El Tour

By David Hanson

We had trained and trained and trained.  I, alone, had ridden over 500 miles in the previous month readying myself for the big day.  However, once we had made the trip to Tucson and the day was upon us, I was nervous beyond comprehension.  “Dread,” would be the word that best described my feelings.  I was worried about Kim.  As I laid in Ed and Eileen’s bed tossing and turning through two sleepless nights, visions of her laying on the side of the road, a bloody pulp with tire tracks all over her face, dashed through my mind.  And I wouldn’t be there to save her.  I also worried about the length of the course, a good thirty miles beyond my longest ride.  Would I be able to make it?  Would Kim run out of gas and collapse along side the road, with no help in sight.

After two wonderful days of being royally entertained by the Carothers, including a two special trips into the city to go to the bike fair at the convention center and then the next day to test ride the new Trek Madone 5.2, we awoke at 4:30 A.M. on the morning of the ride.  After a quick scrubbing of the teeth and a dab of sun screen on the face, we jumped in the car and took off for Denny’s, where we downed several cups of coffee and enjoyed large omelets.

The 25 mile drive into Tucson went without issue and soon we were in the parking lot of the convention center readying our bikes for the day ahead.  It was still dark out but enough sunlight was creeping over the horizon to function.  Even though we were in the heart of the southern desert, it was November, so the cool chill of the morning found us borderline cold in our razor thin, breathable biking jackets.

With the announcer blaring uplifting messages to the riders in the distance, we pulled our bikes to the back of the line, not really understanding the mass of humanity ahead of us.  As new people would come, Kim and I let them go ahead of us, confident that nearly everyone would be able to ride faster than us.  We didn’t want to be hated for holding up future champions.

I faintly heard in the distance, “And they’re off.....the 25th anniversary of El Tour.”  I looked around us.  No one was even moving.  In fact, they would not move for the next ten minutes, as the bikers in the speedy groups ahead of us slowly crept through the streets.  Finally, we started.  At first it was simply walking your bike forward, separating yourself from those in front of you.  Then, once on your saddle, you struggled to keep your bike upright as you very slowly pedaled forward down the street.  Finally, a good 15 minutes after the start  of the race, Kim and I crept past the starting line and our day had begun.

I was able to put some space between myself and the other riders almost immediately, but soon guilt and concern over my wife burdened me to a complete halt along side the road.  Kim, riding with the police motorcycle escort, was bringing up the rear.  Of the 5100 riders to start the 109 mile version of El Tour, I was in 5499th place and Kim was in the 5100th position.  She gave me a reassuring smile and stated that all was well, not to worry.

I was off.  I picked up my pace, flying by an endless mass of leisurely riders.  I wasn’t  riding hard, as I was concerned with burning out my flame before hitting the fifty mile mark, but it seemed like I was on fire.  It was so easy.  Absolutely effortless.   I roared through the slums of south Tucson, hardly noticing the dead airplane graveyard or the sanitary landfill.  Our first stop, only seven miles into the adventure, was an approximately 300 yard long wash, over which we carried our bikes across.  As I turned around, I noticed a small woman in a baby blue jacket.  Kim was right behind me.  Wow.  I was so relieved. 

I pulled into the 25 mile rest stop to find cub scouts waiting to hold up our bikes.  My $1049, two year old Trek wasn’t really worthy of being held up, but I handed it over to an eager scout and headed for the snack table.  I quickly wolfed down a banana and a couple of orange sections along with some animal cookies and lined up for the porta-potties, where I played the part of the Southern Utah Chamber of Commerce and conveyed the virtues of St. George to a young Los Angeles couple.  Upon leaving the potty, I found my wife standing by my bike, again right on my heals.  We enjoyed more snacks and visited briefly, posing for pictures with our favorite cub scouts.  That was to be the last time I was to see Kim along the 109 mile course.

