The Southwest - Part 7

August 24 - Road Trippin'

With the wedding concluded, we packed up our gear and drove up to Grand Junction, which, while it is a junction where I-70 meets hwy-50, it isn't "grand" as such.  But we shouldn't hold that against it.  The people of Grand Junction are actually very friendly and helpful.  In fact, it recently occurred to me that people are very friendly and helpful pretty much everywhere and so I should stop remarking on how friendly and helpful they are.

One local was a little too friendly and tried to recruit me into a pyramid scheme.  Having already had two run-ins with cults (seriously, is it me you guys?) I could smell the scam coming a mile away and politely but forcefully refused.

After an afternoon getting supplies/experiencing the inevitable time sink that is an outdoors store ("you know what, I could use some ice-climbing shoes!") we checked into a quaint little motel which had all the charm of an ashtray (minus a few amenities).  There was a pool which my dad bravely took a swim in, whereas I opted for the shower.  Unfortunately, the shower only had one setting: sandblaster.  It wasn't so much exfoliating as it was literally flaying the skin from my bones.

The next morning, we took off for Utah, land of cowboy hats, pick up trucks, and teeth that play by their own rules.  Flipping through the radio stations, you inevitably come across a number of religious broadcasts (or as we came to refer to them "Godcasts") featuring a hilarious line-up of unwitting comedians, including my personal favourite: Glenn Beck*.

*you know, if you listen to Glenn Beck long enough, he totally starts to make sense.  This is when your driving companion must, literally and forcefully, smack some sense back into you.

Before leaving Grand Junction, the locals informed us of a "scenic" route into Utah that was not on the map, but definitely worth taking.   And totally, unmistakably real.  So amidst a sea of four-wheel drives, pickups and semis, our little Prius took a little-marked exit off I-70 and into... nowhere.

Seriously, this lonely road was unmarked, unpaved and utterly unimpressed with our paltry little hybrid.  Think Cormac McCarthy here.  And these seasoned vets forgot to bring a map.  Or water.

The thing about dehydration is that it does more than just make you thirsty.  It makes you cranky.   By this point, our respective crank meters had moved from tantrum, to "this town ain't big enough for the two of us" to "if I have to, I will eat you".

A few miles further on we saw signs for a town called Cisco.  Relieved, we figured one of the undoubtedly friendly locals would take pity on us and point us back to the highway.

Well we found Cisco.

Evidently so had Father Time.  Not only did Cisco lack residents, most of the buildings lacked roofs.

It was at this point that the fuel light came on.