It’s a bit of a shock.
The past 6 days were spent walking across rocks that looked like artisan soaps, the kind that they sell at health food stores.
Now I was walking across blacktop.
In 23 days, I’d:
- Not had a “real” shower
- Only interacted with 3 people (not including Chad)
- Only used 1 flush toilet.
That was about to change.
We left Sacramento Pass, a high-desert spot on the Nevada Utah border. We’d walked miles along little paths that looked like they’d been created by a professional drought landscaper. Trees with twisted greying wood about as tall as me, cool little rock formations, tiny clusters of wildflowers, sage and blood orange-colored chunky square rocks, all effortlessly laid out.
We drive through endless nowhere.
Past a dead cow tangled in the barb wire fence. Body bloated, legs sticking straight out, and perched above it a massive vulture with its wings spread wide. Sunning itself.
We find our new spot in Provo, Utah at, um, an RV park. Elderly people zip about in golf-carts, as the RV park is in the middle of a golf course.
Surrounding us on three sides are impressive peaks, and a ton of new development. Each home creeping higher and higher up the mountain.
Naked wood of houses in the process of being built butt up next to recently completed ones that looked like they’ve been designed by a distracted Joanna Gaines. “Sure, yeah. White with black trim, wood columns…”
The sun blinds Chad and I as we make our way across the blacktop parking lot into Best Buy. Errand number one is picking up a camera.
We meander past clerks in blue, along a well-worn carpet. Past the flashy strobe of California King sized TV’s.
“Would you like your receipt?” Asks the cashier, “Sure,” I say, and as I reach for it notice a smudge of reddish dirt on the cuff of my jean-jacket.
Next stop, Ross. Chad’s picking up his Amazon deliveries there, who knew?
He walks over to the Amazon lockers, enters a code, and a door snaps open. Inside is everything he’d ordered.
We go to Target. It’s like a Dollar Store, tucked inside a small grubby building. It doesn’t contain any of the usual Target temptation; it doesn’t contain much of anything at all.
Next is grocery shopping.
“Doing anything fun this weekend?” asks the cashier.
Chad and I both freeze.
“Yeah, we’re uh, headed out of town.” Chad finally answers.
“That sounds nice, I have to work.”
As she scans and bags each item – flour, yeast, sugar…we plan to start baking – I stare at the gum selection and think, our lives are so different. We’ve completely disconnected from what’s considered normal.
Four hours later we’re back, exhausted.
“I don’t know if I have the energy to shower,” I say. The lure of a “real” shower had been part of the reason we’d opted for the park in the first place.
I pull myself together though, grab my toiletries, and head across the green to the showers. There’s a dead wasp curled in a fetal position in a corner of the stall, but other than that it’s perfect. I scald my skin, relishing in the hot water.
As nice and convenient as it is, both of us can’t wait to get back out into nature.
I’m realizing the impact of all the distraction in heavily populated areas, all the stimuli.
And there’s not much of it that I care about.
I hate driving, traffic, and shopping only happens when it’s time to replenish necessities.
I miss the tranquility that comes with going inward and figuring this new life out, and then going outside to explore. The only stimuli there: an astonishing sunset, breathtaking views, or a lizard surprising you as it darts past.
After two town days, we’re leaving the golf course.
Destination: Dinosaur, Colorado.
I hop into the truck – my hair still wet from a shower.
TRAVEL & ADVENTURE 