Utah is wet, cold and people drive fast.
It’s not just th e speed limit of 80 MPH, it’s that everyone including massive semis moves at the same rate. And that rate isn’t just 80 MPH. They pass my “goin’ 65” slow poke Bus sucking the air out or shoving it through, making little whistling sounds through the louvred windows.
The world is green with small patches of snow on the mountain tops. Utah feels tall and open.
Provo is a pretty big city, so you get to it before you get to it. I find the KOA hidden behind some featureless one-story buildings and the local package store, at the end of a cul de sac. Though the building that holds the liquor is new, it feels like it’s a bit embarrassed to exist in this Mormon land. No flash, not Bud signs. It could go out of business and dentist could move in with only a slight change of signage.
The campground is overpriced but I need the convenience, the days already beginning to wear on me and it’s wet and muddy and Mo looks a bit put out and Michelle looks a bit tired so I can only imagine what I look like. “Nice bus!” Another camper waves and comes over to talk about his giant 5th wheel.
There is a bicyclist who meticulously packs and repacks his pouches and carefully balances them on clever saddles over the tires and bars. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to pet Mo.
Two snow geese fly over like fighter jets heading north and Mo watches them with fascination as they bark from the sky.
We make it through this wet night, and the next day I sneak in a shower. Feeeeeeeels good.
