Glendale Branch, The City Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

Horace Mann Middle School wasn't all bad. If I were to make a pie chart of my experiences there from 1984-1986, it would look like this:

Of course the spectrum of the largest part of the pie is broader than the rest--there were days when class proceeded without incident. Those are the parts where the "little" was learned. It was an ugly, hateful place. The constant delinquency and supercharged hormonal hysteria made it a hotbed of bad memories and terrible lessons, few having anything to do with reading, writing, or arithmetic.

I was no angel, either--while I didn't maliciously tease or torture other students, I cheated on exams, passed in fraudulent homework, and got away with academic murder because the teachers' expectations were so low. They were dealing with misbehavior beyond their training--it was obvious, pathetic, and sad.

From a student's viewpoint, however, the teachers' and administrations' failures only served to promote two things: A complete lack of trust in the system, and that taking advantage of broken environment was acceptable not only in order to survive but "thrive." A few of my HM teachers, if they remembered me at all, would describe me as a lazy but bright student who did well in most of her classes. The rest (save one*) would say I was a great student, lots of potential. That one* was my art teacher, who made a promise to me early in the semester then welshed on it. My very first "F"...and another lesson learned.

But only the high and low percentages are relevant here, when we talk about the Glendale Branch Library, a beautiful, new building that is part of the greater City Library system. When I drove up to Glendale after leaving Magna, I was still hopeful, though guarded. This is a newer building, by 5 or so years, but the ravaged state of Magna taught me to not expect too much.

There was one class at Horace Mann Middle School that I remember fondly. Beyond fondly. When I think of it, I get a glow, the light goes soft, and I start to smile. Sometimes I even get teary eyed if I think of it in the right moment (for example, now). What was this magical Safe Space? I've mentioned it in this blog before: Shop class. Our teacher--we'll call him Mr. T--neither suffered nor pitied any variety of fools. It was the only class that was 100% under control, calm, and productive. I loved drafting, sitting in all that silence, the only sounds were the whisper of pencils gliding across paper and soft murmurs of students quietly asking Mr. T questions. Everything I made in that class turned out right, and I never stabbed, cut, or burned myself (or anyone else) using the elderly equipment to create napkin holders, peg games, etc.

How was this miracle achieved? How was this class so different from all the rest? Were the students so terrified of maiming themselves that they behaved without question? That was part of it. The rest was just Mr. T. He simply did not allow monkey business of any kind. Not even for a second. Kids respected and feared him. Most said they hated him. Mr. T was "mean." I never got the impression he particularly liked any of us, either. But I liked him. He made an otherwise blistering hellhole into a quiet oasis of creation and meditation.

Shockingly enough, an environment like Horace Mann, where even fake work gets an "A" because you "tried" is incredibly destructive to a person's sense of self worth. Nothing you do actually matters. So creating something real, something tactile, that truly is "A" worthy work in the midst of such a shitstorm of mediocrity meant the world. The whole freaking world.

A similarly quiet, warm environment can be found at the Glendale Branch Library. When I walked in the doors I was refreshed to see the wide open space, humming with the soft sounds of computers running, light conversation, and the muffled sounds from the streets outside. As I wandered through the library, taking pictures and checking out the scene, I saw no obvious signs of abuse above and beyond what one could expect of a two year old library with trendy furniture.

As I passed by, staff members smiled greetings, friendly and ready to help. The library was bright but comfortable, vast but homey--it was, and I say this with all sincerity, Library Perfect.

There were tons of perfect places to set up my laptop and write to my heart's content. They even had those fun pop up outlets in the tables to make the whole writing endeavor easier. I settled in and worked on my blog for hours.

The worst classes at Horace Mann Middle School were gym and mathematics. Gym was a big joke, where kids participated in the sports they were interested in and goofed off, ran rampant, and otherwise acted a fool until the hour was over. This was also the clearest example of disconnect between admin/teachers and students. Aside from the obvious insults, threats, and aggression most kids experienced in gym class (not to mention the humiliations of the less athletic kids being forced to catch the sportsball with their faces), our gym class had two additional, superfun aspects, both extremely sexual. Which is what you want in a middle school gym class, right? Right?

