the state of the union

No end in sight. The incline snuck around a bend, and then kept going. Lowest gear. Just put your head down and conquer one foot of pavement at a time. A car honked encouragement. Finally, reprieve. We rolled into the rest area at the top of the hill outside of Kerrville, TX. While gasping for air, a woman called out to us. "Hey, I'm a cyclist,too." She told us about a women's online athletic network of which she was a part. "You guys need food?" She returned to their van with her daughter and pulled out several bags of Cliff bars, nectarines, crackers, cookies, cans of tuna. Is this really happening? "Take as much as you want." I started to grab a couple of each thing. "Really, you can take it all." Our jaws dropped. They were on a cross-country journey themselves, yet gave us ALL their food.

We pulled into the only gas station in Gap, AZ. One-hundred and fifty miles left to Kanab, UT and one day until we needed to meet a friend. "You headed north?" Bree asked a man in a red pick-up. "Eighty miles," he said, "Hop in back." He slowed for pictures at the breath-taking views, paused in Paige to buy us ice cream, climbed to a look-out point, then dropped us at Lake Powell National Park and paid for our campsite.

Before crossing into Utah, we stopped for lunch near a line of roadside stands where Navajos sold jewelry and handicrafts. A grey-haired woman with turquoise earrings invited us into the shade of her next-door canopy. We pulled out apples, crackers, and tuna. No can opener. I inquired the elderly woman. She retrieved an old-school version from her truck and opened the can for us.

On a stretch of barren highway outside of Bryce Canyon, we needed water. At a road junction, two men sat in lawn chairs selling beef and bison jerky. "Are you selling any water?" Bree asked. "How much you need?" They filled our four water bottles and camel packs, then pulled out pomegranate juice and fruit snacks. "Here, load up for the road," they insisted.

A gust of wind and water nearly blew Bree across the shoulder. Rain, coming down in sheets, blurred my sunglass lenses. Forty miles through barren northern Utahan hills until the next town. Here comes another semi. Bree pulled over. No communication necessary. We stuck out our thumbs. Several trucks passed; then one stopped. A woman and her three kids. "I never pick up hitch-hikers," she said. "My kids were freaking out." We loaded up. "I usually take the suburban into town. I don't know why I drove the truck today." The rain beat down. She dropped us off at Snowville, UT's only campground. The proprietor pulled up. "We need a tent campsite." "Not in this rain, you don't," he replied. "Take cabin number 1 and I'll charge you just the same."