We rendezvoused with the Paria crews at the visitors center in Fruita, where we bid adieu to them and continued to Green River, Utah, where we gassed up, drove west on I-70, and headed down Highway 24 into the wild. We chose a campsite outside of Goblin Valley State Park. We go here for a couple of reasons. First, there's no charge. Second, we can camp in places where the boys can make all manner of noise.
The down side is that everyone else can make noise, too. This campsite is a favorite of the maximum impact, off-roading, let's drive over everything, why-walk-when-you-can ride crowd. They show up with trailers laden with dirt bikes, ATVs, and you-name-it vehicles. Think Mad Max goes camping. On good trips, we don't see much of them, but we can often hear them roaring past on the road. Across the wash from us was a bullet-ridden car, which perfectly symbolizes my attitude toward these despoilers of wilderness.
Thus endeth the rant.
We turned the boys loose to explore, with admonitions of "it's easier to climb up than it is down" and "stay with a buddy." They headed up to the red rocks and climbed up to the top. They always do. We let them pick their own campsites, as well. I believe as much as possible in letting these boys be boys. We are here to let them have as much adventure as they want.
It being a beautiful night, I decided to sleep under the stars, something I don't always do in the land of the venomous arachnids and their reptilian brethren. It seemed too cold--there was snow on the ground--for any of that crowd to come out, so I lay down and looked up at the stars.
These trips are a kind of personal fast: no alcohol, no media--I didn't even take anything to read, and no baths for a week. All of this never fails to reset my dials.
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