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FALL 2018 ISSUE 02 / VOL . 03
More haunting than a ghost town , a single abandoned church near Lincoln , Nebraska . hours , where water had swept through the campsite , torn people from their tents , tossed trailers into trees , buried an 18-wheeler filled with demo bikes under a thick layer of mud . Bikes had disappeared . Just like that . Rivers untamed . I hold that thought .
I catch my first glimpse of ancient Utah just outside Salinas . Through a notch in the roadside I see layers of sandstone and limestone cut into wild ridges , cliffs , palisades , battlements , mesas , castellated ridges . This used to be a seabed ; when the waters receded , the wind and rain took over . I take in millions of years in a glance . The Rand McNally Atlas does not usually grant scenic highway status ( the dotted line that adorns spectacular routes ) to interstates . Completed in the mid ’ 70s , I-70 is a notable exception . I moved from the arid to the verdant , from the uninhabited to the conspicuously populated . When the force that shaped the road is the Colorado River , one pays attention . Twin ribbons of I-beam concrete swoop and chase each other along gorges cut by the river . The engineering is itself a thing of beauty . I ’ m aware of traveling a cross-section of time , the unearthing of the Rockies .
The dots on the atlas end at Dillon . I discover why . The closer I get to Denver , the thicker the traffic . There is no such thing as a scenic parking lot .
I continue on my way , out of Denver , into a sea of yellow wildflowers , through vast farms , watching thunderheads catch the last colors of the setting sun into a sea of bugs . When I pull into the parking lot of the Motel 6 in Julesburg , I think the gravel is moving . Dozens of frogs had gathered to feast on the bugs attracted to the motel lights . Neat .
The next morning I look at the gelatinous mess on the windscreen of the RT . Hey , I could cut this into strips and sell it as jerky .