An apology for typos. I wait until I have driven for 5 hours and I am exhausted then attempt to write this from the passenger seat where the laptop burns my thighs and the motions make me sick.
On Rick and Vicki’s advice we landed in Fruita at sunset. Jill was driving and had a bit of difficulty getting off the highway. A few stalls in the middle of an intersection. It was enough to alert the Fruita police who followed us into the campground:
Fruita officer: I got some complaints about your driving back there.
Liz: Sorry sir. Jill here is a new stick shift driver.
Fruita officer: You can’t be driving so fast in these parts.
Liz: Dear god he actually said, “these parts.” Sorry sir, I will drive from now on here.
Jill: Oh look a bunny!
Classically Jill found herself distracted by an adorable bunny, which perhaps added to our innocence because he let us slide. We got incredibly terse directions from a snobby ranger. Some people we have met in the Midwest have been the sweetest most friendly people in the world, others give us the old shoulder and snub even a cordial hello. Jill and I debate this often and came up with a few ideas:
1. They are true locals and they resent anyone who moves to the area in order to capitalize on beauty that was once only there own.
2. They are misanthropes, who live in isolation in order to shun society. They find comfort in open fields, corn and whatnot.
3. They think we are idiots.
We set up camp near a lake in a little cove designated number 48. It came with a firepit and a picnic table/bench. We tried to race the coming night, I started setting up the tent, but couldn’t find the battery to the air mattress. Jill read the instructions to the charcoal and we were missing lighter fluid and a starter log, which are two important provisions in starting a fire. We tried to break a cigarette lighter. It exploded on Jill. We tried to light paper and ended up just watching it burn and ash over the coals. Finally we phoned a friend who gave a quick firstarting tutorial. Since Jill was sprinkled in lighter fluid she wasn’t allowed near the flame. So she gathered sticks and I looked for something to burn. I folded up a map of New York and placed it underneath a bundle of thin dry twigs and brushy looking stuff. When the flame finally got going after 15 matches I started carefully positioning with my hands each coal into some kind of pyramid. Anytime the fire died a few hard blows would get it up again. The coals finally started to get hot. I kept blowing until I felt woosy from the carbon monoxide. I even had a fire poking stick. My face was covered in soot, my clothes smelt like charcoal. But finally. Finally. The fire was hot enough for a pan of our canned baked beans and salsa. At one point I remember looking up between breathing breaks and seeing the lights to a gas station. In all this time we could have easily driven to the station, picked up some lighter fluid and returned. But I suppose it was more amusing to watch each other struggle with nature. There were moments of delious laughter (possibly from monoxide poisoning) that made it worth the trouble. We made smores by leaving the chocolate on the graham cracker during dinner to get warm then heated up the marshmallows on twigs, cheating a little by lighting notebook paper on fire. They were amazing, only the slightest aftertaste of charcoal. My tongue felt a little numb afterward.
A successful dinner. We even found the battery to the air mattress and had one of our more comfortable sleeps of the trip. For some reason, we slept with the guitar. We were up to see the sunrise on the lake by 7AM, packed up last nights disaster, shower and hit the road.
A minor problem: it was four quarters for four minutes of shower and a quarter each additional minute. Colorado has this thing with water conservation, which I fully support. But I smell like a 19th century street urchin and we have money conservation issues. So we showered together. For the sake of posterity, I could say it was a fun, experimental, soap-sudded adventure. But in reality we were clumsy messes struggling with time and temperature. I NEED SHAMPOO! GET ANOTHER QUARTER DAMNIT. I felt more like Civil War soldiers than adorable, urbane girls trying to save a couple dimes.
UTAH! Beautiful canyons and national parks await our cameras! Rick and Vicki put us on Scenic Byway 12. They said the beginning would be a little dull, but deeper into the heart of Utah, we would be blown away. Only serious RV adventurers could ever find anywhere on this road dull. It was like being on another planet. The mountains started getting weird, plateau-y and reminded me of my old Earth Science textbook. I re-learned how to drive stick shift and it was such a rush to almost crash into these mountain walls striped with every color. Every turn was something more impressive and ever twenty minutes the landscape changed. The land as an exhibitionist. I can’t not sound cheesy right now. I can’t not sound superficial so here it goes: I love America. Go screaming eagle, fly high above the mountains of freedom.
When we got to Bryce Canyon it began to pour rain. Jill and I jumped out of the car, determined to fill up on a life’s worth of hoo-doos. The rain began to get worst and at our elevation, it became a safety matter. Like idiots we ran against the crowds of tourists towards the ledge with a miniature polka-dot umbrella. Immediately a Japanese tourist ran up to us shouting, “NO! NO! Danger. Don’t use umbrella.” Anyway, I don’t remember what Bryce Canyon looks like (there was a lot of rain in my eyes) but I know it was awesome. I took a full panorama of pictures in order to piece it together later on.
There is no way we were going to camp in Zion. It was raining and miserable out. It was getting later and later. We drove through Zion, which was like Route 12 on crack. At this point in the day, however, my awe is evening out with my impatience for drivers on the road who decide to brake every time they see something awesome. I, too look at whatever this awesome thing is and almost crash. Then they have the nerve to take a bloody picture of the mountain/hoo-doo/elk/canyon/gorge/etc. We met a park ranger in Zion who was from Brooklyn. Bay Ridge. We all agreed that there is no good pizza except New York. He let us know he was a Vietnam Vet almost immediately and he almost convinced me to apply to be a park ranger. I am still considering this.
After leaving the park, we got to pet some elk, whose furry antlers make me feel weird and then stopped to buy some killer moccasins at an Indian store. Then back on the road and we decided to just screw it all and drive to Laguna. Colorado to Cali in one day. It was just a few hours to Vegas, then only another four hours to the beach. We eat four hours for breakfast.
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