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!

Two Days in Durango. Elevation 6,512.

The day cracked open, blistering cold and damp, and the camp began to unfurl from a restless night of cruel stars and bottomless dreams. The Traveler squinted at the murky day through the fogged up windows of the Rogue, then began unlayering from the sheets, blankets, and sleeping bags that brought little comfort the night before.

Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

The previous day was a bright, overexposed memory, as though it had happened years before, instead of hours. Great Sand Dunes National Park (8,278 elevation) was a destination sure to drive most sane people to hallucinations, but the Traveler had picked up some venomous passenger that was seeping hot tendrils of sickness through her weary core.

View of the mountains from the campsite.

But the park was a delight, and she reveled in the quick memory of the day before, standing at the base and scanning that strange desert scene, dunes soaring 700 feet in the air, shadows cupped in the sharp, undulating crests, frozen stark and unlikely in the Colorado mountains. The Traveler had long obsessed over images of the Sahara, always too small, captured in sparing magazines, television screens, all useless and blanched but still somehow sparking the imagination--those massive slopes, infinite waves of sand. And here in this improbable place it was as though some deity had sectioned off a part of that greater desert and set it unchanged in the middle of a green and fertile land. It was an astonishing thing.

View of the dunes from the campsite.

The Traveler slipped out of the back of the Rogue onto the coarse gravel of the campsite and looked at the beauty all around her. As off kilter as she felt, she could not help but smile at those dunes, now lit from the east, the warm glowing morning light creating an orange hue in the sand. The Traveler had a long drive ahead, so packed up, started the engine, and slowly drove through the still stirring camp.

Early morning view, Medano creek springs to life.

On Colorado Road 5, just outside the park, the Traveler saw something that only further solidified the hallucinatory aspect of the day: a long line of glistening cars approached from the south. And as they began to take shape, it became clear that they were all classic cars, not one made before 1950, all shining and clean and almost new, as though they'd rolled off the factory lot straight onto Colorado 5. Not another car in sight, just the classics gliding by, just as improbable and strange as the dunes they were destined for.

The Rio Grande National Forest (est. 10,300 elevation) was a beautiful, heavily wooded, mountainous route that should have set the Traveler onto a better path, but the swooping, winding roads only deepened her overall sense of disjointedness. There were sights to behold, cherish, and remember, but they blew by barely remarked by her ever more pallid face. Some three hours later, she pulled into Durango, green in the gills but with no real sense of exactly what was wrong. It wasn't a cold, the flu, a stomach bug...it was as though that venomous passenger rode along within, a vapor of ghost, smoky apparition, and had somehow dug in deeper, claws puncturing into the Traveler's back, and turning all the internal dials two notches past black midnight.

 The Traveler decided maybe it was a blood sugar problem and that she should eat something, so she made her way to the Durango Public Library to sit outside in the warm sun and crisp, early autumn air, and try to beat back the darkness with a pre-packed PB&J and Sun Chips.

At first everything seemed better. Once lunch was done, the Traveler took pictures of the exterior of the building and made her way into the main doors. As she explored the stacks, seating areas, computer bays, and study rooms, the cloak of sick began to snake its way around her middle, shoulders, neck. As she settled in to a primo study kiosk to try to write, the venomous passenger sucked the wind out of her, an oily blanket of nightsweats and hot, clanging brass smashing against her ribcage.

The Traveler bore the assault for about and hour before packing up and heading out to the Rogue. She sat in the driver's seat, looking up symptoms, walk in clinics, and altitudes of all the places she was supposed to go to next. The sun was too hot, the air was too cold. She didn't know what to do and felt terrible on top of it. So she cried. She sat in her car, her key to freedom and adventure, her gateway to an open road, open mind, fierce and fearless heart pushing ever forward and...she sobbed. Eventually it abated. With the valve opened and her stress pressure relieved, she made a plan.

View of the Animas River from primo library seating.

Based on the research the most likely ailment was altitude sickness, exacerbated by previous weakness from allergies and medication changes. The Traveler had tripped into a maelstrom of competing issues, and each was vying for the top spot of supervillainy, sitting on her neck and twisting her stomach and heart into a hard rod of deadwood. All medical websites advised to ride it out and take it easy--acute cases should go to lower altitudes. A quick scan of the map proved that there really were no lower altitudes, not unless the Traveler wanted to go back through the mountains to get to them. The Traveler, in her road rough and world weariness, made all the more stringent by her illness, decided emphatically to Fuck That, and made a reservation at the Best Western.

Animas River.

According to web medical experts, altitude sickness is very similar to a hangover. Headache and nausea compete for which symptom will make the patient hurl or implode first. The Traveler was no stranger to hangovers, but had not experienced anything like one in over three years. Almost exactly three years and two weeks, the date of her last hangover, when she checked into rehab after spending one last night smoking too many Marlborough's and drinking a magnum of cabernet sauvignon. The similarity of the ailments set the Traveler's mood from distressed to pitch black as she settled in at the motel, brittle, furious, and deeply, immovably sad. It was too much.

