I woke up on our last full day of driving with an excitement bordering on impatience, wanting the time until I saw TJ to pass fast. I could barely enjoy the breath-taking hike to Dead Horse Point, where I felt as restless as the horses once trapped by wranglers on that spit of land.
My irritation continued when I found that an ice-cream stand I was hoping to stop at had been turned into a Verizon outlet. I blame a dairy deficiency for hurrying through the beauty of Cedar Breaks National Monument, merely jumping in and out of my car for a few snapshots of Jericho Ridge.
I didn’t even get out of the car to get the frame that I thought explained the name of the park. The trees you see are indeed the namesake cedars, but apparently, the breaks are not the broken trunks, but a settler term for badlands, kind of like “the sticks,” because the area was prone to frequent and sudden rockslides.
My rush to get to the campground, because I worried about its first-come, first-serve sites filling up, made Arizona a 30-mile blur from Utah to Nevada. I blew out of the last big city after the hunt for a particular deli was a bust, so I was left in the middle of nowhere without dinner for the night.
Luckily, there were plenty of spots open in the Valley of Fire campground, and there was plenty of spectacular scenery to make me forget about my grousing stomach. Still, I had a hard time falling asleep, thinking about how I would see my hubby the next day.
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