Mountain Biking in Utah

I never knew it could be like floating. Like magic.

Yesterday, my father and I awoke at the crack of dawn, flew to Salt Lake City and drove for four hours to Moab, Utah. We arrived for dinner.

All day today, we saw nobody except for our guide within a one hundred fifty mile radius.

On mountain bikes designed by ingenious engineers, we cruised up ledges, down copper dirt, through wet sand.

Patches of snow speckled the eroded sandstone.

Rock salt stains formed plastic shapes in fissures.

A waterfall froze into an ice armchair; my wheels glided over.

I sprung onto Potash and glided on fossils.

Sunlight guided us up, then west.