Stopping in The Wind

Friday:

"I’m getting old," I say looking into the mirror.

"What’s wrong with getting old?" says Daughter D.

"Well, I’m having fun, and I feel good, guess its okay."

That was until last night when I awakened with my nose running, and a fevered brain wondering if I was going to loose steam on this trip. Driving back home is a long way.

Monday night I mentioned that Baby D had the sniffles, then both Daughter D and I knew we were a little off, a bit of a cold, but it seemed mild--until last night. This morning I just couldn’t get my wits about me, and finally after 1,290 miles at the wheel, I relinquished the driving to Daughter D. The Baby, dogs and I slept.

I awakened in an oasis of tourist goodness in the beautiful little town of Moab Utah. Where did all these people come from? And how did they know this beautiful town was here? Art abounded, rather like Sedona Arizona, or Ashland Oregon. Galleries, Native American art, eating spots, a juice bar and smoothies–you know it was upscale. Everything was new and beautiful. Rock climbing, rafting stores, and –jeeps everywhere. You could put together a jeep on the street, well, probably not put it together like Build-a-Bear at Disneyland, but someone was adding high axils to some vehicle.

A chiropractic office was situated next to a rock climbing shop. Convenient placement we thought. In Moab we ate Mexican food, poked around in the stores, and driving out of town we saw an arena with thousands of jeeps coming in for some meet–probably one of those super speedy tricky competitions where jeeps run and hurl themselves into space in competition. By now I was feeling much better so I took the helm and drove across Utah, so beautiful, rock formations to boggle the eye. Do eyes get boggled?

Baby D is a man of speed. If he fusses when strapped into his car seat I hit the accelerator and give him some G’s, that usually settles him down, but don’t reduce your speed to under 60.
Daughter D is in bed, feeling crummy tonight. Darn.

We are in, Cortez, Colorado.

Tomorrow, Good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, we'll see Mesa Verde.