Tired and in need of entertainment, I decided to weed my library by foisting a couple off on the next passersby.
Mind you, we're out on Yea Olde Spanish Trail, a narrow, dirt track, in places kinda marginal, that runs N-S through Cottonwood Wash. It's a few miles west of highway 6, about 30 miles northwest of Green River; 4wd is recommended.
Many of the washes are steep with a runnel at the bottom; after carefully dropping the front wheels into the trough, it takes a good oomph! to push-pull 'em up and on. The jolt often causes things to leap from the hammock-esque net where I keep a couple of small cookpots, the stove, paper plates, and a few food items.
First up for offerance was a copy of Charlie Mackery's The Boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse
I'd picked it up from a thrift store over a year ago for almost nothing with the idea of gifting someone. It's been languishing long enough.
A trio of Overlanding Bikers were the lucky recipients. Their leader indicated he couldn't communicate with his helmet on and seemed uneager to take it off. I'd put the book in a FedEx envelope so it wasn't immediately apparent what it was.
As I started to turn away, I saw he'd taken off his glove and was putting the package in the second's backpack; with a wave, they were off. Mission accomplished.
The other was Robert Sexton's All the Way Home.
It went to a youngish (late-thirties?) couple in a black 4-Runner.
In both instances I was wearing only my Walmart-issue, plaid boxers, black socks and boots. It's fun, to me, to be out in the middle of nowhere and see how people react. (I did have a few moments of concern when two ATVs snuck up on me while I was still nude. I made a good-faith attempt to scramble into the boxers which elicited smiles and waves from the women.)
Protocol dictates the moving vehicle stop and ask, "Everything Okay?" A thumbs up is all that's usually given or needed so when someone flags you down, most people stop.
Another contributor to the smog
With my appearance implying overdue quintuplets, not to mention the (who knows what goes on in other peoples' minds?) possible conundrum of a solo male past due, I have to work at keeping a straight face.
Swiftly handing it to the woman (don't they ever drive?!), I extolled Sexton's pointillist drawings while telling how the second half was better than the first. They smiled. He said, "You're too kind," and asked if everything was okay; I gave the thumbs up, and they went on. Though it wouldn't compete with Lucky and Pozzo in Waiting For Godot, it was a few moments diversion.
About the size of a
late-model Lincoln SUV
The Bikers were lined up at the store in Green River. They had their helmets off so I didn't recognize them. But their leader let me know, silently, that they were the ones and the same as had passed earlier. We shook hands, smiled, but he made no attempt at vocalization.
When I came out, they were gone.
I found a spectacular camp overlooking a surreal landscape as only Utah can deliver. And the moon came up like a huge pat of buttuh.
Oh! Lest I forget, Dunham's still had a good supply of melons, pears, apples and "unsprayed" tomatoes. She said they usually go to the end of October.
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