Living life like its 1996, I was seven, ‘The Labrynth’ (ref: Arches National Park Blog) was making regular re-runs on Saturday night family television. Musician some what gender transision, David Bowie heavily licked in make-up, ghostly goons, stark white, electric guitar rifting, collecting babies in his geo-metric upside down mirror kingdom. The nightmares of my childhood, a distant but lingering thought, brought to light by flickering feelings of accumulating clouds and a trail battled with friends in the Devils Playground. But now Arches in our rear-vision mirror, our 96 Ford Escort, the Goblin King defeated and desert drifting. Time spent strolling crowds of religious figures, triggers an apostolic frolic of happy dreams, an alcoholics’ deception as I lower my guards and worry least, when the sun burns hottest, we drove into the belly of the beast! Goblin Valley.
Little wildhorse and bells canyon loop – 14km
We arrived when the sun sat 30. 30 degrees both angling and calcius. Afternoon come doom if we set our feet wrong. No time for error in our navigational endeavours. Hiking project, projects 4 hours, detects no breaks! We set at a pace, through scratchy blood trickling scrub, no aba dub dub or any love as my legs stain the slit sand stone beneath. Through Bells Canyon at a zombie trance we skathed the big hard suns never relenting, repenting curses at the days full rays. We sipped salvation from our klean canteen, slipped hydration back in our pack. We passed a family transfixiated, eyes dominated a death like stare, to no where. Mum dad and the two girls, lady like curls, they didnt belong here. But we forgot and climbed big rocks, like hop scotch, hadnt watched the watch till time had clearly passed in the Bells playground.
Time had played a while, as the suns dial, casts more than a shadow of denial, we had played too late. Little wild horse merely a slit in the horizen it became apparent we’d made a mistake. The rattle of a snake, the rock, ash black, sharp make no mistake it aint fake. We moved at a gradual pace, not to slip, did and took a dip, but that seemed to matter less as water emersion innevertabilty nessersary. We waded waist deep through the creepy canyon till it opened back out to the wash, we slopped and staggered into the sun set blue’s, in awe of the horizons hue and saturation poetry. In a moment of absolute beauty came sudden mystery. A perculiar man held his hand, between us and *Evelyn, our car. Against a dark horizon, widened, whitened eyes, glassy and slightly lit, he stared in horror. “My wife and three girls, all with lusious curls, they wandered aloft, vanished into thin air. He stared wavairly into the moon, as if not care.
BLM stands for Blood Licking Misery… oh wait I mean Bureau of Land Management. You can park your car, set up a tent, do as you please. It attracts oddities like commodities, the essentially estranged, deranged truck and trailer tokers intolerantly spying on your every move. The nomadic, retired from the main-stream grove. And under a full lit moon, we roll out mats and pitch our spidy defences. We feast on butter sauce ravioli mmm spinach infused, another camp cooker eclectic. Full stomachs, we lay beneath the open air, and as everything faded to black and I drifted into a haze, white glassy eyes a blaze. I wake upright too a man staring at me through the fly-net screen, I scream, just to wake from a dream.
Goblin Valley State Park
Theres a fee, not your soul but unlucky $13 for your daily fix. We begrudgingly paid the fare and continued our stare as we headed west on low morning sun. We passed a statue like revelations, a three headed beast balancing rocks like monetary monastery, infamous as the ‘three sisters’ tarnished like blisters in the sun, toppled from glory and estranged from the valley. But as soon as confidence rises, so to does the suffocating desert haze of goblin gratuity, they toke my money but they wont take my sole. We walked amidst the ugly deformities these rock enormities informally entranced. There obscure sand whipped individualities, truer than hand tipped realities. Natural curves in natural preserves, while the gift wasnt free, it certainly was worth the federal reserve. We climbed the highest peak to observe the clay army, rock party potters dance. Then from behind an elderly couple, on a final any way the wind blow, no kids we go, Winnebago adventure across the usa. We overheard there whispers of muttering madness, bitch’n bout RV hitchn spots and a man and the moon. With there fanny packs high and there visors low, “hello”, they chimed. We sat through formalities, where you from, how long have you been travelling, then came the gossip fatalities, wait what was this about the man and the moon?? So as the husband stood and couldnt get a word in, his wife imparted the burden, and in an all American drawl she relayed the story. On a full moon 1 year to date, after curling her and her three girls hair, a mother wandered into a nearby canyon. Not familiar with the outdoor environment, slipped into a slot and broke her neck astray from the mainstream flow, her girls with there lucious fro and youthful glow, climbed down below. With blood stained dresses and lack of evernesence or any cleverness never thought how to get out. They cried through sips of there mothers blood, gnawed on her ribs till three days later came a flash flood and ended them all. The father a devout mormon who believed in a life outside the law, spent day and night searching alone. Till eventually he found his wifes ravished neck bone, and one of his daughters jaw locked enthralled at bite, all dead, all with there curls. Nothing could bring them back, not even moon and the light that it hurls. He stood and stared, hoping for miracles in exchange for the locks he possessed, but miracle turned him hysterical and like the goblins surrounding he decayed in the full moon.