days 9-10—a little salty

When you hit a speed bump, you can either power through it, hoping to glide over effortlessly, or slow down, approach it gently, and ensure a smooth ride. We opted for the latter.

Although we were somewhat frustrated by this occurring so soon, we aimed to turn lemons into lemonade.

Because while I had spent months meticulously planning our itinerary, I planned for the detours, too.

A short drive north on I-15, nestled at the base of the Wasatch Mountains, were our friends Bobby and Payton—and, as of two weeks ago, their newborn. Though the chances of them welcoming visitors this soon were slim, we took a chance and reached out. To our surprise, they were happy to have us stop by the next day.

In the meantime, we shifted gears to practicality and set out to find a laundromat. Who knew two people could go through so many socks!

The one we discovered was a significant improvement over my initial expectations—slightly newer, featuring sleek machines that hummed softly.

A few locals sat by the windows, casually scrolling through their phones as they waited, with the soft rumble of clothes and the occasional hum of the dryers breaking the silence. 

We slid in with our laundry bag, determined to maintain our efficient laundry routine. The folding station exuded a nostalgic charm, adorned with a stack of old magazines beside it. This evidence of its limited updates, beyond the machines, only added to its allure. It was precisely what we sought: practical, unpretentious, and reliably ordinary.

Next on our to-do list is taking Charlie for her first professional grooming session. I can already picture the judgmental glances: “She’s nearly seven years old and this is her first visit to the groomer?”

I’m ashamed to admit it, but yes. I’ve been brushing and bathing her regularly, and she never missed a nail trim, but a professional groomer? This was a first.

Her fur had become an indelible part of the van, so we thought, “If not now, when?”

What we didn’t expect, though, was how long it would take.

“So, when can we pick her up?” I asked, handing her over to the PetSmart groomer.

“In about 2-3 hours,” she replied.

Trent and I looked at each other in shock. “She’s having a longer spa day than you,” he teased with a grin.

With time to spare, we searched for lunch, though we hadn’t expected it to be so difficult to find a place to sit down. Every restaurant within a five-mile radius was self-serve, leaving us yearning for a quiet corner, a cozy spot where we could relax, be waited on, and pass the time.

In the end, we found ourselves at Olive Garden, where we inexplicably settled for unlimited breadsticks and salad. It’s Italian food devoid of soul, transformed into a bland theme park for those who believe cheese is a defining characteristic.

And yet, it felt like a memory stitched together from another time. When I was growing up, Olive Garden was one of my grandma’s chosen spots for our outings. It was where I had my first coffee, because it’s the polite thing to partake in after a meal, or so she always said.

However, it wasn’t just about the coffee. In those booths, I began to comprehend my grandma—not just as the family matriarch, but as a woman with her own stories, fears, and aspirations. I discovered how she fell in love with my grandfather, the anxieties she faced during her first job, and the lessons she learned from years of both mistakes and triumphs.

In a way, an Olive Garden booth feels more like home to me than most places. Though it had been over a decade since I last sat in one, the memories rushed in as though no time had passed. This Olive Garden, miles from where we shared countless meals, could have been the same.

Charlie

After getting Charlie freshly groomed, we focused on finding a campsite for the night. What seemed like a simple task became unexpectedly challenging, particularly as we were near Salt Lake City. We anticipated that winter camping would be difficult, but locating a site close to the city, where open land was limited, turned out to be even more challenging. Every location we looked at was accessible only during the spring and summer months.

Finally, we arrived at the Salt Lake City KOA—far from the remote wilderness we had envisioned. Nestled on the outskirts of downtown, it was surrounded by the monotonous hum of nearby smoke stacks and industrial buildings, giving it a more like a stopover than a serene retreat.

As we pulled in, we exchanged a glance, silently contemplating our options. A hotel would be more convenient, comfortable, and perhaps even safer. However, deep down, we both recognized that it wasn’t as terrible as we had imagined. The KOA might not have been ideal, but it provided a place to park, shower, and continue our journey—no matter how imperfectly.

Salt Lake City KOA