88 mph

5/26/11

When I woke up this morning Annette was already packing. The big Crested Butte sky was poking its fingers through the window shade.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Seven o'clock," Annette responded tersely, hoping this answer would cease all questions until after breakfast.

I laid there for a few minutes, eyes closed, mind wandering no place in particular. After a few minutes, I got up to find myself sore from the last two days of rock climbing, particular my hamstrings. Those five hours of the last two days totalled more than all of my climbing over the last eight years. While out of shape, I was happy to find my gear still worked and I still enjoy climbing. I still have rock climbing shoes and a harness. My rope got sacrificed in Katrina's aftermath for lowering a juicy refrigerator down my front steps. We duct-taped the door shut, but still the smell of rooting food that would occasionally ooze out was horrendous. The rope was then put to use towing a flooded car out of the driveway, for which I had no keys nor ability to get it out of Park. Given that most rock climbing ropes are dynamic, which provides some bounce when somebody falls, it made for an awfully spring tow rope.

"Where are my jeans? I haven't seen them since Monday?"

"I don't know, Ham," Annette responded, letting me know that no further questions would be welcome until after breakfast.

Over the next hour, mostly in silence, we made tea, filled water bottles, and packed the car. I made sandwiches from the remains of the chicken we roasted Tuesday and chatted with my brother, Jay, as we geared up to continue West.

"You need anything?" he offered several times, but I couldn't think of anything we needed and didn't have.

"Got any cheap gas?" I finally offered after the third time. "No," he chuckled, "but the cheapest gas is at City Market in Gunnison. Oh, and be sure to get gas in Grand Junction because it is overpriced in Green River 'cause there are no services fro 100 miles after that."

"Thanks," I said, surprised by the usefulness of this information.

We said our goodbyes to Emily and Jay and the mountains of Crested Butte, still blanketed in a thick quilt of snow, and we headed for the desert. After a gas and breakfast burrito stop in Gunnison, we turned onto 50 west and followed it past Blue Mesa, Montrose and Delta. With the snow-capped San Juan mountains at our backs, we picked up the Interstate in Grand Junction. Annette set the iPod on some sort of soul shuffle and sank to sleep in her seat. Under the Big Sky's lone yellow eye, we drove west until the trees disappeared to sage brush and red dirt. I-70 wound through the high Utah desert like the tracks of some great oversized 4-wheeler. Shreds of tire treads from last week's 18-wheelers looked like ravens perched on the highway's yellow line, pecking at the rumble strips. The landscapes were abbreviated rainbows, except without violet. Just red and orange rock speckled with light green sage bushes against an indigo sky with the cyclopic yellow sun enjoying it all.

My mind meandered as I-70 cut straight through the rainbow. I thought about the snows of Kiliminjaro and what kind of training regimen would be required to climb it this January with my borther as the climax of our tour of Africa. I thought about how to design a life where I can be a weekend warrior in the mountains - climbing, skiing, etc. Or perhaps it is a fair-weather soldier - summers in the mountains, winters in the city. And I wondered what it would be like to live in Portland, OR, if that would fulfill what I am looking for. But then came the thought that always lurks nearby when I conjure up Portland, OR. It is not so much a thought as a color or an emotion - a gray cold and depressing rain. So, my mind turned to wonder about the sunniest places on earth. Over this next year, I should visit the places with the most sunny days out of the year and see if I want to live in any of them. Or, if no complete international list exisits, perhaps I should spend a year making such a list.

Now squarely in Utah, I chewed a chicked sandwich and turned my mind to more immediate concerns. Should we stop in Bryce or Zion en route to Nevada this afternoon? What time can we expect to make it there? Will the Visitors Center still be open? I wonder if we will be able to get a backcountry permit for next week. I wonder if the Narrows will be open or if the river will be too high. As I-70 ended and yielded to I-15 South, I let out a "Whoa!" that was loud enough to wake up Annette for a moment. I showed her the 8- mph speed limip sign, proclaiming proudly, "I have never seen a speed limit that high!" I remembered a "speed limit experiment ahead" sign from a few miles back. I pondered the parameters of the experiment. Are they seeing if people still go 5-7 mph above the increased 80 mph speed limit? Or are they tracking to see an increase in car accidents or fatalities? As I pondered these things, I didn't notice the Utah State Trooper perched in the turnaround in the median. By the time I saw him, he was pulling out after me. He approached on the passenger side, told me I was going 88 mph and asked for my driver's license. When I handed it to him, he asked for my registration. He was a young guy, maybe 28. He had great manners. When he finally asked for my insurance card, it sounded like, "Pardon me, please pass the salt." So, I politely obliged. I wonder why he asks for these things one at a time. Is he new enough at his job that a traffic stop isn't routine yet? After five minutes on the shoulder of I-15 South, a $90 ticket, a "thank you for wearing your seatbelts," and a short soliliquy about why we need to keep the roads safe over Memorial Day weekend, I find myself uttering a "thanks for all you do, sir," before rolling up the windows and accelerating to a Memorial Day-safe 65 mph.