Hiking the Entire Length of the Virgin River Gorge: Part 1

15 November 2023—Virgin River Gorge: St. George to Cedar Pockets

I met Rob at his house at 5 am and from there we drove to St. George where we met up with his brother, Hank. Hank's wife, Barbara, was extremely sweet and made us a breakfast of pancakes, eggs and sausage. We took twenty minutes of the predawn morning and ate a hearty meal at the kitchen table.

By 7:00 we were on the road and in ten minutes were at our drop-off point at the Ranger Bart Anderson Trailhead at the south end of town. It was our goal to walk from here through the Virgin River Gorge, all the way to Cedar Pockets and then from there completing the gorge and finishing in Littlefield, Arizona. We would break it into two parts, completing one today and hopefully the second half tomorrow.

Personally, I had never met another person who had hiked the length of the gorge. I couldn't even find anyone on the internet who had done it. We concocted the idea a couple years ago and just now got around to doing it. We didn't even know if it was possible. We were entering terra incognita.

The first four miles was uneventful. During this section we weren't even in the gorge yet and instead of staying down by the river we took a more direct approach that put us hiking over hills, on trails and along dirt roads. We finally arrived at the head of the gorge where the canyon walls began to narrow. From this point there would be no more roads. We didn't know what to expect.

Our first challenge was to cross the river. We wasted at least 45 minutes here and I was starting to worry that our entire hike would be doomed from the beginning. The day before at the Bloomington Gauging Station upstream the water flowed at 110 cubic feet per second. Although an important statistic, this number meant nothing to us without practical experience in the water. This section was particularly narrow, which meant it would also be deep. How deep, we didn't know. A jungle of willows and tamarisk grew so densely along the banks that it was nearly impossible to reach the river. When we finally found a place to cut through, the drop-off from the bank to the water was three feet. We didn't dare jump in because we didn't know the depth of the water.

We decided to stay on the left bank and take a faint trail that led down-river. Our worry was that it would lead up the hill and would eventually ledge us up.

The trail led us higher and we had a good view looking down. On the opposite side was a dirt road that came to the water's edge and ended. We also saw a gauging station which created a little dam with water spilling over a concrete edge. This was a gauging station they use to calculate the depth and current flow per second. [I later learned that from this gauging station at the time of our hike the depth was 8.23 feet and flow 159 CFS.]

Virgin River gauging station.

Entering the gorge.

Luckily for us we didn't get ledged up. After rounding a corner we were able to pick our way down. There was still no simple way across the river, but access was now much easier.

We let Hank cross first. He was the tallest. Then Rob went and I followed. I had two hiking poles, which were life-savers. The water came to my lower thighs and was cold, but not ice-chilling. Every step was calculated. I felt the placement of my feet before putting weight on them. The bottom of the river undulated, giving low points and high points. In some places the mud was thick and my boots began to sink, but as long as I kept moving it wasn't an issue. With every step I had to focus on staying balanced against the rushing current.

It was a relief when we made it across that first time. In a literal and figurative sense, we were happy to get our feet wet. From this point forward things moved much more smoothly. We didn't hesitate to cross the river and were able to make good progress.

Second crossing of the river.

I should interject that in two months Rob would be 67 and Hank, 73. They were no spring chickens, but doing excellent for their age. Hank was old enough to be my dad. Both of them still use flip-phones. I hope to still be doing what they're doing when I'm that age.

Although we were making progress, there was nothing easy about this hike. Occasionally we would find a cattle trail or break in vegetation. This, undoubtedly, would always come to an end. Numerous times we crawled on hands and knees below the tangle of tamarisk, still to have our packs and clothing snag on branches.

Virgin River.

Hiking through a jungle of creosote bushes.

The river weaved back and forth across the floor of the canyon and often we would have no choice but to cross. Backtracking to find a way into the water became commonplace, and even then our entry points were usually sketchy. Of the dozens of crossings we did that day, the highest the water ever got was to the bottom of my rib cage.

When we weren't choked by vegetation the hike was a pleasant walk. A few yellow flowers still lingered, as well as different types of cactus. I scanned the slopes of the canyon for signs of bighorn sheep or Indian etchings on the varnished walls. I knew there were treasures out there to be discovered, but most of them would probably require a more in-depth search than what we had time for now.

The only gate we had to pass through.

The history of the Virgin River Gorge is quite telling. For the most part, people tried to avoid it. Indigenous tribes that predate written history passed through here. We know that because they left drawings on the walls. When the first trappers and settlers passed through it was the Shivwits Band of the Southern Paiute Tribe that lived nearby.

