It is easy to fall in love with the American Southwest. It has a martian like quality, red monoliths towering above you, striated cliffs, plateaus thousands of feet above sea level just hundreds of feet from canyon drop-offs. As we wandered around, from camping spot to mountain town to camping spot I had to balance a rational knowledge that it would be too rural to truly live here with a captivation rarely felt before. You become infatuated with this mountainous deserts and obsess over how to stay in a past moment.
Our last campground was beautiful, the ground was a red sand the color of a schoolhouse and soft as chalk. Our tent had had enough however, and struggled to stay up as one of the poles finally broke. We dined better than any other campfire, making grilled zucchini, onion, and pepper quesadillas.
The next morning, in a flash of genius, Nick remembered that Hanging Lake was open again after being closed for the season and as we drove back to Denver, we took a detour at Glenwood Springs and take the steeply graded hike up to the mirrored lake. We ate lunch in front of a waterfall that poured 30 feet down into the lake below. It was our last hike together and the last activity on Nick's, MD's and my mental checklist of things we wanted to do together.
We were blessed with another road trip miracle when we pulled up to Nick's house, his parents mysteriously away from the premises. We were able to unpack, put away, and get out, with only moments to spare. Pulling up to MDs we inhaled relief and exhaled nostalgia for our long and epic journey that had finally come to an end.
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