The first was administration's insistence that all children wear exactly the same uniform for class. I remember it well: for the girls, navy blue jogging shorts and navy blue and white striped t-shirt. For the boys, khaki shorts and a white t-shirt. Before the school year started, and after moving from our beloved house and to a school district we knew nothing about, my mom even embroidered my name onto the right breast of my new gym shirt, in lovely cursive, which I took unbridled shit for from day one onward. Every time I think of that hopeful act, I want to scream. All the other kids just wrote them names across the front in magic marker.

The problem wasn't that we had to change for gym, or even fancy, embroidered names, it was the fact that the wide-legged shorts we were required to wear by admin and the school district--all sold at the same uniform store--dropped open and exposed our underwear for all to see whenever we did sit ups or push ups, a required part of the calisthenics routine we had to complete every godforsaken day. And since we were a forward thinking school, gym was mixed, so all the boys would stare, gape, and make nasty, vile comments through the entire ordeal.

Any appeals to administration fell on deaf ears. Both the principal and vice principal were out of touch and didn't much care, anyway. Boys will be boys.

Where were the teachers, you ask? Well, they had their own problems. That was part two of the Sexual Politics of Horace Mann's gym class. After warm ups, the boys' libidos were also warmed up, and the harassment went on for the remainder of the hour. We ignored the disgusting comments, threats, and promises, and deflected the wandering hands as best we could. You'd think a gaggle of teen aged girls would be enough, but some of the boys liked to test the limits and would also harass the female gym teacher. Mostly it was innuendo, as fumbling and stupid as little teen boys whose nuts haven't dropped can manage, but it got physical on more than one occasion. Administration did nothing, and we cycled through four female gym teachers in 8th grade alone.

Mathematics was less about sexual harassment and more about chaos incarnate. It was almost completely unproductive every single day for an entire year. The kids went wild from the minute they hit the door to the minute they left. They screamed, shouted, threw things, talked with friends, ran around the class, and generally acted like, well, junior high kids at their worst. It would be rude to compare an out of control middle school classroom to zoo animals. We're all well aware that zoo animals are better behaved.

I don't remember our elderly teacher spending much time at the board, writing formulas or lecturing us on the fine points of pre-algebra. He spent most of his time at the intercom button, threatening to call the principal. He would just stand there, shaking, his lips quivering, his finger positioned over the button, making repeated appeals for us to quiet down, be quiet, settle down, I will call the principal, I will. All hour long. Sometimes he'd give up, sometimes he'd call the principal, who would show up, give a speech (to a group of now-quiet, little asshole fakers), and then leave with no consequences, no follow up, and certainly no change to the format of the class.

Eventually I gave up, too. I'd hand in homework and do fairly well on quizzes and tests, but I spent most of my time writing poems and songs in my journal, and enlisting the fellow metal-heads in my class to help make a definitive list of Bitchenest Rock Bands. I would look at our teacher (whose name I remember but will not write here, not even by initial), standing there paralyzed in terror, and knew that I hated him, too. Not because I thought he was a bad person, a bad teacher, or deserved it, but because it was too awful and sad a sight to bear. I hated him for making me see it.

At 3:10 every weekday during the school year, the Glendale Branch turns into my 7th grade math class, with elements of my sexed-up gym class, but with a 21st century twist. The kids start streaming in, in singles and groups, and begin to occupy every open table and seating area as close to the back of the library as they can get. All told, on the day I witnessed the transformation of the Glendale Branch from a library to a juvenile detention center, there were about 40 kids in all, possibly more. I didn't sit there and count them, but there were a lot. And you know how kids become so much more when they aren't supervised? Every kid becomes like three kids, with the volume dialed all the way up and the self control turned completely off. It got loud and rowdy fast.

