Stop and smell the dinosaurs

ST. GEORGE, Utah—Once upon a time not too long ago, there was a marvelous eye doctor who could see things so well that he ignored the lure of big money and opted instead for public service.

Dinosaurs never walked with humans. Or did they?

You see, one day in the year 2000, sometime shortly after his retirement, Dr. Sheldon Johnson had bought a farm out in Northern St. George, Utah, that he had planned to develop so he could live happily ever after. One day as Dr. Johnson was scraping off the upper 20 feet of dirt from his farm so that he could level the land and make it easily accessible to the new road that had been carved in next to it, one of the giant machines that was scraping away at the Earth happened to accidentally drop a giant slab of stone, which upended as it landed. When Dr. Johnson and the others looked at the stone, they thought they saw what looked like imprints of tracks of some strange type of creature that had been running in the mud.

“What’s all this?” Dr. Johnson wondered, scratching his head in the warm air and looking at the stone.

Dinosaur track reliefs at Johnson's Farm.

He and his crew of merry men tipped over more of the slabs and were amazed to see all kinds of things—large and small three-toed imprints, ripples like you’d find at the bottom of an ancient lake, and even long wispy scratches between small footprints, like the tail-drag marks that lizards make when they run through the desert today. Delighted at his wonderful find, Dr. Johnson stopped work on developing the land, and instead called in a bunch of archaeologists, paleontologists and geologists so they could have a look for themselves. What they ended up finding was literally a huge page of history that had been sandwiched within the rock layers beneath Johnson’s Farm.

Dating back 195 to 198 million years ago, Dr. Johnson’s land was the location of a huge shallow lake, where dinosaurs, ancient reptiles and primitive fish lived and played. These ancient creatures walked about, some on two legs, others on four, or swam in the shallow waters, leaving marks where their limbs sunk into the mud or scratched the lake bottom. Gradually these prints filled up with sand, and over time, the sand became compressed and it turned into sandstone as the Earth grew older and more sediments piled up on top.

The Moenave Formation: a busy dinosaur landscape

Johnson’s farm held what geologists call the Moenave Formation, a layering of sandstone, siltstone, mudstone and shale. The formation is sandwiched between the Upper Triassic Chinle Foundation and the Lower Jurassic Kayenta Formation, like the chapter of a book frozen forever in time. The bottoms of upper layers of the Moenave Formation formed reliefs of the footprints, like the ones found on the original slab of stone that was accidentally turned over during that fateful day on Johnson’s Farm a decade ago. The lower layers house the footprints themselves that were sunken into the primordial mud.

Scientists have found evidence of a giant meat-eating dinosaur known as the Eubrontes, which weighed close to a half a ton and walked on two legs. They also found evidence of the much-smaller Grallator, which hunted in packs. In addition, they found evidence of some alligator-like creatures, lizards, fresh-water animals, and ripples in the mud from the ancient sea.

Perhaps most wonderful of all, the scientists at Johnson’s Farm found some extremely rare tracks where the skin of these “terrible lizards” of old can be clearly seen imprinted in the mud, as well as swim tracks in the lake bottom that show clear evidence of some very large dinosaurs swimming!

Dinosaurs had lizard skin!

Johnson’s Farm is now open to the public, and a large army of volunteers continues to work the land in search of secrets. They find more each day.

Instead of letting his land turn into a Wal-Mart, which would have sold an array of cheap, Chinese-manufactured goods made from dinosaurs, Dr. Johnson kept his land so it could be enjoyed by Dinosaur lovers from all over the globe. In a way, that makes Dr. Johnson a dinosaur himself, because these days, most people would have chosen to ignore the existence of dinosaur tracks, and instead would have gleefully sold the land to the highest bidder. Because as we all know today, money is what makes kings and queens and all other people worthy of praise, not sentimentality or an appreciation of the past. 

Thank you, Dr. Sheldon Johnson, for being the most marvelous dinosaur of them all! May you live happily ever after.

See you on down the road!

Shaken not stirred

We are eagerly drinking in the local culture.

