The document provides a summary of Cathedral Valley in Capitol Reef National Park through descriptive passages and historical context. It describes the valley's unique sandstone formations that resemble cathedrals, earning it the name Cathedral Valley. The article discusses the valley's discovery in 1949 and exploration by early travelers like John Fremont. It also highlights why Cathedral Valley sees fewer visitors than other areas of the park due to its remote location and rough roads, allowing for a sense of solitude.

1. T h eT i m e l e s s n e s s
o fC a t h e d r a l
V a l l e ySt o r y a n d p h o t o s B y J u l i e K . T r e v e l y a n
A light wind buffets as I walk toward the edge of the cliff and the scents of pinyon and juniper come together in the dry, clear
desert air of Utah’s Capitol Reef National Park. Below spreads a large valley filled with seemingly impossible natural formations:
huge formations of hard sandstone shaped by millennia of unimaginable forces into fantastical structures of dark cream,
dusty brick red and pale apricot. As the valley’s name implies, they do indeed resemble great cathedrals soaring toward the sky.
It is a name conjured up by fanciful human imagination, yet it fits these graceful monoliths with startling accuracy.
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2. I was camped just outside the national
park boundaries and the next day I
slipped away from my companions and
made a beeline for the temples of the
Lower Cathedral Valley. The tepid late
November sun takes away the previous
night’s chill as I walk to Glass Mountain,
a small pile of exposed gypsum that
seems to strive for the grandiosity of the
eroding temples just to its south.
Lying flat on my back in a little hollow
I make out of the sand, I watch the
temples. Their outlines first look like a
crooked staircase, then the faded remains
of once-glorious paeans to the sky, then
simply the slowly crumbling Entrada
sandstone they are. I am fascinated by
the silence—it is so deep I think I can
hear my blood thrumming in my ears.
When I slowly, reluctantly make my
way back to the camp, I feel immense
appreciation settle into my bones. There
is no one out here but me, and for the
moment that becomes ever so peaceful.
In 1949, custodian Charles Kelly of what
was then called Capitol Reef National
Monument ventured into a mostly
unknown, unnamed valley just outside the
boundaries of the area he managed.
Traveling with Utah newspaper editor
Frank Beckwith, Kelly remarked on
the valleys “beautifully sculptured...
architectural forms—pillars, columns,
spires, and decorative statuary—
resembling the ruins of a thousand
Greek temples.” Beckwith simply replied,
“The buttes certainly look like great
cathedrals.”
It is a cool late July
day and the vehicle
I drive carries three
tourists, eager to
witness the monoliths
of Cathedral Valley.
They grow quiet as we
crawlupthedirtroad
through hills striped
with bands of light
tangerine, hearty
chestnut, palest
mauve, soft gray-
blue that matches the
clouds overhead.
“Stop”, one of the
tourists fumbles with
the handle to roll
down the window.
We are halfway up
the hill, which is pure
bentonite: dry, dusty
clay. This is not a
good place to stop.
“I’ll stop at the top. There’s a little pullout.
You’ll like the views there.” My voice
carries the easy assurance of one who has
been here dozens of times and knows just
the spots for an unforgettable picture.
The people ready their cameras and toy
with seat belts, as if they mean to tear
them off and leap from the car the moment
we stop. This is exactly what they do
when we halt at the rise of the alien-like
Bentonite Hills on our way to the valley.
The guests pick their way through the
granulated surface of the land, pose for
their cameras and examine closely the
hills made from ancient volcanic ash that
lift and roll and fold all about us. Their
faces light with smiles as they survey the
fathomless distances and so does mine.
Today’s Superintendent of Capitol
Reef National Park, Al Hendricks, notes
Cathedral Valley is still a place where
“visitors can expect a remote park
experience with an emphasis on relative
solitude.” He adds, “[I]t is just that sense
of slight uncertainty and stepping outside
of one’s normal comfort zone, that makes
the rewards of a trip to see the exquisite
towers and temples and cliffs of Cathedral
Valley so highly appreciated and prized.”
Most visitors want to see in person those
features they first glimpsed on a post card
or in a film: great and jumbled piles of
sandstone layers—Entrada, Curtis, and
Morrison—with spectacular names like
Temple of the Sun, Temple of the Moon,
Glass Mountain, Jailhouse Rock and Queen
of the Wash.
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3. of humans crossing through Cathedral Valley.
Explorer John C. Fremont led an 1853-
1854 party past the swooping cathedrals,
down the sliced-out washes, past what must
have seemed strange, serpent like dark rock
formations leaping and twisting from the
earth. Those black volcanic sills still exist,
there for people to stare at and imagine the
tremendous force of the earth that squeezed
out hot magma, which then cooled and
hardened into what I always think of as a
desert dragon plunging along a solitary path.
When I closely examine the Fremont
daguerreotype I notice it seems like a windy
cold day, to judge from the overly grand
billows of dark clouds and the whipping mane
and tail of a horse. My lips curve up with
rueful understanding as I gather my jacket
closer and drive on in the storm-blustered day,
heading deep into the heart of Cathedral
Valley as I ferry new adventurers. Perhaps
I only imagine their sense of unflinching
amazement as they gaze at the beautiful,
fierce wilderness that encircles them from
every side. But I hope not.
Of all the sections of this 241,904-acre
national park, Cathedral Valley sees
the fewest visitors. Rather than a lack of
beauty or adventure, two other reasons
dissuade the casual visitor: 1) its roads are
rough, minimally maintained, and prone to
absolute impassability during the intense
seasonal storms, and 2) park management
ensures Cathedral Valley remains remote
so visitors can experience its profound
sense of solitude. Dave Worthington, Chief
of Resource Management and Science at
Capitol Reef, says, “I have taken a lot of
friends and colleagues around the Park in
the last 14 years, and it’s Cathedral Valley
that blows them away every time.”
We bump over the rough road, a caravan
of five vehicles filled with journalists and
photographers from varied corners of the
globe. The calendar reads early October,
but the frigid wind and heavy skies mimic
late December.
A daguerreotype finally correctly interpreted
in 1995 depicts the first known modern record
Flowers carpet Cathedral Valley as I stop
the car often, so we can wander through
the explosion of color. The land here usually
seems sere, gray and muted, quietly stunning
even in its monochrome palette. On this late
May morning, the colors take our breath
away with their showy presence.
The ground bursts with red claret cup cacti
blossoms, prickly pear flowers ranging
from delicate pink-peach to silky fuchsia,
the cheerful yellow of rough mule’s ears,
the small clusters of orange globemallow
and the richly purple nodding heads of
scorpionweed.
I stand in small field of prickly pear,
careful to place my steps away from the
fragile cryptobiotic soil, and close my
eyes under the warm sunshine. A day like
this demonstrates why Cathedral Valley is
protected, wild and remote. This is why I
return here, again and again, and savor
the extremes of different seasons, and
introduce others to this place in the hope
that they, too, will understand.
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