Sunglow Cafe: Bicknell

“But the restaurants closed.” I look up. “It’s closed?” I almost wail. “That’s the whole reason we came down here!” Ethel looks at me questioningly. “I’m a food writer and I came down specifically to review the restaurant…all those homemade pies and soup…” Ethel is the maker of the homemade pies—thirty a day in the summer time— and despite pictures the name “Ethel” might conjure of a sweet and tubby little baking grandma, she’s long and lean. A cowboy’s daughter in wranglers and flip flops. She has worked at Bryce Pines since she was 16 and now owns it with her husband. In response to my outcry she looks at me a little helplessly. Her waitress cut her hands. It’s impossible to find help this time of year. It’s been slow anyway. The time of year, however is exactly why I chose to come. I’ve driven past Bryce Pines easily a hundred times, seeing the huge “Homemade soups and pies!” banner draped exultantly down the front of the building. But I usually drive past in Summer, and while any time is a good time for pie, blazing gold and red desert summer days don’t really motivate me towards soup.

And so I’m here now, two days after New Years, fresh snow on the ground and a forecast low of seven degrees, hoping to eat soup and pie. I’ve been gazing rapturously at the list of pies on the website of the hotel restaurant for a week, making lists of all the kinds I was going to try: blueberry- banana, rhubarb, sour cream peach. And now I am here. I finally escaped the totally depressing, binding, blinding, chocking inversion of Salt Lake… and the restaurant is closed. We have already suffered one disappointment, driving past the Circleville Cafe hoping to try their celebrated cobbler, only to find it and the entire town of Circleville—birthplace of Butch Cassidy— dark, hibernating. Resisting the urge to have a temper tantrum, to blame myself for not having called in advance, to feel as though the entire trip no matter how beautiful was now going to be a shade less than perfect, to cry, I instead firmly tell myself that Bryce Canyon National Park will be red and sunny and iced with snow and that can’t be bad and then I try to swing us a room with a fireplace for our troubles.

Through persistence, my traveling companion Heather’s charm, and looking really pitiful (something I mastered the knack of in grade school) we are upgraded to the 3 bedroom, two bathroom, fully stocked kitchen, fireplace bedecked cottage at the edge of the property for the same price as our previously booked single room with two queen beds. If we can’t be eating homemade soup in the restaurant, at least we don’t have to cook our replacement dinner over my camp stove out of the back of the truck.


The cottage is in a little white outbuilding reminiscent of CCC camps from the 30’s. Inside, the fire place is stone lined, wood is stacked next to our door, the sheets are high thread count cotton, and the pillows are down. I used to believe that stoicism was the higher virtue, that when heading to the desert, I needed to prove I could survive with basically nothing. Wanting to be comfortable made me weak, a liability; a girl. After years of camping and backpacking, I know I can “golite”, I know I can make do. But if I don’t have to, if the situation doesn’t call for it, why? I look over my cozy little house and think, “F#&k it” and flop down on the bed, propping my feet up with some of the half dozen pillows stacked against the wooden headboard. A little flyer on the bedside table inviting me to visit the hotel restaurant mocks me silently. After building up a commendable fire in the fireplace, Heather disappears into her room and I snuggle down to watch the logs transform into embers, shooting off sparks that flit through the air before extinguishing.


The next morning I wake up early, rolling over in bed to peek out my window. The sky is blazing, the sun just beginning to illuminate the tall pines, flocked and glistening. After making tea, I step out onto the porch and look around. I’ve never been here in winter and the usually beige and stone landscape of John’s Valley and Monte Cristo is softened and crystallized by snow, an angular landscape made round. The plateau where the hotel is situated is a blank canvas, sparsely vegetated, riding the back of a cretaceous seaway, where the reds and yellows of the Claron Formation bloom out from purple and grey badlands. The newly blanched plateau gives nothing away about its red interiors. One could drive past the turn-off for Bryce Canyon National Park and have no idea blushing spires and cardinal totems stand eroding exquisitely below the lip of this austere covering.

An hour or so later, we head into the park. I have never been to Bryce, Winter or Summer. The vast wilderness that is Escalante has always drawn me over this plateau, past the turn-off for the park and into its sinewy and secret embrace, away from crowds and entrance fees. But it’s snowy and freezing. Hole-in-the-Rock road is impassible and I feel the need for something new, a slightly gentler adventure that doesn’t entail being potentially stranded by mud and patches of wet and sticky bentonite. And I had wanted to try the soup.

After a short drive through thickly wooded flats and a brief pow-wow to decide where we should go, Heather and I find ourselves poised at the edge of a steep and icy descent into a fiery valley. From the tip of the Navajo Trail, I can see north to Powell Point, jutting out from the Aquarius Plateau as it rises up, stunningly green. And below us: red, red, red.


We descend slowly, iron stained ice impeding quick movement. It’s part way down this first stretch that I slowly begin to feel I am actually here, smooth skin-toned walls rising up around me, natural arches and peep holes revealing shattering blue sky behind, above, beyond. I spend all winter tucked away in the city, usually a bit hindered by diminished between-semesters-income, aching for this color, this texture, this landscape and now I’m here. I could lick the walls.


