National Park Overload, Part IA

The imposing walls of Zion
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The drive from Moab to Springdale, the tourist town at the base of Zion National Park, filled my day with pleasant roads and delightful Springy views. The drive was about three hundred miles, although I attempted to extend the journey via scenic route 128, a hypotenuse of the two interstates between Moab and Zion. Tempted by the green dotted line of scenic byway on my road atlas, I took the turnoff for 128, which from the interstate seemed to cut into the gorgeous territory fit for preservation by the Department for the Interior, rather than skirt it along the plains.

After ten miles or so a sign for 128 pointed to my chosen detour, and from that hung a ‘closed’ sign. Deciding to ignore this, as the region I drove through was nothing if not deserted, I drove on. There on the right side of the road, after the turn, was a pick-up truck sporting the sign “Route 128 Closed Until Noon,” which blocked my way enough to deter me. What lazy prig decided to take the morning off? A cop? The petrol dealer? There certainly wasn’t any snow to put off plowing. Reluctantly I took the route back to the interstate, and the drive continued without the scenery I had hoped for, until my turnoff.

I took highway 15 to 17 East. As soon as civilization materialized after winding down a hill, the desert was gone. Instead, I drove through a somewhat impoverished neighborhood that took landscaping seriously. The route digressed into a town lane, slowing my speed, and in return shook more cherry and apple blossoms at me in the breeze. The pretty pink flowers filled the streets, green with real grass, and the tan trunks held the small gardens, many to a frontage. I giggled from the view, and rolled my window down to drink in the scents and quietude. How lovely it was!

Towns panned, each settled a handful of miles from the last, until the road turned red and the streets were again small-town America. The neighborhood of Rockville, population less than 300, enjoyed its vicinity with Springdale. Development had not brought any Best Westerns, but every third house or so was decorated with a tastefully kitschy lawn and a sign advertising it as a Bed and Breakfast. After a mile of sporadic ranch drives, I entered Springdale.

Springdale is idyllic. The lawns are green, the houses pretty, small (except for one hideous estate that I imagine houses the local Mormon priest and his three wives), and spread just so, giving space for children to play but just enough so they are still forced to befriend the neighbors. The businesses are of the rock and gem, jewelry variety, or galleries. Then of course the outdoor shops and liberal-minded coffeehouses. About a dozen or so restaurants all appear the same quality by sign and design, and of the three I sampled, there was little to lose in choosing. Springdale ends at the park entrance on highway 9, and the park requires the $25 fee from every car, through-travelers or not (this is where the Interagency Pass pays).

This southern section of Utah is famous for two things: the inconceivable natural wonders of Zion and Bryce Canyon (and a few other territories the Department of the Interior “protects”), and the inconceivable enclaves of fundamentalist Mormons. The Church of the Latter-Say Saints of Jesus Christ (named such because the true followers are deified in death) has its history in this region, where pioneers associating themselves with Brigham Young and Joseph Smith settled, moved the native Paiutes out, and encouraged no other settlers to make a home. It is in this region that the excommunicated faction still practicing polygamy (and teenage marriages), and in the most radical cases, removal revelations- when a member is assured by God that a criminal must be executed so that the spilling of blood will remove his sins, find solitude. These are contentedly self-contained communities.

In Springdale, the only church in town was Mormon (therefore not the radical faction). I began to make a habit of studying historic photographs (Mormons are notoriously obsessed with tracing geniology) to see if there was only one woman to every man. The Best Western, and the luxury lodges, were probably run by the sect. Closer to the park, the employees were seasonal, and all the customers at the local pizza and pasta joint were near Zion for the righteous climbs, not the religious freedom.

I especially recommend the Bit and Spur Saloon, a creative Mexican restaurant with great ambiance and tasty food. For breakfast and lunch, Café Soleil offered healthy granola and incredible wraps that the manager happily packed for hiking. The tomato, hummus, and greens wrap included cucumber, feta, olives, and a light vinaigrette, and that was hands down the best sandwich I’ve eaten in weeks. The Mean Bean coffee shop had bold political statements on the walls, but the pastries were not as good as the other café, and the waitstaff was characteristically short. I’m sorry, but if you want to run a coffee shop, hire people that get happy when they drink tons of caffeine, honestly.

Otherwise there is absolutely nothing to do in town.