Nothing like the smell of burnt rubber first thing in the morning.

The end is near.  Or is it..

I’m writing this from just a few miles shy of the Canadian border, savoring my final gourmet road breakfast. Where? That’s for you to guess.

Yesterday, I didn’t post. Why? Because I was too exhausted after a 16-hour marathon drive that covered 656 miles (1,056 kilometers for those of you thinking in metric). Monument Valley had me believing the rest of the trip would be mundane.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Heading north to Moab, I kept one eye on the rearview mirror (as one does in this vast, cinematic country) because the scenery is too breathtaking to ignore. You stop, you gawk, you "smell the cactus flowers"—but, you know, not too closely.

 

Though it's a desert it is teaming with life

Pushing upward these ancient beauties are real desert jewels.

Somewhere on Highway 163, I encountered a gaggle of GAP girls. No, not wildlife. These were about 20 young women on some sort of group adventure. And when I say "encountered," I mean nearly ran over.

Here’s the scene: Highway 163 stretches like a ruler for about four miles, climbing gently to a plateau with a pull-off at the top. That’s where the girls were, mid-production of an elaborate photo shoot—jumping, posing, and running towards the camera in unison. Imagine choreographed chaos set against a majestic desert backdrop.

Where else does a ribbon of asphalt add to the scene

 

At the plateau, there is a pullover and this is where 20 giggling and very excited young ladies were gathered to have their pictures taken with the majestic view in the BG.  They were turning the photo moment into a full-fledged production.  Taking their pictures in groups, jumping as a group, running towards the camera as a group and any other combinations you can imagine.  

The problem? From a driver’s perspective, you don’t have a clear line of sight of the plateau—or anything on it—until you’re nearly on top of it. 

Doing 70+ mph with an18 wheeler only meters off of my bumper, (he was pouring on the diesel to make the grade) hauling 50,000 pounds (that's 22,679 kilos) of rebar, said it best.  I crested the hill to find the entire gaggle suddenly in view. Brakes slammed, girls scattered like startled pigeons, and the 18-wheeler on my tail let loose an air horn that shattered the serene desert quiet. Blue smoke billowed from his tires as he fought to avoid joining the commotion.

Thankfully, the only casualties were some tire rubber and the trucker’s mood. The girls wisely relocated their antics further down the road, where they could see oncoming traffic. I pulled over to watch, and let me tell you, their energy was infectious. The trucker, though? He kept on climbing, likely muttering curses all the way to his next stop. The only damage was about $1,000.00 worth of rubber being left on the very hot pavement and a very annoyed "long haulier".

I'm sure the girls felt their GAP trip was just about to be terminated.  

Wisely, the girls moved further down the road so they could better see oncoming traffic.  I pulled over to watched their antics, the trucker needed what little momentum he had left to finish the climb and couldn't stop.  Great fun, unless you're the trucker.

 

The excitement

Oh to be young and carefree again.

I've said it before but it's worth repeating.  This part of the country, for all of its raw and hostile environment, is indescribably beautiful.

For all of its beauty, you have to be careful as the desert can jump up and bite you just when you least expected it.

 

Caution is needed or you too could get bitten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After surviving the GAP encounter, I rolled into Moab and hunted down Highway 128. Why? Because Don Robertson—the guy I met at the ghost mining town in Jerome—insisted, "You’ll be glad you did."

And glad I was. Highway 128 meanders beside the Colorado River, cutting through a gorge with sheer red sandstone cliffs towering overhead. It adds an hour to your day, but who’s in a rush when surrounded by jaw-dropping beauty? The traffic crawled, as everyone was too busy soaking it all in.

Don was right—skipping the monotony of Highway 163 for the magic of 128 was the call of the trip.

 

Surprised that anything crows in this heat

These things  come crashing down on a regular basis and the road signs warn you.

Colorado winding along Hwy 128 near Moab

Dead Black Trees against the backdrop of a Crystal Blue sky and Red Butte.

About to go rafting on the mighty C

 

I naively assumed the drive to Denver would be a straightforward sprint. Wrong again!

The highway became a roller coaster of massive climbs, tunnels, rivers, and valleys, winding past sleepy ski towns waiting for snow to breathe them back to life. At 11,125 feet, my car huffed and puffed, guzzling gas as it gasped for oxygen. Meanwhile, my ears popped like cheap champagne corks. Fun times.

Miss an exit? Congratulations, you’ve just added 20 minutes to your journey. Exits on American tarmac strips are unlike Canada's, they are much much further apart. But the scenery more than made up for it—until Colorado spat me out into the flat, endless expanse of Nebraska.

Check out the altitude on my GPS's altimeter. Even the GPS has desert dust on it.

About to enter the 1.7 mile (2.74 km) Johnson Tunnel

Inside the tunnel

 The transition from Colorado’s rugged peaks to Nebraska’s wide-open plains is extreme. Sublime beauty gives way to a serene simplicity. At least you can fly down the highway at 75 mph (which everyone interprets as 80+).

And then there’s Iowa. Gorgeous, rolling green fields stretch to the horizon, dotted with wind turbines as far as the eye can see. I couldn’t resist pulling off I-80 to soak it all in—and, of course, snap some photos. 

 

Rolling Green Hills of Iowa

Truck on dusty Iowa country road

IIowans take their conservation seriously; over 27% of the state’s energy comes from wind power.

Wind Turbines in Iowa

 

The photo below is a single blade from a wind turbine.  At 127 feet tall and 36 tons, you don't want this thing to topple over.  A full unit weights 171 tons.  

Single Turbine Blade as a monument at a weigh scale stop

 

The single blade stood there like a modern monolith, and my mind wandered to the original 1968 Planet of the Apes.  In a scene Charlton Heston played an astronaut who time travels into the future and witnesses apes paying homage to what they think is an image of their god.  In fact, it's an ICBM missile.

 

ICBM in scene from 1968 Planet of the Apes

 

While a wind turbine blade is far less menacing than an ICBM missile, the parallels struck me. One stands for progress and sustainability, the other for destruction. Funny how your brain takes odd detours when you’ve been alone on the road for too long.

This trip has been a journey of contrasts—raw beauty, unexpected challenges, and the occasional surreal moment. And now, as I near the Canadian border, the end feels close. Or is it just another beginning?


More to come….