You Be the Judge

(By Tom)

As is true of most national parks, Arches National Park can be a striking symbol of American pride, with its giant, sweeping arches and vast landscape. It is only appropriate that during our visit, we saw people partaking in two of our country’s favorite national pastimes: doing stupid things without thinking, and unsympathetically judging those who have gotten themselves into trouble.

Tracy and I were walking in front of the “Turret” arch when I noticed two older women opposite the arch, sitting in the shade and scowling at the sky. Wondering why a beautiful natural rock formation would cause them to make such faces, I followed their angry gazes to the top of the arch’s right spire, where I saw the source of their disgust: a pink, bearded young man, framed against the bright blue sky, wearing a polo shirt and an expression of confusion and fear. A handful of other people were scattered around the base of the arch, but he was alone atop that spire, clearly in a place where polo-and-cargo-shorts-clad young men are not supposed to be.

“It’s going to be slippery as the devil when he tries to climb down from there,” one of the women said, her voice dripping with contempt. “I am not going to watch him try to climb down.” Her companion nodded in agreement.

A third woman walked up to them. “He’s stuck,” she said, shaking her head. “He told his dad he wanted a picture of himself on top of the arch, in the middle, but now he’s saying he can’t do it, he can’t find a way there.” As she was speaking, the man was tentatively trying to make his way forward, advancing a few steps, then retreating, then advancing again on a slightly different path.

The park’s “Don’t climb the rocks” warning poster sprang to mind. “It’s easy to go up, but hard to go down,” it says. “Rocks fall. People do, too!” I could envision the man in the same position as the poster’s cartoon example, gripping the side of the arch, staring at the ground far below him with wide, saucer-shaped eyes, fat drops of sweat flying from his forehead.

I asked the women if the man was in their party, thinking that their anger could be part of a reaction to seeing someone they love or care about risking serious injury or death. “No,” one of them replied emphatically, as in, “Hell no, we’re not related to that clown in any way whatsoever, and he deserves whatever is coming to him.” This set off another round of tongue clucking.

Now, to be fair to the women, I was only mildly concerned about the man’s fate. As long as he stayed where he was, he was safe; the danger would come if he, who appeared to be untrained in the rock-climbing arts, tried to pick his way down and took a wrong step or two. However, there were plenty of people around to help spot a safe path for him, and if they couldn’t, I was sure the rangers there had plenty of experience helping schlubs like him back away from mistakes like his.

However, I couldn’t quite understand the anger of the women. I suppose they were peeved that the man had stupidly endangered his life, and possibly worried that they would be subjected to some kind of gruesome spectacle just because he wanted a neat picture. But even if that is true, their vitriol still seemed a little bit out of line. Instead of being fearful for the man’s life, they were angry at him; their concern, if that’s what it was, had a distinctly punitive flavor. It felt almost like they wanted him to fall, so that he would learn his lesson.

I don’t know if the man descended safely or not; Tracy and I had, as she wrote, air-conditioned vehicles full of family members to return to. I’m assuming he was fine, since I saw no “Man dies in fall at Arches Park” headlines, though fatal falls may be so common that they don’t warrant anything more than a police-blotter-like mention in the Moab Times.

After the Grand Canyon, which Tracy documented in her post, we stopped at Sedona, Arizona, a far less cutthroat place than the Arches National Park, though no less alien, in terms of otherworldly landscapes.

Sedona is surrounded by shrub-covered mountains and large, distinctly shaped geologic formations, a burnt-orange world of massive boulders with whimsical names like “Snoopy Rock” and “Coffeepot Rock.” It feels repetitive to keep writing this throughout our trip, but it was, of course, beautiful.

What separates Sedona from the pack is its vibe, or, as some might say, its vibrations. My understanding of this is fuzzy, but the area is said to be rich with energy vortexes, places where there are swirling concentrations of unseen energy forces strong enough to twist tree stumps and nourish the human spirit, though the explanation of this concept likely depends on who is explaining it. Whatever is going on, the area does seem to draw more than its fair share of unconventional thinkers, and the city is replete with stores that cater to everyone from crystal-enthusiasts to people who need their auras photographed to UFO devotees.

I can’t speak to the veracity of the various claims about the area, but I can say that the eclectic collection of people gives the area an agreeably loose, “anything goes” kind of feel. Though the real estate is costly, the population is anything but snobby; judgmental attitudes are melted away by the glowing, purple and gold sunsets and free-wheeling theologies and mythologies.

Our traveling party did visit the site of a supposed vortex, and while I can’t claim to have felt anything mystical or supernatural, I did get to experience a wonderful hike to a mountaintop that boasts gorgeous views. And while I am, admittedly, skeptical, I do want to point out that Sedona seems to have a higher concentration of traffic circles than any other part of the country I’ve been to.

Or should I call them “traffic vortexes”?