"Guardians," Chamberlain of Letters, Minister
of Words, Book Warden, Melissa Zink,
Bronze, 2008.

She was certain a good night's rest and a Complimentary Breakfast of Hearty Foodstuffs would make all the difference in the world. Upon waking the next day, the Traveler felt a bit balloon-headed but attributed this to the early hour and last strains of ugly sickness. She decided pants would be required to attend breakfast, so in her jammy shorts she went out into the 40 degree early morning air to retrieve them from the Rogue. And locked herself out of the hotel room. The Traveler looked to the overcast heavens for deliverance but heard only echoing laughter. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a classic car parked next to the pool. They were following her. It was a sign.

She retrieved the jeans and unceremoniously dressed half in and half out of the Rogue, caring not one, tiny whit whether some other traveler saw the display. She had it up to Here, and could feel the dizziness, fatigue, and thick weight already starting to pull her down into the abyss. The web had said it could take one to three days to acclimate to the higher altitudes. She was not going to be one of the lucky ones, it seemed.

The Traveler made her way to the front desk of the Best Western and introduced herself to the kind faced man on duty, "Hello, I am an idiot. Good Morning." He appeared to have heard this speech before, and after some diligent checks to ensure the Traveler was not also A Liar, he set about creating a permanent memory of himself in her mind. His name, while Brian, is also and forever, Hero. The valiant kind, the legendary kind. He wielded not a blade but a Best Western pen. He was, in short, The Very Best of the Best Western.

The Traveler asked to stay another night, and was shocked to discover only three rooms were left, two of which were smoking rooms, a sign of times gone by, an ancient relic of bad will and dirty odors. She knew it well, after all. The only room useful to her was bigger, and more expensive, and she would have to move from the room she was already occupying, but she could not bear the thought of traveling (and had already canceled her AirBNB for that night in Cedar City, elevation 5,876). The Hero booked the expensive room but said he would watch for changes and keep her in mind. The Traveler did not believe him.

She went to the breakfast room and found she was hungry despite the fact that she felt like hot, flyblown garbage, and imagined this was what Hell was going to feel like except no one ever eats except maybe terrible, unspeakable things for which they were both grateful and hateful. The Best Western breakfast was far better than that, with eggs, sausage, cereals, and the ever present waffle bar, where guests were trusted to make their own waffles and not burn the whole works down in the process. A magical place.

The Traveler made a waffle and ate some eggs. The waffle was light and airy, so much so that it started to dissolve to a sugarmush under the weight of the syrup. The coffee was not too fancy, but strong, hot, and good. After breakfast, the Traveler set about getting two cups of coffee to take back to her room. The Hero approached, his sweet, angel face alight with good news. There was a cancellation, she could keep her room. And. The rate would be lower than the night before, even. The Traveler suppressed the galvanic desire to jump into the Hero's arms and plant one directly on his lips. The Traveler was briefly in love with the Hero. The Hero pretended not to be alarmed by the squeaky noises and fluttering hands. He was a consummate customer service professional.

The Traveler spent the rest of the day watching Law and Order and relaxing. She even got to see the Julia Roberts episode, once so elusive on the rerun circuit. She wandered out once more for a burger and salad at Wendy's (whose salads are, without reservation or purpose evasion, the Epic Salad BOMB) and was struck by Durango's strange geographic placement, just inside soaring, winged, peaks, lovely and frightening all at once. She was sad she could not appreciate Durango more, and hoped memory would wash away the poisoned coat of despair to a clean, unburdened image of what Durango really was, a glittering jewel of a town nestled in the crook of a stunning, mountainous setting.

The next morning, the Traveler awoke, still tired, but feeling good enough to set out once again. She packed the car, double checked the room, and brought the key cards back to the main desk, where the Hero still stood, steadfast, on duty, all smiles. She surrendered the cards and thanked him once again, saddled up, and headed northwesterly...toward the Arches, toward Salt Lake, not one dark harbinger of a classic car in sight.

Council Tree Public Library, Fort Collins, Colorado

I don't quite remember when my love of shopping malls began, but it was early, ravenous, and started petering out sometime before the end of high school, when the responsibilities of adulthood started taking shape in the distance, approaching ever faster, threatening. The act of consuming things becomes more twisted and burdensome the less you have, I've found, so while the average shopper might still have fun picking up new things, she already knows that in a matter of time those objects of desire will be old things, broken things, drab, colorless, and tacky. It gets more complicated the more we juggle, too, when there are bills, bills, bills, and barely enough income to cover them.

