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- May 5, 2012
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Sometimes the road takes you places you did not intend to go.
And at times, detours dump you in the last place you'd like to be.
Almost all of my enthusiasm for river expeditions went bust in 2014. Aside from a reality-check kayaking trip on the Moab daily and a guided run on the Snake, my feet have stayed pretty dry. I'd pulled a Deso permit for September 3rd but decided as the date approached that the cost, low water level and my lack of confidence would mean no-go.
Instead, my sister and I tossed around the idea of a backpacking trip. My gut said go for the Winds, but she's never backpacked before and I worried about a repeat of my experience last September. It wouldn't do to discourage her too much.
With the worst of the summer heat over with and an apparent break in monsoonal moisture, I made the call to head south for Buckskin Gulch. That canyon has sat high on my to-do list, since I've only ever day hiked it. In the winter.
We left on a Wednesday, which was supposed to launch day on the Green, but barely made it a block before I diverted to cover some breaking news in the area.
With work out of the way, we cruised south, taking I-15 to SR 20 to US 89. From there, we opted for the scenic route down the Cottonwood Canyon Road. The GSENM road report seemed to indicate it was in decent shape and, as I'd never driven its length, the wanderlust factor was high.
Late afternoon was on us by the time we reached Grosvenor Arch.
The short walk on pavement really cuts into the experience there, unfortunately.
Back on the road, we raced the sinking sun toward the pavement.
Shooting the Moon by ashergrey, on Flickr
The rubber kissed US 89 again just before dusk. With little daylight left, we paid a stop to the Toadstools.
Toadstool by ashergrey, on Flickr
Our walk out to the formations felt pretty nice, given the searing sun had reclined below the horizion.
It started to get too dim to shoot, but the shutter kept snapping closed like the beak of a hungry tortoise. Blue hour did not disappoint.
We were both feeling the gnaw of hunger though and, having not eaten or established a campsite, our visit was brief.
Back to the car and down the bumpy road to the White House campground we went. Only two other groups had occupied spots by the time the wagon rolled to a stop on the gravel.
We ate an abbreviated dinner and pitched our tents by headlamp. The moon slumped, giving just enough definition to the terrain that one could navigate without any sort of man-made light.
Paria by Moonlight by ashergrey, on Flickr
That night proved one of the most comfortable I've ever spent in a tent. The moon eventually set, leaving the sky a striking dark sea of twinkling lights. The air hardly moved and didn't cool from the 70s until well into the morning hours.
When the sun did rise, it crept across the landscape like an intruder hoping to escape detection.
Jackrabbits scattered before my quiet steps on the sand.
Useless Fence by ashergrey, on Flickr
Scenery the night had swallowed up before now sat bare before us. What a wonderful place to stay.
Tents collapsed and sleeping bags stuffed, we loaded back in the car and headed for the Paria contact station. When I pulled up, the lot seemed oddly vacant for North Coyote Buttes lottery time.
Then realization struck me. When I'd tried for the in-person lottery in the past, it was during winter. But during the "on" season, the lottery is held at the BLM visitor center — 40 miles away in Kanab. In a rush of sprayed dirt, I spun the wagon around and rocketed west on the highway.
After 10 miles it became clear we were not going to be able to make the 9 a.m. deadline. We had no particular plans for Thursday and, having missed the lottery, it seemed we had plenty of time to kill. As we were so near, we first stopped by the Paria movie set and town site.
On the dusty drive out, a loud pop sounded from beneath the car while making a particularly steep wash crossing. Thick clouds were building on the southern horizon as my sister and I took a solemn walk through the old cemetery. Then, while strolling back to the car, I noticed something odd.
"Why is there a puddle under my engine?"
I knelt in the soft sand, craning my neck to see under the front bumper. A slow but steady stream of engine oil was flowing in drips across the bottom of the skid plate. It was weeping from the two cut-outs in the plate (one providing access to the oil filter, the other to the drain plug) and running to a low point. From there, it dribbled onto the ground.
"That's not good."
The plate, placed over the bottom of the engine to limit damage, prevented me from seeing the precise source of the leak. A sense of urgency settled on me.
"We'd best get back to the pavement."
We loaded into the wagon and eased our way five miles back to the highway. Once parked on the windy shoulder with big-rigs making their noisy passes, I stopped and tried to better diagnose the problem.
Popping the hood, I couldn't see any obvious leaks coming from the top of the engine. My biggest fear was that I'd split the turbo oil line while trying to race for Kanab.
The underside of the engine was still blocked off by the skid plate and, like an idiot, I'd left my socket set at home and lacked the tools to remove it (this later proved to be a blessing). I did noticed a chunk of shredded rubber sitting on the top of the plate and managed to snag it.
