Our first day in Utah went like this: I stood in line at the Flying J Truck stop. All I wanted was to pay for the 25-cent postcard. Ahead of me, a burly trucker had a mini stand off with another customer. The trucker was wearing dark sunglasses, despite the cloudy dawn. At the register, a glassy-eyed gangly teenager who wouldn't stop itching his neck attempted to buy cigarettes. After much stammering, he admitted that he didn't have his identification and practically melted into the dirty linoleum.
Finally I approached the cashier, who carried the intense, edgy facial expression of someone who is always on the verge of being robbed. I looked at her and smiled, "Well, it's a beautiful day in this neighborhood!" I met Stewbert outside, and suggested that we stick to Mobil and BP stations - I've never walked out of one having to triple-check my wallet, to make sure it was still there.
With that, Stewbert and I said goodbye to the interstate and headed south, via Utah's scenic Highway 89. Our goal for the day was to hit Bryce Canyon, Zion National Park, and end up in Las Vegas. In order to do so, we only had to clock about 400 miles - plenty of time to slow down to do some sightseeing.
Highway 89 snaked south through fantastically scenic country; different than any other landscape I have ridden through. In the distance I could see snow-capped peaks. Here, the terrain could not decide if it was foothills or desert, so a craggy, scrubby compromise of each was the result. Aside from the occasional beef herd, the land offered little in terms of productivity.
And then, we reached Bryce Canyon. What the land lacked in productivity, it gained in beauty. The dry, brown and grey rocks of Utah suddenly opened up in a series of fire-red cliffs, worn to impossible shapes and dimensions by centuries of weather. Here, Stewbert and I parked our bikes and hiked along the rim. Each lookout at Bryce provided views of unspeakable beauty. There were rock formations, ranging from series of stone pinnacles to sheer canyons, to a perfect stone arch. One view was called the Lost City, aptly named for the countless towers that had been left behind when all else eroded away. Quite literally, the sight looked like an abandoned, derelict city skyline. In the distance, the Sinking Ship formation looked precisely like the bow of a vessel, silently slipping beneath the surface.
After a brief hike and countless immortalizing photographs, Stewbert and I hit the road for Zion. What a privilege it is, to be able to witness such natural beauty as Bryce. Back on Highway 89, we stopped for fuel and lunch at a town called Hatch. One thing that must be said about small-town America - there are no friendlier or more welcoming people on earth. While fueling the bike, I was approached by a crowd of locals. "Where you from?" "Where you headed?" The gesture was not intimidating in the least, and only in small towns is this type of genuine reception offered.
We ate lunch in Hatch, at a place called the Adobe Café. A guy from the gas station recommended it, saying, "Tell them I sent you - they'll take care of you." He was right; they took good care of us. For the first time I glanced at a television, idly broadcasting the news. At this time, the south was being hammered by massive floods and devastating tornadoes. I thought about how fortunate we were. In other news, the White House had just released Obama's birth certificate, and Donald Trump was out giving campaign-like speeches. I thought about how fortunate I was, to be able to hit the road and not have to think about any of it.
If Bryce was spectacular, Zion National Park was indescribable. Here again, mountains were molded into impossible canyons and outcrops. I was once again reminded of how much the scenery can change, in such a short period of time. Although in close proximity, these rocks were different than at Bryce. Whereas the haphazard formations at Bryce seemed to be fragile and ready to crumble at any moment, Zion looked as though it had been purposefully formed to look this way, and able to stand for centuries to come. Highway engineers must have thought the same thing -the road snaked directly through the most beautiful scenery, along cliffs and through tunnels. Stewbert and I stopped once for photos, and as we rolled through Springdale I made a mental note to come here again someday.
Crossing into Nevada, Stewbert and I grabbed Interstate 15 West. Next stop, Las Vegas. We would spend one night at Vegas, only to link up with my brother, who was undergoing training at Nellis Air Force Base. Instantly, the earth flattened into desolate, oppressive scrubland. A hot dry air rolled across the valley, drying my skin and cracking my lips. I constantly sipped from my camel-bak, even though the water was warm and stale.
Worst of all, an intense quartering headwind whipped violently across the interstate. The wind swirled around each semi truck, creating a dangerous and unpredictable whirlpool. Driving along, we would lean hard to the right, compensating for the wind. As we passed a semi, the wind would arc dramatically to our left, actually pushing us toward the rig. Thus, we would have to over compensate twice - lean hard right, and then left, with each passing truck.