My earliest memory of "The Mall" was of Towne East Square, one of two sibling, indoor malls anchoring the east and west sides of Wichita. Towne East was built first (1975) and still thrives to this day (though will never see the same fervent activity as it did during the pre-internet era) and Towne West came along five years later (1980) and is, by my own eyes, flagging badly. Towne East is the bigger mall, with two stories and more stores, while Towne West is sort of an over-indulgent ranch style building with a nonsensical layout and bizarre blank spots with closed gates and a giant carousel that no one rides. Back in the heyday of Grand Mallage, both "Townes" were scenes of lively, eager consumption.

That first memory, though, was sublime. I was with my beautiful babysitter, Debbie, who I idolized almost as much as I idolized Olivia Newton John. Debbie, a tall girl with blond, feathered hair and blue eyes, Debbie whose brother had a Firebird with the actual fiery bird on the hood. Debbie who always had a boyfriend (one of whom adored her so much that he carried me 10+ blocks through the snow just for her). She was the Coolest. We were visiting her friend who worked at the weirdest place in the mall, a German-themed fast food joint whose name escapes me*. Imagine walking past all those stores, the blinding lights cast against tables of goods, the murmur of consumers shuffling through shiny, new things, the revolving smells of fresh clothing, hot pressed vinyl...all that delicious, rich merch, and then the smack in the face of brats roasting, smeared mustard, and mounds of sauerkraut. It was such an odd contrast. But that was the mall: your standard shopping offerings mixed with scented candles, crystal dragons, a random ass dentist's office, arcade, movie theater, McDonalds, and 20 different shoe shops.

My babysitter was always giving me little presents that I treasured with my whole heart (and still remember, believe it or not: a comb set in a red and yellow, plastic holder shaped like a shoe, lip gloss in a round, black container made to look like a record--I even remember the flavors--and ABBA's greatest hits, the double album...seriously, she was the best) so remembering going to the mall with her before anyone else makes sense. She understood exactly what a 7-year-old derp would love, and it was never socks. And never, ever, ever tights. It was album-shaped lip gloss that tasted like chocolate perfume.

By the time I was eleven, I could have happily lived in the mall. It was the magic place where Cricket Alley and Ziggies sold the trendiest clothes (and Henry's the priciest), Camelot and Musicland spun the hottest records and tapes, and the mysterious, forbidden, blacklit Spencer's Gifts offered up all things Edgy and Corrupt: lava lamps, band buttons, silk jackets, "massagers." OH the TONNAGE of JUNK I bought. But it was all treasure, too, even more so in memory.

So imagine my delight when I arrived at the Council Tree Public Library in Fort Collins, Colorado, and discovered that it was in a mall. Now, prime reminiscent mallage only applies to enclosed malls, the older the better. Council Tree is located in one of those newfangled outdoor malls. I worked in one of these malls back in the 90s, in the anchor Barnes & Noble, and I can tell you it is nothing like the olden, golden indoor malls. Aside from proximity and ease of access, the environment is simply not the same.

But it is in a mall nonetheless! Which is weird! And wonderful. Mostly weird, though. I was particularly jazzed because it is located directly across from Panera Bread and I was hankering for a non-PB&J food experience.

The first floor is just a lobby, but they make the most of it with a nifty, circular word salad installation. It's a wild, fun flair that sets the mood from the get go: this is a place of whimsy, come play. Once up the stairs and in the main entryway, the whimsy opens up to wonder, with huge windows displaying Colorado's surrounding beauty. The art installation over the entryway is some sort of floating bruschetta homage which I am sure is literary is some way that soars high over my head.

This is one of those libraries with super helpful staff members who see someone looking all around and ask if she needs anything. Whenever this happens, I choose to believe the positive, but part of me does wonder if my obvious picture taking gets me targeted for further investigation. If it does, it hardly matters, since the following conversations are always helpful and informative. The Council Tree staff member who offered her assistance showed me around, making sure to point out the lovely fireplace in one of the main seating areas. It was an odd departure from the very modern styling of the Council Tree library. I think, in Colorado, that working fireplaces are required by law in order to follow code, like properly insulated wiring and load-bearing walls.

I found a good spot near a window and wrote for hours. The kids around me (high school and college aged, as far as I could tell) were quiet and kept to themselves, but what I noticed more than anything was how they each got up at different times to go to the bathroom or grab a snack...and left all of their stuff behind without a second's pause.

I also saw a drunk driver park right outside the library's back entrance, in a crowded parking lot, half over the line into the handicapped spot. He was white haired, be-shorted, and he left his 90K Porsche Carrera open to the elements as he did his damnedest to walk a straight line. Ah, the suburbs, the cradle of safe spaces and mall culture.

* My fellow Wichitans, and contemporaries of the legendary Debbie, tell me it was called Mr. Dunderbak's, a Bavarian joint that was located in Towne East for years. Here are some snaps from the 70s and 80s (and if you look closely and the filter stays the same, you will see a postcard for Towne East when it was shiny and new).