If there were any Spanish that passed through, I don't know of them. Father Escalante and his group came as close as the outskirts of modern-day Hurricane, Utah, but didn't pass through the gorge.

The earliest written account I know of involving a white man traveling through is that of Jedediah Smith, a fur trapper. His 1826 trip took him through the gorge, but when he returned a year later he avoided it by traveling along the Santa Clara River and over Utah Hill, later reuniting with the Virgin River on the other side of the Beaver Dam Mountains. It is likely that the local Shivwits apprised him of this alternate route.

Three years later in 1830, Antonio Armijo led an expedition from New Mexico to the San Gabriel Mission in California. He may have read notes from Jedediah Smith or someone else because he avoided the gorge also and took the route over Utah Hill. The Mormons who settled Southern Utah a couple decades later would also use the same route. The Virgin River Gorge, it was decided, was just too rugged and dangerous to be practical.

Taking a break on the Utah/Arizona border.

Looking up-canyon.

We took our first real break at the Utah / Arizona state line. Here there were no signs to mark the boundary; just a dotted line on my map. A major canyon merged with the river at this point, coming in from the west.

Along the entire length of the hike there were a few landmarks we looked forward to, the biggest one being the I-15 freeway bridge that crossed the gorge. Surprisingly I was able to get a GPS location on my phone that placed a blue dot on the map where we were at. Because of that we always knew our location. I determined we had a couple more curves in the river and one pronounced s-curve before the bridge. Encouraged that we were getting closer, we pressed forward.

One of the interesting curiosities of this river is the debris scattered along the high-ground. There's not so much to make it look trashy, but it's definitely there. Being part of the American Southwest, the Virgin River is prone to flash floods. I remember one flood in particular in 2005 that began on the Santa Clara River north of St. George, but eventually coalesced with the Virgin. The flood was so intense that river banks eroded and entire houses collapsed into the river and were swept away downstream.

Among the items we found were pieces of lumber, a bike handle, rubber raft, milk bucket, fully inflated basketball, a bicycle tire, soda cans and of course lots of driftwood. In some places the driftwood had settled on a rock . . . a good fifteen feet above the river!

Lots of debris carried down-river.

We pushed our way down the gorge, oftentimes very literally as we pushed through tangled branches. It was in this area where we first decided to walk in the river for longer stretches rather than fight the overgrowth on the banks. Walking in the water for a hundred yards at a time wasn't too bad as long as there weren't too many rocks or rapids.

We passed a curious-looking rectangular arch. I also kept an eye out for Indian petroglyphs that I knew were somewhere in this area. Our journey took us through a pronounced s-curve and then past the junction with Black Rock Canyon. At last we arrived at the bridge with I-15.

The bridge spanned from one side of the chasm to the other, with two piers planted on each side of the river. Looking up we could see the beams and girders on the underside of the bridge. We marveled at the modern structure and took note that as dozens of cars rushed by on the freeway above, absolutely none of them had any clue that three worn out hikers stood below.

An interesting rectangular arch.

The long-awaited I-15 bridge.

Crossing under the only bridge of the day.

From here we felt like there was light at the end of the tunnel. It was 3 pm and we had about three more hours of sunlight. From here the gorge takes a sharp turn to the south and more or less parallels the freeway.

It was here I first noticed gathering storm clouds. We didn't worry too much because now we were within five miles or so from our destination and the canyon walls were more spread out. Although the thick growth along the banks was still an issue, it was no where near as thick as it had been earlier in the hike.

One of the neatest finds we came across was a baby turtle. Hank found it. He flipped it over with his walking stick and saw the legs and head retract into the shell. It was the size of a silver dollar and found on the shore of the river, just inches from the water.

A baby turtle!

A lot of caves and other places to explore later.

Inspecting the river.

Drops of rain began to fall but didn't amount to much.

Since this final stretch somewhat parallels the freeway, we often heard the sound of traffic in the distance. A person could park alongside the freeway and find a way down to the river if they so desired. Indeed there was much more surrounding area to be explored.

Here we noticed the first barrel cactus on the hillside. Another mile or two downriver we started spotting Joshua trees. Occasionally we stirred up quail nesting in the grass.

Barrel cactus along the route.

A crate from Summit Valley Milk, 1979.

Lots of walking in the river.