In they came, screaming, shouting, tearing through the aisles and finding their friends or favorite places. They knocked over books as they invaded, not stopping to even acknowledge it in the first place, let alone pick the books up. As the crowd grew, the noise rose to a cacophonous roar, pitted with mind bending shrieks of the demented and damned.

I could hear some of their conversations, though it was difficult to follow much more than snippets in the din. They talked about the dick pics they sent to each other, and dropped the f-bomb generously throughout every conversation. There was a lot of Big Talk in squeaky voices. It was painful to hear, not just because the volume was really up there (we're not talking library loud, we are talking cafeteria loud), but because it was beyond embarrassing to witness. So much puffery and strutting, so little to back it up.

My educator sister and I have discussed the phenomena of middle schoolers, and how their age and hormonal changes basically make them temporarily insane. To add insult to injury, not only are they unbalanced maniacs with no impulse control, they also smell. As I sat there, thankfully nearly done with my Arches entry and only needing to add the photos, I couldn't help but notice the rising stench of bubblegum, hair gel, and pit sweat. I was transported back to Horace Mann Middle School, 1985, and it was both hysterical and horrifying.

I felt bad for the library staff, who wandered through to pick up the books knocked over in the stampede and stood silent and sheepish at the edge of the sea of screaming meemies. The most anyone did to try to wrangle the hoard was a weak, "Guys. A little loud, guys." I guess they don't have an intercom button to push. In a sense, I would bet that really is the problem. I doubt the staff has the administrative support to keep the kids in line. And clearly the kids have nowhere else to go after school, so this is where they are, unsupervised, unaware, and unhinged. From opening until 3:10, Glendale is a library. From 3:10 to who knows when, Glendale is a cockfighting pen full of stinky, bubblegum chewing chickens, squabbling, pecking, and twisting in a tarantella of teen angst. I didn't stick around long enough to find out when the chaos abates--my post was done and so was I.

As I walked out I noticed some of the single kids that had streamed in with the boistrous groups. They sat quietly at tables nearer the front, homework out, pencils up, heads down and studious. For a moment I was back in Mr. T.'s beautiful shop class, and my heart hurt so hard for them it almost took my breath away. Stay strong, kiddos. It really does get better.

It was also a Big Lesson learned about Google reviews: Sometimes people are just whining and behaving like brats who would complain about anything to anyone, but sometimes they are right on the money. I am a big believer in not using Google reviews abusively--try to spread as much positivity as negativity--but when a business or public space needs a big warning sign placed in front of it, you have to say something. I should have heeded their warnings, and would have felt 1000% better about the Glendale Library if I had only just packed up and left at three, but I didn't. And I got a genuine flashback some wisdom in exchange.

Magna Library, Magna, Utah

Magna Library was the first of the Salt Lake County libraries I visited during my stay in Salt Lake City. The online photos are striking and the library was recently built (2011), so my hopes were very high as I headed out to Magna, Utah.

A little background, which I picked up from Wikipedia last evening as I tried to learn more about the area in general: Salt Lake City itself is actually quite small. The city proper is only about 200,000 strong, but the outlying burbs make up the majority of SLC's size (about 1.2 million estimated). When you look at a map of Salt Lake City, it looks like the little hat on top of an acorn (and a little hat tip to Google Maps for the image).

My AirBNB is in the southeastern quadrant town of Sandy. It is fully incorporated with SLC and the surrounding suburbs. In order to get to Magna, I had to take the highway 30 minutes northwest and effectively "out of the city." From what I saw, Magna is really only connected by the thinnest industrial string of businesses lining the highway--otherwise it appeared to be an entirely separate little town. It is within the county, however, so is part of the county library system.

When you read about Magna's library, it is easy to see the pride people had in it, especially in its energy saving design. This is certainly a valuable and necessary initiative, and it is impossible not to admire the forethought and effort. Exterior and interior photographs of the library are also an obvious point of pride--the aesthetics were forward thinking, innovative, and striking.