With scant few other options, I decided to make a run for civilization. The engine oil dipstick showed plenty of oil remaining.
Just take it easy. Get it to town.
The car eased into Kanab a bit before midday as the storm clouds continued to darken down south. We waited and searched, finally finding a garage willing to loan a couple tools. By now the oil drips had turned into a slow stream. That problem only worsened once I started unbolting the skid plate.
Warm oil slid effortlessly down my arm, dripping off my elbow. I pressed a finger to the crack, only to feel oil seep around it like blood from wound. It seemed as if the old girl was going to bleed out.
On my back in the parking lot of a strange shop in Kanab, I examined the available evidence.
A hypothesis came into focus. The chunk of rubber, I reasoned, had come from an engine mount. It must have blown out, dropping the engine onto the crossmember. The fall was likely enough that the low point of the engine — the oil pan — impacted the skid plate from above.
That's probably what caused the big clang we heard when crossing the wash. The dent left in the plate (shown above) only reinforced this idea.
So the impact and resulting friction had compromised the pan. While the pan and the plate had been sandwiched together, the flow of oil was somewhat staunched. Now though, with pressure removed, it ran without impediment. A couple guys at the shop brought out a rag and catch basin as I tried in futility to plug the crack.
Duct tape does not adhere to 5w30.
The shop workers also did me a huge favor of calling for the tow truck at Little's Diesel Service. Once the car was on the lift there, the mechanic confirmed my theory.
That's the surviving motor mount on the driver side. The passenger side mount lacked most of the rubber between the two plates (the Oreo filling, if you will).
The good news — the mechanic could have the pan replaced by the next day. The not-so-good-news — a replacement motor mount would cost way too much and take way too long to arrive.
"Just fix the pan. I'll limp the car home to Salt Lake from there," I told him after weighing the options.
He looked at me, skeptical.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Worse comes to worse, I'll abandon the car in St. George and just catch a flight home."
Little's went to work while my sister and I watched a five-hour Pawn Stars marathon in a dumpy little motel. A whole lot of nothing happened while we debated our next move. There was dinner. It was creepy.
We were supposed to enter Buckskin the next morning, but just getting to the Wire Pass trailhead in the crippled car seemed a gamble. At this point, the trip was a loss, though I didn't want to concede it.
Bad luck plagued us, yet for some reason it seemed a good idea to try for a North Coyote Buttes permit while waiting on the car.
Spoiler alert: we didn't draw a permit.
True to their word, Little's had the pan replaced less than 24 hours after taking in the car. They obviously set aside other work to get the job done and were extremely understanding of my situation.
If you ever need vehicle service in the region, Little's are the guys to patronize.
Unfortunately, the car had developed new symptoms while in their care. The check engine light came on when I retook custody of the Subaru in the parking lot. I pulled the codes with some digging around under the dash — O2 sensor, mass airflow sensor, pressure sensor and pressure exchange solenoid valve. So, the wagon was breathing like an asthmatic.
Nothing having to do with changing an oil pan could reasonably cause those problems. It had recently seemed a big sluggish and the A/C system felt more weak than normal.
Could something else have failed?
The car still drove, although in the aptly-named "limp mode" (where the ECU runs intentionally rich and prevents boosting the turbo much in order to prevent engine damage). In this crippled condition, we headed for St. George.
After driving so far only to reach this point, it really annoyed my to miss out on hiking entirely. So, against my better judgement, we detoured through Hildale to Water Canyon.
Water Canyon Cascades by ashergrey, on Flickr
The last time I'd been in Water Canyon it was spring. I soon discovered the conditions in early fall are not quite as prime. The heat had not yet abated and the upper reaches of the watercourse were sand pits. The 10-foot deep pool where I'd almost lost my camera on the previous visit was bone dry.
Brief, light rain showers moved overhead in waves. We took shelter and ate lunch. Once the clouds cleared, we headed up to Top Rock, sweating the whole way.
Still, the view was better than I remembered it.
And returning to the car after the hike felt a bit less depressing.
Zionesque by ashergrey, on Flickr
We finished the drive to St. George in the dark of night. Once safely there, I set about diagnosing the remaining problems. It turns out, the Grease Monkey crew that had serviced the car last had knocked loose a vacuum tube. That's obnoxious, but forgivable.
What's NOT forgivable is that they did not properly close the air box after removing the filter (something I've expressly told them not to do on my car).
That and three other spots should have been bolted tight. There were no bolts. At all. And the lid was not sitting flush on the filter.
With these two problems resolved, the rattle wagon was at least made drivable enough for the trip home. It's anyone's guess how much dust the cylinders ingested on this failed outing.
