Monument Valley. A place desperate for a theme park if ever there was one. And perhaps a water slide too, oh and decent wifi wouldn’t hurt either. Don’t get me wrong this iconic destination is lovely… for the first five minutes. Windswept and hot, the endless brown desert strangles the will to live. Nothing a rollercoaster and a 7-11 wouldn’t cure. With the sun going down, the decision to camp was forced upon me by the exorbitant price of area hotels.
In the shadow of a brown chunk of rock, I began to set up the tent. Then out of nowhere as if god had singled me out for biblical retribution, a sand storm came ripping through, forcing me to lie spreadeagled on the tent and groundsheet like some beached whale trying on a small tutu. Meanwhile my camping chair, hat and cooking gear are flying off with all the eagerness of a meth addicted greyhound.
After it finally passes, I retrieve my gear and get the tent set up. I climb into the tent, or rather I roll into the sweat box where I will spent the next six hours dropping twenty pounds in sweat. In this hellish, plastic prison, I’m like a pig in a sauna with a duffel coat on. That relaxing night consists of maybe half an hour of sleep. I’m up at daybreak. This will be the last time I camp on the trip…. maybe ever.
The Year of Living Aimlessly. 