Cabeza - The Maze 

Click here for more photos of the Maze. Video above has photos from 2017 and earlier.

If reading from YouTube, scroll down to the dotted line.

The Maze District of Canyonlands National Park is one of the most extraordinary works of Nature’s art in the US, if not the world. Similarly, the 6-part fugue of Bach’s is perhaps his greatest single piece. Charles Rosen, while calling The Art of the Fugue (see my other videos), “Infinitely moving, with a pathos and grandeur given to no other work,” still describes this fugue of the Musical Offering as “the greatest fugue ever written.” I find it hard to disagree, and found it appropriate to pair it with the Maze.

The Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge of extreme Southwest Arizona is equally extraordinary and I have thus paired it with the 3-part fugue, which, when Bach performed it extempore on a theme provided by King Frederick the Great, “all those present were seized with astonishment.”

Those who, like myself, don’t know where they’d be, if they’d be, if it weren’t for the greatest works of Bach, Beethoven, and Schubert, might be interested in my book, Cabeza and the Meaning of Wilderness: An Exploration of Nature, and Mind, available here. (24p color photos,$14.95, free shipping in US. Mounted and unmounted prints also available) While perhaps only 10 to 20% of the book directly concerns music, all of it, in one way or another, delves deeply into that wilderness of Mind from which all great art arises. Scroll down for an excerpt describing the Cabeza refuge itself. Click here for an excerpt regarding the Musical Offering.

Maze photo description:

This (late April-early May 2017) trip to the Maze was my fourth, the first two alone and the latter two with my wife, Anne. The first I parked my two-wheel-drive pickup with homemade camper at the top of the Flint Trail and backpacked for 10 days, getting water at springs and Spanish Bottom. The last three were with four-wheel-drive, as shown in the first photo. Just to get to the top of the four-wheel-drive Flint Trail you have to drive in 45 miles of dirt road, the last five or so requiring a high clearance vehicle, from the paved Utah Highway near Hanksville.

1. Getting to the maze . . . is a bit of trouble. From the top of the Flint Trail it’s five hours of driving misery to get to the Chocolate Drops. Two or three people a year wreck their vehicles and have to be towed out — at $2000 a shot. At the Hans Flat Ranger station there was a photo of an SUV on the Flint Trail . . . on its roof. Cabeza: “The track became very steep over smooth slickrock leading up a hill . . . and then it started to rain. The tires were slipping so I let some air out for more traction . . . and just barely made it up. Then I inched down the sharply sloping, winding trail to where two guys were standing around two vehicles. “Nice driving,” said the first, a ranger—the unspoken connotations of this simple remark becoming clear when he added that he just had broken the axle on his jeep. Further clarity ensued when the other fellow, the operator of a tow truck come to rescue the ranger, said that he had just broken his axle, too. They were waiting . . . for another tow truck. In the course of conversation I told the ranger I was heading into the Maze and was concerned, as the park brochure stated it required “Expert Driving Skills.”
‘Hell, you just went over Elephant Hill. You won’t have any problem.’ And I didn’t.”
Well, in 2017 I didn’t break an axle . . . but I did bend the rear bumper enough so the tailgate wouldn’t open fully. 

2. Murphy Point is in the Island in the Sky District of Canyonlands.  In September 2015, we had backpacked up from the White Rim Jeep trail, which can just barely be seen in the center of the second photo. The Island in the Sky is easiest way to see Canyonlands: a paved road leads in and there are many overlooks and trails. There’d been a chance of thunderstorms in the forecast so we brought along our bivy sacks (we never bring a tent in the desert) but they proved unnecessary. After our dinner two ravens arrived, from different directions, in what seemed a prearranged rendezvous — and immediately began most ardently making out. Well, that’s what Anne thought until I pulled out my binoculars and saw they were really preening each other around the neck where they couldn’t reach themselves. Ravens mate for life. Then a gaggle of noisy Pinyon Jays swooped in to ravenously devour the nuts on the nearby small pine that gives them their name. After they departed the sun went down and the sky — all 360° of it from our vantage point — lit up . . . with flame. As it did many nights for us in the Maze.

3-6. The first adventure of this year’s trip was a short backpack to Land’s End, laying out our ground cloth about 6 feet from the edge of the thousand-foot-plus Orange Cliffs, a.k.a. the Redwall. This gave us a view across the incredibly rugged terrain of the Maze, 55 miles to the near-13,000 foot, snow-draped, Manti La Sal . Shortly after dusk deafening gale force winds began roaring up the cliffs, but fortunately mostly over our heads.

..............................................................................................................................Sleep was difficult until it finally calmed after midnight. Then, in time, a dawn and sunrise . . . not soon, if ever, forgotten.

