There were pigs on the counter, lots of them. The other thing that there were lots of were fans. You can see the two on the counter by the pigs, there must have been six total scattered throughout the eating area. Our server was an older dude, skinny, weathered skin in a suit. He rocked a weird-ass tie wrapped around his neck and hung inside his suit jacket. His hair was spiked and bleached blond, kind of like a 90s punk rocker. And his skater shoes held the whole outfit together.
He brought us a bottle of wine. We were celebrating. After all we had been married four years at that point and it seemed like something to celebrate. And we do it every year, so why not, right?
The music was barely audible over the fans.
We watched as the server brought out these beautiful salads, tons of greens, red tomatoes, onions, beets, the whole nine yards. He brought out these salads one at a time. Regardless of how many people were at the table. Luckily, we ordered veggie burgers and got our food quick and at the same time.
This is the second time we have been in a shithole town in Utah and have been surprised by the quality of food. The first time was in Boulder, Utah for our honeymoon. Try as I might, I could not find a greasy spoon in that tiny, little town. I thought I had, as we stepped into the Burr Trail Café only to be greeted by a French exchange student and to find the entire menu was organic and locally grown. No grease to be found.
Bluff was the same. The restaurant was a dive. The waiter was hilarious to watch, very nice guy, but the food did not fit the ambiance. High quality organic fodder and good wine.
We drank up and then got spikey hair to cork our bottle and wandered back over to our motel that was conveniently located directly across the street. Everything in Bluff is located just across the street because the town is so fucking small. We poured ourselves some more wine and relaxed for a minute. KB had noticed a beautiful old piano in the lobby and had inquired as to whether it could be played. So naturally, we ended up in the lobby with our wine.
There was a French, we think, family playing foosball and a girl thumping on the piano. We sat down and waited for her to be done and then KB played that piano. I just sat and watched the scene. My beautiful wife playing an antique piano while Frenchies played foosball and I drank my wine.
Once she had her fill of that piano, we put on our bathing suits and wandered over to the Jacuzzi. There was a lightning storm brewing in the distance and we just enjoyed the evening. Until some random girl showed up and started to chat us up. Asking us normally weird questions, not wanting to swim and then suddenly leaving. Not sure why, but my Chilean “We’re about to get robbed” sense popped up. There was just something unnatural about how she had greeted us, talked to us and then suddenly walked away.
I went and checked the truck. Everything in tact and the doors are locked. Apparently I haven’t been robbed enough for my sense to be properly calibrated.
We got our fill of the Jacuzzi and wandered back to the room, finished our wine and then past out. We had driven over five hours to get to this section of Utah that no one ever goes to. It had poured on us. We watched as some natives threw trash out the window and just kept the rubber side down. All in the sake of floating down the San Juan which was planned to happen early the next morning.
We awoke, got our shit together and headed over to the place where we were supposed to be for said journey. We wandered in and were informed that we were the only ones on the trip, that the boats were being readied and that we should go get some coffee. So we drove to the recommended coffee spot, only to find it didn’t open for another couple of hours. We drove around and inspected the little town.
If you’ve never been to Bluff, it’s over by Mexican Hat. Mexican Hat is in the middle of fucking nowhere. It’s a section of Utah that should have been portioned off to Colorado.
But then again, Colorado didn’t want it either.
And then we were off.
We boarded a big van and our driver did his best to seem happy while he failed to try not to spill his coffee. Five minutes and we were at the put in point on the river. Our guide was waiting. He was a native named Marcus and his daughter was going to be joining us as well. She was a spunky little girl who knew the river surprisingly well.
Running the San Juan isn’t about rapids. In fact, we needed a motor to get to our take out by that afternoon despite being told that it was the fastest running river in the West having a percentage grade drop of I don’t remember. No, running the San Juan was supposed to be about having a relaxing journey through the sandstone walls and seeing some amazing views. And an added bonus of stopping several times to visit archeological sites.
We were also treated to a hike up to the Butler Wash panel. This is a huge wall of petroglyphs. Marcus pointed out the different styles spanning the time from the Anasazi all the way to more recent times. I did not photograph this wall. I don’t remember why, but now I can’t think of a reason that would be valid as to why I don’t have a photo of these petroglyphs. They were amazing.
Then back on the boat and down river.
Or at least we saw some mountain goats, lots of them. At this point the towering sandstone started to disappear and we entered a limestone canyon that looked a lot like the Virgin River Gorge. Apparently this was the geological part of our trip and we learned lots of facts that may or may not have been accurate. Marcus seem to know a lot about the river and its surroundings.
After about four hours of being on the river and looking at the same landscape, things started to get a bit boring. We got to swim, aka, float down the river in certain sections to cool off as the day got hotter and hotter. We had some lunch and some beer and then I took a nap. I was rudely awakened because apparently the Class nothing rapids we were about to go over required me to be upright. Whatever. Back to sleep.
After my nap, the landscape began to change back to the Navajo sandstone and we anxiously awaited our view of Mexican Hat, an odd rock formation that gives the town its name. Apparently it looks like a sombrero but they didn’t like that name because no one knew what it meant. They were like, hey man, it looks like, you know those hats the Mexicans wear. You know, a Mexican hat.
We were nearing the end of our trip and emerged from the canyon. There were more access points and we saw people with trucks down in the river, drinking and swimming and yelling at us. They were too drunk to yell discernibly so I have no idea what they said, but I doubt it was friendly. I’m almost certain they weren’t offering us a drink.
We exited the river. The same driver that dropped us off in the morning was there and he was doing just as good of a job as before seeming happy. He, Marcus and some other dude loaded up the boats and we headed back to headquarters. It was about a half hour drive back through some pretty amazing rock formations. We were within spitting distance of Monument Valley, so I’m sure you know what that looks like.
Our truck was waiting for us. We changed our clothes and got the fuck out of Dodge. We had another 5 hour trip back home. Seeing that it wasn’t quite long enough of a drive, we went through Monument Valley as I had never seen it. And once again, I failed as a two-bit amateur photographer and didn’t snap one shot in Monument Valley. I didn’t even stop and use my iPad to take a picture of the sign. I did however, witness someone else doing that, but I didn’t get a picture so you’ll have to take my word for it.
We hit Kanab at 9:32 and there was still a little Mexican joint open. We ducked in and they said they were glad to serve us as the place was packed and they weren’t going home any time soon. The Mamita kept wandering out of the kitchen and engaging her guests. She took our order and was quite the hoot. At least she was to us, but our brains were about as snappy as a dude waking up on Las Vegas Boulevard wondering where the hell he is. I also got a good laugh at the teenage daughter working and her two friends that showed up and bugged her the whole time we were there.
Another hour and a half and we were home. Exhausted and little confused, but home. I don’t think I need to ever go back to Bluff.
P. L. and R.