Maybe it's because I grew up in Utah, but here is one of my undeniable facts: I think the desert is beautiful. I think the scraggly, scarpy western face of the temperate-desert Wasatch Range is beautiful, even if it isn't covered in pine trees and its foothills are sometimes brown and dry. The "ugly" desert—what you see if you get off of I-15 and drive through the high deserts of the Colorado Plateau, with its pale flatlands and tan buttes and grey monoclines—is a less dramatic sort of beauty than you find in the Navajo sandstone formations but still, if you pay attention and are willing to open up a little, stunning in its sereness.

 

But the desert I love best is the one made of red sandstone.

 

To me, these places are sacred. Not in a religious sense, but a spiritual one. Partly this is because they connect me to memory, the child I used to be who was so happy in Lake Powell that I never even thought to call it happy. Partly because they are a space my dad's spirit somehow imbibes. But mostly because they are a landscape of endurance, of how challenging conditions sometimes create the most surprising beauty. 

 

I love the desert.

 

I've wanted to hike one specific, small canyon in the southern Utah desert for a decade. Eleven years, to be exact, when one of the teachers I taught with told me about Calf Creek Falls. She didn't tell me many details, just that it was a hike through a sandstone canyon to a waterfall. "But from what I know about you," she said, "you just have to hike it."

 

On our trip to southern Utah last week, I finally made it there.

 

The hike to the waterfall isn't a particularly rigorous one. It is three miles to the falls from the trailhead, so a round trip of six miles, but there is almost no elevation gain. The trail is mostly sandy, with a few stony spots and steps; the sand is
really the only thing that makes the hike difficult, as you slide backward a little bit with every step you take in it. The hike runs alongside Calf Creek, which is fed by a spring and so, independent of snowfall, always has water. This creates a unique landscape: red rock desert cliffs with a lush, green *. There are pinion pines, bushes, and wildflowers. Beaver ponds and marsh grass and happy birds.  

 

We hiked it in the afternoon, and while it was sunny in places, it didn't feel as hot as trails without vegetation do. The last twenty minutes or so of our hike was in constant shade. You can hear the waterfall before you actually see it—you're nearly on top of it before you spot it. Well: at its base. The trail curves around through the trees and then there it is, a little lagoon and a pouring fall. 

 

We hiked prepared to get in the water. Kendell actually hiked in his swimsuit, but as that sounds all sorts of nightmarish to me, I just hiked in my shortest running shorts (you know..."short" in the sense of "they still cover my swishy thighs") and a tank top. And as soon as we got there, he was in the water; I almost didn't even have time to set my stuff down before his boots and shirt were off and he was wading out.

 

 

 

It took me a little bit longer to get in all the way. The water was so cold that when it reached my rib cage, I literally could not catch my breath. My vision started filling up with black spots, so I waded back out to my knees until I could breath again. The second time I tried, I turned around when I got to rib-deep water, lay down, and started to float on my back. It was still cold, but I could breathe.

 

Kendell was able to swim all the way up to the base of where the waterfall met the pool, but I couldn't quite get there; it was such a strong current pushing me back. He got out and started talking to the only other people who were there, a couple who had already got in the water and were drying off. I stopped trying to fight the current then. Instead, I just floated. I looked up and saw red cliffs and blue sky; my body tingled in the cold water and the waterfall pounded in my ears.

 

Maybe I am being dramatic. Maybe it is easy to see it as a small space in a backward, conservative state. It wasn't somewhere tropical or exotic. But oh, my friends. Right there in that moment, alone in the water, floating in the desert: that is what I need for my truest bliss. Not just sandstone and desert varnish and the startling blue sky and the high, arid heat of the canyons, but all of that mixed with water and solitude and a just-tired-enough body: this is what I mean by the sacredness of the desert. This is one reason why hiking and vacations go together for me (even though everyone else I know thinks this is strange). Because being there in that very place at that very moment in time, a little bit scared, the salt of my exertion washed away in clean water, my arms circling to keep me afloat and the sand between my toes floating away, I was at peace. A deep, soul-settling peace I only find outside.

 

It was nothing like Wendell Berry's place, but I could rest there in the grace of the world and be free.

 

take: water and snacks, of course, but also a pair of flip flops. When you are done swimming, wash your feet, put them in the clean flip flops, and walk over to your hiking boots, being careful to not slap any wet sand back onto your clean feet. Let the air dry your feet and you can hike back without your hiking socks being full of sand. Unless you hike in a swim suit, also bring a dry shirt to change into, inside of a ziplock bag. After swimming, swap shirts and put your wet one into the ziplock so you can pack it out without getting the inside of your backpack wet. (I was surprised at how much warmer I instantly got once I put on my dry shirt, even though my sports bra and shorts were still wet.)

 

get there: the trailhead for Lower Calf Creek Falls is off of Scenic Byway 12 in the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument, in between the small towns of Boulder and Escalante. If you are driving south on 12, it is 11.4 miles past the Utah 12/Burr Trail Road junction in Boulder. If you are driving north on 12, it is 14.4 miles northeast of Escalante. 

 

something cool: at the trailhead, there is a trail register and (in theory) maps of the trail. On the map are twelve numbers which correspond to twelve trail markers. They were out of maps when we were there, but I think they give you information about different parts of the trail, including a grainary, pictographs, and beaver ponds.

 

time: ​my guidebook said to allow four hours for the hike, but it took us 1 hour and 5 minutes each way. We spent about 45 minutes at the water. 

 

fees:​ it is $5 to park for the day.