Knowing when to say no, may be the most underused gear in the recovery kit.

Dispatch 7.o Into The Needles District

Brian Fulton Navigates through Devil’s Lane

Nature offers everything you need if you're paying attention. The day before, I was in the air, wedged into a small plane with my flight instructor. I use flight time not just to log hours, but to scout. Routes. Road conditions. The slow seasonal shifts on the Colorado Plateau. We flew low over the Needles District, I'd asked to eyeball Bobby’s Hole, the narrow, unmaintained side-cut that slices across a cliff just beyond the southern end of the park. It can be gone in a single storm, or worse, seem passable until it isn’t.

From the air, I couldn’t be sure. So we pressed farther south. Over the Bears Ears. A dust storm was unfurling across the Navajo Nation, swallowing Comb Ridge in real time. We touched down in Blanding after gliding over Arch Canyon and the serrated northern edge of Comb Ridge.

On the tarmac I walked laps, part uneasy stomach from the turbulabnce, part meditation, while Brian checked the weather.

We turned around, giving up on shooting Monument Valley and Valley of the Gods.

The flight home was higher out of the surface wind. From above, you could see the storm drifting north like smoke, dragging itself through the spires and corridors of the Needles.

The dust storm blowing through the Needles District.

That night, I camped above Mill Creek. Wind howled through the cottonwoods. The owl who’d kept me company the previous evenings had moved on. The absence felt loud. Morning brought soft light from high clouds and fresh windblown sand over the two-track into camp.

08:00

I reconnected with Brian, founder of Goose Gear. Builder. Thinker. One of the good ones. We talked logistics, speculated on road conditions over green chile breakfast burritos. I told him Bobby’s Hole was a mystery—couldn’t get a read from the air. There was a very good chance that it would be an out-and-back. He was game. He’d never been in that corner of the world.

We caravanned south, voices crackling over the radio. Through Indian Creek, past the Dugout Ranch. The Six Shooters stood to the southwest like sentinels watching our approach.

09:45

At the Visitor Center, we confirmed permits and asked about conditions. Elephant Hill, Elephant Canyon, Devil’s Lane—all status quo. Then I asked about Bobby’s Hole. The ranger squinted, checked a few notes, came back with an apologetic shrug. The park service limits permits to 24 total vehicles a day, in groups no bigger than 3 vehicles at a time. Part of the magic.

We aired down at the trailhead, giving our tires more traction. I pointed out the first switchback and told Brian that it would be his turnaround to make the switchback. A flat spot. One of three on Elephant Hill that needed to be negotiated this way. One switchback, you have to back down a narrow shelf road a few hundred feet.

Narrow Shelf Roads on Elephant Hill

The Needles is a maze of cedar mesa sandstone and collapsed grabens—linear valleys where time and salt and gravity conspire to unmake the earth. Getting through requires commitment. There are no casual lines here. Just ledges, choke points, and decisions you don’t get to unmake.

The first descent off Elephant Hill is like easing into a memory that doesn’t want to be remembered, tight turns, uneven rock shelves, a switchback that feels too tight for the wheelbase you brought. You commit early out here. There’s no other way.

We crept forward, tires finding grip on stone as old as time, Brian's voice steady over the radio, spotting, adjusting, pausing to think through geometry in real-time. An occasional, “WOW.” It’s like a conversation with gravity. And in this district, gravity speaks with authority.

12:00

Through Devil’s Lane, the rock presses in. Tight passages that ask more of your mirrors than your motor. It’s not violent. It’s intimate. Your vehicle becomes a tool, not a trophy. You breathe with the terrain, inch forward, back off, re-approach. There’s no “send it” culture here. Just precision and patience.

We stopped for lunch beneath a sandstone overhang, out of the wind, under a scatter of ancient hands painted onto the rock. Ghosts of those who passed through long before there were roads, or maps, or GoPros. Just sky, time, and intent. The kind of place that rewires your sense of scale. Someone 700-1200 years ago thought this place was important enough to mark.

13:00

Then we noticed it, the sky shifting south of us. A slow roll of dark clouds building over the Abajos and Beef Basin, flattening the light, dimming the canyons. That kind of storm line that moves sideways and makes everything feel like a question. We drove through a sandy wash with flash flood debris up as high as my windshield.

Neither of us said much, but we were thinking the same thing. Bobby’s Hole.

It sat somewhere ahead of us, unseen, unconfirmed. A jagged uncertainty at the far end of the route. If it was blown out, washed away, or even just sketchy, the only option was to double back. And in the Needles, doubling back isn't just a matter of time, it’s a matter of fuel, traction, and patience. Morale.

Back in the trucks, the radios went quiet as we pushed on, threading our way past ledges and narrow slots. I kept scanning the horizon. Brian followed close behind, his rig dancing just enough over the rocks to remind me that he was still game, even if the road ahead wasn’t.

The terrain pulled us forward. Bobby’s Hole was out there, waiting. And we wouldn’t know what it had to say until we got there.

14:30

As we approached the base of the climb, Brian’s voice crackled again:
“At least it’s starting to rain.”

We idled for a moment, looking at the climb ahead, a scar in the sandstone, winding up the wall like a question mark. The rain splattering on the windshield. The wipers are intermittently clearing the view.

We hiked it. Boots slipping on wet rock. Wind is picking up. Halfway to the top, the rain turned cold and hard. One of those sudden canyon squalls that makes everything feel rushed, coming over the edge of the eastern canyon wall.

At the top, we stood in silence. The ledges looked eroded. Just bad enough to make the ascent feel like a coin toss. Not today.

15:00

We turned around.

No drama. No ego. Just the quiet work of taking care of each other.

The drive out was biblical—rain, then hail, then rain again. But the two-track held. All sand and slickrock. No mud. Just the long way home. Going through Beef Basin and Elk Ridge would have put us on Betonite and clay that, when wet, is a sloppy mess, and the ruts we leave behind destroy the road.

There’s a quiet skill in knowing when to turn around. It doesn’t photograph well. There’s no summit shot, no cinematic payoff. Just a gut check and a calm exit. Out here, the stakes are real and ego doesn’t help you winch up wet boulders or . There’s no glory in pressing forward just to say you did. The older I get, the more I realize the real discipline isn’t in conquering the route, it’s in listening to what the land is telling you, and knowing when to let it win.