Magna is nestled in the northern foot of the Oquirrh mountains. While the whole drive north up I-15 is lovely with mountain ranges on both sides, exiting to head west on I-80 was my first opportunity to get a good look at the Oquirrh range. It is a stunning vista, and despite my recent altitude-related problems, I was charmed and awed by what I saw. Until I got closer, anyway.

I didn't visit Magna's main streets and only went far enough in to visit the library, but what I saw as I approached the town from the east was indicative of what I was about to see once I reached my destination. It is important now to mention that in every mountainous area I've visited, the higher you go, the nicer the houses. People want to be up high so they can look down low on the glittering town. Even in the flatlands, if there is a hill, someone's got a house on it, even if it is only 5 feet higher than everywhere else. We all love to be king of the mountain.

Magna, however, has different designs. As you approach, a hideous and huge industrial site is positioned high in the foothills above the town, with one peak featuring a big, white capital "C" on top of it. Prime real estate scarred by dirty, smoking industry and tagged with a big C for what I do not know or care. It is the first and only impression some will ever get of Magna. Mine was further decimated by my visit to the library.

At this point in my travels I have visited quite a few libraries. I've seen elderly libraries, baby libraries, and everything in between. I've seen well cared for ancients and relatively ratty youths. I've never seen a library as young as the Magna so used, abused, and in serious need of cleaning and repair. It was terribly, terribly sad.

Upon approaching the library, I saw one big difference between Magna and all the rest of the libraries I've visited: A permanent sign forbidding all food and beverages of any kind. I wonder when it went up? Certainly not at first, unless patrons have just ignored the hell out of the rule and library staff have let things slide. I seriously doubt either is the case unless the place has truly been mismanaged since opening day.

My pictures really don't do the damage justice. The tables are worn and scratched, chairs are torn and taped up, the carpet is riddled with stains. The whole place looks ill-used and beat to hell.

I am sure all libraries have special needs based on the communities in which they are located. I wonder exactly what Magna's needs might be. There was a huge bank of almost empty computer terminals but very few places for a person with her own laptop to set up shop for the long haul. I found a dirty table with a taped up, nasty chair to sit down long enough to figure out where I should go next.

There was also a very lively kids event going on in a room near the front of the library, which lent the experience and bright beam of hope. It's hard not to smile listening to tykes holler along to their favorite songs.

I saw exactly zero (obvious) homeless patrons and even so the library was not very busy other than the event going on up front. It was hard to fathom how, after a mere 6 years of service to its community, it had reached a level of disrepair I would associate with 30, 40, or even 50-year-old libraries. Perhaps it was the time of day--as I learned firsthand later that same day, sometimes this makes all the difference in the world.

Nope.

I imagined a patronage composed mostly of the monsters from Where the Wild Things Are, roaring and boring through the delicate and lovely lines of the library's most thoughtful layout, biting books and spilling venti iced coffees across the entirety of the floor. It's hard to think of people shitting all over their shared spaces, but people carve their initials in ancient and irreplaceable monuments, so what do I know.

Well...I do know one thing, and it is a pretty simple thing. New libraries are GREAT and absolutely necessary. As long as our technology soars forward, services to our communities must keep up. But I'll tell you one big difference between Magna Library (and many of the newer libraries I've seen) and an old behemoth like the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library in Dallas: Quality of Craftsmanship. The Jonsson's cubicles and tables may be outdated and ugly as sin, but they've stood the test of time. Not aesthetically, of course, but the tables are solid wood and made for this particular job: service to a sometimes unforgiving public. You can't outfit your new library with furniture from Ikea's clearance sale and expect it to hold up for long.