    7-15. After 5 hours of the most “challenging” driving imaginable we made it to The Wall vehicle campsite. Cabeza, regarding my 1980 trip:

“It was a glorious spring day: The night before snowflakes had been flying, but this day was warm and clear, with blue sky, red rock, and the white, snow-draped dome of Navajo Mountain rising seventy-five miles to the south. I exulted in the unbounded space. . . . My final night I camped at a location as other¬worldly as it gets; supernal beauty far stranger than anyone could ever imagine. This was my favorite place . . . before discovering Cabeza . . . . To my right, far off, the snowy La Sal Mountains. To my left, the less distant Redwall, the “Land’s End” where I’d parked, with a line of green juniper and pinion pine along the top. In front, the rising pillars of the Chocolate Drops; a reasonably accurate description except the rock  from which they were  formed, and in  fact on which I also now  sat, was a far more beautiful rich reddish-brown than any candy bar. Directly below, between me and the Drops, were the intricate canyons of the Maze itself, all creamy white with horizontal stripes of red. And above, rich blue sky tending from pale yel¬lowish-blue where the sun had set . . . to deep violet in the east. I slept beneath the stars as I had every night except those in the cave. . . .” 

Back to 2017. The next day we backpacked out the Chocolate Drops Trail. Two powerful rain squalls hit us during the hike, the second coming when we were close to making camp. Descending steep slickrock in high winds and rain? Not recommended. So we backtracked to a protected spot, waited till the rain stopped and the winds abated at least a bit before moving up to a high point that allowed us to see  — the whole shebang. We ate, took a nap, and woke to . . . The Flaming Rain. At least a half-dozen rain squalls, in all directions, were lit by the setting sun. Anne said no one would believe the pictures weren’t Photoshopped. In fact, I had to tone down the garish pink a bit. Then it cleared . . . for a moonless night with a trillion stars.

16-17. Back at The Wall.

18. Thunderclouds over the Needles. I took this in the Needles District in 1983 but since they are visible from many areas of the Maze, and similar formations are in the Doll House, I included it.

19-21. Utah Still Life; above the Maze: Indian Paintbrush and Claret Cup Cactus were delightful surprises along the trails; Chimney Rock and Standing Rock with the Henry Mountains in the distance.

17. From the Doll House vehicle campsite number 2.

18. On the trail up from Spanish Bottom. Most hikers and backpackers we met came by the river, either taking a jet boat down from Moab (that would pick them up at a prearranged time), or canoeing or rafting down from Green River, Utah, then hiking up either here or Water Canyon.  Canyonlands as a whole has become much more popular in recent years as recreational enthusiasts (not to mention marijuana enthusiasts) have flooded into Colorado (and Utah). I met only 3 people on my trip in 1980; this year was 5 times that, or more, not even including the vehicles. The Park service strictly regulates the numbers; we reserved our campsites — both vehicle and backpacking (general area) — 4 months in advance. Everyone else was camping low by the river or springs; we carried all our water so we could camp high. They missed some incredible views, skies and stars.

19-20. Backpacked out to the Confluence Overlook, spending two nights there with a day hike to Water Canyon. The Green River is flowing through Stillwater Canyon. At the top is The Island in the Sky. Snow flurries for us on two successive nights meant a brilliant blanket of snow on the Manti La Sal. High winds kept us from camping at the edge of the precipice as we had on previous trips, and even back a couple hundred feet we had to hold everything down with rocks. High winds were the rule this trip — not fun, but when they subsided the last day, hordes of tiny gnats came out of the crevices. Personally, I prefer the wind. Except when it’s windy.

21. Elaterite Butte from the Maze Overlook vehicle campsite. After this we went to Panorama Point planning another hike but our amazing trip to the amazing Maze was cut short by an amazingly excruciating abscess — of no apparent origin — under my right thumbnail, and we drove out to an urgent care clinic in Grand Junction, Colorado. Will we return? I’m already planning the next trip.

Excerpt from Cabeza, Chapter 2 below. For an excerpt regarding the Musical Offering click here.

2
CABEZA

[Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge of extreme Southwest Arizona]

