Day 20

Friday June 28. We just stopped at a little roadside chapel near Yuma, Arizona. I'm pretty sure I've been in closets bigger than this place. As we were driving by, Colin said, "Look at the cute mini church!" Then we passed the sign next to the driveway beckoning us inside:

Colin pulled a quick u-turn and drove back. The place didn't look any bigger up close.

We went inside and said a prayer of thanks for having made it this far in our journey and asked God to guide us the rest of the way in our travels and our future endeavors. Then we signed the guestbook and left.

We're now driving through southwestern Arizona after having spent the night at a free campsite near Yuma Proving Ground. (We could hear the artillery fire all night.) We had left Sarah and Mike's house yesterday morning after a tearful goodbye and drove straight through New Mexico to Saguaro National Forest near Tucson, Arizona.

We decided this would be the last tourist stop we'd make on our way to San Diego, and I don't think either of us were the least bit sad about it--all this traveling has been exhausting, and even after decompressing at my sister's house for a few days, I'm just as eager (if not more so) to get to our final resting stop so we can unload our belongings and not have to live out of the car and our duffel bags.

The sun was setting as we left Saguaro and we were facing a six-hour drive to Kevin's apartment in San Diego. We considered powering through it at Kevin's urging, but eventually concluded it would be much wiser to set up camp somewhere along our route before it got too late and then drive to San Diego the next morning. Plus, FreeCampsites.net was showing us dozens of spots right along Interstate 8 (the same road that was taking us straight through Arizona to San Diego), so we should have no problem finding a place to rest for the night, right?

Wrong. As I began to research these spots--many of them BLM lands in the southernmost deserts of the country--I learned that the price tag probably wasn't worth the risk. After reading several cautionary tales from campers who'd taken the risk and lived to tell about it, I learned that any of those open lands south of the highway were highly trafficked by drug smugglers and other highly unsavory individuals who have reason to lurk near the United States-Mexico border under nighttime's cover. Finding a "safe" place--i.e. one where we're less susceptible to robbery, kidnapping, rape or murder--would mean driving a bit north of the highway. This left us with considerably fewer options, which was how we found ourselves right next to a military weapons testing facility.

By the time we'd arrived at the campsite, which was near a fishing lake and had no designated camping areas (let alone toilets or potable water), it was pitch dark and the temperature had dropped to the high 90s. We fell asleep quickly, despite the not-so-distant thunder of munitions discharge, and were woken by the sun scorching our tent at 7am. I've never been so hot at such an early hour. We packed up and started the car, which was when I saw the digital temperature reading of 103 degrees. It wasn't even 8am and we were already in triple digits. Once again, I was feeling so grateful that this 2000 Buick had made it almost entirely across the country with a fully functional A/C system. 

Since we've been on the road today, I've watched the temperature climb and climb as we drive through miles and miles of dry desert. I'm not sure where we are in relation to Death Valley, but we must be pretty close.

(And yes, the clock reflects local time. This is the highest temperature I've ever seen before noon.)

Only a couple hundred miles to go before we reach the Pacific Ocean!

Everything's bigger in Texas

Tuesday June 25. Everything's bigger in Texas, including the expanses of road without service stops or exits to gas stations within a feasible driving distance when you're running out of gas. Colin and I found this out the hard way.

To alleviate your worries, we are presently safe and sound at Sarah and Mike's house in El Paso, Texas. (That's my sister and brother-in-law, for those of you who don't know.) It is SO NICE to be in a home, even if we're not staying long, and to be with family. It's hard to really get homesick when you're doing so much traveling and sightseeing in such a short period of time because  the constant stimulation and excitement doesn't allow you to dwell on sad feelings, but it's hard to be away from home and family. I hadn't seen my sister since the wedding last September, and that's a long time to go without seeing your first and longest-lasting best friend. Plus, she has dogs, and since I've been missing my Lucy so much, what better way to soothe my heart's ache for her than with a substitute furry companion or two? Also, Sarah and Mike have a washer and dryer.

Last night, Colin drove and drove and drove till we were almost in Carlsbad, New Mexico. I, being the excellent copilot I am, slept most of the way. After concluding that there weren't any easily accessible free camping spots along our route that we could stop at to break up the six-hour drive to the caverns, and after listening to Colin insist that he'd rather drive all the way to Carlsbad anyway so we could wake up and be the first patrons there, I must have fallen asleep. And it must have been a deep sleep, because I didn't wake up until Colin shook me when we were stopped somewhere in BLM desert lands and declared that we were sleeping in the car because he saw two rattlesnakes while attempting to find a place to set up the tent. (Arizona and New Mexico are full of BLM forest and deserts, which are federally owned by the Bureau of Land Management and mostly open to the public for primitive camping. We stayed on BLM lands near the Grand Canyon and in southern Utah near Arches and Canyonlands.)