Marmalade Branch, The City Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

I love Salt Lake City. It is quirky, family oriented, flawed but fabulous. The highways get you anywhere you want to go with little brake action or congestion and the streets are laid out with generous "parking" lanes and bike paths. The street naming conventions would be easy to learn (for most, not me), and are very different from anything I've seen before (numbered instead of named, with some exceptions). You can see the influence of the Mormon forebears in the creation of the city, especially when it comes to orderliness, but there are districts that defy the rules, bending to and fro and naming their streets after something other than numbers. 

When I drove from the Arches National Park to Salt Lake City, the clouds that had been threatening all day finally crowded in. At some point in the long and winding drive, they seemed to descend all around me, and a fussy, pattering rain commenced and never let up for the rest of the night. 

It was full dark before I reached SLC and my AirBNB and I could see no more than the illuminated streetlights, headlights, and signage in my path. I met my AirBNB host, who showed me around the generous space I would be occupying for the week, and settled down for the night. 

Main Entryway

My ongoing ill feelings--so treacherous, flittering, and vague--came on full force the next day after I attempted breakfast. The day was rainy and gloomy and I decided to just lay down and relax at the AirBNB. I needed to get my mind off of my ongoing troubles, or else circle the toilet bowl of despair worrying about the rest of this long leg of the trip. Back in the olden aughts, my work friends discussed the phenomena of "Soft Place to Land" movies and shows that we would watch when sick, sad, or otherwise compromised. For some it might be movies like Hope Floats, The Pelican Brief, or maybe The Juror (I remember a discussion about the psychological soundness of seeking out movies where heroines were in peril but would, without fail, save their own damn day...maybe sometimes with a little help from Denzel). At the time, I named Practical Magic as a top choice for me. In later years, Law & Order main and Law & Order Criminal Intent joined those ranks. It was a dark day when they were removed from Netflix.

Feeling cloaked in fatigue and light nausea, I decided I wanted to watch something mildly criminal, a gentle violence, if you will, and settled on Blue Bloods. I didn't have high expectations, and it turned out to be the exact balm I needed to coast through the day. There is no end to the comforting presence of Magnum PI's mustachio.

The next morning broke open vast, cloudless, and shiny bright. The rains had finally passed. My mood and overall condition followed suit, so I got ready and set out for my first SLC library: Marmalade Branch.

Now, you will judge me for this next part. You will say, UM. You will say, Everyone knows this. You will say, Ugh. But honestly, I had no sense of Salt Lake City's geography. None whatsoever. When traveling, I tend to study up on a town either while I am there or immediately after. I knew about the Church of the Latter Day Saints and I knew they had hosted the Olympics at some point. And I knew they had an ambitious library system based on the research I did complete prior to my trip. Oh, and the lake. I knew about the lake. Because, well, obvious.

But I didn't know about the mountains. 

Lounge area looking out to the terrace.

So out of the AirBNB cul de sac I drove, toward the main roads that would lead to the highway. I can't remember exactly when my vantage reached the perfect point, on a hill unobscured by an immediate treeline, but suddenly there they were. Everywhere. Mountains to the left, mountains to the right, and not in the distance but up close and personal (oo another soft place to land movie, methinks). I could see individual trees near the peaks. The eastern, more abundant and dramatic range is the Wasatch; the western range is the Oquirrh (x). I spent much of the drive to Marmalade yelling at the massive, intrusive, gorgeous beauty all around me. And laughing at the fact that I'd been in Salt Lake for something like 36 hours and had only just realized Where I Was.

(To be fair to myself, I don't watch winter Olympics and barely watch the summer ones, mostly for the gymnastics. I think the last time I watched the winter Olympics was when two little glitter babes in bejeweled swimsuits were whacking each other about the knees and crying at Disneyworldland because silver isn't as good as gold. Which reminds me: Wasn't Oksana Baiul phenomenal? God that was a great ending to a cosmically stupid era in our collective culture.)

Check out materials, search catalogs, pay fees...

