With all the rivers and Lake Powell right there, well, in the general vicinity, I should not have been so surprised to find smoked trout on the menu. The first time I ordered it, the meal arrived at our outdoor table on a fisherman's platter with a thick base layer of fresh mixed greens, long, thick toast points of country bread, cheese, olives, and two generous fillets of smoked trout.
We were six days in from our jumping off point in Las Vegas, and the meal satisfied.
The outdoor table and matching chairs were black iron, and set with four or five other tables on the wooden porch of Escalante Outfitters. We'd restocked here before, but didn't recall the cafe, now wireless, that is accessible through the east wall of the store. Along the northwest corner of the Outfitters is the cash register, behind which is a cozy display of spirits. I can't be sure, but it may be the only retailer in town that carries this kind refreshment; the town's grocery store pretty much sticks with milk, juice, and soda. There's a gas station that sells hot dogs and hamburgers, and an intriguing cafe that advertises Mexican food. I'm saving that for the next trip. The cafe proper, which apparently focused on just coffee, never seemed to be open. There's another restaurant up the road a couple of miles that apparently makes a killer sandwich. That too is for the next trip.
I like this place, this store, which I first visited fourteen years ago, and think of often, which is odd considering it's really just a modest outfitter in the middle of what most people would describe as nowhere.
There's just something different about this store, in this place. You walk into a cafe hanging off the side of an outfitters, mostly empty tables, a couple of guys peering into their open laptops, a thinly packed display counter, and you just don't expect a whopping good Smoked Trout Salad.
This is Escalante, Utah, long inhabited by several waves of Native Americans. In 1876, Mormon pioneers showed up, fleeing among other things religious persecution in a country that had very recently established itself on certain freedoms, including that of religion. They chose to settle, and there they remain, just a handful of generations after building their first homesteads, many of which you can discern on a slow ride through town from their dark, worn wooden exteriors, simple yet functional design, and sagging roofs.
There's a solemnity in Escalante, almost as if there's a collective "shhh" to remind you that you are deep into a place that is still closer to earth, in its true form, than to man and his forms.
The Outfitters is the symbolic and functional portal, the one place that holds the most things of modern man. Step outside and you are almost alone again. No pedestrians, an occasional drive-by vehicle, a few homes that seem uninhabited, but are. I've often wondered "where is everybody?"
They do come out; the grocery store had two cashiers on duty. The gas station had two extremely accommodating attendants. And on Sunday, the day we went back for seconds on that salad, we witnessed several on the Latter-Day walk. There are farms, with plants growing. But I've never seen anyone actually farming. There are homes, but I've never seen anyone sitting on a porch, or coming or going, or swinging on a swingset, or mowing the lawn. I did see one dog huffing along the side of a road. I preferred to think he knew where he was going.
Is it possible that this dog's own ancestors accompanied their pioneer companions and cattle from this town to the Escalante River, seeking a pathway to a more southern land of plenty? It is well documented that they came through here, and kept south, stopping to make camp at a massive red rock garden. This garden, one entirely made by earth and no man, is entered from the west through an imposing natural esplanade named Dance Hall Rock. Just 132 years ago, this abandoned rock rocked with the square-dancing pioneers who had paused on their journey to wait for the scouting and road construction party ahead to pave their way.
Beyond this entry Rock, more rock-- actually Navajo sandstone, famous in the region for its direct relationship to dinosaurs-- in massive undulating mounds, with pits carpeted by desert gardens that landscapers break their backs to emulate. You could spend hours scaling the rocks, seeing not a soul, hearing not a soul. Feeling just the wind and the sun, widening your eyes to filter the bright oranges, greens, yellows, pinks, and blues.
You could get stuck in one of the pits and die. Quickly. Or slowly. I'm serious.
Which is maybe why, after peering into several of these pits and considering such a lonely death, I felt the comfortable joy of a homecoming and was so happy to eat that man-made Smoked Trout Salad back at the Outfitters.
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