I'm sure our evasive maneuvers against an invisible enemy were comical to watch. All I can say is that for probably the only time in my life, I was actually happy to arrive at Las Vegas..
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each week. It normally is published on Mondays. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Finally I approached the cashier, who carried the intense, edgy facial expression of someone who is always on the verge of being robbed. I looked at her and smiled, "Well, it's a beautiful day in this neighborhood!" I met Stewbert outside, and suggested that we stick to Mobil and BP stations - I've never walked out of one having to triple-check my wallet, to make sure it was still there.
With that, Stewbert and I said goodbye to the interstate and headed south, via Utah's scenic Highway 89. Our goal for the day was to hit Bryce Canyon, Zion National Park, and end up in Las Vegas. In order to do so, we only had to clock about 400 miles - plenty of time to slow down to do some sightseeing.
Highway 89 snaked south through fantastically scenic country; different than any other landscape I have ridden through. In the distance I could see snow-capped peaks. Here, the terrain could not decide if it was foothills or desert, so a craggy, scrubby compromise of each was the result. Aside from the occasional beef herd, the land offered little in terms of productivity.
And then, we reached Bryce Canyon. What the land lacked in productivity, it gained in beauty. The dry, brown and grey rocks of Utah suddenly opened up in a series of fire-red cliffs, worn to impossible shapes and dimensions by centuries of weather. Here, Stewbert and I parked our bikes and hiked along the rim. Each lookout at Bryce provided views of unspeakable beauty. There were rock formations, ranging from series of stone pinnacles to sheer canyons, to a perfect stone arch. One view was called the Lost City, aptly named for the countless towers that had been left behind when all else eroded away. Quite literally, the sight looked like an abandoned, derelict city skyline. In the distance, the Sinking Ship formation looked precisely like the bow of a vessel, silently slipping beneath the surface.
After a brief hike and countless immortalizing photographs, Stewbert and I hit the road for Zion. What a privilege it is, to be able to witness such natural beauty as Bryce. Back on Highway 89, we stopped for fuel and lunch at a town called Hatch. One thing that must be said about small-town America - there are no friendlier or more welcoming people on earth. While fueling the bike, I was approached by a crowd of locals. "Where you from?" "Where you headed?" The gesture was not intimidating in the least, and only in small towns is this type of genuine reception offered.
We ate lunch in Hatch, at a place called the Adobe Café. A guy from the gas station recommended it, saying, "Tell them I sent you - they'll take care of you." He was right; they took good care of us. For the first time I glanced at a television, idly broadcasting the news. At this time, the south was being hammered by massive floods and devastating tornadoes. I thought about how fortunate we were. In other news, the White House had just released Obama's birth certificate, and Donald Trump was out giving campaign-like speeches. I thought about how fortunate I was, to be able to hit the road and not have to think about any of it.
If Bryce was spectacular, Zion National Park was indescribable. Here again, mountains were molded into impossible canyons and outcrops. I was once again reminded of how much the scenery can change, in such a short period of time. Although in close proximity, these rocks were different than at Bryce. Whereas the haphazard formations at Bryce seemed to be fragile and ready to crumble at any moment, Zion looked as though it had been purposefully formed to look this way, and able to stand for centuries to come. Highway engineers must have thought the same thing -the road snaked directly through the most beautiful scenery, along cliffs and through tunnels. Stewbert and I stopped once for photos, and as we rolled through Springdale I made a mental note to come here again someday.
Crossing into Nevada, Stewbert and I grabbed Interstate 15 West. Next stop, Las Vegas. We would spend one night at Vegas, only to link up with my brother, who was undergoing training at Nellis Air Force Base. Instantly, the earth flattened into desolate, oppressive scrubland. A hot dry air rolled across the valley, drying my skin and cracking my lips. I constantly sipped from my camel-bak, even though the water was warm and stale.
Worst of all, an intense quartering headwind whipped violently across the interstate. The wind swirled around each semi truck, creating a dangerous and unpredictable whirlpool. Driving along, we would lean hard to the right, compensating for the wind. As we passed a semi, the wind would arc dramatically to our left, actually pushing us toward the rig. Thus, we would have to over compensate twice - lean hard right, and then left, with each passing truck.
I'm sure our evasive maneuvers against an invisible enemy were comical to watch. All I can say is that for probably the only time in my life, I was actually happy to arrive at Las Vegas..
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each week. It normally is published on Mondays. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
