  I went to Point Imperial and contemplated the eastern Canyon for an hour, then repeated at Cape Royal.  The awful light for photography freed me to simply look and see details: jointing patterns in the Coconino Sandstone and the Supai Group, the almost regular vertical ribbing below the Palisades of the Desert.  Both of these viewpoints are on the tourist route, for good reason, so at no point was I alone.  This was as expected and not annoying.  I heard the usual global spectrum of languages.  If the English speakers are any guide, most conversations fell into four categories: 1) geographic or geologic interpretations (usually wrong – reversing north and south was common), 2) efforts to cajole whiny children or adults into at least looking at the view, 3) passive aggressive spousal conversations, and 4) genuine appreciation of the Canyon.  I imply no judgment in listing these; it’s possible that the element of sublime rapture was missing as neither location was a “first viewing” and much driving on windy roads was involved in getting to them. 

Dawn patrol; I was on the trail to Cape Final well before sunrise.  I’d scouted this hike previously, and figured I could manage two miles in the predawn light on an unknown trail.  I got to the Cape, and it was – hazy.  I wasn’t surprised.  However, a new Rim view, so I sat and watched it for a long time.  Peering into the Canyon was unsatisfying, so I went to the North Kaibab Trail and descended.  The North Kaibab goes to the Colorado (5500 feet lower) in fourteen miles.  I aimed to drop to the Supai Group; two miles plus and and 2000 feet.  Getting down was good; the haze was defeated by short range photography.  Excellent; if I was seeing, I was shedding the extraneous masses of home, work, and routine.  I even talked to other hikers and a ranger. 

At Cape Final, looking towards the South Rim

Detail of Coconino Sandstone, North Kaibab Trail.

Final contemplation of a hazy sunset at Bright Angel Point; time to move on.

Brahma and Zoroaster Temples from Bright Angel Point, North Rim, Grand Canyon, AZ

July 2011 Road Trip II: Winnemucca to Alvord Desert

A good night’s rest. A bed after the long commute was wise.

Since I’m running a marathon at the end of the month, training must continue. Thus at 6:55 am, I parked Trixy (my reliable 2005 Toyota Matrix) at the east end of 2nd Street: the edge of town. Running through the quiet town early on a Sunday felt right. I set off into a moderate headwind, past old solid looking houses; a two story apartment was signed, “Built in 1912”. Past the town hall, the county field office, Winnemucca Junior High. Eventually the west end of town appeared, so I turned south, uphill and over the railroad lines. More vehicles on this road; mostly large American pickups. Putrid diesel breath. The road took me into new Winnemucca; cheaper-looking modern houses, apartments. I passed a woman walking her dog, talking on a cell phone. She mouthed “good morning” as did I. Turnaround and return via 4th Street 3rd Street, and 2nd Street. Many barking dogs, all toy-sized. 3.3 miles in 28 minutes. Not bad for this altitude.

Breakfast and departure, leaving I-80 for Rt. 95 N. Winnemucca vanished quickly: back into the Basin and Range. I drove north up the Pueblo Valley, turning west on Rt. 140. Again, out of town, but not out of civilization; the valley margins were sparsely dotted with ranches, the homesteads marked by clusters of cottonwood and Italian cypress trees. The valleys are high enough here for limited agriculture, evidenced by industrial-scale irrigation systems spraying water in the still cool morning. No cattle – too little water? Over a low pass, and the next basin dropped into semi-desert. A return to sagebrush.

A right-hand, northward turn at Denio and I was in Oregon. Good bye to wide road striping. Over a rise, and there was Steens Mountain. I swerved at the sight of 5,000 feet of craggy ridge, the top still bearing snow, the effects of glaciers (long melted) clearly visible. This is the biggest and highest mountain in the Northern Basin and Range Province – upwards of 30 miles long.

I’ve been itching to write about the Basin and Range. As I wrote earlier this physiographic province includes much of Arizona, Utah and Nevada, and bits of Mexico, California, New Mexico, Colorado, Idaho, Montana, Canada, and yes, Oregon. This geographic definition keeps expanding; New Mexico and Montana weren’t on the list when I was in grad school. I first became aware of the region while in college, from staring at a geologic map of North America. On it, the north trending, colored ranges looked like a fleet of aligned caterpillars amid the yellow tan colored alluvial basins.

Of course, this geography is controlled by the underlying geology, just the way I like it. The Basin and Range is clearly an area of major extension – widening – of the North American plate. Imagine stretching the bellows of an accordion, and you’ll get the idea. The amount of extension is crazy – 50% to maybe 200% - and is way beyond normal for the Earth’s plates. The geologic origin of Basin and Range extension is controversial. Given that it involves large-scale tectonics and structural geology, it’s way beyond my expertise. Not that this will stop me from making a shot at an explanation.

