quibbler

Sept. 4, 2009

I broke the speed limit. It was posted 40 mph coming over the hill into Marysvale, UT. I hit 40.2.

It’s been downhill since Bryce Canyon. Bree met a woman, Maria, at the Laundromat in Kanab. She and her husband invited us to their mountainside home near the canyon. Fred has been creating their dream double-balcony cabin for the last eleven summers. We got the full tour. Then, Bree and I shucked corn at the kitchen table, while Maria prepared sloppy joes. Bree’s friend, Brady—who was going to meet us at Bryce—joined us at Fred and Maria’s for dinner. After dessert entertainment was quibbler. A word creation game. Bree surprised the house with a big win. Rather than continuing to Bryce, Bree, Brady, and I unfolded our sleeping bags upstairs on the guest beds. The only time I awoke was when rain pounded so fiercely, I could only imagine our tent being swept away in the downpour. In the morning, we got out our cameras and hugged our most spontaneous of new friends.

Bree and I continued our ride north on 89 towards Salt Lake City. “Look at the deer!” Bree pointed up ahead. I rolled my eyes, “Those are goats, Bree.” When they started Bambi-prancing across the field, I raced away from Bree’s inevitable ridicule, over a slight incline, then charged 40.2 mph into Marysvale.