We woke up with the sun the next morning, as has become the custom, and drove fifteen minutes (most of it bumping through the desert to get back to the highway) to Carlsbad Caverns. We were definitely the first to arrive. The gate was open, but the Visitor's Center and entrance to the caverns was not, so we napped a while longer in the car.

I woke up an hour and a half later feeling like I hadn't slept at all. Colin suggested I try one of the energy drinks we'd picked up in Denver, which he also indicated were to thank for getting us safely to our resting spot last night. I'm not a fan of energy drinks, much preferring my standard cup of coffee to get me going in the morning, but we had stopped at a 7-11 back in Denver and while Colin ran inside to get ice for our cooler, I chatted with the friendly girl sitting outside at a booth promoting these energy drinks. When I told her where we were from and where we intended to go, she loaded my arms up with the cans for sustenance, insisting I take at least one of each flavor. I hadn't been able to bring myself to try them until now, and although the taste was less than savory, they sure did the trick. Lack of breakfast (the most important meal of the day and my hands-down favorite) notwithstanding, I was pumped for these caves!

They did not disappoint. Carlsbad Caverns is, in a phrase, the cave to end all caves. (I guess I'm not being technically correct in saying that, though, since a cavern is, by definition, a large cave or a cluster of caves, and Carlsbad is certainly a series of very large caves.) In retrospect, the caves we visited in Missouri are dwarfed in comparison, so I'm glad we went to those first (especially since we got our own private and informative tour). 

The pictures we took inside the caverns don't do them justice, as pictures often fail to do, but especially because the lighting in the caverns is so poor for photography. But we savored each ocular delicacy we set our eyes upon--corals, helictites, stalactites upon stalactites, stalactites running into stalagmites so you can't tell which is which or where one ends and the other begins. Then, since we are young and able-bodied and the wait for the elevator to take us back up to the real world had grown significantly by that time, we decided to walk the 79 stories out of the caverns.

We finally emerged after 1 1/4 miles of grueling ascent with every muscle in our legs and bums burning. Our next stop was my sister's in El Paso. I was so excited to see her that I offered to drive the two and a half hours there, even though I was hungry and sleep-deprived. (Colin was more sleep-deprived, although probably less hungry because of the double dinner he ate the night before, but he gratefully acquiesced and handed over the keys.)

Now, a lot of people thought we were crazy when we told them we were stopping in Texas after New Mexico and before our destination in San Diego. But for the less geographically inclined of my readers, I'm including a screen shot of this part of our route so you can see just how much sense it did make to stop there for a few days to rest our bones, visit with family, and (of course) do some laundry. 

So I started driving down the windy desert roads away from the caverns. When we were about to be on the highway, I realized we only had a quarter tank of gas. No problem, I thought, I'll just stop at the first gas station off the highway.

Fifty miles later, we hadn't passed a single exit advertising gas, let alone a roadside fuel station, and we were getting worried. Colin used the GasBuddy app on his phone to find the nearest gas station, and it told us to turn around and head back to Carlsbad. Knowing we probably didn't have enough in our tank to get us back there, I prayed the app was wrong. I had no choice but to forge ahead. I drove and drove, growing more anxious with each "bing" alerting us of our dangerously low fuel level. We debated whether we should just call AAA and let them know that we would certainly be running out of gas any minute now and to just send someone out, please, to find us broken down somewhere along Route 180 between Carlsbad and El Paso. Judging by the gaping expanses between highway exits and the lack of any visible civilization, we figured we'd be waiting several hours for roadside service.

Finally, we approached an exit for another highway running north to south. Hoping and praying that this highway would lead to some sign of civilized life within the next twenty miles, I got off the exit and headed north (south would likely have brought us into Mexico). There were no other cars on the road, but we did pass a lot of farmland and tractors in operation. After about fifteen miles of this, I spotted a gas station. As we drew nearer, I saw it was desolate, the sign reading a number so low that I hadn't seen in years. Just as I was gripping the wheel in a silent scream (Colin was somehow miraculously asleep at this point), I saw another gas station. I pulled in, shut down the engine, and thanked the heavens that we'd made it. Colin woke up just as the car was bouncing up the driveway so I didn't even have to pump the gas--a simple act that growing up in New Jersey has allowed me to develop a resentment for.

Driving back to the highway, I was too relieved that we hadn't broken down in Middle of Nowhere, Texas that I couldn't be annoyed at the extra thirty minutes of driving we'd tacked on to the trip to my sister's. Thankfully, the rest of the drive was uneventful, and now here we are, hanging out with Sarah, Mike, Cooper and Sadie. And as I said before, it is SO NICE to be here.

The waterfall ruse

Monday June 24. We are finally leaving Santa Fe.