ST. GEORGE, Utah—There is a charming white-bread wholesomeness here that's endearing and terrifying at the same time. We are smack dab in the heart of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Here in St. George lies the oldest Mormon Tabernacle in North America. Contrary to common folklore, it is this town, not Salt Lake City, that is the epicenter of Mormonism. Not only does St. George house the Temple—a gleaming white architectural marvel situated near the center of town—but it is also the original home of Mormon warrior Brigham Young, second president of the Mormon church.

A focus on the family is big here.

Here in Utah's Dixie—a nickname gleaned from the successful farming of cotton by Mormon settlers back in the 1861—the LDS influence is still alive, well and very apparent. A focus on Family is omnipresent here. Even at the vacation condo where we're staying—a dreary little place that could use some updating into the modern century—families rank high on the priority list. The central swimming pool was choked with good-looking families, each sporting myriad children. Even couples in their early twenties had at least two children, with more on the way, judging from the proliferation of baby bumps below bathing suits out at poolside.

Most of the people here are beautiful and in good physical condition. Most of the men are well muscled and fresh faced—like life-size Ken Dolls strutting about in workout clothes or tasteful fashion. The women are nicely tanned, well-mannered, quick to coddle their children, and active and successful at keeping their bodies toned and supple despite the stretch marks. The vast, vast majority of people we've seen in St. George are Anglo. The city and the church, it seems, have done a good job hiding those with "The Mark of Cain."

A place for promises.

The Mormon influence here was subtle at first. We didn't notice it until we tried to find a liquor store. There are precious few here. While Mormon churches literally can be found on nearly every block in the residential neighborhoods of St. George, we have heard of only two liquor stores, both well hidden. Ironically, nearly every local we asked knew exactly where both were as well as their hours of operation. It seems that among the plethora of pretty tow-headed model specimens active in the church exist numerous Jack Mormons as well. Or maybe the liquor stores are there only for people like us.
 
When we visited the St. George Temple, we were immediately greeted by a pleasant young missionary woman who quickly quizzed us on our religious foundations and our knowledge of the cult church. In the visitor center, she showed us a giant scale model of Jerusalem as it existed during the time of Christ. Jesus in all of the paintings in the visitor center was depicted as a good-looking light-haired man with blue eyes. Go figure.

In the Garden of Gethsemane

Our hostess was quick to point out the Garden of Gethsemane among landmarks on the map. That was the location where Jesus had his moment of doubt after being tempted by Lucifer. The missionary's eyes kept wandering down toward Caroline's breasts as she told us about church beliefs. I later nicknamed my companion's ta-tas as the temptresses, because of the fascinating spell they seemed to have cast upon our hostess. To me such a thing was not surprising; I remain fascinated by them every day. 

When we asked to see the inside of the Temple, our hostess told us that such a thing was not possible for non-church members.

"The Temple is a place where church members make promises to God," she explained. "Inside are where the most important facets of the church take place."

According to our guide, people (including dead ones) are Baptized by immersion into the church. Also, "sealing ceremonies" take place there because "we believe that a marriage can last for eternity," she said. I'm sure there are some Mormon men out there who are thinking exactly the same thing as they make their way to the hidden liquor stores.

Interestingly enough, she made the analogy that the "sealing process" was a lot like canning beans: "Beans can go bad unless they're sealed!" she giggled.

The wholesomeness is thick!

I was fascinated and I really did want to go inside the Temple. But I knew it never was to be. Even though Jesus gave his message freely to anyone who cared to hear it, access to such things are by invitation only in the realm of the LDS, apparently. Though I don't tend to pretend to know what Jesus would do, I can only think that such exclusivity would make him sad. But maybe that's just me.

With the array of wholesomeness here, however, there is an abundance of dairy treats to be had. We found some awesomely thick shakes at the Iceberg Drive Inn. They didn't really serve shakes; their product was more like a giant cup of deliciously cold and fresh soft-serve ice cream in dozens of possible flavor combinations. Refreshing? You bet!

We like it here in St. George for the most part, but even Ice Cream every day would probably get a little tedious. We crave a little more diversity, and we'll find that soon enough, I suppose. 