I took off like I had been fueled by a triple shot espresso.  I can’t explain how  good it felt.  It was just so easy.  Thinking that I was burning myself out, I opted to get into a pace line of bikes at one point and be drug along for a few short miles.  Tiring of this quickly, I mustered a quick burst of speed and sped into the open, again finding myself passing biker after biker.  

The real joy of the ride was visiting.  Time after time I would pull up next to riders and start a conversation.  Not only were they interesting, but they made the miles fly by without really noticing that you were riding.  I also enjoyed being from Alaska again.  Since I was wearing my Alaska license plate jersey, many fellow Alaskans beckoned me on the course.  “Hey, Alaska,” they would shout, “where are you from?”  I would proudly exclaim Bristol Bay and then invariably we would slip into a conversation about hunting, fishing, Alaska politics and Anchorage.  Never mind that I haven’t lived the Last Frontier for eight years, for on that day I forgot all about roots we’ve established in Wyoming and Utah.  I was once again full bred Alaskan.

I hadn’t really realized that we had been slowly climbing until we turned the corner on Freeman Road and headed north along side the Saguaro National Park.  It was a long series of  rolling hills, where one really didn’t need to peddle, but I couldn’t help myself.   Looking down at my bike computer I found myself effortlessly spinning along at 35+ miles an hour.  

The next excitement came at the Sabino Creek Wash, which is an approximately half mile, sandy, tree lined, meandering course that you carry your bike through.  It wouldn’t have been a problem at all except that a large group of racing 80 milers burst through us like we weren’t there.  They sprinted through the wash, banging into us while fighting their way to the front of the line.  There was no “excuse me” or “behind you and coming through.”  No, it was get the Hell out of the way and hope you didn’t get run over.  Making my way to the center of the wash, I found another of the many rest stops along the route and elected to hide out while they fought their way through the narrow corridor.  The irony of this situation was that I passed many of these crazed competitors within the next twenty miles.  I really don’t know why they were so Hell bent for election in getting through the wash.  They weren’t exactly Lance and this wasn’t France. 

Now the scenery had changed.  No longer were we out in the boring, slum ridden flats, but had moved into the city’s high rent district, at the base of the Santa Catalina Mountains.  Giant Saguaros stood everywhere.  Developments were upscale and the roads were better.  People stood along side the course, yelling out encouragement, ringing cow bells and whistling as we rode by.  I couldn’t help but spin a little harder when they would yell, “Mush on, Alaska!  Mush on!”  Some had driven their golf carts out to the edge of the road, and were enjoying a full scale picnic while watching the riders power up the long hills and down the other side.

I couldn’t believe my computer.  I had done 60 and then even more incrediably, 80 miles without feeling fatigued.  I was actually fresh as a feisty puppy.  I was supposed to near death by now, stopping to inhale large quantities of caffeine laced energy products and Advil by the handful.  To the contrary, I was passing people right and left, and my speed was now holding steady at over 20 miles an hour as the miles roared by.  This was easy.  Way, way easier than riding to Veyo up Gunlock.

After taking a long break at the 85 mile mark to wait for Kim, I hopped back on my saddle with a new enthusiasm.  Sure I had re-lubed my bottom with the magic product of all bicycling marathons, Baby’s Butt Paste, and yes I had devoured another energy bar and at least two bananas, but I was amazed to find energy like I was starting fresh from home.  I now got into the racer’s mind set.  With new vigor, I passed long strings of bicycles, thinking that I was competing for the world championship of all of Thayne, Wyoming.  Others had found the same manta, and it actually became a race of sorts for the last twenty miles.   I don’t think of myself as a competitive person, but I must admit that I found joy in passing an athletic 30 year old man on a top dollar Look and racing by scores of younger riders that had far better bikes than mine.  However, as much as I fought, I never could catch the tall girl on the sleek black Trek or the young man on a 25 year old Schwinn with no handle bar tape.  They were simply too much for me.

The last few blocks were wild.  We were forced to stop at several stop lights, where we would jockey for position and then standing up, peddle feverishly to surge ahead of the pack towards the finish line.   When I rounded the last corner, I had raced ahead of my competition, sliding under the banner to hear the announcer bellow our names over the loud speaker as the crowd clapped for our arrival.  