For much of the past 450 million years, the western edge of the North American plate – what’s now Mexico through California, Oregon, Washington and British Columbia – was a convergent plate boundary, similar to the current west coast of South America. This was a zone of overall compression, as the plate overrode the oceanic crust to the west. This long-lasting process made the North American crust relatively thick. At the same time, subduction of the oceanic crust created the granites and other igneous rocks of the Sierra Nevada, among many others along the boundary. However, starting about 20 million years ago, a divergent plate boundary – a mid ocean ridge – began to be subducted under North America. Divergent plate boundaries are areas where two plates spread –extend – way from each other. It’s weird for one to be subducted. As the mid ocean ridge was forced under North America, subduction apparently slowed and stopped. This lead to creation of the modern plate boundary, the San Andreas Fault System, but that is another story I barely understand.

On to the Basin and Range. So, no more subduction; this may have allowed relaxation of the compression western North America had been enjoying for so long. It’s possible that this allowed the crust to spread from its thickened state back towards “normal” (a poorly defined term). This sort of extension certainly happens and has happened elsewhere on the Earth, but as far as I know, there’s still only one Basin and Range. The joker in the deck might be the subduction of the mid ocean ridge. Divergent plate boundaries are also sites of active igneous rock formation – seafloor volcanoes and intrusive rocks. In other words, they’re hot. When the ridge went under North America. this heat, formerly concentrated along the plate boundary, must have begun to warm the overlying crust of North America. Warmer rocks are softer and more prone to flow; this may have aided the relaxation of compression I described. Or vice versa, or simultaneously. There are more ideas, but this should be enough to give a sense of the large scale forces involved. I always get shivers when I think about what happened, over millions of years. It’s awesome. Having any understanding is a humbling and ultimately spiritual thing; it’s one of the key things that drew me to geology.

The geography of the Basin and Range is the surface expression of this extension, plus the effects of erosion. As the plate pulled apart, the upper, brittle part of it was complexly faulted, such that large blocks of real estate dropped down – forming the basins – while other rose and/or were left high – the ranges. The precise geometry of the faults is massively variable and complicated. Accompanying this spreading was intermittent volcanism – magma leaking up along cracks, lots of mineralization, and to this day, abundant geothermal activity; hot springs. I’m hoping to see all of these on this road trip.

The 140 brought me to the micro-town of Fields. Every Oregon travel guide that I read truly raved about the milkshakes at Fields Station – the local motel/campground/store/gas station/restaurant. It was 11 am. I entered the store; the milkshake bar called to me. Chatting up the owner, she recommended a coffee caramel shake, one of her creations. I order one, and sat and talked to her granddaughter and grandson (he had topped up Trixy’s gas tank, not bad for a nine-year old). The boy pointed out a can of rattlesnake meat on the bar, and said, pick it up. When touched, it immediately began to vibrate. He began to proudly tell me how he’d wired up a motor inside to fool customers, but was called away to the gas pump. Not to be outdone, his sister gave me a tour of the pictures that covered every vertical surface in the store. This is hunting country; they all featured men, guns, and their quarry. And a few pictures of local rattlesnakes. The shake more than exceeded its publicity, but at 24 oz., I was wired; more dairy and sugar than I eat in a week. Well, this is vacation, right?

I’d come to Fields in hopes of visiting the Alvord Desert, a particularly low basin that’s filled with a very large dry lake. It’s just to the east of Steens Mountain, and sounded scenic as hell. My BLM pamphlet was ambiguous about road quality, but Grandma assured me that the road was good.

Onto gravel, at a stately 25 mph. I’ve driven Trixy on gravel before, but this was a new road in a new state, and I vigilantly wanted to avoid any car trauma. Sigh, this is the one time of year I’d truly love to have a good 4WD Landcruiser. No fear. The Alvord Desert appeared to the east, just off the road. A bright buff expanse, already cooking in the midday sun. I really wanted to get out on the playa, but wanted to complete some recon first.

My guidebook made vague reference to an informal camping area about 25 miles into the Desert. I eventually found the track, and crept up it, climbing the alluvial fan of Pike Creek, which drains the east side of Steens Mountain. I gingerly dodged the cobbles and boulders protruding through the gravel, all to save Trixy’s tires and delicate underbelly, eventually reaching a point of bouldery steepness that scared me. I backed down the road, pulling into a campsite I’d noted on the way up.

1:30. I wandered up the track to Pike Canyon, and found a nice flat boulder of volcanic rock to sit on at the base of the Mountain. It was time to break the pattern of motion and action, and contemplate. A strong southerly wind blew along the range, at times overwhelming the buzz of locusts in the brush. I liked the rushing noise it makes blowing through the sage. The rock was warm; matching the intensity of the summer sun; I was glad for my SPF 70.

