When the radio stopped working in West Texas, I was pretty certain that the universe was testing my resolve. I mean, the desert expanses and border patrol vehicles whirling past could keep my interest for only so long. The inconvenience was soon forgotten as Big Bend National Park took my attention. Between the mountain hiking that swept my breath away—from beauty and elevation—to the Rio Grande that offered a hot spring with a view of Mexico, I was enchanted. I darted around the park like a kid in a candy store. I thought Texas was only about oil and cowboy hats—and it is that too, but not entirely. Continue reading
Leaving Wyoming, going south on 287, the clouds in the far distance thickened and looked ominous almost daring me to go on. Or, were they giving me even more reason to go back? Back to Wyoming. I somehow think the latter. My appreciation for Colorado is kind. I’ve been through the state before—run a race in Fort Collins and skied the slopes at Keystone years ago, but as I crossed that state line where six million year old rocks tower on either side of the roadway, I felt like a speck on the map—a speck not sure she was ready to leave Wyoming.
The Iphone says four thirty in the morning. You hear car engines start and idle in place. There’s one, now two, three and four. What gives? Is there a radical place to go watch the sunrise which does not crest for another two and a half hours? You listen, you wonder, you snuggle in a little tighter to that sleeping bag and then you decide if you don’t head to the outhouse, the outhouse is happening inside the snuggly sleeping bag.
Zip, Zip, and CRACK! What in the world?