I looked down at my computer.  My riding time for the 109 miles had been 6:20 and my average speed was 17 miles an hour.  I was Greg Lemond.  No, I was Lance Armstrong.  Maybe I was Floyd Landis without drugs.  Well, maybe a little Advil.  I was so jacked that I could barely contain myself.

After putting my bike away, I watched Lucy Ormond and Susan from Jackson, Wyoming come across the finish line.  Just like me, they had beat the world record and were inches away from achieving Tour de France greatness.  They were so excited, so proud of themselves.

Now I started to worry.  Where was Kim?  Yes, I had waited for her at the prescribed rest stops, but she had never arrived while I was there.  Was she laying beside the road, a bloody mass of road rash.  I started to think of the many accidents that I had witnessed while on the course, the ambulances, the injured riders laying on the asphalt.  As the minutes sped by, concern turned to anguish.  I was so guilt ridden that I no longer thought about my great tour victory.

Just when I was about to give up and start calling hospitals, I saw a small Cactus Hugger jersey fly around the corner and her baby blue Trek sprinted towards the finish line.  She, too, had won the tour.  We high fived, we hugged and then she told me about her ride, complaining about large groups of city riders holding her in the back of the pack, as they chatted about doing their nails and shopping at Nordstrom.  

We then walked over to where the results were officially posted.  I was a little stunned to find that my official time was actually 7:26  and that I hadn’t exactly finished in first place.  I was actually the 2749th rider in the 109 mile division to cross the finish line.  The number one rider had done the course in 4 hours and 10 minutes.

Kim had completed her El Tour officially in 8:09.  She had a riding time of 7:29 on her bike’s computer and had averaged 14.7 miles an hour, an amazing feat in itself.  Even though we had just finished riding our first century, and hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in two days, we were absolutely giddy.  The drive to our friend’s home in Green Valley took seconds and once we arrived, we excitedly replayed nearly every mile of the event for Ed and Eileen, who patiently shared our joy over a few beers of celebration.  Our adrenaline high lasted for hours and only late that night were we finally able to sleep, justly rewarding our bodies for a very long day of excessive cycling abuse. 

Walking in the Tetons

Teton Backpack 2008

August 15 - 18

August 15 - Death Canyon 

4.5 hours hiking / 6.5 miles

After a 5:30 A.M. wake up call, Kim and I hustled out of bed, slogged through some oatmeal and headed a few yards down the road to pick up our friend, Jim Hauser, for our annual Teton backpack extravaganza.  

Unlike last year where we fought marginal weather and delayed starting our adventure one day due to the storm from Hell, this year’s trip came off without a hitch.  Perfect 70 degree hiking weather, coupled with good company and the amazing visuals of Death Canyon made the hike “almost” perfect.  

“Almost,” you ask?  

Well, sadly the trail was steeper and the packs were much heavier this year.  I also found that the oxygen supply was lacking, undoubtedly sucked up by the many rogue bears and moose lining the trail.  The essence of the matter was that it was a hard hike and we were all hurting by the time we rolled into our favorite campsite overlooking a huge meadow under the rocky ledge of Death Canyon Shelf.

Upon pulling into camp, we all anxiously threw off our packs and exhausted, sat down in the meadow sucking down a massive volume of water while cursing our poor physical conditioning.  Stories were told, politics were argued and the unbelievable alpine surroundings were ogled.  

After a disgusting dinner, dehydrated mule dung in gravy, we hit the hay at 8:30, already feeling the temperature plummeting quickly into the lower 30’s or high 20’s.  Needless to say, we rummaged through our packs to find every bit of our clothing and put it on before climbing into our bags.

August 16 Marion Lake

3 hours hiking/5.5 miles

It was much, much better today.  The trek up and over Fox Pass (over 9500 feet) and down to Marion Lake was actually enjoyable.  The day started with coffee on the rocks, sitting out in the meadow soaking up the warm morning sunshine.  As we sat there solving humanity’s problems, a large cow moose ambled across the hillside in front of us.

