The distant hills
For hours mountain ranges loom in the distance but as I near them the road finds a way to snake past them on the flank of a canyon or valley wall. And it’s on to the next stretch of flat hard road.
I’m not sure what folks do here, there is a huge heap of mine tailings but they’re very old. There is however, outside the Post Office, this sculpture:
How this fellow got here and what happened to the young woman I don’t know but I was impressed by the size and power of the work.
Hard times for Mr. Whipple. His sign was near the intersection of two major backroads: a little patch of activity with an auto repair shop and some mobile homes.
A sense of humor and a long memory for atom bombs, nuclear fall out and strange goings on in Area 51 is all around me.
The day is getting on. How fast to drive with no one around? Drive the temperature. It was 85 most of the time and that’s what I did. Gas? Nearest gas was 111 miles at one point. I was ready to pay anything but it was cheaper than in San Francisco.
At last, the hills are truly mountains. Zion is before me. The landscape has hints of the verdant once again. And I am worn. Time for dinner and hiking plans on my day in Zion.