By Mark Johnson

Virgin, Utah: On the road, camped at the threshold of Almighty Zion… a spiritual place where life’s realities seem tolerable.

I write this column entry from the cozy comfort of my RV. A soft pitter-patter of light rain dances on the rubberized roof; it’s a soothing sound, rain on an RV roof.

Gazing out the window, a steaming cup of Foglifter within reach, I contemplate a slow rising sun as it delicately probes for apertures in a mantle of clouds. Sunbeams ensue, spotlighting awe-inspiring features of this red-rock landscape. A particularly tenuous sandstone monolith slowly illuminates. It looks like a Barbie Doll, extremely top heavy with an anorexic waistline. I stare in wait as if the sunbeam’s force will topple it to the ground. The light moves on; it doesn’t collapse. The sunbeam inches up a sheer rose-colored canyon wall. Trademark trails of black desert varnish weep from the rim; tears of time, like rings of trees. Finally, the mantle of clouds closes ranks on the rising sun, so it retaliates and sets them on fire. Rain settles in… not a downpour, but steady. There will be no exploration today, but it doesn’t matter; there’s always tomorrow.

I feel a certain peace camping near Zion. That oh-so-elusive sense of being where one belongs seeps in. Why wouldn’t it; I’m fully immersed in Ms Autumn’s fall palate and temperate weather, scampering about Zion’s magnificent slot canyons and crinkled domes, probing her “secrets” and heeding the ever persistent call of The Road.

There’s something about “The Road,” something inexplicably magical about the west when beheld through a windshield. Landscapes, serene to surreal, stream like an endless John Wayne movie backdrop. What is the source of such magic, mystique, seduction… dare I say it, addiction? Could it be the absence of routine… the unforeseen twists of plot, fate and destiny that scatter unpredictably like grit from a beaten rug?

If you want to live a l-o-n-g, l-o-n-g time, then live a predictable life, for It is the grit in gears of clocks, especially those hanging in “cubes.“ Some find comfort in routine, others, stagnation. As humans, we are wired to be both mentally and physically challenged every day. An arbitrary right, instead of left turn is like a good hamstring stretch; it relieves tightness. Recall how a youthful, seemingly insignificant right turn set your life on a completely new and adventurous course. Change is good.

That’s how I stumbled across and was subsequently seduced by Lovely Ouray — “arbitrarily.” I was a bored and restless 19 year old. A brutal finals week at SMSU was the last straw. I needed a “right turn” before plunging into a tedious summer job, so I headed west to coastal California, to experience the “happenings” going on in LA and San Francisco. It was a time of radical change… politics, protest, unrest and music. My beloved “Endless Summer” Beach Boys seemed to be giving way to The Beatle’s “Magical Mystery.”

Were people really wearing “flowers in their hair” out in Frisco? What about the “free love” communes springing up near Big Sur, with its angry surf and giant redwoods dissolving into mists of fog? The magnet was set; mystique was in play. Who knew this would be a serendipitous “right turn,” that it would be the beginning of the end of a wretched Missouri life and set me on a course to cross paths with Lovely Ouray and a soul mate.

I suppose it was my aversion to “routine,” even as a teen, that made a restless-summer road trip seem so necessary. My best friend, Paul, rode “shotgun.” We embraced and kissed our teary-eyed girlfriends goodbye, then put pedal to metal… racing a long setting sun across the vast pancaked plain of Kansas, one foul smelling stockyard after another. Little did we know “Kansas” stretched to the center of Colorado. We drove nonstop through the night, attempting to displace the absolute tedium of Kansas by day with the visceral tedium of Kansas by night. It didn’t work.

Upon reaching Colorado’s Rockies, Paul was “blown away.” He navigated us over random circuitous back roads, trying to gain as much mountain exposure possible, as if he could store geographical drama and take it home to his now pitiful Ozark Mountains. One of Paul’s random navigational choices happened to pass through Ouray. The magnet was set; mystique was in play. I would eventually return and discover my two true loves there, a soul mate woman, and wilderness.

I have always found joy and purpose in hunting down the solace and solitude of wild, unforgiving places. Even fortunate souls in Ouray County need an occasional escape to serene and surreal landscapes different from their own back yards, especially when signs of routine and wear begin to show. I shall embrace Zion until she becomes routine, then move on down the road, or, return home to Lovely Ouray.

“Everybody has to leave, everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons.” Donald Miller, “Through Painted Deserts.”