The trudge up and out of Death Canyon was brutal, the legs burned like Chicago on fire and the lungs just couldn’t find enough oxygen, but other than that, it was a nice walk.  The wildflowers were absolutely eye popping spectacular.  Purple, yellow, blue, red, pink, and a wide range of other colors dazzled us.  Once we crested the top of the pass, we stopped for a long rest, enduring tasteless energy bars and downing a massive volume of water.   

The second part of the walk was a breeze, with the trail mostly down hill.  The terrain was more moon scape, the elevation much too high for most things to grow well, and small snow banks dotted the country side.  I thought that we had a good distance to go, so when we pulled into a perfect alpine cirque and questioned a resting backpacker, I was shocked to find that we had already reached our day’s destination.  I’m sure that we had made Marion Lake in record time, breaking Carl Lewis’s long standing record.  

The evening at the lake was almost magical.  The setting, a small, aquamarine colored lake below the steep cliffs of a major mountain, was impressive, but our campsite, a few yards up from the lake, was even better.  A small brook gurgled past our tents on one side, while off the other was a thousand foot drop off into the North Fork of Granite Creek.  Pet deer grazed 20 feet from our site.  

August 17 - Lower Granite Canyon 

5 hours/ 7 miles

The full moon of the previous night made sleeping a challenge, so I didn’t wake up until 7:00 a.m.  Jim, as usual, had secured our packs and bear proof food containers, making waking up easier than it ever is at home.

We lazed about camp that morning, leisurely drinking our coffee and wolfing down granola and breakfast bars until about 9:00 a.m., when the caffeine finally kicked in and we broke camp like a wayward bunch of Marines on a mission.  

The early going was amazing, with the same brilliant array of wild flowers and huge, vibrant green meadows interspersed with small stands of lodge pole pine.  The meandering creek and towering mountain walls of the canyon filled out this living post card.

At one point, we happened upon a cow moose and her calf placidly dining along a hillside a few yards above the trail.  Even though we stood there for minutes on end, taking pictures and talking at full volume, mom and the baby couldn’t have cared less.  All they were interested in was eating, paying less attention to us than the black flies buzzing their heads.

We stopped an hour or so down the trail to rest at a rustic park service cabin, pumping more water and injecting small parcels of fuel into our bodies.  Again, the setting was spectacular and character of the old cabin made one want to stay there indefinitely.  It was so cool.

The hours rolled by and with the loss in elevation the vegetation grew denser and the rocky walls of the canyon closed in around us.  Huge rock slides dotted the terrain and the creek became a fast moving collection of small water falls and log jams.  An occasional fat marmot would bleat at us, before scrambling for cover.

Kim, walking like a woman possessed, led the way down the valley.  Jim followed and I brought up the rear, stopping to take the occasional picture and dine on raspberries and huckleberries.  As she was wheeling around a particularly sharp corner, I heard her gasp and saw that both of them were frozen in their tracks.   Just a few feet away stood a very large bull moose, who had been laying down, but was now on its feet and looking at us with challenging eyes.  We held our ground thinking that he would eventually move off the trail. Taunting us, by lazily snacking on the shrubs that lined the course, he would occasionally return to his glare, as to say, “Come on, baby, bring it on!  Just try to walk by me.”  It appeared that he would never move, so after a few minutes of impatience, we went up the trail and found another route around him, leaving some other fool to be his next WWF opponent.

Finally, worn to the bone, we made it to the end of the camping zone, only to find a group of cheaters had taken the last good spot, camping for a day beyond their permit.  I begrudgingly walked back up the trail looking for another home for the night, finally finding a marginal spot near a torrent of rushing water.  This site was to be known as the “Airport,” as you couldn’t really talk without yelling, due to the high volume sound of the crashing water emanating from the nearby stream.

