The Bandits of Hey Joe Canyon
“He had round sunglasses, a dark mustachio, and a golden ponytail that rose improbably out of the back of his helmet like a horse lifting its flyswatter to take a shit. He was a thinking man of curious questions and unusual answers; a savant of sorts; and possible candidate for most interesting man on the Colorado Plateau. We never learned his name (our deep regret) but decided afterward he probably didn't have one…”
Headed West on the sometimes sandy road past the Tombstone formation.
Tomcat and I had intended a much earlier, and more difficult, start to his first bikepacking trip, but as the realities of pre-trip logistics settled in, it became clear we would be rolling out in the midday heat. With a forecast high in the mid-80's, and both of us yet to shed our winter skin, a mostly downhill route sounded like the smart play for the day.
By the time we left the trailhead, Moab's Sunday afternoon exodus was well underway. Cars and RV's poured out of every nook and cranny, headed home from their weekend adventures. We were thankful to be pointed in the opposite direction. Within a couple of miles we passed the last popular camping area, and with it nearly everyone we would see for the next 24 hours.
Neither of us were aware of the old Dubinky Well just off the route - an eerie surprise to discover in the middle of nowhere. Loose, barely rideable, sand was abundant as we approached Tombstone Rock. Even so, the 20 mile traverse to the top of Hey Joe Canyon passed quickly. We briefly overshot the gateway to the most difficult leg of our journey and rode a mile or so out of the way before backtracking to find the unmarked turnout for the downclimb into the canyon.
It had been several miles since we'd seen recent evidence of other humans. As such, we were surprised to meet another pair of bikepackers at the canyon rim; two women midway through the full 100 mile version of the loop we were on. They described starting near Klondike Bluffs that morning and slogging through oodles of sand on their route to Dubinky Well. They elected to have a snack and rearrange some gear before tackling the canyon.
Dubinky Well. Don’t count on water. It hasn’t pumped in decades.
Peering over the edge of the Hey Joe Canyon Rim. Photo by Tomcat.
We peered over the rim, spotting the first of many cairns marking a faint climbers trail. It was hot, peak afternoon heat on the hottest day of the year thus far. We started down. The descent into Hey Joe Canyon is only about 500 vertical feet, but the route is precipitous with a dash of third-class rock scrambling; quite awkward with a 60 lb pack-bike in tow. The top half consisted of a series of short slickrock switchbacks interspersed with five foot ledges that were fairly straightforward to navigate.
About half way down we arrived at the crux, a steep 25-30' downclimb around an elbow of rock. We worked the puzzle together, slowly inching each bike downward while keeping it upright and cross-slope. Tomcat held the bike from above while I stabilized it from below. It took 20+ minutes to traverse that spot with both bikes while cooking in the sun. It was quite taxing, but the worst was behind us. There were a couple more steep sections, but soon enough we found ourselves rolling the runout into the flat canyon bottom.
Once in Hey Joe's belly, we decided to explore the head of the canyon before descending to its mouth along the Green River (our planned route forward). After a short distance, we hit deep sand, parked our bikes, and hiked to the point where the trail petered out.
It was there... at the end of civilization... we met them.
A mild drop on the descent of Hey Joe Canyon.
Hey Joe! Photo by Tomcat.
The encounter began with the all too familiar sound of small motors; the gas-brapping insult to mother nature that typically elicits a fuuuuuuuck-like utternance from deep within the bowels of every muscle-powered traveler. But these were not your average two-strokes. They were tiny mopeds straining under the weight of the two large men hooning to a halt next to us.
The fella in back fired off a salvo of questions to size us up. "How the hell'd you get those bikes back here?" We explained and returned the question. He answered. We measured. This went on for a while in circular fashion, mutual respect growing with each successive turn.
He had round sunglasses, a dark mustachio, and a golden ponytail that rose improbably out of the back of his helmet like a horse lifting its flyswatter to take a shit. He was a thinking man of curious questions and unusual answers; a savant of sorts; and possible candidate for most interesting man on the Colorado Plateau. We never learned his name (our deep regret) but decided afterward he probably didn't have one. No, this man was meant for a title - something like, "the Count." After exhausting all the possibilities, we stuck with that.
The Count's sidekick/bodyguard/lover(?) didn't say much. He uttered but three words in conversation, an underestimate (by 300%) of our distance from Spring Canyon. His name was Diego (or so the Count referenced him). Diego never raised his visor. He wasn't there for chit-chat. He was there to bring the thunder. Then thunder he did - training the pair of tiny tin ponies further into Hey Joe Canyon than any moped has dared before... or ever will again.
The end is near. The head of Hey Joe Canyon.
A heavy piece of furniture near the 1950’s Uranium mine site along the Green River.
Minds thoroughly bent, Tomcat and I forged on, descending the trail down the canyon. We stopped briefly to explore the remnants of a 1950's Uranium mine, then located our escape route along the Green River.
The next 8-9 miles were magical; a narrow ribbon of smoothish two-track mere feet from the mighty Green. Much of it tunneled gloriously through the cool shade of a vibrant canopy of invasive Salt Cedar; another misfit wonder of this most paradoxical place. It was Sunday evening; empty and quiet; a rare treat in a land oft stalked by Raptors and Razors and every other type of tribal-tatted toy.
Some miles later we heard the faint putter of Diego and the Count approaching from behind. We pedaled to the right while they bandited by beneath our left elbows, throwing peace signs, and spiriting away through a thin veil of dust.
The Count had advised we'd find a sweet campsite and clear running water near the mouth of Spring Canyon. His wisdom soon confirmed, we set up our tents in an ancient cottonwood gallery.
It was a beautiful evening. Mid-70's. No wind. No bugs. No people. A perfect spot to sit on a log, crack a warm beer, and guess what mischief our unfettered friends were sewing up ahead.
Tracks in the sand. Bikes, mopeds, and a big ol’ snake.