By the time I reached the Marmalade district of Salt Lake City, I'd recovered from my geographical shock. I had to park on the side of the road since construction was still taking place for whatever lot the library would eventually have, but there were no parking signs or rules posted anywhere and the area was safe and residential. On top of that, I parked in front of a church with one of those sprawling, hyper green lawns with the grass so feathery, dense, and light that you kind of want to drop whatever you're doing and take a nap on it. 

The Marmalade Branch of the City Library system is hard to miss as you approach it by foot or car. The architecture is stunning, modern, sleek, and exciting. As I approached the building I took what felt like a hundred different shots of the exterior, but knew none could really do it justice in the end. Two dimensional photographs can be incredible representations of our 3D world, but there's no matching first person experience. The wind, the smell of the trees and grass all around, the sound of the street, the glint of the sun off the glass and chrome features of the library itself, and how it changes as you approach. 

You can't tell from the photo, but there are glass
walls on either side of the Return wall.
Another Librarian Aquarium! 

The reason I am in Salt Lake City for a week is based on the treasure trove of libraries in this area. I knew I wanted to see the Bonneville Salt Flats, so would be passing through Salt Lake, but had no designs other than maybe staying a night on my way through. It was in the research of libraries along the way that I realized I would need to spend more time here. The City Library system has clearly had a lot of resources poured into it (and I am very excited to see the main library, which is supposed to be incredible) and the libraries I have visited thus far have proven my online impressions to be correct. 

Marmalade's visual wonders continued on to the interior of the space itself: deep, rich, wood ceiling fixtures, bright, mellow light, and all the sleek, modern conveniences of a library that was built only a year ago. The tall glass walls afford incredible views of the surrounding mountain ranges and the city itself, and there is even an outdoor deck with plenty of seats and tables to study, read, write, or just enjoy the surroundings.

Each lounge/seating area features a different styling: bright orange, green, gray--and the light fixtures are inspired. I was particularly charmed by the cut paper globe installation in the kids' play area.

My Study Room.

The best part, however, was the availability of study rooms. There were tables around, but I wanted a closed space just for me, and library staff was kind enough to grant it. The study rooms were along the glass wall, so I had a view of the terrace and greenspace just behind it, two real walls to block the other study rooms, then another glass door and wall leading to the library and stacks. The room itself was perfect: comfortable, quiet, and exactly what I needed to complete my "Two Days in Durango" story/entry.

There was a two hour limit to the space, however, so I had to vacate for a minute to see if I could renew. The rule is first come, first serve, so if no one was waiting on the list, I would be able to get the room for another hour. The library was fairly busy, but not so much with people like me, so I was able to get the room for a solid three to complete my work. 

The City Libraries are semi-relaxed. They really don't want you eating in any of their facilities, but I was told if was cool about it, no one would care. So, no juicy, drippy burritos but peanut butter crackers are probably okay. They are completely fine with covered drinks, e.g. a venti iced coffee from Starbucks or a bottled water if you are into that kind of thing. Marmalade even has a cafe where you can buy coffee and treats, have a seat, and relax or talk with friends. When I left the library, the place was hopping, so it's evidently a popular spot and a good source of revenue. As long as libraries manage their spaces effectively, food & drink can occupy space with precious books, but the key is professional, firm, consistent supervision and execution of the rules. And, of course, patrons who respect those rules and follow them.

The kids' play area.

Library Doggo, Fluff Ambassador. 

I even saw a doggo patiently accompanying her Tall Man in the stacks and surreptitiously took her picture to share here with the world. I know I am violating her privacy but she's so cutey wootey that I HAD TO I JUST HAD TO. Look at her lil sweater it has skulls on it omg. Also, I miss my fluff faces so much and it was nice to see another fluff face, even if she was a dog variety fluff instead of catty fluff.

Marmalade was exactly what I was expecting when I viewed the online profiles of the City Library system, as well as the county library system that co-mingles with SLC and its outlying suburbs. In this case, I could judge the book by its cover. But as we all know, it's wiser not to. A lesson I soon learned, double fold. More on that in the next couple of entries...