Again, we chatted the night away, Jim dazzling us with police stories of his days on the San Diego force.  Amazingly, we made it to 9:00 p.m., a full half hour beyond our scheduled bed time and actually after dark.

August 18 - Death Canyon Trailhead

4.5 hours/ 7 miles

Poor Jim had mangled his toes on the previous day’s steep descent into the lower reaches of Granite Canyon, making every step a painful reminder of the heavy pack on his back and the smallness of his boots.  Facing the possibility of losing a toenail, we directed him to hike out the Granite Canyon Trailhead, while Kim and I went up and over the hillside and around Phelps Lake to the trailhead.  At first, Kim wasn’t so happy that we were hiking all the way back to the Death Canyon Trailhead.  She thought it stupid to be taking the rolling, and somewhat boring valley trail, adding an additional five miles, when we could have joined Jim for a two mile stroll to our car.  “We should have taken two cars, David,” she complained, as the day warmed and the trail took another steep ascent.  Thankfully, the huckleberries were abundant and I was hungry, so I escaped most of her wrath by hanging back harvesting the little purple sugar pills and stuffing them into my oversized mouth.  

When we finally made it to our Toyota and were driving out the narrow, ultra-bumpy, extremely rutted road to the asphalt, we found Jim bounding toward us with new found energy.  “He’s thinking about a Blizzard,” I stated.  

“Yep,” Kim replied, “that’s a Dairy Queen walk if I’ve ever seen one.”

A few short minutes later, after returning our bear canisters to the visitor center, we found ourselves in Jackson sitting at the Dairy Queen, drenched in dried sweat, dust, and other caked on filth, relishing every bite of soft ice cream mixed with various high calorie, tasty additives.  It was a fitting celebration for a very successful, very enjoyable backpack adventure, the Greater Teton Death March of 2008.

Lake Powell with Jeff and Penny

Lake Powell and 

a Ride through Utah

The New York Times travel section is fond of Utah.  Frequently one will find stories touting the joy of rock climbing in Zion, canyoneering in Canyonlands or hiking with the Red Mountain Spa.  Since I’ve done many of the activities or been to their recommended destinations, I always read with particular interest.  However, I was more than fascinated when they came out with a story describing the wonders of Cathedral of the Desert on Lake Powell.   At the time I mentioned it to several friends, of which many said that they were interested, but the conversation was dropped there and our lives went back to the regular schedule of hiking, biking and golfing.

Jeff and Penny Feldman were antithesis of this scenario.  When they stated that we should do the trip, I took it to mean the same as with everyone else, “It would be nice, but it’s too much work, too expensive and too much planning.”  However, in early May, Penny called again stating that we really, really should do the Cathedral.   We tried in vain to convince others to join us, but everyone had previous commitments or other reasons for not going.  Since I was dreading the long drive to Bullfrog and we couldn’t get other adventurers, Kim and I had pretty much decided to forget the Cathedral.  When I called Penny to limp wristedly wimp out, I was shocked to hear that they were willing, ready and able.  They were true Marines.  Then, like a gift from Heaven, she offered that we should ride along with them in their deluxe Avalanche.  Now, it was a done deal.  My wrists were once again strong and we are ready to roll.  

The long drive over to Bullfrog was scenic and interesting, as we drove back roads across Utah that we hadn’t traveled before or it had been years since our last excursion.  We stopped for a sandwich and coffee in scenic Torrey, marveled at the vistas of Capital Reef and excitement grew in the cab of the truck as we tore down the highway across the rugged, but beautiful wastelands of central Utah.  

When we finally pulled into the campground at the marina, Jeff drove the two loops three times each surveying the sites for the ultimate camping site.  We finally unloaded our gear, which was enough to equip the 7th army division, and Jeff and I drove off to the store to procure wood and check on our boat for the next day’s excursion.  When we returned, we found our women were waiting to move, as a huge diesel pickup had returned to the site next to ours and the owner had immediately fired up the generator for his massive fifth wheel trailer.  I’m sure he didn’t want to miss “Dr. Phil.”  I mean, who would want to be sitting outside in the gorgeous natural surroundings of Bullfrog when you could be watching the good doctor lambasting some helpless deadbeat with a mega dose of common sense?