See you on down the road!

Gut check

ST. GEORGE, Utah—Sushi. Most times it’s delicious, but if you eat it during one of those times that it’s just a little off, well watch out!

Everything's in bloom out here!

It became clear after waking that something was amiss after a night out eating raw fish. We had gotten up early to hit the trails out near Hurricane, Utah, in order to escape the heat. But instead of making it to the trailhead while the air was still cool and fresh, I spent a coupled of hours camped out on the can, purging my system of whatever bad Ju Ju I had ingested the night before.

We arrived at Gooseberry Mesa just before 10 a.m. We had originally mapped out another ride for the day, but the thought that maybe the intestinal distress I was battling was only the beginning, we decided to cut back the mileage and find a more familiar place to ride. Gooseberry Mesa is a slickrock playground, and it became our fallback plan.

Nothing about it was second best!

Oh, she can ride alright....

Located just outside of Hurricane, high above the Virgin River and within spitting distance of Zion National Park, Gooseberry Mesa formally sprang onto the Mountain Biking scene less than a decade ago. In just a short time, the riding area has become extremely popular. Now more than just a series of white dots spray-painted onto slick rock in the middle of nowhere, Gooseberry has been improved and formalized with multiple trailheads, outhouses and a steady stream of devotees all eager to enjoy Sunday morning worship at the Church of the Divine Ride. Those who have been baptized on the trails here are lifelong converts. We tasted the singletrack sacrament here about seven years ago. it was a life-changing experience.

This day we were just happy to be riding at all. Once we were on the bikes out in the hot, dry air, the discomfort in my gut started to subside, probably because I became fixated on navigating through the relentless maze of rocky climbs and drops that snake in and out of the piñon and juniper landscape. Unlike our earlier experience at Gooseberry, the place was crowded with other riders. Some lingered at the top of intense climbs, throwing off our concentration. But we’d regain it quickly enough, so we pressed on toward the end of the trail. We met a nice couple from Crested Butte, Colo., and we rode the last mile or so with our new-found friends.

Trail's end!

The payoff at the end of the trail is an insanely high butte that towers thousands of feet above the Hurricane Valley. Red earth, white rocks, and blue sky were the colors of the day. We live in a great country—even if we are trying hard to ruin it.

The sun had drilled straight into our noggins, making us feel loopy and unsteady on the way back. After a few close calls, we regained focus and started cleaning tough sections of trails. Because the point of the trip was to celebrate my emergence into Senior Citizen status, we branded the trail as AARP approved—we survived the ride without breaking a hip or wandering away into oblivion, though at one point I did smack my hand on the unyielding trunk of a juniper tree, which caused me to spin out of control and tip over into the dirt.

If you could see what's at the bottom....

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

Oh well, mountain biking is like that sometimes.

We hit the new Windmill Trail for the last part of our ride back to the trailhead. The ripping fast stretch was fun, but it was full of exposure and some really wild off-camber rock obstacles, so we still had to use our A-Game for the final part of our journey.

A very late lunch at the Cafe Rio Mexican restaurant was the perfect end to the day. Even my intestines were happy. What more could you ask?

See you on down the road!

If not now, when?

SOMEWHERE IN THE FOUR CORNERS REGION—Vacations are hard to come by these days. The Great Recession of Twenty-Ought-Whatever-It-Was has successfully squeezed the wealth out of the hands of the Little People and placed it in the hands of the One Percent. But they'll get their comeuppance soon enough. Retribution is at hand, and a disenchanted rabble with no hopes for leisure or vacation time is a dangerous rabble. As Boston showed us, America is a pressure cooker with the relief valve welded shut.

Beauty still exists in America.

The American economy is being held together by nothing more than the thinnest veneer of public faith that the money we're spending is actually worth something. Soon it will become crystal clear that Fed printing presses have been kicking out bushel basket after bushel basket of worthless fiat currency. While this ocean of cash would seem impressive if piled up inside some great sports stadium somewhere, deep inside each and every American lies an uncomfortable realization that the amount of money in circulation far exceeds the actual value of all the goods and services that have been procured with it.

