Four years after President Clinton created the 1.9 million acre national monument, debate still rages between land-use advocates and environmentalists. This unquenchable land is what the West once was before strip malls strapped towns together, before tourists overran national parks, before movie stars bought sprawling ranches and before smog obscured the Grand Canyon. Before there were dams or roads, before cattle and coal mines, there was this - one of the last best places. Coyotes slink in the distance. Rattlesnakes slide along in sideways arcs.
Eagles hang in the sky.
Massive red rock outcrops stand inky black against the deep blue sky before dawn. In the morning cool, the exotic formations radiate pent-up heat from the day before when they baked for hours at 90 degrees. Eons of midday heat, coupled with wind and water, seem to have melted most of the thirsty land - though defiant spires endure to watch another sunrise. Light streams through keyholes of eroded rock, anoints smooth spires and casts ridges across the lone washboard road that leads to this place. The rock feels like heavy-grit sandpaper.