Driving across the wide expanses of southern Utah, we crept into Kane County on the cusp of Zion National Park in the late morning. The sun shone gently on the town of Kanab, where we filled up with diesel before heading out Highway 9 toward one of the nation's most impressive parks. The tiny town would act as an ideal base point for visiting the surrounding territory, which includes seven national parks and rec areas: Bryce, Zion, Cedar Breaks, Lake Powell, Grand Canyon, Coral Pink Sand Dunes, and Grand Staircase. Quite an impressive list.
We started toward Zion, noticing warning after warning about hieght restrictions for an upcoming tunnel in the park. Using an old sewing tape we acquired when Brant's mom cleaned out the motorhome drawers during a blizzard, we pecked and marked the 60-inch tape to declare the official clearance of our rig 12'2" with the antenna. As the signs instructed, we proceeded with caution.
Beautiful, beautiful Zion.
At the Nat Park gate, a dull chocolate booth so far homogeneous in every national park, the little happy fee board declared multiple charges for various types of visitors ($20 for a 7-day pass, $7.50 additional for red cars since they clashed with the cliff pigmentation, another $4.27 for all vehicles with more than three tires, etc.). At the beginning of the trip we made the wise purchase of a Golden Eagle Pass, dropping half a Franklin for a little green card to let us in all the National Parks. It had already paid for itself. But because of the tunnel and the grandeur of the rig, we had the $10 large vehicle tunnel escort fee assessed to our 12'2" tall, 8'6" wide beast of burden.
We dutifully dropped the dime and rolled along the pavement into Zion. Immediately the asphalt turned from charcoal to terra cotta, complementing the simultaneously subtle and brilliant colors of the gigantic rock mountains that suddenly grew from the desert floor. Anchored leviathans of creative earth, each bend in the road revealed yet another unparalleled natural wonder. The wispy green trees blew in the wind, accenting the red rock and not wanting for water. We drove slowly, in awe.
The vertically-challenged tunnel.
Then, on one of the very few straight stretches of the scenic, two-lane road, we encountered a Euro. What this means in this context is a mid-80s Volkswagen Vanagon, dusty maroon in color, carrying two passengers in the front seats, and a few more in the guts of the vehicle. The occupants appeared to be enjoying the incredible scenery as much as we were, and we certainly cannot begrudge them that. However, they were enjoying it in the wrong lane, in such a fashion that would eventually leave maroon paint on our front bumper and any unbelted Euros on our hood. Not a good equation.
We honked. They looked up at us, startled. They continued to drive straight towards us, the driver looking through the windshield into Brant's eyes as if to say, "What are you doing driving in the wrong lane, you fool?"
His eyes changed, slightly at first, until they looked as if to say, "OH SHIT!" A more appropriate response, we thought. He swerved back over to his designated United States lane and we passed over the ground the VW had graced with its presence just moments before, our bumper still absent of maroon chips.
Tunnel guard con squawkie talkie.
Reaching the tunnel with no further incident, we waited at the front of what became a very long line as the important-looking tunnel lady guard squawked on her radio for the better part of 10 minutes. We stared at the black hole before us, expecting a triple-trailer semi to emerge since it was taking forever to navigate this mile-long tunnel. Instead, three Harleys rumbled out, leaders of the pack. There was one bus in the middle of the auto trail, and as the white Corolla tail passed over the baton to the tunnel guard, we readied ourselves for the journey.
The guard sheathed the baton, removed the menacing orange cones from our path, scratched her naked thighs, gave a few more important squawks and focused intently on her watch, and then waved importantly for us to proceed.
We did. It was a pretty amazing accomplishment of mankind, to have created this thoroughfare (however vertically challenged) through a mile-long core of solid rock. Along the way there were light ways peaking out over the canyon, illuminating the snaking hole with natural light. We emerged and began picking our way down the switchbacks out, wondering why they didn't run the road around the rock, instead of through it. Yet another government mystery.
The end of a mile underground.
Zion would be an honor student in the army, for she definitely is being all that she can be. We didn't even touch upon the hidden beauty that must exist in the green gulches and deep rifts between the mountainous rocks. Exiting to the west, we declared a detour. The Kelly Parental Units would be in Lost Wages, Nevada this weekend, celebrating an annual communal birthday with their best friends. It was only a few hundred miles out of the way, and it would be such an epic surprise. And that is how we ended traveling from Keystone, Colorado to Corpus Christie, Texas by way of The City That Never Sleeps and Sucks All Your Money Into the Slot Machines, Nevada.