I say "finally" because we just sat for twenty minutes outside of a restaurant waiting for Colin's to-go burger meal to be ready. Normally this wouldn't be of any significance, but Colin and I just ate a pound of pasta in a parking lot and I was itching to get back on the road to get us a little closer to our destination in the southeast corner of the state while there was still some daylight left. Instead, I watched the sun go down over the Santa Fe city buildings from inside our idle car that sat in front of a restaurant.

Let me backtrack a bit. We spent last night in a hotel in Albuquerque, which we had decided on because a) it was inexpensive and b) we desperately needed showers, especially since c) Colin's foot wound needed a proper soap-and-water washing. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to take advantage of the hotel's wi-fi because we didn't get there till after 10pm and we were up early to ravage the continental breakfast (of course) and then get on our way to the hike we'd planned, which was about an hour drive from the hotel.

The breakfast was your standard jelly and toast and watered-down juice-impostor affair, with one big exception: at the end of the buffet, where one often encounters a DIY waffle maker, there was a pancake machine. A PANCAKE MACHINE. All you had to do was press the green button and two warm, almost fluffy pancakes popped right out the opening on the side. Amazing, I thought. What's next, a cooked-to-order egg machine?

We parked ourselves at a table right next to the pancake machine, the green button at arm's reach. After we'd each had a couple rounds and I was just thinking I could go for another, I looked over at the machine and saw it was still spitting out pancakes, but instead of a duo of perfectly round, 3-inch diameter golden hot cakes, they were now sliding off the belt in what looked like a giant puddle of cooked batter. Perfect, I thought. Now I don't even have to push the button! Colin and I engaged in an unspoken race to finish each mutant pancake before the next one popped out. 

After two or three of the monster cakes, a kitchen worker came to the overworked machine's aid to fix the dysfunction. To our horror, she also dumped the remaining monster cakes right in the garbage. (In retrospect, it was just as well because I was teetering dangerously close to stomachache territory after all those high fructose corn syrup packets.) We saw this as a sign that we should leave the buffet and start our day.

We headed north just past Santa Fe to Los Alamos. One of our guide books had recommended a particular hike that seemed like a great adventure: the trailhead was only accessible by shuttle and it took you down into a canyon, past two gorgeous waterfalls and farther down to the Rio Grande. It was hot and the sun was unforgiving, so any hike that involved water in the otherwise arid New Mexico heat sounded good. 

We arrived at White Rock Visitor's Center, where we planned to leave our car and catch the shuttle to the hiking trail, and I ran inside to check the shuttle schedule and grab a map of the area. When I asked the woman at the counter for a map, she told me that a lot of the hiking in the nearby mountains was off-limits on account of raging wildfires. I was slightly taken aback by this--I knew there were wildfires in Colorado while we were there, and as far as I knew they were still burning, so Colin and I had assumed when we were driving earlier that the cloud of smoke we saw billowing over the mountains in the distance was Southern Colorado. But I guess the fires were closer than we'd realized. The elderly woman went on to say that it would still be worth the shuttle ride for us to scope out the rest of the area because there were plenty of shorter hikes that weren't considered "backcountry." And even though she couldn't give me a definitive answer to my question of whether we'd be able to access the trail we wanted, she was so nice about it that when she asked me to sign the guestbook, I couldn't say no, even though Colin was waiting for me in the car and I didn't have anything particularly original to leave in the comments section.

A fifteen-minute shuttle ride up a windy mountain road brought us to the Bandelier National Monument. We went into the visitor's center for a more localized map of the area and I asked one of the park employees about the trail our guidebook had mentioned. He informed me that the area was not closed due to wildfires, but the lower half of the trail was nonexistent since a flash flood washed it away in 2011. So while we wouldn't be able to hike down to the Rio Grande, we could still hike down to the first waterfall and back, a total of three miles, which he assured us would be worth our while. 

So we set out on the hike, thinking that maybe the reduction in mileage and strenuous ness wasn't so bad since Colin's foot injury was still smarting. But it was hot and, as we soon found out, the trail offered little shade. One older couple walking in the opposite direction stopped to fan themselves on the side of the trail and could barely wheeze out a responsive "hello" as we passed. I wished we'd brought more water, but it was too late to turn around, and we forged ahead. 

I suspected something wasn't right when I noticed we were walking alongside a slightly damp would-be creek with no water in sight, but I figured we were in the desert, so it must dry up often, right? We walked over the first footbridge that was supposed to carry us over a stream, laughing at how we just as easily could have stepped on the dried-out bed of clay. At the next crossing, Colin stopped to doodle in the waterbed.

We passed another group of people on their way back from the falls, this time a whole family looking considerably less exhausted than the first unfortunate couple. Again, we greeted them. I thought it was strange that we still couldn't hear running water because it felt like we'd been walking forever so I knew we must be close to the falls, but I also knew that the park employee had given the hike and its star waterfall such a glowing endorsement, and those people couldn't possibly walk right past us without warning us that we were slouching our worn-out, parched bodies toward a total fallacy?