We all know that dollar notes are worth mere pennies. Inflation is just around the corner, and it won't be long now until the system begins to right itself by collapsing under its own weight. When the debts are called in, no amount of cash out there will cover them. Once that happens, a loaf of bread will actually cost what it's worth in terms of materials and human sweat. Visions of people carting wheelbarrows full of bills to the grocery store will become commonplace. Austerity measures will be enacted across the country as the Super Rich attempt to roll everyone else under the bus and make off with whatever ill-gotten gains they can—like cockroaches skittering out of the country with an armload of toxic Rembrandts before the stompings begin. Riots in the street with thwart most of them, as Wall Street executives are tarred, feathered, hoisted up on rails and dumped at the edge of the cities by those who were gullible enough to trust them to manage their retirement nest eggs. Cities will collapse under the weight of worthless promissory notes, and their rubble will be filled with the stench of rot.

The poor won't notice any difference, and many of them will actually find opportunity once the playing field is finally leveled by the very sledge hammer of greed and excess that had ruled it for far too long.

The air freshener reminded us to search for pie.

The One Percent and the Middle Class will become casualties in what is to become known as The Great Reckoning, and no amount of Fiscal Policy, Punditry or Fox News Outrage will drown out the mournful howls of the victims.

This is precisely why we decided to sneak away for a quick road trip while there is still time. Nature doesn't care about banking crises or Stagflation, and there are no televisions out in the the woods and the wild.

Knowing that it will only be a matter of time before our savings becomes essentially worthless, we decided to crack open our wallets and flee on vacation, away from worries about the mortgage debt of our home or the televised cacophony of Monday Morning Quarterbacking about the Boston Marathon bombings. Nature doesn't live by a script, and animals don't hire collection agencies; entrance into the wilderness does not require laying yourself out naked under a curtain of radiation or a pat-down by a Federal Agent with a 30 percent chance of having a felony rap on his or her record.

This place is remarkably safe!

Being out in the wilderness is much safer these days than being out in the cities.

Our path took us north, away from the cities and toward the dry desolate outback of the Desert Southwest—where the U.S. Government had banished the American Indian. These days out here, gas is cheap and mutton is easy to find. A tank of gas is synonymous with Freedom and a few strips of roast sheep flesh atop a greasy sopapilla means you're well nourished, all things considered.

We threaded our way west into Northern Arizona and then up into Utah, where the rock is pink and the pie is plentiful—at least in theory.

She'll lure you in for pie, alright....

Despite the promises of the sign outside of the Thunderbird Inn in Mt. Carmel, Utah, the eastern gateway to Zion National Park, the last decent slice of pie in America has been subverted and corrupted. Based on previous road-trip experiences and this final blow of gastronomic indignity, there really is no more decent pie for sale in America anymore these days. Like everything else, pie has been outsourced, optimized and brightly packaged for low taste and high profit. The only thing sweet and tasty about pie these days is the profit margin for the shareholders of the companies that produce them. Like the Cherry Pie air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror of our Family Truckster, road food these days smells a bit off, and it gives us a headache.

People these days blame such discomfort on the presence of gluten; personally, I blame it on bad ingredients and the system of abject apathy that has been cultivated in the New Breed of American Worker. While corporate profits rate at an all-time high, wages have stagnated and have lost ground against increases in the cost of living over the past 30 years. While Wall Street was partying and growing fat on taxpayer bailouts, the American worker grew poorer and more discouraged, cultivating a work ethic similar to the one currently employed by migrant workers: Pride and quality supplanted by the promise of low wages.

Animals know better than to approach humans.

We have entered The Age of Good Enough. Our vacation is no different. We are taking some time to sit in the sun without spending a wheelbarrow full of money. And along the way, we're stopping to marvel at what's still left of the natural world—before Northern Arizona and Southern Utah become permanently obscured behind a sickly whitish haze from the coal fires that are so necessary to keeping the illusion of American Superiority alive.

See you on down the road.