Featured image for home page:
And at times, detours dump you in the last place you'd like to be.
Almost all of my enthusiasm for river expeditions went bust in 2014. Aside from a reality-check kayaking trip on the Moab daily and a guided run on the Snake, my feet have stayed pretty dry. I'd pulled a Deso permit for September 3rd but decided as the date approached that the cost, low water level and my lack of confidence would mean no-go.
Instead, my sister and I tossed around the idea of a backpacking trip. My gut said go for the Winds, but she's never backpacked before and I worried about a repeat of my experience last September. It wouldn't do to discourage her too much.
With the worst of the summer heat over with and an apparent break in monsoonal moisture, I made the call to head south for Buckskin Gulch. That canyon has sat high on my to-do list, since I've only ever day hiked it. In the winter.
We left on a Wednesday, which was supposed to launch day on the Green, but barely made it a block before I diverted to cover some breaking news in the area.
With work out of the way, we cruised south, taking I-15 to SR 20 to US 89. From there, we opted for the scenic route down the Cottonwood Canyon Road. The GSENM road report seemed to indicate it was in decent shape and, as I'd never driven its length, the wanderlust factor was high.
Late afternoon was on us by the time we reached Grosvenor Arch.
The short walk on pavement really cuts into the experience there, unfortunately.
Back on the road, we raced the sinking sun toward the pavement.
Shooting the Moon by ashergrey, on FlickrThe rubber kissed US 89 again just before dusk. With little daylight left, we paid a stop to the Toadstools.
Toadstool by ashergrey, on FlickrOur walk out to the formations felt pretty nice, given the searing sun had reclined below the horizion.
It started to get too dim to shoot, but the shutter kept snapping closed like the beak of a hungry tortoise. Blue hour did not disappoint.
We were both feeling the gnaw of hunger though and, having not eaten or established a campsite, our visit was brief.
Back to the car and down the bumpy road to the White House campground we went. Only two other groups had occupied spots by the time the wagon rolled to a stop on the gravel.
We ate an abbreviated dinner and pitched our tents by headlamp. The moon slumped, giving just enough definition to the terrain that one could navigate without any sort of man-made light.
Paria by Moonlight by ashergrey, on FlickrThat night proved one of the most comfortable I've ever spent in a tent. The moon eventually set, leaving the sky a striking dark sea of twinkling lights. The air hardly moved and didn't cool from the 70s until well into the morning hours.
When the sun did rise, it crept across the landscape like an intruder hoping to escape detection.
Jackrabbits scattered before my quiet steps on the sand.
Useless Fence by ashergrey, on FlickrScenery the night had swallowed up before now sat bare before us. What a wonderful place to stay.
Tents collapsed and sleeping bags stuffed, we loaded back in the car and headed for the Paria contact station. When I pulled up, the lot seemed oddly vacant for North Coyote Buttes lottery time.
Then realization struck me. When I'd tried for the in-person lottery in the past, it was during winter. But during the "on" season, the lottery is held at the BLM visitor center — 40 miles away in Kanab. In a rush of sprayed dirt, I spun the wagon around and rocketed west on the highway.
After 10 miles it became clear we were not going to be able to make the 9 a.m. deadline. We had no particular plans for Thursday and, having missed the lottery, it seemed we had plenty of time to kill. As we were so near, we first stopped by the Paria movie set and town site.
On the dusty drive out, a loud pop sounded from beneath the car while making a particularly steep wash crossing. Thick clouds were building on the southern horizon as my sister and I took a solemn walk through the old cemetery. Then, while strolling back to the car, I noticed something odd.
"Why is there a puddle under my engine?"
I knelt in the soft sand, craning my neck to see under the front bumper. A slow but steady stream of engine oil was flowing in drips across the bottom of the skid plate. It was weeping from the two cut-outs in the plate (one providing access to the oil filter, the other to the drain plug) and running to a low point. From there, it dribbled onto the ground.
"That's not good."
The plate, placed over the bottom of the engine to limit damage, prevented me from seeing the precise source of the leak. A sense of urgency settled on me.
"We'd best get back to the pavement."
We loaded into the wagon and eased our way five miles back to the highway. Once parked on the windy shoulder with big-rigs making their noisy passes, I stopped and tried to better diagnose the problem.
Popping the hood, I couldn't see any obvious leaks coming from the top of the engine. My biggest fear was that I'd split the turbo oil line while trying to race for Kanab.
The underside of the engine was still blocked off by the skid plate and, like an idiot, I'd left my socket set at home and lacked the tools to remove it (this later proved to be a blessing). I did noticed a chunk of shredded rubber sitting on the top of the plate and managed to snag it.