The complex geologic formation making up Bryce National Park (dolomite, limestone, mudstone, etc.) is an amphitheater of red towers, spires, and minarets clustered together like a pipe organ. This steepled wall begins high up on the plateau, extending semi-circularly for several miles and descending to a labyrinthine valley, open in areas and steeped with ponderosas in others, green specks in the sea of red. As the formation spreads out along the valley floor, some sections extend as blank walls between towers, stretching along to connect to one another, the wall between a flesh toned arm hikers have to climb up and along and over to descend into the next valley. Today, everything is frosted, making each collection of irregular shoots appear as though they have been iced like a cake.

Despite the few numbers of hikers out this time of year the trail is packed, so we don’t’ need snow shoes. I wander down in a dazed rapture. Heather, meanwhile chats up everyone we meet along the way. She has a gift. People just want to talk to her. The first people we meet are a thoroughly sexy Belge couple from Antwerp (or was it Ghent?). Probably in their late fifty’s, the woman wears an off the shoulder cashmere tunic, a bit of lace from her camisole peering out at her bosom, skin-tight jeans and knee-high boots. Smokin’. I look down at my men’s nylon pants, stained and cut from backpacking, and my poly-pro top and smile. Nearly everyone we meet throughout the day are from somewhere else: Swiss boys on Holliday, a group of New Zealanders, and finally a nervous sounding guy from Queens. In all my time hiking in the back country and National Parks of Southern Utah, I’ve never actually met anyone from Utah.

After a brilliant and blindingly blue day we begin our ascent, chasing the sun as it sets. In order to maximize day light hours and because we set off on a series of connecting trails that have wound us away from our initial trailhead and car, we set up the Bryce Point trail rather than the Navajo. The park trail guide describes the route as “extremely steep”, we will gain 1,555 feet in elevation in the next mile. Beginning to hike, I decide the trail description is insufficient. The steepness doesn’t bother me. The fact that the trail ribs along a narrow shelf halfway up a sheer wall, a trail that is currently snowed over in mounds, sliding down from chutes where it was piled this morning before day time temps warmed to forty degrees; that bothers me. Yes the trail is steep, but it’s the exposure and the ice and the potential for avalanche that has me doubled over, hyperventilating. I might be over-reacting, but the shelf of ice I just crossed groaned and the edge is so snowed over there isn’t an edge and the abyss that is the canyon is right there. So I make Heather cross long after I do so that our combined weight doesn’t bring down the mountain and I cry when we reach a solid stone saddle. Still, the view is stunning, all the way to Navajo Mountain and Lake Powell. And I’d rather be here hyperventilating then in Salt Lake, unable to see out my window.

Upon reaching the top, we petition an elderly couple from South Dakota to shuttle us back to our car. Heather chats as I scarf the remainder of my snacks in the back seat and soon we are driving back towards our little home, our fireplace, a hot shower and bed. Stoicism be damned.


In order to redeem the culinary aspect of the trip, I have decided to drive home the long way. Besides, I can’t be this close to Escalante and not stop. The Haymaker Bench and Escalante River Gorge are like siren song to me. I would happily drown. A trip the long way will then allow us to visit Bicknell, where we can sample the specialties of the Sunglow Motel—Sweet Pickle Pie—which we are both sure will be disgusting, but which we cannot help trying.

The drive along highway 12 from Bryce to Torrey (and then along 24 to Bicknell), is one of my favorites in the world. Here, the country is bare, revealing each intimate curve, each subtle crease. In addition, the road rises and dips through a series of geological strata so varied that at one moment I find myself staring across dun colored hills hiding oil rigs, and in another mile I am deeply entrenched in the golden embrace of a canyon. A rocky escarpment like a ship’s prow breaks out from solid wall. Junipers twist out from miniscule cracks, half way up red sand stone cliffs. And at the top of each climb, evergreen forests clothe the skin of all this abundant fleshiness, this revelation.

We stop before long to take in the view. Just before the high desert plateau we’ve been driving along plunges down a layer towards the Escalante River, there is a hill with a radio tower to the south and a worn BLM road to the north. The area is called Head-of-the-Rocks. The old road leads through pinion and juniper flats to a curious collection of Hoodoos, leaning over one another, resembling Stonehenge. The hoodoos stand erect, just at the edge of a cliff, just before the valley floor drops out from under us. Walking along the cliff band, I can see Boulder Mountain crowning the skyline, an island of igneous up-thrusts and intrusions, quiet now after years spewing black boulders across the salt water remains of an ancient sea. Pouring down from Boulder Mountain, Sand Creek, Calf Creek and Death Hollow slice through a city of gold and red domes. The slices created by these waterways reveal iron stained inner walls and offer up lush riparian oases from their depths. I could scamper down the cliff, crisscrossing its domed sides, from ledge to slickrock ledge, and disappear into the twisty, turny, sliced-up landscape below me. I want to. Instead, I walk back through hoar frost three inches deep to where Heather is lying like a lizard in the sun. My feet shatter the frost as I walk. The icy formation tinkles lightly as it breaks apart. With each step, I am scattering diamonds.