Durango, Colorado to Arches National Park, Moab, Utah (163 miles)

Park Avenue

I realize I haven't been posting mileage between stops like I did during leg one of my adventures and that is for two separate, very valid reasons.

1. Sometimes it is too boring to note (unless you want to hear me caterwauling my questionable playlist from Wichita to Dodge City, for example, since that is all that happened between one and the other).
2. Sometimes I am too boring/sad/sick to note (fighting illness has been the number one reason I have lagged in posts since I left Wichita, something I hope to get past sooner than later, God help me).

Near Pleasant View, Colorado

I would very much love to start feeling 9000% better any time soon, but on my third day in Salt Lake City, I am still feeling a bit gruesome. Usually this blog is about a day behind real time, but I'm lagging about 3-4 days behind at this point. Fingers crossed.

Church Rock

By the time I left Durango, I was feeling a ton better than the previous two days, so I shoved myself out of the Best Western, forced my car into drive, and hauled my ass on down the road. I psyched myself into believing I was heading downward, away from mountains (which I was, eventually), but going from Durango (6,512) to Monticello (7,070) to Moab (4,026) was clearly not a steady ride down. Luckily my intestinal fortitude had recovered enough to see me through to the park in one piece.

Spanish Valley

One of the joys of the ride was the wild weather fronts streaking across the skies as I made my way from Colorado to Utah. It started near Pleasant View, Colorado, where I snapped a cool cloud formation off to the north. This day was on the verge of delivering all kinds of cloud porn, and being a Cloud Freak, I was in heaven.

I passed Church Rock north of Monticello unable to think of it as anything other than Sky Boob (thank you x infinity for putting that term in my head, Burke and Michelle), and ooohed at the beauty of the Spanish Valley ridges. It was a great run up to seeing Arches National Park. If you think Utah has nothing to offer, think again. This place is teeming with geological wonders and is worth a long, slow tour.

I arrived at the gate for Arches and brandished my annual pass, gleeful to finally be racking up mileage on the card. I already had to skip Bryce Canyon and Canyonlands because of illness, so was eager to start making it work for me again. An annual pass is $80 but gets you into every national park for free (and knocks your camping fees down, as well, wherever applicable). This time around the park entrance attendant was not as smiley and asked if I wanted a map (instead of just handing me one). Being a noob, I of course said yes and wondered if that was a cost saving measure some of the parks were already taking for fear of further budgetary cuts.

The Organ

When I reached the visitors center, I stopped to use the bathroom and take a few first pictures. Looking up at the soaring rock formations right beside the center, I realized that the road into the park proper wound upward and my knees knocked as I considered what was next. Once I got back to the car, I sat there for a minute and thought about it. Could I do this? Would I get sick again? How much winding would there be? The visitor's guide warned of winding roads--could I handle this?

Whenever worry gets a foothold, panic is often right behind, shoving its way in and tackling me to the ground*. It is a horrible feeling, knowing it is right at the door, pressing forward, but sometimes you can fight it back. One of my methods is self talk. It goes one of three ways: Encouragement, insults, or a combination of both. I usually go route three because that is my personality. I've never been a shining rainbow unicorn, but maybe like a donkey version. You know, still covered in sparkles and living in a wonderland with a horn and everything, but a donkey instead of a horse. A unikey. A donkorn?

Tower of Babel

Three Gossips

So I said, Look Here, You. You're doing this and I don't care if you puke your stupid guts out all over an arch, you are strong and willful and you WILL put this car into drive and you WILL drive up that road and you are GOING to see some goddamned rock formations because you deserve this you peice of donkorn now GET IT GEAR AND GO.

Delicate Arch (close up-ish)

Delicate Arch (far, far away)

This was all in my head, of course, but it worked. I got in gear and went. Luckily the park was not all that busy, so I didn't really have anyone behind or ahead of me for most of the trip up the main park road. And I am here to tell you: It's only that first bit that gets a little steep and swerve-y. After that, the hills are very mild and manageable. And quite honestly the first part of it looks worse than it really is. Remember the part of leg one where I screamed the whole way? That was WAY scarier. This was, ahem, just a walk in the park.

