Delta, Utah epitomizes all that is lacking in many anonymous American towns. The anticipation on arrival dips deeper into disappointment as you realize the endless main street has nothing more to offer than old car washes, boarded-up diners and empty parking lots.
We took a winding side road north on the shores of Lake Utah. This is indeed God’s Country with undulating green farmland that makes Ireland look faded and forgotten. We rolled into Provo. In the afternoon humidity, the campground was shaded and lush. We visited the Flying J truck stop for a slice of Americana and marveled at the big rig electronic gizmos. The magazine rack on the other hand was full of covers showing guns and ammo and centerfolds of lean-jawed, camouflaged males who are not to be messed with. It went a little downhill from there when we discovered that the tent sites bordered a reed-hidden, mosquito-ridden swamp and the roar of the I15 continued into the night.
On September 13 it was my 31st anniversary in America. Trying not to ponder too much on the speed at which it all went by, we left Provo. We decided to take the scenic route into Salt Lake by way of Park City but it went very wrong on the descent from the mountain. Beautiful as it was, we were hours late arriving. With so much weight on board we had to crawl down a steep and winding forest road and had no choice at the bottom but to take the freeway. I was able to distract myself from the trucks whizzing by by reading the billboards: “I’m sorry I killed your daughter” and “Live, love, laugh…….sober”.
Welcome to Salt Lake.
Four great days later we said our first good-bye of the trip. It's great to see family but always hard to leave. Mathias and Zoe entertained us and Fran introduced them to Foghorn Leghorn. Some old cartoons never die. We walked the neighborhood by day, admiring the perfect gardens and abundant vegetable patches in the shadow of Wasatch Mountain. At night, Salt Lake City glittered below us. How lovely it was not to be packing and unpacking every day.