We again drove the loops several times and this time settled for “the best site in the whole campground,” which was pointed out to us by the local attendant the next morning.  Kim and I were the cooks that night, preparing white chili and bread served with cold beer.  We took a stroll after dinner and enjoyed a sunset of oranges and purples in the western sky.   No camping adventure would be complete without sitting around the campfire being mesmerized by the flickering flames, talking of nothing important.  We spent a good two hours frozen in this state before realizing that it was well beyond our bed time of 10:00 P.M.  Kim and I frantically scurried off to slumber on our inflated mattress, sleeping like babies until the Spring chill awoke us early the next morning.

After a quick cup of joe and breakfast, we loaded up the truck and headed to the docks, making it there at a few minutes after they opened at 8:00 A.M.  We signed away our lives, were given a cursory lesson on driving a 19 foot Boston Whaler and then were released to play on the lake.  

I was the first captain.  I was also nervous.  I had visions of rocks leaping out of the drought stricken waters of the mega reservoir and plunging our heavy fiberglass boat to the bottom of the sea, ruining everyone’s fun for all time .  However, all of my concern was for naught.  It was as easy as driving your Toyota down main street America.  All one had to do was follow the “dotted line,” a series of red and green buoys arranged several hundreds of yards apart.  

The lake was amazing.  It was like one big wading pool, not a ripple to be found anywhere, surrounded on all sides by towering walls of brilliant red and white Navaho sandstone rock.   A few other rental power boats were  racing towards our destination, and we did see a few slow moving house boats chugging up and downstream, but overall, it lake’s climate was peaceful and you felt that you were out among nature, not experiencing the manic character that Lake Powell possesses from June through September each summer.

We purposely sped to our destination, not knowing how  long it would take us to find the elusive Cathedral of the Desert.  Upon arriving at the mouth of the Escalante River a full half hour ahead of schedule, we poked our nose into the narrowing canyon and throttled down while in search of the second arm veering off to the left.  Once we found it, we followed the narrowing finger of water back through the towering canyon for a good two miles, where it dead ended.  Everything had been so gorgeous, so cool, but now we were in a truly special spot.  The walls of the canyon seemingly had narrowed as they jutted upwards several hundred feet, leaving only a narrow opening for the sun’s rays to penetrate this oval shaped echo chamber.  At the end of the canyon, a small water fall fell into the lake and next to it, the sun’s rays danced weirdly on the red sandstone, making a light show of natural proportions.  One could see why they named this place Cathedral, as it instantly impacted your mood.  Sure the boats were still idling quietly, and yes, you could see two cycle oil being emitted by the three to four boats there while we visiting this majestic spot, but nevertheless, it had a calming effect on you.  I noticed that we were all whispering to each other, as if we would offend the Lord  or Mother Nature by marveling about it all at full volume.  Finally after depressing the shutter button on our cameras for the hundredth time, we exited the canyon and continued our search for more adventures.

The young men at the marina had been taught to lie like politicians.  When asked about how long our gas would last us, our young male attendant told us that we only had enough to reach the Cathedral and come straight back to the dock.  No messing around.  No side trips.  Straight there, shut down the engine and then straight back to the marina.  However, when we looked down at the gauge at Cathedral, we found that we were still above the 3/4 full.  We agreed that he was a liar and that we could continue in our exploration of side canyons. 

Jeff had taken the lead as our captain now, and he ably maneuvered up several narrow fingers of water protruding from the Escalante Arm.  All were scenic and special enough to be a national park in any other state, but here on Lake Powell, they were just one of hundreds just like them.  My favorite was Davis Gulch, an especially narrow, winding slot canyon that was filled with downed timber.  We hoped to see the famous ___ Arch, but as the water became shallower and the dead trees in the water became more and more difficult to navigate around, Jeff made a wise decision to turn around.  Standing in the back of the boat, I helplessly watched him narrowly miss a rock wall by a scant half inch with our propeller as he backed up in a tight spot, but like an old tug boat captain, he thrust it into forward at the last possible moment and screamed out of the slot like he had been doing this every day for the last thirty years of his life.  

