Salt Gorge, Utah to Sand Canyon, Colorado

Waking up May 1st, we were psyched to have good weather. We got going fast—day one of skipping a shower is always the easiest. We gathered ourselves up and headed into Cisco for coffee and snacks from the gas station.

There’s something so novel and thrilling about gas stations when you’re on the road.

We looked at stickers, coffee cups, keychains. Of course there were tons of alien themed things, we knew were getting into the territory.

Actually, this stop of the trip had ended up on the itinerary because of aliens. One night right before we left on this trip, we’d been watching Ancient Aliens… and the episode mentioned Sego Canyon.

I’d been here before, in 2017. I spent a whole afternoon riding around in Sego Canyon and the whole Thompson Canyon area, exploring all the little dead end canyons, the cemetery, everything there was to see.

I knew I had to go back, and it was an easy sell once I mentioned that this was where the Ancient Aliens petroglyphs and pictographs were.

It was an easy drive from the gas station to Sego Canyon, something like eight miles. The weather was breezy, and we were glad we’d brought coats with us. When we got to the first rock art panels, we parked, and got Dixie out with us.

I’ve always loved how really ancient sites like this just… don’t feel like they ever change. It’s feels so right to find something well off the beaten path, and get to come back to find that it hasn’t really shifted in your absence.

Walking up to the first panel, walking around through the sagebrush and the scraggly little bits of desert grass that had grown up alongside the trail, I felt some part of my soul downshift into a peace I hadn’t felt in a long time.

In this moment, I had no real responsibilities, except to enjoy and totally absorb the moment.

The sage brush smelled crisp, reflecting the vibe of the gathering clouds. It smelled exactly like the desert should: a little edgy with the metallic smell of the dusty sand, clean and brightly green from that sage brush, pure like only high altitude air can.

Walking around, new things kept popping out to us—at one point I looked back out of the canyon and saw where we’d just come from framed just so by the rock.

“I was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.”

Jack Kerouac

We persisted, driving further into the canyon. The reward was to rediscover the ghost town that’s tucked in just up the road, cozy, forgotten, crumbling into nothing more than memories.

As we worked our way through the ruins and the rubble, we both wondered aloud what this place had looked like in its heyday. Where did the people live? Were some of those little garages and piles of decaying lumber the remnants of their homes and day to day lives? What did it sound like, what was happening here, how did it all come together to make this place where folks gathered and somehow made a living in this little slice of desert?

One thing was clear when we made it to Sego Canyon Cemetery: Lives began, were lived, and ended here. One gravestone simply reads “STORTINI BABY.” Underneath it simply states “BORN-DIED 7-24-26”.

Then there’s the mystery of Giovanni (John) Ascani. Born July 12, 1883 in Frontone, Italy. Died November 10, 1918 in Thompson Canyon, Utah. What happened in those 35 years? What in the world drew his life from Italy to the middle of the Utah desert?

This place is haunting, windswept, quiet and profound like the desert itself. I haven’t gone looking for these records or these answers—to be honest, it feels like some things are best left a mystery. Something to be acknowledged and appreciated, but perhaps left undisturbed.

The wind began to shift. The clouds grew darker, and the breeze a little cooler. We were profoundly aware of the fact that we were off the beaten trail somewhere that could get pretty bad fast if there was a storm, and that we didn’t have cell service.

So we backtracked to Salt Gorge, back to The Cosmic Nomad, back to “home.”

Getting things together for lunch and for wherever the day would lead us next, we paused for lunch. I’ve pondered this before, but how in the heck does something as humble as a turkey and cheese sandwich become so… gourmet when consumed outdoors?

Sitting on the tailgate of Blaise’s truck, we didn’t have the answer to that questions, but we did have a heck of a lunch. The sun felt glorious and that sandwich was one of the best of the trip.

We broke camp and headed towards Moab, with dreams of possibly exploring there for a day or so. However, even though it was only May 1st, hordes of tourists and jeeps created such a rat race of traffic approaching and through Moab that those ideas quickly dissolved.

Stopped at a gas station just outside town, we discussed our options. Somehow in just a few short minutes, traffic backed up and folks started honking and yelling that we were in the way. Where nothing had been happening moments before, suddenly everything was trying to happen at once, and somehow I was impeding its progress.

We decided for now that we’d just go.

That’s the best part of a trip like this—Going where? Who knows. The fun part is just the going.

We stopped in Cortez, down in the very bottom left corner of Colorado. Walking into that Walmart was like a lame miniature time travelling experience. I’d lived here for a couple of years in 2017-2019. Somehow being back felt like failing. Like it might be so sticky of a place I’d end up back here, stuck, endlessly wandering this Walmart again somehow.

Thankfully that wasn’t the case, and before long, I was back with a few snacks for later, headed towards camp.

But here’s the issue: Sometimes, your sense of familiarity with a place doesn’t fade, but your actual familiarity does fade.

So as we drove towards the “epic campsite” I remembered vaguely in Sand Canyon, somewhere near Road XX? YY? Something far into the alphabet and doubled?

Shit.

It was all so faint and blurry in my memory, and my cell service was so poor I couldn’t really research.

That site is day use only.

This place that looks like a site is now clearcut for powerline installation.

Daylight is fading, and I’m saying these sad little prayers like “Dear God, please just help us find a campsite, please let me find a place to park this thing and get some rest.”

It’s dusk. Twilight is falling golden from the sky and Blaise is following me and scouting roads I don’t dare drive down towing The Cosmic Nomad and it’s feeling like hope is fading as fast as the sun is setting.

Finally, I see this wide spot on the shoulder. We’re so far in the middle of nowhere I think it’ll probably go. Honestly? It probably wasn’t a campsite, and that anxiety sat with me all night as we tried to relax and ultimately get some rest.

I can’t even tell you exactly where we were—and that’s probably for the best, since we likely weren’t even meant to be there for the evening.

That evening, this trip felt real. Like we were really going somewhere, even though we’d dipped back into Colorado for the night. Like we were really about to take off into some real unknown the next morning.

With the curtains drawn tight, trying to keep ourselves as low profile as possible, we wound down for the evening. One car passed, sounding like they too were hauling a trailer and like they too were struggling to find a place to spend the night.

The knock I waited for followed by someone saying in an authoritative voice “You can’t camp here!” never came, and eventually, we slept, under a blanket of stars and the scent of sagebrush.