Utah Rocks

March, thirteen days, four national parks, over a hundred trail miles on these old hiking boots, enough photos to fill up the Cloud with as many stories to tell.

Walter's Wiggles, climbing 21 switch backs named for the first Zion National Park Superintendent, obviously a demented character with a wicked penchant for torturing naive hikers.  A grueling miles long lung pumper to Scout Lookout and the base of Angels Landing, feels pretty close to heaven up here, I expect wind sheer is measured as gales rip through the canyon faster than The Blue Angels.  Sandblasted, who needs a spa.

Blustery frigid Bristlecone Trail at 9100 feet elevation, snow angels more akin to etchings atop a crusty layer of solid icy glaze.  From the summit downward against jagged stone ridges into the abyss, approaching shadowy depths of Bryce Canyon where Queen's garden grows peculiar hoodoos and a monumental sandstone arched Tower Bridge, the coral alabaster span mesmerizing backpackers willing to ascend almost a thousand feet back up a mushy mudpacked trail, at last overjoyed, victorious, sunshine warming weary bones.  Alive.

Snaking up smooth marbled stone expanses, inching carefully along narrow lofty ledges, boots grip a diagonal bowl to renowned Delicate Arch, the iconic poster child of this spectacular Arches National Park, brave mountaineers posing triumphant under that imposing red rock celebrity. Naturally I couldn't get my shaking body near that cliff, opted instead to photograph the jubilant parade of brave smiling souls oblivious to the Pearly Gates gaping open on the other side of that bottomless pit.

Finally Canyonlands, less respected but equally impressive, neighboring sibling of Arches featuring a stunning panorama mesa aptly named Grand View.  Sunken canyon vistas twice as wide as Arizona's legendary Grand Canyon, an elaborate relief etched puzzle with stunning burgundy spires, craggy rock formations, mighty rivers occupying over 500 square miles, Utah's largest national park, God's splendid masterpiece in the high desert.

Happened upon the actual boyhood home of Butch Cassidy in Circleville Utah, just down the road a bit from Big Rock Candy Mountain, a sickly maize yellow attraction a local old timer hyped to cash in on weary tourists searching for anything to interrupt a mind numbing trek across a scruffy beige landscape. Leaning against a worn log shanty, nothing but the dusty wind to carry the young lad’s thoughts away from this desolate dilapidated place, nothing for miles but snow topped mountains, tumbleweeds and clear blue skies. Foothills stretch out into flatlands, scattered rundown shacks a few cows grazing, the breeze seems bored, tired. Imagining a restless boy's thoughts wander, day dreaming, itching for adventure, setting out for greener pastures filled with mayhem, danger, notoriety and saddlebags full of cash.

You know when the party is over it's time to go home and here we are, Vail pass elevation 10,666 yeah the devil is still in pursuit. One of the highest pass elevations in the US and we are on it.  High wind, low visibility warning for 10 miles, snow plows line the mountain, this was our genius idea to avoid the Wolf Creek Pass fiasco we survived last time we crossed these mountains, best laid plans…  Slowdown, crash ahead, lane closures, heavy snow piled obliterating guard rails, temp drops 25 degrees in the past two miles, tire monitor system alarm beeping wild, sensors testy at this elevation, signal outage causing heart palpations to match the tension. Dense clouds hover, Copper Mountain looms ominous, snow slides streak the mountainside, passing tire chain station, creeping.  At last entering a cavernous Eisenhower tunnel barrelling out the other side to blowing swirling powder, slushy icy highway, unsnarled from the hour long traffic jam finally free, descending the mile long mountain pass to Mile High Denver, Rocky Mountain High in Colorado, it's  real. 

Blizzard brewing in the Midwest, blasting through a gusty howling tempest over Nebraska plains, an Amazon Prime van plastered cockeyed against a rusty farm fence no deliveries today, our gas guzzling entourage gets less mileage than the 9 inches of snow forecasted, welcoming us to home sweet Iowa home. Considering bypassing Iowa and turning directly south to Florida, expecting hurricane winds, epic flooding and locusts to follow us there.