Alvord Desert continued to glow buff-white in the distance. Intermittent dust devils spun up the east side. I’m glad I wasn’t out there; some of them must have been a couple thousand feet high. The Alvord is collared by a band of green; I presume there’s enough shallow groundwater to sustain a decent plant cover. And animals; I eventually heard a solitary moo, indicating that the dots I’d been watching were actually cattle.

My mind still rushed with thoughts of the past, present, and future, but sitting helped, as I began detachment from the factors in my life that aren’t here. My shadow gradually lengthened; time to wander downhill and use the afternoon light for photography.

Back to Trixy, dinner, a spit bath, and sleep.

July 2011 Road Trip I: Walnut Creek to Winnemucca

Beginning

I’m on a short anticlockwise road trip from the Bay Area through SE Oregon, then onto Portland, Eugene, and south to home. This comes in the two week lapse between ending my work at JFKU and beginning a new job at The Wilderness Society. I needed some desert time with rocks to look at and close and far scenery to photograph.

Transition: Walnut Creek to Winnemucca

Eastward over the Sierra Nevada, a mid-morning departure tempered by a cascade of last instant tasks: desuckering the pomegranate tree, pulling the inevitable weeds, cleaning the kitchen sink. Finally the road, freeway time on Interstate 80, the familiar route out of the Bay Area into the Central Valley: over Carquinez Straits, then Green Valley, Fairfield, Dixon, Davis, and Sacramento. Beginning the climb; Rocklin, Auburn, and Colfax. 1000 feet, 2000 feet, 3000 feet. Road cuts appear, a vaguely familiar sequence of foothill metamorphic rocks (platy greens, browns, and blacks), trending uphill into white quartzose stream gravels and the core salt and pepper granites of the Sierra. Exchanging abundant oaks for conifers. Higher, above 5000 feet, approaching Donner Lake, breaking out near treeline, with broad views over the range crest; luscious barren granite, still plenty of snow. Descent towards Truckee, then chasing the river down, quickly falling towards Reno.

Entering a different land. The Sierran rainshadow; no trees, welcome to the semidesert. I’ve left the plate boundary-dominated California Coast – lots of NNW-SEE trending hills – for the Basin and Range, the swath of alternating sharp mountains and dry lakes that runs northern Mexico to Oregon and east as far as Montana, Utah and Texas. I’ve made this translation before. It’s abrupt, whether I’m on the ground or flying high overhead.

But Reno dominates Nevada first, the casino towers demanding attention. I need a break; the Nevada Museum of Art seems right. With some searching (the directions from the NMA website were not quite right) I arrive with time for a good hour visit. The parking lot is surprisingly full. Oh, there’s an Egyptian exhibit, lots of families are there. No fear, I am here to see the several small galleries: Ansel Adams, Chris Jordan, David Farnsworth. I’m glazed from the road. I stare at paintings, photographs, and other media, and it takes a while for any perception to occur. An Americano and blondie break at the café help. This is a really good small museum. Presently I come to an Adams photograph that gets through; not one I remember, but a geometry of clouds and mountains that reminds me of one of the main reasons why I’m here, not at home.

Satisfied, I travel the sprawl in search of fuel. Once the car is fed, it’s further east on the interstate. I like Nevada’s version better than California’s: wider lane paint, rumble strips on the verge for when I get distracted by the geology. For east of Sparks I am into what passes for undeveloped America. I am never out of site of a side road, building, gas station, industrial facility, or small town, but the urban world is thankfully gone for a few days.

Back to the Basin and Range desert. I move along at 70 mph plus, dropping down between the Trinity and Humboldt Ranges along the edge of Carson Sink – the last real dry lake. A dirty white expanse to the east, punctuated by small lakes and pools. I wonder if these are spring-fed or remnant evidence of the wet winter. Sparse grasses and shrubs densely dot the rubbly soil. Each range is different. I’m commuting too fast to do much identification, but I can pick out hills of recent volcanic rock (red and black, relatively flat-lying layers), jagged cliffs of older sedimentary rock (the distinctive grays of desert limestones), occasional veneers of recent lake sediments from the last glacial period. It’s satisfying enough. The regional geology here is so complex that I don’t need to fully get my head around it. A far cry from Australia.

The road turns northeast, now between the Eugene and East Ranges. I’m tired, dried out, and stiff. Winnemucca better come into sight promptly. Eventually, a curve to the east, and Exit 176. I find the Quality Inn were I’d booked a first night-long drive room. Buggerall, it’s masquerading as the Model T Casino and Resort. Well, the room seems OK, I can’t hear the casino, and there’s a grocery store across the street. The place is full of buzz cut guys wearing baseball caps, many with attendant women, both heavily tattooed. I ask at the desk: they are part of a 44 hour baseball tournament.

Shopping, dinner at a local barbeque joint, and time to write.