I can’t sleep long into the morning. It’s rained a bit at night, which was soothing, but the excitement of the day before left me with an excess of adrenaline. Early in the morning, I wonder about taking a dip in the lake, but the chilly morning air, and the chilly water, don’t entice me. I wash my hair over the fire pit (with biodegradable, earth-kind shampoo) and write postcards.
The boys stop by to say hi on their way to the lake. The chill doesn’t bother them. When they’re done, we share coffee and laughs. I don’t want the morning to end, but it must. With warm hugs, the boys and I part ways – we each have our own adventures to attend to. I fill my red bucket with my trangia, coffee and milk, and walk away. It’s bittersweet – I’m thrilled to have met these wonderful people, to have laughed so much. At work I’m called crazy and weird. When I tell people that I get into my car and drive and camp and hike, people are puzzled. You sleep in a tent? Each night? What do you eat? You’re going alone? Where do you shower? and a slew of other questions with raised eyebrows and looks of disgust. Really. My students understand, but many of my colleagues are puzzled. Conversation does not come easy with them, but in the past two days, I’ve felt like I was home: there are people like me out here, and they’ve lifted my spirits.
From Moab, I drive north along the Hwy 191. Quickly, the scenery changes. The red earth turns white and beige and flat. At I-70 west the rocks look like they’ve been frozen mid wave, just before the wave breaks, ready to crash back into the water. I almost expect surfers to be perched on top, waiting to surf.
For the first time on the trip, I have a bit of a spat with another driver; I finally meet a bit of road-rage. Usually in the States, drivers of cars, including lorries, are excellent at moving lanes when vehicles merge onto the highway. Today, however, a lorry makes merging onto the highway difficult. First it slows down, then it speeds up, then it slows down; the driver does not move into the left lane though it is empty. It is a big-ass lorry, and my Civic cowers beside it. I eventually run out of road, have to slow right down, and wait for the lorry to pass. I don’t often do this, but once on the highway I speed ahead, pull out in front of the lorry and give the driver the finger, not my best moment. In response, the lorry’s lights blink. I don’t know if this is an apology or the finger back, but I feel better.
At Goblin State Park, in the middle of the desert, I crash; not my car, but my body. It’s been a busy few days, and the heat of the day, the hot sand and air, make me drowsy. Thankfully, the sites at Goblin all come with a shelter, perfectly arranged for shade at any time of the day. I sit in a shady nook, legs perched on the picnic table, my gallon of water within reach, and read. When the afternoon cools, I go for a walk to the Valley of Goblins. The park is deserted, bar maybe 3 other people, so I have the valley to myself. I’m free to walk and climb and explore to my heart’s content.
Some of the rocks are big, some small, some tower over me, and others beg to be climbed onto, an inviting nook waiting for someone to rest in, breathe and watch the clouds float by. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see the rocks as goblins. Most rocks have a well defined face, a droopy body, a big nose. At night, I would not want to come to the valley alone, fearing I’ve read too many fantasy novels…what if goblins are real? Tolkien would have liked it here. I hope. I hop, climb, squeeze, wiggle and slide from rock to rock, Goblin to Goblin. As the sun sets, the valley dances with shadows. There is magic in the world.
Goblin State Park has showers. I don’t mind my cowboy ones, but it is pleasant to stand under warm running water, then lie on my sleeping mat, clean, as I fall asleep.