Capitol Reef

We almost skipped Capitol Reef. On the map it sat awkwardly between Bryce and Moab, a name I couldn’t place, and Lia and I nearly drove straight through to somewhere with a bigger reputation. Instead we turned off Highway 24 on a whim, and within twenty minutes I was ashamed of ever having doubted it. There was nobody at the pullout. Just a wall of striped stone the colour of dried blood and old ivory, glowing in the late sun, and the small green rectangle of an orchard tucked below it like a secret someone had kept for a hundred and fifty years.

The Fold in the Earth

Geologists call it the Waterpocket Fold, a hundred-mile wrinkle in the crust, and standing beneath it you feel the scale of the thing in your chest. We hiked the Grand Wash in the cool of morning, the canyon walls closing in until Lia could touch both sides with her arms out, the sky reduced to a bright ribbon overhead. The rock does strange things with sound in there. Our footsteps came back to us softened, and when we stopped talking the silence had a weight to it, ancient and patient, that made us lower our voices without meaning to.

Fruita and the Orchards

The strangest, gentlest thing about this park is that you can pick fruit here. In the 1880s Mormon settlers planted orchards along the Fremont River in a green pocket they called Fruita, and the Park Service still tends them. We arrived in cherry season, paid a few dollars into an honesty box, and spent an hour among the trees with a ladder and a paper bag, Lia laughing at the stains on my fingers. Afterward we ate a slice of pie at the old Gifford homestead, still warm, and sat on the grass watching mule deer wander out of the cottonwoods as if we weren’t there at all.

The Scenic Drive and Capitol Gorge

In the afternoon we followed the Scenic Drive south as the crowds — what few there were — thinned to nothing. At the end the pavement gives out and a dirt track runs straight into Capitol Gorge, where the walls lean in and old wagon-road travellers scratched their names into the sandstone a century ago. We found the faint pioneer register, initials and dates fading back into the rock, and just past it a set of natural water tanks holding the desert’s only reflection for miles. We watched the light climb the far wall until the whole gorge turned amber, then rust, then the deep purple of dusk, and we were the last car out.

Getting There

Capitol Reef sits in south-central Utah, straddling Highway 24 about three and a half hours south of Salt Lake City and two and a half hours west of Moab. There is no gateway town to speak of — the small settlement of Torrey, ten minutes west, has the nearest beds and a couple of honest kitchens. Come with a full tank and water; services are sparse and the desert is unforgiving of the underprepared. We stayed two nights in Torrey and wished it had been three. This is a park that rewards the traveller who slows down, and punishes only the one in a hurry.