Bicknell, population 340, is located right at the foot of Fish Lake National Forest, in sight of Capital Reef National Park. The Sunglow was opened in the 1960’s by Cula Ekker, developer (inventor? evil genius?) of the sweet pickle pie. The Sunglow Restaurant is the only thing open for miles and it’s Friday night, so even though it’s empty when we arrive, we are soon surrounded. Young families (very young…too young) with kids and babies climbing all over each other, couples in tight wranglers out for a date, fathers and sons in camo pants and orange vests just down from hunting in the national forest and a couple of LDS missionaries, which I can’t help wondering over. What do they have to do here? Everyone here’s great granddaddies were sent to this desert wilderness by Brother Brigham himself and have stayed here, irrigating their little hearts out, ever since…just who do they think needs converting?

I, true to form, order the “Sunglow burger” which, thank god ‘cause I’m starving, is good. Here, they make their own patties. The “Sunglow patty” is specially stuffed with jalapenos and covered in a smoky, mayoish sauce. The bun is toasted and plentifully sprinkled with sesame seeds. The lettuce, tomato and onion are not really worth mentioning. The pickles however, are homemade and awesome. The fries are run-of-the-mill but not bad. But all that is not really what we’re here for. Just before I completely stuff myself with burger and fries, I stop to leave room for pie.

As if sweet pickle pie was not enough, it turns out that the Sunglow is famous, or infamous, for several irregular pies. An order of the “pie sampler” will get you a half slice of oatmeal pie, buttermilk pie, the famous sweet pickle pie, and the less famous but equally….well, equally something…pinto bean pie. We try them all. The pinto bean and oatmeal pies are served warm, buttermilk and sweet pickle pies cool or room temperature. They arrive drowned in totally superfluous whipped topping but otherwise look fairly innocuous. After a moment’s hesitation, more for dramatic build up than anything, Heather asks me which we should try first. I go right for the gold: the sweet pickle. And………………..it’s good. I’m serious! It’s good! The texture is something like mince. The first taste I get is cinnamon and allspice. That taste gets stronger as I chew and then finishes off with a noticeable tang. The tang is obviously the pickle, but if I didn’t know I was eating pickles in a pie, I would never be able to guess that that is where the tang is coming from. Seriously.



The pinto bean pie is a lot like pecan pie without the crunch of pecans. It’s filled with the same nondescript, sort of mealy filler that holds the pecans together, or in this case the pinto beans. The beans themselves are just sort of warm and earthy and blend in with the basic mealy texture of the rest of the filling. It’s incredibly, incredibly sweet. Heather tries it and comments that this pie just stands as a testament that you can eat just about anything with enough sugar. I am not so sure being able to get down two experimental bites constitutes eating. The pie crust is the same for all of them, reasonably flaky and thin. Really, the fillings are so singular I barely notice the crust. The texture of the buttermilk pie is sort of a blend of custard and bread pudding and tastes primarily of lemon…and sugar. And the oatmeal pie is….well, exactly like you took some left over oatmeal and cooked it up in a pie crust with some coconut and a lot of sugar. And then some more sugar just for good measure. Is this degree of sacrination normal? Am I the weird one?


We make a reasonable dent in our pie sampler and then stumble in an engorged sort of way to the car. I take some vitamins to prevent against glycemic shock and then drive off into the sunset, leaving the diners, towering scalloped red walls, and juniper covered plains behind.




For your baking pleasure, the recipe for sweet pickel pie:



http://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Cookbook:Sunglow_Motel-Cafe_Pickle_Pie

A little usefull information...

Region: South Central Utah

Contact Info:
91 East Main Street
Bicknell, UT 435-425-3701
Rating out of ☼☼☼☼☼ :
Burger: ☼☼☼                    Fries:☼☼             Shake: N/A








Pickel Pie: ☼☼☼        Buttermilk Pie: ☼☼           Oatmeal Pie: .5         Pinto Bean Pie: nada

You may want to visit the Sunglow if you are: 
* Climbing in, canyoneering in, hiking in, camping in, checking out petroglyphs in, picking fruit in,    
   Capital Reef National Park
* Hunting or boating or hiking or snowshoeing or skiing in Fishlake National Forest
* Hunting or riding ATV's on the Seveir Plateau  
* Riding horses or ATV's, skiing, snowshoeing, hangin out with lucky friends who have a cabin,  fishing,  or hiking on Boulder Mountain
* Checking out the Torrey Music Festival, or the Women's music festival in Torrey
* Backpacking or riding the Great Western Trail
* Swimming in the waterfall off Highway 24...east side of Capital Reef
* On your way to Lake Powell via Bullfrog Marina
* Tubing the Fremont River
* taking the lomg way home from Bryce...where you were cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, hiking...