day 31—led ashtray

Capitol Reef did not want us today.

We tried. But the main road was closed, and the only real option was Cassidy Arch—an enticing hike, but one with too much elevation gain for how I was feeling. My body was already waging some kind of war against me, and I wasn’t about to make it worse. So, we cut our losses and moved on.

Highway 12, though? Unreal. Otherworldly, in a similar way to the Bentonite Hills we explored yesterday. The road twisted and curved like a ribbon unfurling through sandstone waves, the colors shifting from deep reds to soft pastels as the light moved across them. Massive rock formations loomed on either side, some jagged and fierce, others worn smooth by time. For a while, I forgot about the disappointment of Capitol Reef and just stared out the window, letting the vastness swallow me whole.

Then, in true fashion, we decided to chase adventure anyway. The Cosmic Ashtray was on our list, and even though we knew it was a bit of a hike, we were too close to give it up.

So, we turned onto a dirt road leading into BLM land near Escalante, following Google Maps like a couple of fools who had never been misled before—definitely not as recently as yesterday.

The “trailhead” was unmarked except for a single wooden stake, bearing a vague land marker but no official name, no mileage, no indication that this was even a trail at all.

“According to Google, it looks like it’s only a mile from here and relatively flat,” I said, pulling up the map.

That was all the convincing we needed. No backpacks, no water, no snacks. We were seasoned hikers—what was a mile?

The answer, we would soon find out, was a lot.

The first stretch was flat, at least in the sense that there was no real elevation gain. But the sand? It swallowed each step, turning what should have been an easy stroll into a slow, exhausting trudge.

About a mile in, my legs were already protesting, and I checked the map again, expecting to see our location right next to the Cosmic Ashtray. Instead, we were… nowhere.

“It says we’re here,” I said, looking around at nothing but rolling sand and scattered rock. No giant crater. No alien-looking formation. Just more desert.

“Maybe it’s over that hill,” Trent suggested, nodding toward a ridge in the distance. “Let’s split up but stay close.”

He veered left, I veered right. We climbed, scanned the horizon, and climbed some more. But it didn’t take long for us to realize the truth: we were not where we thought we were.

By then, my body felt like it was running on fumes. My stomach was empty, my head light, and my limbs sluggish. Between the sand, the heat, and the sickness that had been creeping up on me all day, I felt like I might lie down and let the desert claim me.

Turning back was our only option. But without a clear trail, we were left to our best judgment. Thankfully, Trent’s Garmin tracked the route we had taken in, but that was it—no terrain details, no alternate paths, just a blinking line leading us somewhere.

We followed it as best we could, but at some point, everything started to look the same. Sand. Rocks. More sand. I scanned the horizon desperately, searching for something—anything—familiar.

Then, finally, I saw it. A dark figure in the distance. Tall, unmoving.

Relief flooded me. The van. We had made it.

But as we got closer, the shape sharpened into something distinctly not our van.

It was a cow.

I nearly laughed at how quickly my brain had tricked me, had clung to the first hope it found. But there was no time to dwell—we needed to keep moving.

Finally, and thankfully, we saw the actual van shining in the afternoon sun like an oasis. As soon as we got to it, we fell inside, consuming water and snacks as if we had just emerged from the desert—which, in a way, we had.

The Cosmic Ashtray would have to wait. Perhaps the universe was signaling us to ease up, accept the setback, and simply savor the journey.

Lesson learned: always pack water, no matter how short the hike seems. Double-check the mileage. And maybe, just maybe, don’t trust Google Maps in the middle of the desert.