But I was wrong. We rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a sign that informed us that the trail ended here and we must turn around. Sure enough, the trail ahead was littered with fallen rocks and tree branches and all sorts of unstable footholds. And when we turned around to look behind us and across the canyon, we saw an opening in the rocks and a v-shaped slope that must have been carved out of water, and not a drop of it in sight. 

Colin took a picture of the would-be waterfall, but I was too annoyed to find any beauty in our surroundings. How could those people not have said anything to us, not even a little heads up? I'm from New Jersey, and even I expect more from strangers. We began the long haul back, vowing to warn any passerby about that crock of a waterfall at their trek's apex, but we didn't encounter another soul until we were back at the visitor's center. Colin's foot was pretty sore by that point, but we were determined to redeem our disappointing hike by giving ourselves a self-guided tour of the ancient Puebloan cave dwellings the area is better known for. So we grabbed the informative guide booklets from the visitor's center and walked another mile up, in, and around the ruins.

By the time we were finished, all that energy expenditure in the merciless heat had pretty much sucked the life out of us. The shuttle brought us back to our car and we could think of one thing only: food. Ours was the only remaining car in the parking lot, so Colin had the bright idea to fire up the propane stove and boil some pasta.

Since we were so hungry when we started cooking, we boiled the whole one-pound box of pasta, and we both ate until we were bursting at the seams, somehow managing to swallow every last bite. With my belly full and my muscles aching, all I wanted to do was crawl into a ball and sleep, but we had a six hour drive ahead of us to our next destination: Carlsbad Caverns.

Colin was driving, which left me in my usual role of researching free campsites not too far from our route. I was on my phone doing just that when Colin asked me if I wanted any food from this restaurant because he was about to call in an order. I laughed. My stomach was still uncomfortably full, so I didn't even know why he was joking about eating more. Then I heard his end of the phone conversation: "Hi, I'd like to place an order for pickup..."

And then we were getting off the highway and driving into Santa Fe. My incredulity turned to appall as we pulled up to the restaurant. Colin turned the engine off and explained that we would have to wait there because the food wouldn't be ready for another 10 or 15 minutes. I was so annoyed at what I thought was a huge waste of time and an unnecessary monetary expense that I got out of the car and walked around the block, taking in the sights and sounds of that small locality. It was Monday and the sun was just going down, but everything was closed up like it was Sunday, save for the bars and restaurants with music spilling onto the streets. I was able to snap a few pictures of street art on my short walk that all seemed, in their own way, to be stylistically influenced by this unique region of the country.

By the time I got back to the car, Colin was just coming back with his food, and I was significantly less annoyed by his gluttony. We sat in the car with the engine off while he ate. I still don't understand why we had to make that stop or how he even had room in his belly for all that food--I think he said something about wanting to be able to say he "had a Santa Fe burger in Santa Fe"--but I'm at least happy I can now say that I've been to Santa Fe.

Quote of the Day:

"I think I'm going to buy you a Camelback and make you carry my water until the $70 is paid off." -Colin to me while hiking

Day 15

Sunday June 23. We are now leaving Winslow, Arizona. If that name sounds familiar to you, too, it's probably because of the Eagles song: "Well I'm-a standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona /and such a fine sight to see....Taking it eeeeeeasy!" I don't know if the town has anything else to be known for, but based on our lackluster experience there, I doubt it. 

We camped last night at a free campground near a reservoir. It was dark when we arrived so we couldn't see much, but the proximity of the water seemed to offer a bit of relief from the desert heat we've become more or less accustomed to. There were a few other groups of people also at the campground, mostly in RVs. We drove around for a bit using the car's headlights to scope out the grounds and settled for a spot far away from everyone else but near the bathrooms and thus well-lit. (Not all of the free campgrounds we've stayed at have offered bathrooms, but this one did. It also boasted sinks, which I guess were just for show because no more than a drop of water trickled out of their rusty faucets.) Unfortunately, the spot we chose also happened to be mostly gravel, and the darkness prevented us from finding a better spot that was also level. We ended up ruining a bunch of tent stakes and I was very grateful for our air mattress.

The sun woke us up the next morning--that and the powerful wind whipping through our improperly staked tent, the nylon cracking loudly as it when from slack to taught with each gust. I climbed out of the tent and surveyed my surroundings. It's always interesting to wake up and see a place for the first time in the daylight: what was once shrouded in the nighttime's mystery is fully and unapologetically exposed, those looming questions formed in the impenetrable darkness now becoming trivial. I looked across the gravel lot to where the sun reflected off the water of the reservoir. A sign notifying us of the absence of a lifeguard said to "swim at your own risk." We hadn't had a shower since our Park City hotel, so a dip in the water seemed like a mighty fine way to start the day. We hastily packed the tent, put on our bathing suits, and drove over to the footpath leading down to the water.