 

Finally, tiring of exploration and being hot, I suggested a swim.  My buddies probably thought that I was crazy.  When I dove off the back of the boat, I wasn’t so sure that I was making a sound decision, as it was still May and one could still see snow on the nearby Henry Mountains.  Nevertheless, I bucked up my courage and took the plunge to find that the water was pleasantly refreshing.  No, it wasn’t the “wild dive in, jump back out in a panic” that I had grown up with in the mountains of Montana; it was decent, swimmable water.  Soon I convinced Jeff to join me and then Penny made the decision to leap.  Penny was funny.  She stood on the back of the boat anguishing over the decision to jump for what seemed like minutes and then when she finally hit the water she pummeled it into a wild froth while motoring quickly towards the back of the boat in a state of panic.  Then, when the synapses had finally over ruled the preconceived notion of dying of hypothermia, she relaxed and stroked the water comfortably, swimming around the boat for several minutes before pulling herself out to warm her body in the sun.   

We finally headed back to the dock, having traveled around a hundred miles and having burned around $165 of gas and oil.  I thought life couldn’t get any better at that point, but Penny and Jeff kept the momentum rolling by building a masterful, hundred ingredient mystery salad that included everything from sun dried tomatoes to shrimp.  After a couple of beers and our fabulous salad, we again took a leisurely stroll to admire the nearby wildflowers and purplish, orange glow of the sunset.

We loaded up the truck the next morning and struck out for home by the scenic Burr Trail, a partially paved, partially rutted, wash board road through the middle of Capital Reef National Park.  I could see Jeff wanted to get home, but Penny was wonderful. She insisted that he stop the car time and again, so I could leap out and take another picture.  I'm not kidding when I state that we probably stopped every five miles.  It was that beautiful.  

At one point, we drove a rough spur road to the embarkation point for the Upper Muley Twist hike.  We only had time to wander a half mile up the trail to the top of a giant upheaval in the earth’s surface, but it was well worth the effort, as the vistas were spellbinding.  

One would think that at some point you would reach the apex of your vacation experience and then quietly sit back and reflect on all that you had experienced.  Not the case in Utah.  Our drive home kept our eyes glued to a continual array of towering sandstone buttes, rugged canyons, snow covered mountain peaks and a gorgeous array of fluorescent wild flowers.  Where else but Utah can you take a leisurely drive through three national parks and two national monuments in one afternoon?  I sat in that back seat enthralled at my new state’s beauty, waiting to see what was around the next corner.  It always seemed like it got better.  From the famous hog back on highway 12 between Boulder and Escalante to the magnificent hoo-doos of Bryce, and finally the Grand Daddy of them all, Zion, the vistas were unending.  Honestly, you felt like you were watching the travel channel from the back seat of Jeff’s Chevy.  

The drive had other fun distractions, too.  We stopped for a tasty picnic lunch, complements of the Feldman’s, and played “Name that Tune,” reliving the music of our youth via satellite radio.  Since my recollection didn’t go beyond a few Allman Brothers works or the Eagles, they had me play the part of moderator in this never ending game.  Although Kim was hot on Van Morrison and Clapton, and Jeff knew his early 70’s hard rock, it was Penny who was the champion, knowing nearly every Motown tune of the early 1960’s.  God knows that girl had a 45 collection that was the envy of all her friends and neighbors.

Was it worth the long drive from St. George and the expense of over $400 for one day’s fun?  Empathetically, “Yes, it was a bargain!”  We had had an excursion to remember and it had seemed like we taken a two week vacation wrapped around a 72 hour period.  The change of scenery, the wonderful company and the marvelous, never ending vistas of Utah played out before us like one long epic motion picture.