As February rolled into March, Bobbie and I rolled homeward. We paused about 20 miles north of Moab for one last back-road boondock on an elevated campsite that afforded views of russet fins and “hobgoblins” in Arches National Park, a fitting metaphorical “bow” on yet another winter RV sojourn through the desert southwest.
“Otherworldly,” I thought, endeavoring to reduce to a single word such a vast, surreal landscape… a veritable “Red Sea” of anthropomorphic hoo-doos and gravity-defying arches, lapping at the “shores” of white-capped La Sal Mountains.
I first stumbled into Moab in the spring of ’77, six months after a soul-saving transplant from Les Miserable, Missouri, to West-slope, Colorado. As a “newbie” itching to jumpstart camping season, I was both surprised and bummed that my new San Juan Mountain “backyard” still languished waist-deep in snow in April.