Numerous trips to the Desert Southwest were never as good as the one in 1994. By the time I got there, my body was strong from two months of climbing and backpacking through the Rocky Mountains and Pacific Northwest. Instead of heading home, I turned south into Utah and Arizona for three more weeks of mountain biking, rock climbing, paddling, hiking, slot canyons, and remote canyon country.
This was the kind of trip where every few days I changed sports because one part of my body was trashed and another adventure was waiting. When my legs were blown out from Slickrock, I climbed. When my fingers were blistered from sandstone, I went looking for the river. When the river flattened out, I explored cliffs, ruins, and slot canyons. It was one of the wildest and most perfect stretches of travel I ever had in the lower 48.
Moab and the Slickrock Wake-Up Call
Moab was one of those places that seemed built for every kind of outdoor adventure I loved. Mountain biking the slickrock was incredible, but it was not exactly gentle. It was steep up and down, over and over again, with a few wipeouts thrown in for good measure. By the end of the first day my legs were trashed.
That was the beauty of the place. If one sport beat you up, you simply switched to another one for a few days. The desert did not run out of possibilities. It just kept offering another canyon, another wall, another river, another trail, another wide-open landscape that made me want to keep going.
Spider Wall, Sandstone, and Blistered Fingertips
After the slickrock biking beat up my legs, I went climbing for a couple of days. Spider Wall was perfect because I could belay right from the car, keep music playing, and spend long days working routes. I did many self-belays with a solo device, anchored right to the bumper.
But sandstone has a way of collecting its payment. By the end of the second day, my fingertips were burnt and blistered, and it was time to stop climbing and find the river. That rhythm became the whole trip: bike until the legs hurt, climb until the fingers hurt, paddle until the nerves woke up, then hike into canyons until the next wild thing appeared.
Solo on the Green River
The Green River was beautiful, but I would be lying if I said I was calm when I started. I was nervous as hell. I was getting ready to paddle solo, knowing I needed to get out before the river hooked up with the Colorado and eventually headed toward the Grand Canyon. That kind of nervousness is part of what makes a trip memorable. You are not just sightseeing. You are making decisions that matter.
Once I was on the water, it was wonderful. The river was half mellow and half wild, alternating between whitewater, pools, whitewater, pools. During the flat stretches I could relax a little, but I was always listening for the roar of the next rapid. It was the perfect rhythm: enough calm to enjoy the scenery, enough whitewater to keep me fully awake.
Remote Ancestral Puebloan Ruins
Along the river there were remote cliff dwellings tucked into the canyon walls. At the time, many of us called these Anasazi ruins, though today I would describe them more respectfully as Ancestral Puebloan sites, since those places are part of the living cultural history of descendant communities.
They got very few visitors, but they were everywhere if you were willing to hike and pay attention. I remember wanting to camp near them and meditate there by candlelight, but the energy felt too strong. Some places do not need you to do anything but stand quietly, look carefully, and show respect.
Slot Canyons and Flash-Flood Nerves
The slot canyons snaking down toward Lake Powell were some of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. The photos do not come close to capturing what it felt like to be down inside those walls, with sandstone twisting overhead and the light bouncing around in ways that seemed almost unreal.
But slot canyons also get your attention. If a thunderstorm happens miles away, that water can come roaring down faster than you can imagine. I remember being a hundred feet deep and several miles in, listening hard and wondering if that sound off in the distance was thunder. It was beautiful, but it was also serious country.
The Lazy Lizard and Free Desert Country
For much of those three weeks I stayed at the Lazy Lizard Hostel in Moab. It was about six dollars a night for a bunkroom or three dollars to camp. They had a hot tub, barbecue, picnic tables outside, and that great hostel energy where everyone had stories and plans and some new place they were headed next.
The big dilemma was that there was also excellent free backcountry all around Moab, much of it BLM land, with very few restrictions. That meant you could stay in town, meet people, soak in the hot tub, and share stories, or you could head out to the river, the canyons, or the desert and camp under the stars. Either way, it felt like paradise.
Why This Trip Still Stands Out
One of the wildest places in the good old USA is the Four Corners region of the Desert Southwest. Climbing, road biking, mountain biking, whitewater, hiking, and incredible backpacking are everywhere. For me, this area has always been one of my favorite places in the lower 48.
Those three weeks taught me that adventure does not have to be one sport, one trail, or one destination. Sometimes the richest trips come from staying in one region long enough to let the landscape decide what you do next.
I would bike until my legs were tired, climb until my fingers were blistered, paddle until the river made me nervous, and hike until the canyon walls swallowed the sky. That was the magic of the Desert Southwest in 1994. It was not just a road trip. It was a whole season of my life compressed into three unforgettable weeks.