With a couple miles left to go the sun dipped below the horizon and we were now left to push our way in the dark. We all used a headlamp or flashlight. It now became more difficult to see ahead and strategize which way to go. Crossing or walking in the river was still a necessity. It was a miracle that none of us fell in.

By now we were very anxious to get this thing over with! Hank's wife, Barbara, was to meet us at the Cedar Pockets campground. Miraculously, Hank got cell service and told her to wait because we were running late.

As we got closer we could see the freeway traffic of I-15 in the north. To the west shined a lone light from the campground. That was our destination.

We crossed the river for the last time, then hiked up a hill and along a fence-line until we hit the campground road. Hank called Barbara and told her to meet us there. We were done!

Joshua trees silhouetted on the skyline.

This hike was one of the longer day-hikes I've ever done. In the end we hiked 17 miles in 13 hours; two of those were in the dark. There was very little about this hike that was easy. Much of it was spent walking in water or crawling on hands and knees.

We drove to a restaurant in St. George where three filthy and haggard men relished a meal of hamburgers and fries. Our plan was to finish the second half tomorrow, but we all agreed to do it another day. The hike had taken much longer than expected and there was also a chance of rain the next day. We certainly didn't need the river to be any higher.

To be continued . . .

Ancient Shangri-La

Steep canyon walls lifted from the earth on both sides. Dank, cold air rose from the muddy bottom as we stepped over branches and stagnant water. It was only us and no one else for miles. We were alone.

My boots were still wet from wading through a thigh-deep stream that morning. Normally the wash was nearly dry, but soaking rains had flooded the channel and we had no other options other than to cross.

Now as we hiked up the short canyon I noticed an alcove in the distance. There it is, I thought. With reluctant legs I trudged up the muddy bank with Jenna at my heels. Then it came into view⸺a rectangular stone structure perched inaccessibly on a shelf high on the cliff. 

We walked along the edge of the alcove on the lower level, skirting a jumble of boulders and rabbit brush. Another group of ruins came into view, some collapsed and others well preserved. 

The timbered roofs had long since disappeared, but the wall to one stood perfectly intact and a low door led inside a room. The face of the cliff served as a back wall for the room. On one side of the cliff was the reversed red image of a hand. Nearby was another hand, but with unusually long fingers. This one was not painted, but lightly etched into the rock. 

Smooth grooves were carved into slabs of rock. This is where the Anasazi ground their corn and sharpened their knives. It is hard to believe that people actually lived here over 800 years ago. Back then there was probably perennial water running from a spring. 

But it was also evident that they were on the defense. They were hiding. They protected themselves in the canyons and high on the cliffs. They were pursued by an enemy. 

We moved past the cliff dwelling and deeper into the short canyon. Now we hoped to find a way out and onto the ridge. Then Jenna called out, “Dad, look! There's a shed!” 

She has better eyes than I do and I turned, looking for a man-built structure. I was baffled as to why a shed would be built out here. “Where?” I asked. 

She pointed to the ground in front of her, but recoiled when that “shed” was still on the animal. “It's an elk and it's laying down!” 

Now I saw it. But it wasn't just laying down. It was dead. It looked as if he had tumbled because his neck was contorted in such a way that he was face-down, his front tines pierced into the dirt. A bullet hole entered behind his left quarter and came out his neck. It was as if he was shot on the ridge and tumbled into the canyon. Who knew what really happened? It was a sad situation. He was a six-point bull with a beautiful spread. 

The dead elk lay near the end of the canyon and from here we found two possible routes out. Both required a steep climb up sloughed earth and then a precarious walk across very slanted slickrock. We felt comfortable with neither so decided to backtrack and find a safer route. 

Back a couple hundred yards we found a rocky ramp that led onto the slickrock. We moved upward toward the ridge. By now the wind blew unobstructed so I paused to put on a jacket and beenie.

Daylight was quickly drawing to an end. We had perhaps twenty minutes until the sun went down. Cold wind beat across our faces as we exerted a consistent uphill climb. I don't know if we were wise or not, but with the sun nearing the horizon, we had yet to reach our destination. 

As we approached the top we were suddenly met with disappointment as we learned that the slope we were on didn't quite meet the top of the ridge. We would have to descend the rock, then ascend another steep slope. We didn't have time for that. 

But we found another option that tempted us. Off to our right was a secluded valley whose westernmost edge sat at the top of the ridge. Pink cliffs sat on all sides and a faint trail ran through the middle that we supposed could later take us back to camp. 