With scant few other options, I decided to make a run for civilization. The engine oil dipstick showed plenty of oil remaining.
Just take it easy. Get it to town.
The car eased into Kanab a bit before midday as the storm clouds continued to darken down south. We waited and searched, finally finding a garage willing to loan a couple tools. By now the oil drips had turned into a slow stream. That problem only worsened once I started unbolting the skid plate.
Warm oil slid effortlessly down my arm, dripping off my elbow. I pressed a finger to the crack, only to feel oil seep around it like blood from wound. It seemed as if the old girl was going to bleed out.
On my back in the parking lot of a strange shop in Kanab, I examined the available evidence.
A hypothesis came into focus. The chunk of rubber, I reasoned, had come from an engine mount. It must have blown out, dropping the engine onto the crossmember. The fall was likely enough that the low point of the engine — the oil pan — impacted the skid plate from above.
That's probably what caused the big clang we heard when crossing the wash. The dent left in the plate (shown above) only reinforced this idea.
So the impact and resulting friction had compromised the pan. While the pan and the plate had been sandwiched together, the flow of oil was somewhat staunched. Now though, with pressure removed, it ran without impediment. A couple guys at the shop brought out a rag and catch basin as I tried in futility to plug the crack.
Duct tape does not adhere to 5w30.
The shop workers also did me a huge favor of calling for the tow truck at Little's Diesel Service. Once the car was on the lift there, the mechanic confirmed my theory.
That's the surviving motor mount on the driver side. The passenger side mount lacked most of the rubber between the two plates (the Oreo filling, if you will).
The good news — the mechanic could have the pan replaced by the next day. The not-so-good-news — a replacement motor mount would cost way too much and take way too long to arrive.
"Just fix the pan. I'll limp the car home to Salt Lake from there," I told him after weighing the options.
He looked at me, skeptical.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Worse comes to worse, I'll abandon the car in St. George and just catch a flight home."
Little's went to work while my sister and I watched a five-hour Pawn Stars marathon in a dumpy little motel. A whole lot of nothing happened while we debated our next move. There was dinner. It was creepy.
We were supposed to enter Buckskin the next morning, but just getting to the Wire Pass trailhead in the crippled car seemed a gamble. At this point, the trip was a loss, though I didn't want to concede it.
Bad luck plagued us, yet for some reason it seemed a good idea to try for a North Coyote Buttes permit while waiting on the car.
Spoiler alert: we didn't draw a permit.
True to their word, Little's had the pan replaced less than 24 hours after taking in the car. They obviously set aside other work to get the job done and were extremely understanding of my situation.
If you ever need vehicle service in the region, Little's are the guys to patronize.
Unfortunately, the car had developed new symptoms while in their care. The check engine light came on when I retook custody of the Subaru in the parking lot. I pulled the codes with some digging around under the dash — O2 sensor, mass airflow sensor, pressure sensor and pressure exchange solenoid valve. So, the wagon was breathing like an asthmatic.
Nothing having to do with changing an oil pan could reasonably cause those problems. It had recently seemed a big sluggish and the A/C system felt more weak than normal.
Could something else have failed?
The car still drove, although in the aptly-named "limp mode" (where the ECU runs intentionally rich and prevents boosting the turbo much in order to prevent engine damage). In this crippled condition, we headed for St. George.
After driving so far only to reach this point, it really annoyed my to miss out on hiking entirely. So, against my better judgement, we detoured through Hildale to Water Canyon.
Water Canyon Cascades by ashergrey, on FlickrThe last time I'd been in Water Canyon it was spring. I soon discovered the conditions in early fall are not quite as prime. The heat had not yet abated and the upper reaches of the watercourse were sand pits. The 10-foot deep pool where I'd almost lost my camera on the previous visit was bone dry.
Brief, light rain showers moved overhead in waves. We took shelter and ate lunch. Once the clouds cleared, we headed up to Top Rock, sweating the whole way.
Still, the view was better than I remembered it.
And returning to the car after the hike felt a bit less depressing.
Zionesque by ashergrey, on FlickrWe finished the drive to St. George in the dark of night. Once safely there, I set about diagnosing the remaining problems. It turns out, the Grease Monkey crew that had serviced the car last had knocked loose a vacuum tube. That's obnoxious, but forgivable.
What's NOT forgivable is that they did not properly close the air box after removing the filter (something I've expressly told them not to do on my car).
That and three other spots should have been bolted tight. There were no bolts. At all. And the lid was not sitting flush on the filter.
With these two problems resolved, the rattle wagon was at least made drivable enough for the trip home. It's anyone's guess how much dust the cylinders ingested on this failed outing.
Featured image for home page:
