And now, a brief sketch of our trip across the American West. Just when we had given up hope of Danielle landing a contract near my extended family in Colorado, she got the call. So after a fun visit with our friends in Astoria, and a week's break at home in Truckee with J.D., we hit the road heading due east. Nevada's Highway 50 is "America's Loneliest Road": part backwards public relations pitch, and part badge of honor for the residents of its depopulated boom-and-bust mining towns.
I drove this with friends in college, racing towards Utah's Lake Powell on a spring break adventure with three kayaks strapped to the top of our truck. The ferocious head-wind slowed us to a crawl and the incessant basin and range geography... desert plain, mountain pass, desert plain, mountain pass, desert plain, mountain pass... drove us mad. This time, I did it right. We took our time, checking out the petroglyphs (some dating back 7,000 years); the steep-sloped whistling sand dunes; the ruins of pony express and stage coach stations, and so many abandoned mines and the charcoal ovens making fuel for the old smelters; remote and soothing hot springs; and, briefly, the ecologically unique and wonderful Great Basin National Park.
Eventually, we crossed into southern Utah and the infinite possibilities of the Colorado plateau canyon country. Even in Utah, conservative as it is, there are pockets of progressive and outlandish people -- internal refugees, in a way. Case in point, we stayed a night at Mystic Hot Springs, the last stop for several Deadheads and their buses when Jerry died. We, in fact, stayed in one of their old, now stationary, vehicles. It was remodeled and rechristened, "Ripple". The experience was both hilarious and very, very cold.
We took a scenic route through Utah. Our passage took us through Capitol Reef National Park and Goblin Valley State Park (pictured above). Koa and I had a blast climbing and clambering up, and sliding down, the thousands of hoodoos and ancient, cemented dunes. The melting snow gave the orange dirt the feel of kneaded bread dough, with a sprinkling of salt on top like flour. Every step and jump a soft landing.
Now we are making a home, for the next few months anyway, in Montrose, Colorado. A town of 18,000 people in southwestern Colorado, on the western slope of the Rockies. We've already had a fantastic weekend with my aunt and cousins. Our "welcome to Colorado!" moment, when this new life began to sink in, was cross-country skiing along the rim of nearby Black Canyon National Park. Peering into its nearly fathomless depths and listening to the quiet -- with raven, mule deer and bobcat sightings along the way -- we new we had finally arrived.