Imagine if I had psyched myself out. What I would have missed. Imagine it. How completely garbagio is that?

Balanced Rock

*PS. I have been real-life tackled by a teenaged Idiot Boy. He was nearly adult sized, or was small-adult sized, I think, but he straight up tackled me to the ground. I was walking home from high school with friends when Idiot Boy, whose name is lost forever, hit me full bodied from behind, down to the ground, and landed on top of me. I got the wind knocked out of me and couldn't breathe for a few seconds. We were screaming what the EFF was that for, but he seemed genuinely nonplussed. He felt the urge to do it, so he did it. We had no beef (to that point) and the theory was his crush on me was crushing him so therefore he decided to crush me, but that was never proven. My guess is that he had impulse control problems, and didn't know how to express himself outside of tackling people to the ground. Funny thing: This always makes me laugh now and I would never put it on par with any of the real assaults I've experienced. At least I can say I genuinely know what it feels like to be tackled--I even think he was on the JV football team, so I can say I was tackled by an actual football player to boot. It wasn't anything like getting sacked by Junior Seau, but honestly, what is? Other than getting run over by a car. Most important point, though: I'd take a sack over a panic attack any day. At least a JV sack.

Pointy Point

Pinnacles

The Arches National Park is a place of incredible beauty and wonder. Unfortunately for me, I only saw a few of those famous arches as I was not up to hiking. You can see quite a bit just driving around, and even some arches can be seen from the road, though I would argue the other geological phenomena are equally as stunning (fins, monoliths, pinnacles, balanced rocks). There are more than just arches to Arches, in other words.

There is also heavy construction going on throughout the park right now--specifically repaving and updating the roads that run through it--so there are a number of large construction vehicles taking up space in some of the pull outs. The balanced rock road was closed, for example, but you could still get a shot nearby. The park closes at from 7 pm to 7 am so that crews can work overnight. I didn't think it impeded much on my visit, and I was encouraged to see that initiative for improvement was being taken. Some of our national parks are in dire need of updating, especially access roads and services.

Skyline Arch

The monoliths were my favorite (The Organ, Tower of Babel, and Sheep Rock), but the balanced rocks and arches were something to behold especially when you understand what it took to create them. The geological explanation of the formation of the park is pretty fascinating, and it makes you appreciate this moment in time, because the park is forever changing, and those arches won't last. New ones will form over time, and old ones will collapse (as many have, one even in the last decade), but the park as it is now took eons to form and is special. It is a privilege to experience it. Which is what made the repeated appeals for good behavior in the guides and newsletters I received at the front gate all the more infuriating. It seems odd that people have to be told not to walk on the arches or carve SKRILLEX RULZ on Abraham Lincoln's face, but I guess it needs to be explicitly addressed.

The Fiery Furnace!

Here's some travel advice from Auntie Erin: When you go to a national park to experience the glorious beauty of our natural riches and you happen upon a remarkable stone outcropping, monolith, arch, pinnacle, fin, or wall--a thing that brings millions of visitors to the park year in and year out--and you feel the deep, itching urge to put chalk, crayon, pen, or a knife to that rock to "leave your mark," here's what you're going to want to do to make a lasting impression: Take that chalk, crayon, pen, knife, what have you, turn it around, and jam it directly into your eye, you piece of human garbage. Tourist tips!

I had to make Salt Lake City before 9 pm to check into the AirBNB, so I didn't spend a great deal of time in the park, between 2-3 hours, but I was plenty impressed and happy for the time I got. I was glad I got to experience the park, of course, but it also meant a great deal to be able to get out in the sun and Do Things, real things, and feel pretty much okay for the majority of the day.

I wish I could say it lasted, but for a brief spell, everything was alright.

All the pretty cloudies!