The water itself looked clean enough, and there was an older couple on the other side of the water letting what I assumed to be their toddler grandson wade in it, so we figured we were in the clear. Now, I have always had a slight aversion to swimming in lakes. Maybe it's because I grew up near the ocean, but I can remember swimming in a lake for the first time on a family vacation one summer when I was about thirteen and being utterly repulsed by the sliminess of the soft dirt-sand on the bottom, not to mention the water being so warm that I couldn't shake the feeling that I was swimming in someone else's pee. I even disliked the taste of the water on my lips--it was so NOT salty! To this day, my logic tells me that the stagnancy of lake water is much less sanitary than the constant ebb and flow of the ocean's tides, and this knowledge only compounds those childhood aversions I've never learned to shake. Against my better judgement, we headed down to the water's edge, stepping over empty beer bottles and crushed soda cans left behind by careless litterbugs.

I gazed down into the water. From my vantage point, I could now see a thin layer of algae on the concrete that sloped into the reservoir's entry point. Where the concrete ended, the underwater plants began. I resent these two things about swimming lakes as well: the slimy algae and the water plants that wrap around your feet. The ocean has seaweed, which I'm also not a fan of, but at least it's dead.

At Colin's urging, I stepped my feet in. It was surprisingly cooler than I'd expected. We stepped a little deeper. He splashed me. I didn't get mad.

Then I saw it. Right next to the empty Capri Sun and deflated Cheetoh's bag floating in the water. A plastic shopping bag, water-logged and tied in a knot at the top. That bag and that tie looked every bit to me like one thing and one thing only: a doggy poo bag. (How many times have I picked up after Lucy on a walk with an identical plastic bag, securing its putrid contents with that same knot?) Never mind that the bag was more or less empty, filled now with the very same water our feet were immersed in. I was out of the water faster than I'd gotten in, and I insisted Colin follow me back to the car. His foot was giving him enough pain as it was; no need to make matters worse with a raging infection.

I should probably explain what happened to Colin's foot before signing off here. Yesterday we spent the day in Sedona--I had heard from several friends and acquaintances that it was a beautiful place and a must-visit, so we had planned to go there after the Grand Canyon since it was only about two hours south. It WAS beautiful, and Colin and I particularly enjoyed the abundance of shops filled with crystals and artisan jewelry. (I guess that's what one of our guidebooks was referencing when it talked about Sedona's "New Age-y" charm). But it was really, really hot. We took the scenic route into downtown Sedona, which drove us along a river and past multiple swimming holes that were so overcrowded on this hot Saturday afternoon that we couldn't have stopped if we wanted to--and we DID want to, despite the crowds--for lack of parking. After browsing through nearly every jewelry shop on the main strip, we'd both worked up such an appetite from all the shopping that we were dying for lunch. 

We walked through a welcomed mist (I suppose that's how they keep shoppers cool in the Arizona heat: by planting water spouts along the sidewalk that let out a steady stream of light misting) to a Mexican restaurant on the corner that was buzzing with patrons and high-tempo Latin music. We sat at the bar so we didn't have to wait for a table. This proved to be a great decision as the bartender was a very social yet highly efficient worker named Vicki from--of all places--New Jersey. Vicki entertained us the whole meal with anecdotes about her life in Arizona, and at one point she had us laughing so hard when she mimicked  how Arizonans completely forget how to drive in the rain, as only someone hailing from a place with all four seasons could joke about with her own kind. To top it off, Vicki made a mean margarita, and I was feeling pretty tipsy when we stood up to leave.

Back in the car and sweaty as ever, we were still determined to find somewhere to swim. By now it was dinnertime, so our drive out of town along the same road we came in on was much less congested. We parked at one of the first places we were able to fit the Buick (no designated parking areas, just small shoulders on the side of the road where there were no signs telling us we couldn't park) and walked down to the river, which in my estimation was more of a creek. There was another couple about fifty feet down from us and no signs of the diaper-clad children we'd seen earlier that Colin was so reluctant to share swimming waters with. We stepped into the water, which was shockingly frigid, and in the shade afforded by the tree canopy over us, I almost didn't want to go in any deeper. But we did. I walked in until I was waist-deep in the freezing cold water and splashed my chest and back, trying to rinse off the now-dry layer of sweat, gingerly balancing on equally wobbly and slippery rocks the whole time.

I don't know if it was the margaritas or the algae-slicked rocks that provided such an unstable footbed, but I heard a loud splash and turned to see Colin struggling to hold himself up on an overturned tree log, his feet having slipped out from underneath him. I can't remember exactly but like any good girlfriend, I probably laughed at first, until I saw the big bloody scrape on the underside of his arm. Ouch. That, we decided, was a good signal that the fun was done. Fearing a repeat of Colin's moment of grace, I walked with all the caution and agility I could muster. We made it out of the river sans further drama and climbed back up to the car. Colin was complaining that his foot hurt, so I had him show the expert (does two and a half years' work for Dr. Wisler merit that title?) and there was a nice gash in the bottom, right in the sensitive skin where the arch meets the heel. Double ouch.

