Hoodoos and Blitzes and Warrants, oh my!
So, the American Southwest has eleven national parks. Prior to this summer, I’d been to three of them: The Grand Canyon, Saguaro, and Zion. Petrified Forest made four. If you stand by the time honored scientific tradition of ignoring the outlier, which in this case was Great Basin NP all the way up in Nevada, that left six Southwest parks to be explored, each only a 2–3 hour drive from the next in southern Utah and Colorado. Game. On.
There was, however… a complication. I might, maybe, a while back, have incurred a rather large speeding ticket in Utah. I might, maybe, not have paid it. They might have issued a warrant for my arrest. Maybe. A while back. As I traced the route between the parks on a map with my finger, I embarked on some risk analysis. The expedition I had planned included 19 hours of driving not including driving within the parks themselves. Almost all of it was in enemy territory. Was it worth going to jail to see hoodoos at sunrise? How do I find out if they ever actually issued that arrest warrant? Do they threaten that kind of thing often in Utah? What’s the statute of limitations on those things anyway? Besides the potential incarceration hurdle, I only have 3 1/2 days to visit five national parks; is it worth two score hours driving to window shop?
In the end, the decision came down to the fact that I always feel better when in motion. I do not fear you, Utah fuzz! This is my country and I’m going to look it in the eye! Just past the Utah border, as I was flipping between the radio station that advertised itself as “We’ll play anything!” and the station that played only Irish/salsa fusion, a government warning cut across the airwaves. My heart dropped into my stomach. They’d found me.
I gripped the steering wheel wondering if I had the nerve to make a run for it in my little Kia Rio. The radio went on to urge all drivers to get off the road and seek shelter as a particularly intense thunderstorm was about to pass through. I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. Thank god. It’s only a life threatening monsoon. I pulled into a gas station, noting, with an unexpected amount of relief, that I will now be 3 for 3 on the pass-through-thunderstorm-to-enter-national-park front this summer.
And so it was, six hours later, that I found myself once again sleeping in my car in a parking lot of a national park. What’s one more night sleeping at a 45 degree angle, I asked myself as I tilt the driver’s seat back and burrow into my trusty sleeping bag, grateful to have passed through the first six hours of the trip unscathed and unshackled.
The sky had cleared by morning and I waited for the sun to rise at Bryce Canyon’s Inspiration Point with a dozen other early risers. We amused ourselves for a good half hour by watching The Gutsy Adventures of the Bryce Canyon Chipmunks who live in a network of holes embedded in the cliffs and scurried around with grace and adorableness.
Soon, the sun had risen over Bryce. Perhaps it’s because the human eye is drawn to the color red more than any other but I sat and watched the cliffs change colors with the sun for nearly three hours. I only tore myself away from the view to walk the Rim Trail to see other views, stopping to write and draw at scenic overlooks before heading over to the Wall Street loop.
I KNEW I needed to see Bryce Canyon! This was just… WHAT?! How had I never been in a slot canyon (dibs on Slot Canyon as a cabaret name!) before? I hiked down to the canyon floor, chatted with a park ranger named Dave who was taking the year off from being an engineer to volunteer at various parks, and on my way back up I befriended a German family also touring the southwest parks.
“How many pictures of red rocks do we really need?” The father sighed.
“I know, right?” I said, as we both click away.
“And we are a family of three, so instead of having 1,000 photos of red rocks we will have 3,000.” He signed again and clicked another photo.
Out of the canyon, I headed to the Bristlecone Trail at the far end of the park. As if I wasn’t awed already, the park has, in addition to the slot canyons and hoodoos, a spruce forest that looks like Christmas and smells like world peace. But don’t get too comfortable; it is l’appel du vide incarnate.
L’appel du vide is a french phrase meaning “the call of the void.” In some ways, this whole trip is L’appel du vide. In a more immediate and less poetic sense, it is the force that is urging me to step up to the edge of the cliff and imagine what it would feel like to tumble off. I think back to cliff diving in June and wonder what sentence would pass through my mind if I were to jump. My stomach lurches and I take a step back from the edge. Where my mind is curious, my body is practical. Good work, preservation instincts, good work.
On my way out of the park I pass a pronghorn grazing in a field. I envy it it’s home but this is a park blitz and I have places to be. Capitol Reef in t-2.25 hours! Go! Go! Go! (but, you know, at the speed limit).
