I woke up in Provo to a warm mist clinging to the mountains, and for a second, it almost felt peaceful. But peaceful isn’t how I’d describe the night. Chase had thrown up twice. I barely slept. And that parking lot light outside our window? It could’ve been used to land planes.

By morning, we were both fried—tired, irritable, and in no mood for powdered eggs or plastic-wrapped muffins. So we skipped breakfast, took a slow walk around the hotel parking lot, and hit the road, hoping for something easy.

This was day three of a longer trip—one that started in Portland, where we live, and would take us all the way to Texas to pick up our Casita trailer before heading back north. We were barely getting started, and already running on fumes.

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I’d muted the GPS because I couldn’t take one more cheerful “turn left” from that smug little voice. And naturally, while drifting through a daydream about nothing in particular, I missed the turn. Nearly twenty miles past before I noticed. And wouldn’t you know it—no exits, no shoulder, no mercy.

When I finally looped around, the universe added a little bonus: the entire stretch of road back toward the missed exit was down to one lane. Not a short patch. Nearly the whole thing. In the middle of the desert, where there was nothing else around. It was like the road crew had waited for me to mess up before they unrolled the cones and started paving. A punishment loop.

By now, both Chase and I had to pee—urgently. I pulled into the next rest stop like it was a desert mirage: shaded, grassy, almost too good to be true. And of course, it was.

Right there, in the center of all that green, was a sign:
NO PETS ALLOWED IN THIS AREA.

Of course.

Welcome to Utah. Life elevated—unless you’re a dog.

And beneath it, just to twist the knife, another sign helpfully pointed us across the parking lot to the official pet area.

There were actually two "designated" pet areas. One was across the parking lot—a dusty gravel strip proudly labeled PET EXERCISE AREA, though it looked like it hadn’t been exercised since the Jurassic era. The other was tucked behind the rest area building, marked with a single stake in a wide, sun-blasted expanse of cracked desert and a faded sign: DESIGNATED PET AREA. No trees. No water. No hint of grass. Just heat, dust, and the unmistakable feeling that whoever designed this setup had never met a dog.

“Exercise” apparently means pacing in confusion.

The “designated” pet area. Where dreams—and bladders—go to die.

Chase looked at it like I’d asked him to pee in a parking lot full of judgmental strangers. He sniffed. Paused. Turned in a slow circle with the dramatic flair of a stage actor who’s just been insulted. Then he stood motionless, staring at the cracked ground like it personally offended him. Eventually—after several defeated laps and one last pleading glance—he lifted his leg on the faint outline of a shadow and called it a day.

I gave him a treat. He gave me a look.

Back on the road, things finally started to shift. Just past Moab, the land opened wide and the scenery took a breath. On one side: glowing red cliffs, fierce and sunlit. On the other: a snow-capped mountain brooding beneath low-hanging storm clouds. It looked like two seasons arguing in silence.

That stretch between Provo and Durango wasn’t the day I wanted. But it gave me absurdity, contrast, and a dog with standards. And maybe that’s the lesson. Some days don’t unfold the way you plan. They unravel. They detour. They test your bladder and your patience. But they still move you forward.

We’ve still got a long way to go—through New Mexico and across Texas to pick up our Casita, then all the way home again. But for now, we’re parked in Durango. Chase is fed, finally sleeping. And I’m sitting here thinking: if nothing else, at least we’ve already got a story.

— R. Michael

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Detours and Desert Dust