After tending to his own wound but allowing me to apply the bandaid (I am, without a doubt, a seasoned pro at that), we were back in the car and on our way, heading east toward our next stop, Petrified Forest National Park. Our overnight in Winslow was conveniently located along our route and close to our destination, where we are headed now. Before Colin and I left on our trip, my dad had told us that the only thing he wanted us to get for him on our travels was a piece of petrified wood. It's a violation of federal law to take the wood from the park, but we're already passing signs that boast its sale at shops along the highway. I'll be sure to pick him out a piece or two before we leave the area.

A note from the author

 As I'm sure most of you know, Colin and I have reached our destination. We made it to Kevin's place in San Diego on Friday, June 28, after almost three whole weeks on the road. A few of my last entries were posted from Kevin's apartment once we got here. As I mentioned earlier, it was difficult to write in the car because if I wasn't driving, I was either a) helping Colin with directions, b) researching our next stop, c) trying to find a place for us to camp for free or trying to find a cheap last–minute hotel deal, or d) taking in our surroundings. As incredible as all of our stops have been, the drives to, from and around them have been just as awe-inspiring, if not more so at times. A lack of dedication to this blog is not to blame for the delays between these stops and my posts, and the absence of wi-fi connectivity is only part of the problem; I've mostly been overwhelmed by my self-imposed sense of duty to report everything we have encountered and endured. The experiences have been plentiful in quantity and rich in quality, with no shortage of anecdotes to write about. No doubt I've failed to include many details of our trip, small and large, but I have tried my best to give a comprehensive and honest account of all we've done on this epic road trip for our friends and family at home to read about in the hopes that you will be able to share in the highs and lows and everything in-between in our ventures--the mishaps, the triumphs, and the laughter throughout it all.

That being said, I had wanted to write one final (and undoubtedly lengthy) post detailing everything we've done between the Grand Canyon and our arrival in San Diego. The post would span seven days and would merge several posts I'd already started writing in the aftermath of specific events and left unfinished for various distractions. After working out a timeline of events and running it by Colin to confirm its accuracy, I told him what I intended to do, which he promptly deemed unacceptable. He all but told me that this was sacrilegious and a form of cheating. Dismissing my protests, he insisted I would want to complete my travel blog in the same format I'd started it to maintain its sanctity and allow it to become a relic memorializing our trip for the rest of our lives. I couldn't really argue with that. 

So please continue to be patient with me. As Colin and I adapt to our lives here in San Diego, we have been very busy enjoying all the fruits this lovely city has to offer (including, but not limited to, beautiful beaches that are much less crowded than those at home and the famed "perfect weather" that, much to our satisfaction, is not just a rumor) and balancing these indulgences with a fervent pursuit of full-time employment to ensure that we won't have to put a premature end to our fun out here on the west coast. In between the hedonistic merriment and the more practical pursuits necessary to support such pleasures, I will be writing whenever I can, provided that the loud music and video game sound effects that embody the auditory background of this bachelor pad aren't too distracting. Please continue to check back for updates. Our road trip might be over, but the adventure is ongoing, and this blog is far from dead!

Love to all,

Becky

The Grand Canyon

Saturday June 22. We just passed a huge dead cow on the side of the road. I am nauseous and sad. I guess that's what all those yellow signs with cows on them were warning us about.

We slept in the car last night for the first and hopefully last time on this trip. We were so tired after our day at the Grand Canyon that we drove to the campground just some five miles south of the park and couldn't muster the energy to build the tent, nor did we want to leave the warmth of the car--the temperature had dropped about thirty degrees since the sun went down and the wind picked up. I'm almost surprised that we haven't slept in the car until now. We've been pretty fortunate to find as many free campgrounds as we have, and we were lucky to even find spaces at the two campgrounds that we paid for in Grand Teton and Yellowstone since we were there on a weekend in June. So far we've only stayed two nights at hotels, hence the big lapses in time between blog updates, but we're trying to be as thrifty as possible so the money we have will last us till we get to California and land jobs. I think we've done well so far.

The Grand Canyon was, in a word, grand. To see it in pictures is one thing; to stand at the edge and look out at miles of steep cliffs and open space carved out of stone over millions of years is another. It was breathtaking. Literally. Several times when I walked to the edge and looked down, I had to remind myself to breathe. And such was the case whenever Colin walked out on a rock (he's more daring than I am, especially when it merits a good photo op) and left me behind struggling to hold my phone still long enough to snap a picture.