The new starter works—hooray!—and we’re off for Cabeza. But our first hike—up Sheep Mountain—on its edge lets us know we are far too weak for our planned three-day backpack, so we spend a few more days doing modest day hikes in the Castle Dome Mountains of the nearby Kofa National Wildlife Refuge. Then we head in and I start getting excited.
    Beethoven wrote that he looked forward to the country with “childish excite¬ment. . . . How delighted I shall be to ramble for a while through the bushes, woods, under trees, through grass and around rocks. No one can love the country as much as I do. For surely woods, trees, and rocks produce the echo which man desires to hear.” Cabeza evokes a similar feeling in us. Kofa was exceedingly beau¬tiful and dramatic: black volcanic uplifts looming over us, green-leafed ocotillo “forests,” many other cacti . . . and few people.
    But there’s something about Cabeza. White sand spreads forever to the south and it would seem we are actually seeing the curvature of the earth, as only the top of a Mexican range is finally visible. To the right and left mountains rise suddenly from the plain as if they were ships sinking into an alabaster sea. Their rock is black here, white or gray there, and even at times pink; and always speckled or striped. Cabeza gets its name from one such peak—called Cabeza Prieta, “dark head” in Spanish. Even from space Cabeza is gorgeous. Go to www.maps.google.com and click “Satellite.” Zoom in to the Gulf of California—an exquisite emerald-tur¬quoise—then trend northeast. Pure white sand, dark ranges, the black of lava flows: a pristine paradise. . . .
    Of course everyone might not agree. The first American expedition, in 1846 led by General Kearny at the beginning of the Mexican War, traipsed across just north of these lands. Captain Henry Turner remarked it “was a strange existence . . . I con¬stantly feel as though I were in a dream . . . not one familiar object in nature except the sun, the moon, and the stars. ’Twere better for it to be blotted out from the face of the earth . . .”
     And General Kearny himself: “ . . . so much land that can never be of any use to man or beast.”
    But there was a certain Lieutenant Emory, a trained scientist and member of the Corps of Topographical Engineers, who was of an altogether different mind, calling it “ . . . beautiful in the extreme . . . irregular, fantastic mountains . . . myste¬rious-looking places.” 
    Yes. Beautiful in the extreme, at least for Anne, myself, Lt. Emory, and . . . per¬haps a few others.
    You pay your dues in Cabeza. There is no water. Well, there is in sparsely located water catchments, but that’s for the wildlife; plus it looks and smells horrid. You are on your own—you might see someone, and then again you might not. Two spare tires are a good idea (or have, as we do, the ability to repair a flat). Vehicle knowl¬edge, spare parts, tools, plus always enough water (one gallon per person per day, and two days reserve minimum) and food so you can hike out if worse comes to worst—these are all necessities. Could be a long hike out as Cabeza’s larger than Rhode Island and more than double that when the contiguous Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range, to which one’s permit also gives access, is included.
    You must obtain a permit from the Fish and Wildlife Service. You must display it on your dashboard at all times. You must carry another copy with you when you hike. Your vehicle must be four-wheel drive. You must call immediately before you enter and advise precisely where you are going. You must drive and camp—when not backpacking—only along the designated roads. You must pack out all garbage and leave no trace.
    You must be ready and willing to die. You must sign a hold harmless agreement stating that neither you, nor your heirs, assigns, or whosoever, will under any cir¬cumstances even think of filing a lawsuit against our dearly beloved Uncle Sam, should that or any other untoward event occur. You must not approach, touch, han¬dle, pick up, fondle, caress, or embrace any of the thousands of unexploded muni¬tions left over from the live-fire exercises of fifty years ago. You must not stand un-derneath should any of the legion of military aircraft training in Cabeza’s airspace lose it and plummet from the firmament. Finally, you must not get upset when an F-16 breaks the sound barrier a mere 300 feet above your decibel-challenged cranium.
    Why? Herein lies one of the great beauties of Cabeza and why I pray it never attains national park status as some wish. Because Cabeza is part of the Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range, if you can endure the fighter jets for usually a few hours at most per day, then Praise the Lord, the rest of the day—and night!—is silence. Pure, utter, absolute, complete, glorious—Silence. No commercial jets! No small private planes!! No stupid whomp, whomp, whomping sightseeing helicopters!!! 
    Big deal, you say? It is truly mind-boggling what we’ve given up in the name of progress. And most of us don’t even know it. Just a little over a century ago William James could write, in The Varieties of Religious Experience, that he could generate a spiritual experience of sorts in himself through the concentration imposed by pressing his ear to the ground on a country road, and listening intently for the dis¬tant rumble of wagon wheels. I dare the reader to find such a profoundly silent place today, where cars, trucks, motorcycles, planes, trains, helicopters, ATVs, ORVs, trail bikes, snowmobiles, jet skis, chainsaws, lawnmowers, leaf blowers, snow blowers, mindblower radios, TVs, stereos, et cetera (not to mention dogs) are not heard for a significant period of time. (Actually, a survey by Audubon did find one such spot somewhere in Oregon.)
    Now when I said “absolute, complete silence,” that is, of course, a bit of an exag¬geration. The first few times in Cabeza I sometimes would hear a faint, strange, pul¬sating, whooshing sound. I thought it might be coming from some secret military device, as there are weird looking radar dishes scattered around the range. But eventually I realized . . . it was the sound of the blood flowing through my veins. Or, there could be poor-will three miles away making its plangent call. Or the rustle of the drifting sand. Or. . . .
    For this person at least, a bit of Silence is something to die for. . . .