Some places are marked by such distinct topography that it’s hard to lose your sense of place while there; I was reminded of this so many times throughout the trip, including during our drive from Bryce to Zion National Park. I’m a reader by nature, but it was hardly tempting to put eyes to page with all else around me.
Each time a larger vehicle like ours approached, they closed off the tunnel temporarily so that the larger vehicle could use both lanes. I’d hate to travel this way with any sort of regularity, but it works in places where a vacation mindset is ubiquitous.
If any of you are contemplating RV camping in Zion, I highly recommend our site, #44 on Loop B of the Watchman Campground. It was large, close (but not too close) to the newer-looking restrooms (trust me, the ones we visited in a nearby campground left oh-so-much to be desired),
it had a generous amount of river frontage,
and a path picked up at our site’s entrance and ran parallel with the river, leading to Zion’s Visitor Center and the nearby town of Springdale.
Upon arrival, we were greeted by a friendly face not totally unlike the Carolina anoles commonplace in our part of the world. Glancing quickly at the hook-ups on our site, I smiled, envisioning the not-for-the-claustrophobic RV shower that would soon be all mine.
When I heard LCB finish with the hook-ups and enter the RV, I smiled, grabbed my suitcase and lifted it on the bed. “I’m going to take a shower,” I announced with zest. (Yes, this sounds like it’s straight out of Leave It to Beaver, but I really did. This is how much I love sanitation, particularly when it’s my own.)
LCB gave me a funny look.
“Honey, sorry, but there are no water hook-ups here. We have electricity, but no water or sewage hook-ups, and the holding tank’s already full.”
To clarify, this meant I couldn’t shower because there was nowhere for my shower water to go. This, coupled with the fact that we didn’t have a ton of water left in our tank to take said shower meant that I would not be showering anytime soon.
Then and there, I melted. I had steeled myself through cold, through dirt, through a mental move to Calcutta, and through trouble with the law, all on the hope of a hot shower the next day. I tried to melt quietly, since the formerly small people seemed to think they had hit pay dirt with our large campsite being by the river and all. I went into the bedroom and shut the brown-yet-translucent curtain.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling that was suddenly annoyingly close to my face. I ran my fingers through my hair, grimacing, ready to reject the unpredictable world of camping forever.
LCB, who knows the woman he married, popped his head around the curtain. “Can you let me know how long you are going to sit in here and mope so I can plan my afternoon?”
In that moment, I wanted to smack that man, and smack him right hard. Instead, I used my words.
I’ll let you use your imagination here a minute.
Seeking a peace the inside of the RV no longer offered, LCB quietly left the RV and went to join the kids down by the river. I sighed and flopped back and forth on the bed, wallowing in my plight.
And then, I dug deep within to a level of personal strength I didn’t know I had, got up off the bed, and resolved to clean up the best a girl could with two wipes and a fresh pair of socks.
This accomplished, I emerged from behind the curtain, pretending that I was pretending not to be ticked at the world, and we set out to scope out the hiking trails.
After we returned, recognizing that the world would become a better place for humanity if he acted heroically, LCB ascertained the location of a dump station, unhooked the RV, drove to the station, dumped our dirty water, filled our water tank, and returned, if not triumphant then at least resolved.
We all have our own version of armor-clad, banner-bearing knights on white stallions.
we headed back to the RV for dinner.