It must have been the two-door Chevy Spark that set me off. Appropriate in name and size, it was just the thing to get me going* – out of the Las Vegas Strip and all the way to the Valley of Fire State Park.
Nevada has a jolly quality to it, and if you know me, you know I fall in love with jolly; the lightness of it all, forever unbothered. When it catches you off guard – and what a moment that is, to be witnessed by merriment – you, too, become jollified.
The bright red sandstone was alarming in its awe, arresting in its warmth. And here I was looking at the land looking at me, amazed that our layers were the same. Solidified by time, smoothed over by wind and water; weathered and worn by the grind.
“Wow, Mother Earth, you really outdid yourself out here,” I said out loud. “Thank you, thank you, thank you for letting me bask in your beauty.”
Everything in the Valley of Fire appears to be still and quiet, but as you move through the softest sand, you get the sense that someone is dancing. A flame has been lit, and you’re glowing from within.