We left Richfield in search of coffee because what they had there was what Grace’s dad refers to as “sex in a canoe.” It’s like fucking right near water. 103.9 miles away, Roadtrippers pointed us to Green River Coffee, in a bucolic little town. We sat outside and wrote out a few postcards we’d gotten from Beaver, Utah, with the joke being that “Utah” is a real funny name for a state. We finished our coffee, had a quick roadside manicure, and sped down I-70. Those mesas and plateaus rose before us, and Grace remarked what it must’ve been like for folks in wagons, riding slow, having to stare at them for hours on end. No wonder they believed in God and thought he’d come to the U.S.
Sell the house. Sell the car. Sell the kids.
In case of emergency, pull over.
Roadtrippers had revealed a ghost town in Sego, Utah, deep in a canyon. We rode out like Regulators, past roadrunners and dilapidated old shacks. It wasn’t much to see, town-wise, but we met a real friendly Park Ranger. A little too friendly. He told us the ghost town wasn’t terribly interesting, but we should take a 10-mile off-road excursion to the top of the canyon. He said the view was spectacular and he was just up there and wouldn’t be coming back. And no one else was up there. And we should really go. He might’ve winked at us and made a smoochy face. It was all a blur after that.
New Yorker in his natural habitat.
Storm clouds were brewing.
With an impending storm, we must avoid wet dog smell.
This was our inspiration driving through the canyon.
The canyon sights were indeed beautiful, eye-opening and mostly redacted for Hildy’s sake. Storm clouds were abrewing and we jetted back to the highway. The only other major thing on our list before setting our heads down in Denver for the night was to make it to a hot dog-shaped diner deep in Pike National Forest. The rain started coming down as we stayed on the interstate, but it was when we stopped for tater tots and slushes at Sonic Burger just before State Highway 90 that things got hairy. Wind gusts came through, but we forged on. The diner is shaped like a hot dog, you guys. Somehow that two-lane mountain road kept getting more and more vertical. Before we knew it, we were 10,000 feet high, the rain turned to sleet turned to snow and the 90+ degrees the day started with had turned frigid. Visibility was a few feet in front of us. We wound up and down that highway for over an hour, deep into moose country, where we saw moose. The slush in our cups melted, as did the stuff on the ground, turning foggy and Lynchian. Appropriately, the hot dog diner revealed itself, an oasis, a refuge, albeit closed. Still, we’d braved the elements to see it, and it was glorious. Never have we felt so small, dear reader, as if we were truly in the presence of God, and we knew she’d made something special.
Within this vale of toil and sin.
Ghost riding the whip.
Objects may appear larger.