Scatterbrained

I know it's been awhile... and I doubt this will be much of a post. The computer I am using is diagnosable, and I am hungry. Mostly I wanted to let you all know that I am healthy and happy, and moving safely along the road. It's been hot as hell, and I've felt the isolation of the desert in moments... but it is beautiful and full of stories.

Last time I wrote I was in the big white truck with the Shorty's and the Smith's. We stopped at some point, when Cody noticed a soemthing or other in the woods. The purpose of the stop was for Breanna to "poke it with a stick". It tunred out to be a small fox. The family made jokes about the morbidity of the Smiths. Anyone with a little 80's sub-culture in their might find this amusing?

When we reached Panguitch, the crew asked if I wanted to join them for dinner, and I accepted. I was hungry and starting to feel a little ill, as my monthly s started their habitual ringing out of my insides. As we walked into the restaurant, the baby, Nathan, insisted on carrying my bike helmet... it looked so large in his hands.

We had a nice meal, with Nathan stealing the ballcap off the man at the next table, amoung other antics. Annie tried to lift the baby over his chair and knocked out a glass of water.... She had open heart surgery years ago, and still sometimes has a hard time with soreness. She hit her sternum last week, and isn't at her strongest.

Annie insisted on paying for my dinner, and they took my photograph as we left. They gave me all of their contact info, and Annie told me they would come get me at any time if I was unsafe or wanted to go home. They would drive me all the way to Oregon at a moments notice, she said... because they love to travel. Cody chided her teasingly for giving me a way out, and we parted smiling and waving.

As they left, my cramps were kicking in and I wanted to get to a cheap place for the night. I checked the town hotels and they were all way out of my budget. I did however, rememeber that the restaurant boasted a few small rooms upstairs, and I rode back to square one. As I hoped, they were cheap, and they had a room, so I shacked up for the night, in relative silence.

On my search of the town, I stopped at a pharmacy and met 3 boys from my old neighborhood in Brooklyn. Suprising, to say the least. I invited them to my show in November, and I will definitely be amused if they show. We were all a little dumbfounded at the strangeness of a few Brooklyn kids meeting in a pharmacy in Panguitch, Utah.

I always check hotels for the bible when I first get in, because I feel like bibles in hotel rooms are an interesting tradition. I also find it comforting when a hotel shirks or changes that tradition. It reminds me that this country was founded on relgious freedom. I opened the top drawer, and there it was... The Book of Mormon. This would not be my last encounter with the text, but the hotel placement made it offical. I was in Mormon country.

I ate a junk food snack and fell asleep watching NCIS, and woke in the morning ready to ride. I grabbed breakfsat downstairs at the resturant, and eavesdropped on two women talking about the fashions of local s.

"They put all of that dark eye make-up on, and dye their hair so dark. I do think that they do it to make themselves less attractive, so that the s won't them for being too pretty"

I didnt know what to make of this argument. It made me giggle a little... and I did consider it's validity... because straight s are hard on eachother. Still, I liked the style I saw the local kids sporting... a sort of San Diego skater look with a ic edge. I also remembered that high school boys usually liked the s who looked tough, and a little different. At least the guys I hung out with did. Maybe thats the difference. The s might ward off the boys that run with the pack, but they draw in the rest... not a worthless tactic, when you are trying to weed out the teenage boys who are dangerously involved in the mindlessness of condidtioned teenage male uality. Again, I didn't know quite what to think, so I didn't chime in. The ladies did notice that I was listening however, and sighed that "I must think that they are arcane". I just laughed quietly, and kindly. We continued to chat for the rest of breakfast, mostly about my trip, the hills, the usual questions.

The road our of Panquitch was gentle, a few slight inclines on vaguely suggesting the climbs I would come across later that day. When Rt. 12 turned off towards the hills, I paused to use a restroom at a local tradepost, and snoop a little, to stall the inevitable.

I have this ring that I've worn every day since it came into my life. It was gifted to me by a stranger while I sang in the subway station in New York, many years ago. She slipped it onto my thumb, and vanished before I could say a word. When I looked up, she was smiling at me from the window of the vanishing train, with eyes like a crone, but on a face much younger. The ring has been with me since then, and I have done a fair amount of research into it's origins. I eventually stumbled on a shop in Flagstaff, Arizona, on a drive last winter, and found not only the orgin, but the name and the address of the Hopi artist who made the ring. Since then, I have considered mailing the artist to tell him my story, but have always held back, not wanting too much knowledge to spoil the rings mystery for me. I do however, look for other work by the artist at tradeposts, and ask shopkeepers to download their minds to me, from time to time.