Some people elect to hike into the canyon and then back up, but it's a strenuous hike that's typically done over a two-day span, which we weren't prepared for. Also, it was very hot, and I don't know how I would have carried all the water I'd need to stay hydrated. Instead, we hiked a good part of the rim trail, which afforded us lots of incredible panoramas.

The rim trail could only be accessed via a free trolley that ran every 15 minutes  until sunset and then twice more over a one-hour span afterwards. We thought we'd be back at the car and on our way to the campsite before sunset, but we underestimated the amount of time it would take to do the hike with ample stops for vista gazing and picture taking. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing since the sunset was beautiful beyond words and a once-in-a-lifetime experience, although regrettably one we were unable to capture with our iPhones' limited camera capabilities, but it meant that we were stuck with the hoards of people also waiting to take the trolley back after watching the sunset. We hoped we could avoid fighting for a seat on the next trolley if we walked to the nearest stop a mile away and caught the following (next-to-last) trolley. It seemed like a good idea considering that there were way more people waiting than could possibly fit on the next car, so we started walking briskly, but soon it was dark and the wind was blowing and I was really regretting not having brought a sweatshirt with me. We got to the next stop and no one was there: we must have just missed the trolley. All I could think about was how warm it must be sandwiched between strangers in that overpacked car.

Colin and I huddled together and he pulled me closer with every gust of wind. I looked at my phone and only twelve minutes had gone by. We'd be waiting for at least another ten or fifteen. We started to worry that we were waiting in the wrong place since there was still no sign of anyone else and this would be the last trolley going back to the main area--anyone who missed it would be stuck walking back or waiting till sunrise for the first trolley of the morning. We debated whether we should walk the two-or-so miles back to the car. I didn't think I could stand the cold unless we were running, but even after all the hiking we'd done that day, it seemed like a better idea than standing there and freezing.

Just then we saw a flash of light down the road. No, it wasn't the trolley; it was the glow of a phone screen. Someone else was out there! We walked over to find a German couple who told us in broken English that they, too, were waiting for the trolley. I tried to explain that the stop was behind us (where Colin and I had been waiting the whole time) but they didn't seem to understand. For some reason, I felt better waiting with them, even if we weren't waiting at the stop. (They also happened to be standing right in the road where the trolley would be forced to stop for them or run them over.) Without Colin's big warm arms wrapped around me, it was a lot cooler. I ran in place. I jumped in the air. I sprinted in circles around Colin. The Germans laughed. 

I looked at my phone again. We had been waiting for a half hour. Either these trolleys weren't on schedule or we were screwed. Just as Colin and I were about to call it a day and hoof it back to the car, we saw lights in the distance. We all froze and stared--could it be? It was too big to be another glowing cell phone or a flashlight. Was it a mirage?

No, it was the trolley! The Germans cheered. We all cheered. I jumped up and down, waving my arms like a madwoman. The trolley stopped, and I greeted the humorless, grouchy-looking driver with the biggest grin I have in my arsenal. Never have I ever been so happy to see a bus full of funny-smelling strangers. And guess what else? There were plenty of seats. 

(The above photo was taken by a friendly Portuguese-speaking tourist.)

Day 13

Friday June 21. We just drove down 14 miles of dirt (sand) road in Navajo country. Now I know why they all drive pickup trucks around here. Thanks, GPS, for trying to take us the most direct way to our destination, but you've just added another twenty minutes to our trip. What we lost in total mileage was more than made up for in forced slow speeds and road hazards.

We spent the night at a free campground near the Navajo National Monument in Kayenta, Arizona. It was our second night camping in the desert after the night before when we camped near Canyonlands National Park in southeastern Utah.  Both nights were windy and chilly, but nothing compared to the cold of those Wyoming nights.

After we left our Park City hotel two days ago, we went to Arches National Park in Moab, Utah. It was pretty amazing driving through the now-green mountains in Utah's ski country and watching the landscape turn into dry, brown rock cliffs and then into the orange clay of the desert south.

We had originally planned to go to Arches and Canyonlands National Park in the same day since they are right near each other, but as it got later, we realized we wouldn't have time to do both. We watched the sunset at Arches and then drove to a free campground about 40 minutes south of Arches and right outside of Canyonlands. Our plan was to get up early and go to Canyonlands in the morning, which we did, but it took much longer than planned to get there. We were only 11 miles away, according to the GPS, but we had to drive over, down, and back around to to get into the park: a total of 78 miles and nearly an hour and a half of driving.

Canyonlands was beautiful, but it felt like much of the same as Arches (not at all surprising since they're in the same geographical region). We did get to tour some cave dwellings where there was visible evidence of the ancient people who lived there hundreds of years ago, including soot-blackened ceilings and petroglyphs (pictorial drawings). 

