Rangely

This was a long stretch. From Lyman I headed south, down past the blip of Lonetree the first night, and then on into Manila the next afternoon. Stopped and made a batch of sandwiches and checked the local ranger station to ask about where I'd be able to find water between Manila and Vernal. In the evening I pushed past town, and climbed out into the bluffs toward the Flaming Gorge. For eleven miles I climbed up and down (mostly up) through red rock and sunbeam. At sunset I made it to the top of a set of switchbacks four miles long and cut at an 8% grade. My thighs burned and my shirt dripped, and right as I came up onto the top, an old lady grinned real big and gave me a giant thumbs up as she passed me. I started bawling. My emotions are so easily set on fire, now. My heart strains to be in love with the world, and it succeeds.
I camped the night twelve miles out of Manila, then made another thirty miles through the Flaming Gorge Recreation Area the next day. Pushed on to Vernal by late afternoon on Thursday, but by the time I stumbled onto the library, it was already closed for the entire holiday weekend. I stayed Friday in Vernal. Watched the parade come down through the streets. Did some laundry. Slept. And then left town when the heat had died away, around ten that night. I made it halfway to Jensen before turning in behind a church.
Saturday I pushed through Jensen, and out into the final stretch toward Colorado. Half a mile from the border I pulled over in the ditch and slept.
Sunday I crossed the border and made it up to Dinosaur, then headed south-east toward Rangely. Three miles out of town a pickup stopped and a middle-aged couple offered me some work and a place to sleep, and I couldn't refuse. They put me up at the R.V. park where they're staying, fed me, and this morning I went to work hauling brush on a stretch of property they just acquired, back in Utah.
And now I'm back in Rangely, at the library. I'm going to head toward Loma and Grand Junction tonight, to get a jump on the next stretch. The map says that I have 73 miles between here and the interstate, so I might need to try and cache some water, though I've heard that there are some springs down toward the pass. I'll see.

An entry from my journal:
7-3-08

Things I hated about today: The heat. The insufferable heat. The sun itself. That burning glob in the burning sky sending out little beams of burning light. And the heat from the motor homes as they climbed the hill and passed me by, their engines struggling. I hated that they were sitting in air conditioning at my expense. Hated that they were getting four miles to the gallon to entertain themselves for a week's vacation. And I hated how everyone had to pull a boat. Had to pull a boat or haul an ATV or lash a whole fleet of ATVs inside their boat.
I hated the heat some more. Hated the way it made me sweat, and hated the way the sweat rubbed on my skin. My armpits and the inside of my thighs rubbed and rubbed and sweated and sweated, until I was raw and stinging with every step.
I hated the notion of town. The notion of fountain drinks and ice cream, out of reach. And I hated getting to town. Hated passing dog kennels and law firms and nurseries and hair salons and not seeing so much as a coke machine for miles, or a gas station. And then I hated the gas station. Hated having to stand in line, dripping, panting, to fill my 44 ounce fountain drink cup. Hated having to stand in line to pay for it, even though I started to gulp it down. I hated the first gulp. So incredibly cold and delicious, having waited for it so long, having struggled for hours with its idea in my head, and the gulp itself seemed out of place. Seemed too cold. I gulped and my head went funny and the cold wrapped fingers around my brain.
And then I hated sitting outside. Drinking my drink out front while the pickup trucks pulled up and blew their heat on me. Hated how the drivers left their engines idling as they went inside so that the wife and kids could remain in their fake states of air conditioned bliss for an extra five minutes.
And I hated the heat. Hated it.

Things I loved about today: I loved waking up. First to the yip-yelp of the coyotes in the hills around me, high in the mountains. Their seemingly congratulatory remarks to each other in the cold. I loved the way my face, as I looked up at the stars, was bitterly frozen, and loved tucking it back under, nose first, into the warm depths of the sleeping bag.
I loved waking up again. With the sun on the sleeping bag, heating me up so quickly and telling me to climb up from the bag and pack up my things and be on my way. Telling me to walk.
And I loved walking. Loved the first five minutes. The first five miles. Loved coming over the pass, green with alpine grass and covered in little white flowers, and scattered with aspens, their leaves blowing in the breeze. Loved the shade that sloped down across the road from the trees, where I walked. Loved the sound of the water bottle sloshing in my pack. Loved the peanut butter and orange marmalade sandwich for breakfast, sticking in my teeth.
In town: I was in the midst of hate, and then suddenly the ice truck pulled up, and I loved it. Loved how the two Latino guys jumped out and threw up the rolling back door of the truck. Loved the way one of them jumped inside and starting tossing down bags to the other, who stacked them on a waiting dolly. Loved as his gloved hands nimbly flexed and grabbed and patted. I loved the rhythm: Catch, Smack, Stack...Catch, Smack, Stack... I loved watching as the stack grew. Eleven bags to a layer. Two layers. Three. Six. Eight. The stack grew as high as the man stacking and he had to reach up over his head to put them in place. Thirteen layers. Eleven bags per layer. Seven pounds per bag. 1001 pounds of ice, sitting in front of me. 94 degrees, on the pavement.
And I loved the way the men rolled the dolly inside and re-stacked the ice inside the freezer. 23 degrees, inside the freezer.
I loved the quickness of it all. The rush to get it all from the truck into the store, under the sun. 'How much ice do you go through,' I asked the lady in the store. 'A lot,' she said. 'They have to bring it two or three times a day.' 'And how much does it cost?' I asked. 'A dollar fifty three a bag,' she said, 'including tax. Three - 0 - seven for two bags.' (As if that were a steal.) 'And we hardly ever sell just a bag. Five or ten at a time, mostly.'
I loved, today, the idea of the ice. The idea of the time it buys, that must be bought. The idea that all that ice will just buy a little time - maybe to keep your beer cold, or your milk, or your thinly sliced ham from the grocery store deli - and is then doomed to melt back away. Doomed to go back into water. Doomed to be poured out on the side of the road, or in a campground, somewhere...
I loved evening. As the sun fell and the heat faded a little. Loved walking on the sidewalks. Loved it when a kid in a car yelled at me from a stoplight. 'Cut your hair!' And I smiled and said 'Sure,' and he said 'I'll give you a hundred dollars to cut your hair.' I was interested. 'Okay,' I said. I loved how instead of pulling out scissors he pulled out a middle finger and waved it at me as the light turned green.
I loved the grocery store. Loved the familiar aisles, and sections. Deli. Produce. Bakery. Bread. Soup. Dairy. Cosmetics. Customer Service. Loved being surrounded by food. And loved how everyone seemed eager to talk to me, to hear my story. The older couple. The younger couple. The mother and daughter. The checkout clerk. And I loved talking about myself, about my trip. Loved feeling social.
I loved eating my macaroni outside the store, on the sidewalk.
I loved putting new film in my camera.
And I loved, today, the way that everything seemed to be a love or a hate, and the way that nothing seemed bland, or mundane.
It's interesting to think that when my life seemed too pedestrian, I became a pedestrian. The pedestrian seems to be going away.