We found a way off the rocky knob and down to the secluded valley. It was now just fifteen minutes until dusk and the sun's final rays slanted across the red clay and juniper trees. 

This isolated place had a mystical feel to it. On the far side of the valley we spotted an alcove with more Anasazi dwellings. This little valley was their home. I envisioned brown-skinned children playing on the soil or a fire kindled amidst their rock houses. 

We knew we didn't have much time so we quickly made our way to the rim. A grand view unfolded before our eyes. From our birds-eye vantage point we saw yet another valley, this one much larger, stretching from north to south for miles beyond what we were able to see. An empty, dusty road snaked along the bottom. Beyond that road to the west sat a complex of deep canyons, but the haze of the setting sun made them barely visible. 

Jenna sat on the edge and enjoyed the view. I heard that there were Moki steps that led to this very location, but could not see them, nor could I comprehend how they could be made on such a sheer cliff.

Just as the sun dipped below the horizon we decided to walk to the alcove. This ancient dwelling had remained intact for 800 years. I could detect at least five rooms now crumbled to the ground, one of which had walls on two sides that still stood several feet high. The rocks of the walls were held together by mud. 

With reluctance, but out of necessity, we found the faint path that led out of the valley and through the canyon. There was still enough light that our eyes could adjust. The post-dusk air became strikingly cold. White ocher walls towered on both sides and I knew that as we walked there were more secrets out there yet to be discovered. 

We avoided puddles of standing water when we could. The further down the canyon we got the more dense the vegetation became, with tender willows and pliable limbs. We exited the canyon and came out onto a slickrock flat. This was the first point at which we used our flashlights. 

Back at camp we struggled to cook dinner in the dark on a propane stove. A gentle, but cold breeze blew across the sage brush plain where many ancients once called home. I stretched my hands toward the flames. On the western horizon, just above the ridge, Jupiter and Venus slowly crept into oblivion. ♠

 

Almudena Cemetery—Cusco

The taxi drove us to Avenida Antonio Lorena and dropped us off in front of a large plaza. We paid him eight soles. Inca ladies sold arrangements of flowers on one side of the plaza. A vendor inside a kiosk sold decorations and snacks. 

Along the other side of the plaza was painted a mural with all sorts of colorful characters. Some wore masks, others played instruments, some wore ceremonial garb, but all the painted characters stood in this same plaza. 

Along that same side of the plaza were the walls of the cemetery. These walls were made of brick that appeared much older. Within the walls, but high enough to see from without, was the beautiful dome of a chapel. An archway along the wall served as an entrance to the cemetery. They say this wall was used by firing squads during the 19th century. 

The Cementerio General de La Almudena was built between 1846 and 1850 using rubble from the Convent of San Augustín that was destroyed during the Peruvian War of Independence. They chose an area far away from the city center where a hospital and the Temple of Almudena already stood. 

We entered through the archway into a world of the dead. The cemetery follows the same style as those found in Spain with most of the deceased placed in vaults and stacked in stories on top of each other. We walked down the various alleyways, taking note of names and dates. Nothing was very old. Most death dates came after the year 2000. I didn't know if there was a point when they removed older burials, or if we just couldn't find them. 

As I mentioned, outside the cemetery there were several booths selling flowers, while inside the cemetery we saw several families arranging flowers for loved ones. Each tomb had a shadow box where the family could display mementos such as soda cans, trinkets, eye glasses, flowers etc. 

Some families had mausoleums large enough to fit several tombs. Most of these we could look inside and see decorations, as well as individual tombs. One had stairs so we walked down and found twelve separate tombs. 

On the southwest corner of the cemetery was an old chapel with a large dome. The oldest burials we found were centered around this chapel. Here we also found the fanciest brickwork and elaborate statues. The dome belongs to the Temple of Almudena.  The chapel, which appears connected to the temple, is the Central Chapel of Santo Roma. The chapel used to house the funeral rites of the cemetery but now is used as an incinerator. 

One section that stood out was a wing of stacked vaults that were of a noticeably smaller size. I asked one of the workers who was entombed in these and he replied that they were children. By the diminutive size of the vaults, I concluded that they must have been babies. 

The cemetery was a busy place. Families visited loved ones, workers repaired walls and guards kept an eye on everyone. A dog even lounged in an alleyway, watching everyone go by. 

The cemetery lies on a hill overlooking the valley of Cusco. From certain points in the cemetery you can see the distant slopes near San Blas. Appearing small, but very distinct, is the statue of the White Christ with his arms stretched out. ♠