After Canyonlands, we headed to the Four Corners. It wasn't really on the way to our next stop, the Grand Canyon, but both of us had wanted to stand in four states at once ever since we'd learned about it in elementary school. So we drove the two and a half hours south and a little east to where Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona meet. The highway we were driving on took us back through Colorado to get there, and it was strange to pass the "Welcome to Colorful Colorado" sign again after all the traveling we've done in the nine days since we first saw that sign on the opposite side of the state.

Four Corners was a relatively quick stop. We each stood where all the states meet, then we stood there together and had someone take our picture:

We would have stayed longer and thought of more creative poses to do that incorporated the four states and our various limbs, but there were lots of tourists trying to take their pictures there as well, so we couldn't really hog the space for ourselves (even though our poses would have been awesome and everyone else was lame and unoriginal). We spent some time walking around and looking at the vendors' wares--lots of jewelry, house decor and various trinkets--all handmade by Navajo people. The Four Corners is actually located in Navajo Country so we weren't able to use our National Park Annual Pass to get in, but the $3-a-head admission fee was by far the cheapest we've seen so far.

I still have no doubts that the $80 park pass we bought (which covers the entrance fee for both of us at all national parks and monuments) will more than pay for itself before we've completed our road trip. Aside from the Four Corners and a few state parks we visited in Missouri, all of our entrance fees have been waived, and I've noticed they've been adding up: $25 per vehicle at Grand Teton, $25 at Yellowstone, $10 at Arches and $10 at Canyonlands. No doubt we'll be saving another $25 at the Grand Canyon and wherever else we stop at afterwards. Buying that pass was definitely a smart move.

Leaving the Great Salt Lake

Never again. Never, ever again.

Let me first say that I am loving Utah. The landscape has been lovely since we crossed the border coming from Idaho. Big mountains, green and snow-capped, everywhere you look. And the Great Salt Lake looks beautiful with the sun reflecting off the blue waters and a backdrop of those gorgeous mountains--that is, when you're looking from a safe distance within the confines of your air-conditioned car. 

It's been hot and sunny and we haven't showered since our last morning camping in Yellowstone and a dip in the water sounded like just the thing we needed. I had read that you can swim in the Great Salt Lake and that the heavy salt concentration allows anyone to float effortlessly. That sounded like fun to me, especially since I was never any good at floating. (I can remember my dad telling me as a kid that fat is much more buoyant than dense bone and muscle; ever since then, I've noticed that the only parts that stay on top of the water are my air-filled chest and my butt.)

I noticed something was wrong as soon as I parked the car. Despite it being 95 degrees and the strong, hot sun practically melting our skin, there was no one in the water. And as we were changing into our bathing suits, still within the safety of the car, hundreds of little flies began to land on the windows. I remembered reading something about how the high salinity of the lake supports little life besides algae, bacteria, some tiny shrimp-like creatures, and flies. Well, these are the flies, I thought.

We emerged from the car and slammed the doors shut as quickly as possible before the flies could get in. It was like we had just stepped into an oven swarming with flies. They immediately started landing on us. We headed toward the water, hoping that our motion would be enough to deter them, but they were persistent. Luckily, they weren't biting, otherwise I would have jumped right back in the car and scrapped the whole swimming idea.

The saltiness of the sand was apparent immediately: our first few steps left a dusty coating of salt on our feet. I kicked off my flip flops and carried them in my hand, as I always do at the beach. I regretted this decision when I realized we were walking through a giant seagull graveyard. Everywhere we looked were dead birds, some with their carcasses still in tact, and some with their feathers still matted to the bones. Colin's theory was that they all ate plastic and came here to die. Something tells me that's not far from the truth.

Then came the putrid smell of decay. I don't think it was from the birds because the smell didn't hit us until we were closer to the water and had already walked through the bulk of the bird graveyard, but the stench was so odorous that we were gagging. I wanted to turn around right there and sprint back to the car, but Colin convinced me to forge ahead.  It felt as if we had been walking forever but we were almost there--I could see where the water was pooling in some spots. To get to water's edge, we had to walk through the pools. Once again, I wanted to turn around, but Colin wouldn't let me give up. The pools were covered with a layer of seemingly dead insect-like sea creatures--I looked it up later and found out that they are brine shrimp, commonly sold as novelty "sea monkeys." I was holding my breath at this point, not wanting to inhale any more of the putrid stench or the flies that were now swarming in thick hoards. We reached the edge of the water and were now standing ankle-deep in the Great Salt Lake. Just then, the wind picked up and suddenly my skin began to sting: we were being pelted by flies! I felt them rocketing into my ears. I turned away from the wind and let them ricochet off my back. That was the last straw. Colin and I turned and ran full-speed back to the car, mouths closed but silently screaming, flies slapping our skin, our feet trampling on sea monkeys and dead birds. 

I guess we can't really say we swam in the Great Salt Lake, but it wasn't for lack of effort, and it certainly was an all-sensory experience I will never forget.

(Colin's feet)