I admit, I find it disappointing when a white person runs a tradepost and knows very little about the myths and stories of the jewelry they sell. It feels shameful to me somehow, as if a person could not truly know the value of an object without knowing it's secrets and stories. The shopkeeper at this particular tradepost was of this sort, and I didn't learn much from him at all. I dreamily sought meaning in the mazes, the spider designs and the traditional symbols while looking for more of my mystery artists work. I found two pieces that may possibly have come from him, but the shopkeeper could not confirm it. This lack of knowledge made me feel so appreciative of the shop-keeper in Flagstaff, who could bring out a book and tell you the origin of every piece in his shop, just by reading the branding marks, and scanning a directory of family names. I took one last whirl around the store and headed toward Red Canyon.

I love not knowing what I'm coming to, especially when the suprise is good and uplifting. I tend to look at the day ahead in terms of elevation, as I am still developing the strength as I go, having never been much of an athlete. I don't always notice the names of canyons or other geographic formations along the route, until they creep up on me.

The road laid out flat until it hit the foot of the hill, and the signs for Red Canyon appeared, along with the most brilliant deep red rock. I have tried to learn the formations, and failed. When I flesh out this writing, I will have to tell you exactly what it is I have been seeing... what sort of stone, and the age. The moment the canyon appeared, a bike path appeared as well, and while the route was uphill, I was serene and distracted. The hills were gentle enough, and the scenery made the day delicious.

An arch of red rock spans over the road, and I ride alongside it, occasionally touching the stone to acknowldege its age and standing. Small lizards have begun to cross my path every mile or so, and I come to really understand... I am now entering some of the most beautiful stretches of America. I am happy, riding into beauty that I imagine will surround me in the days to come. My heart is overjoyed.

When the bike path ended, the hills ended too. The uphill section was only about 9 miles or so, and not nearly as steep as I had feared. I stopped for a cup of coffee, and was informed that I could probobly coast the rest of the day, only 5 more miles, clear downhill, to Ruby's Inn.

Ruby's Inn is kind of a town. Technically it lies in Canyon City? I think that's the name. Everyone calls the place Ruby's Inn... so it's hard to know. Even my bike map marks the place by its common name. They made it a city fairly recently, I believe.

Ruby's Inn is a plot of land bought by a man in the 1800's, who became enchanted with Bryce Canyon and began inviting friends to explore the place. He built the hotel, and owned ever stretch of the tiny town that grew up there. His name, unsuprisingly, was Ruby. The hotel still stands, and the family, many generations later, still owns the place. Since those days, Bryce Canyon has been declared a National Monument, and Ruby's serves as a small oasis of tourism for those coming to visit the canyon. The hotel became a Best Western franchise at some point, and it keeps growing to meet the demands. I rode off to the campgrounds.

The campgrounds aren't exactly primative. I paid 26 dollars for a place to camp, which came with a pass to the pool and spa and the Best Western. Not exactly cheap, but not a bad deal either. I looked around for a spot to camp, and didn't love my options. I wanted to go use the pool, and was worried about leaving my bike. I had noticed that they also rented tipi's... but they didnt all look assembled yet, as the tourist season was just beginning (albeit, booming).

I snooped. Then I asked politely if I could use of of the standing tipi's. They said they werent renting them yet, and that the floor was too dirty, and not ready for guests. I told them I was okay with dirt, and they let me move into the tipi for no additional cost.

A big enclosed space, but still connected to the earth... with plenty of places to hang and air out dirty clothes, and my tent, which had been put away wet last time I used it. I hung nearly everything I owned around the insides on the tee-pee, and put my air matress and sleeping bag on the floor. I was so happy in there.

I skipped off to the hotel and found the pool, which was big, and in a giant indoor space with glass windows on all sides.... very fancy. It was relatively quiet, with a few kids splashing around, and a handful of foreign tourists coming and going. I spent a good two hours soaking and with tourists from France and Holland. Most of them were over from the campgrounds, having rented RV's from the larger cities (Vegas, LA, San Fransisco) and set out on tours of the Utah National Parks. Conversation came and went, nothing exciting really, but relaxing.

After my hours of R and R, I wandered back to my tipi to play some guitar and dress for dinner. I didn't want to pay for the hotel restaurant at dinner time, which was fairly pricey, so I opted for the diner-style fast food option next door. Yuck. Looking back, the extra money would have been worth it. I had a burger, and felt as though I had swallowed a brick. Oh, and the lemonade tasted like chemicals!

Now, let me tell you something about Utah. Mormon women often look like s. I don't know why. My gay-dar is usually pretty good... but as the coming study will show, Utah confuses me. I have done further research and concluded that I am not the only woman with this problem. I'll fill you in on the embarassments and hilarity, in the next "episode". Right now, if I don't eat a roast beast sandwich, I'm gonna faint.

Rock n' Roll,
Malcolm