Tag: Nomadic Rag

• Front Royal, VA

  We were once told that freedom came with age, oh heavens—what a disgrace, a flagrant lie, among many that were uncovered as time replaced; where fog billowed by and chased away the sky, until it was left without rhyme or a trace…

  

  Getting together with faraway friends as a working adult was like trusting the sky to look a certain way, months in advance. What little guarantees awaited the idealist. Perhaps at their own volition, but even “hustle culture” after some time grew the same weary, bitter fruit of detachment. The only logical way to plan anything, with anyone, was to not plan at all, or at least with reservations of it falling apart at the seams—and grinning when it ultimately did.

  Much like the meaningless junk we accumulated around the house so too did the baggage of life encumber our frail steps out of the ordinary. It was detrimental we not fall for this other lie. The drum of the work week, the tick of the metronome, and the fitful dreams longing for their “status” subdued the masses on what mattered most, under the guise of being “financially literate”. Of course, it was wise to prepare for anything unexpected, but there were two ways to look at that.

  In the fall after Ashley and I got married, we prepared for Shenandoah.

  Courted by the dreamy mountain range alongside I-81, like a tranquil dune amid a harrowing sea of black rubber, on the seldom haul we took from Winston-Salem to the Poconos it was the kind of “slow-burning” affair that wouldn’t dwindle. An endurance that flowed through the river of the same name which coursed as the region’s lifeblood, instilled into its offspring long before they were ever born. There was ancestral magic in the Blue Ridge Mountains that admittedly dug deeper than their rocky counterparts, although we hadn’t realized it at the time.

  Instead, we were left clawing at loose strands in the muddy creek for any semblance of hope or justification as to why we moved back East, let alone the South. I recalled twilight conversations held in Colorado, staring at a map through dim lamp light and throwing darts at it.

  “What if we lived here?” “Is Vermont too north?” “Georgia doesn’t make any sense for us.” “That’s too close to our parents!”

  Carefully thought boundaries walled us in and our eyes fell upon North Carolina. The perfect middle ground, in more ways than one, was the “Triad” or “Piedmont” which meant “at the foot of the mountains”. Biggest of the three neighboring towns which formed the Triad was Greensboro and the smallest of them, High Point. Again, we were consistent with our “Goldilocks” approach and Winston-Salem seemed apt.

  It only took three hours to the beach, which tickled us because for quite some time we were landlocked by prairie dogs and canyons, while the Appalachian range were only a pair away. However, what we discovered when compromising everything was just that—there lacked an identity to hold onto.

  That’s not to say we were searching for one, or there was nothing worthwhile about the Triad, yet the promises it lobbied found no reflection we saw for ourselves, and instead turned murkier by the day. Almost to the point of utter surrender.

  Imagine in one year, one town, nearly took from us in a slow drip what was once given abundantly—the great, clear window into the soul. Not to be dramatic, but life threw cycles of this every now and then, at different times for different folks, and it was important to answer these questions honestly.

  But for some this was the place they needed to answer to. I recalled bright spots on cobblestone streets where the esteemed historic district of “Old Salem” wafted steamy loaves about the air of colonial corridors. Artisans and tour-guides dressed in conservative attire outlandishly spoke to visitors from their watercolored gardens. Wake Forest University allowed public access to its seven-mile lake loop. Nearby, the padlocked Quarry for lovers. And Wiseman Brewing downtown delivered whenever we fancied a pint.

  

  Front Royal, on the other hand, touched on something mysterious. Sure colonial architecture remained abundant, and southern “twang” hadn’t quite kissed everyone’s lips, but just below the Mason-Dixon, north of Roanoke, existed a swath on the edge of time. It felt no connection to the civilized world as far as I could tell, but it bridged a gap someplace within of who I was to where I was going. Like a once important part of myself had been asleep, came to after some violent nudging, only to forget ever laying my head there and drifting off.

  Quaintly positioned on the northern tip of Shenandoah, Front Royal acted like a mountain town in a friendly childhood suburb. Romanticized in the mind and dilapidated upon arrival. We planned on hiking “Old Rag” while we were here, in the morning before Brooke and Dylan came to join us.

  Dylan was Ashley’s only brother—in between Brooke and Morgan, and the last of her siblings. He was enrolled in Montreat College during the great flood of “Hurricane Helene”. An anomaly to western North Carolina that wiped away much of the small town infrastructure and was second-deadliest behind “Katrina”, killing 252. At the time, his classes were suspended since the freshman dorms and basement gym became a hillbilly waterpark.

  “The wrestling mats are in Lake Susan,” he informed the family, darting his crazed nicotine eyes back and forth.

  I felt empathy for him, looking out at the misty trailhead. Not because he was my brother, nor that we were directly responsible for the campus tour where he aloofly signed his life away on a wrestling contract, but in knowing that the meaningless veil of education had drawn bare—never to return again to soothe the skin like a weighted blanket. I saw it in his eyes, betrayal and surrender. Everyone who attended college had their own quiet moment of admission. Mine coincided senior year with the Covid pandemic, and Ashley’s was the moment she stepped foot in Baltimore.

  Old Rag mountain was whispering to us whenever we focused in on our breathing, like the words were tasted rather than heard. I remembered seeming reluctant to hike below tree-line again. The damp fog was heavy on the skin, and my body rejected it.

  Rocky Mountain hiking had its own challenges that over time we adapted to; higher UV’s, thinner oxygen, and those pricks from Vail. Now we had to unlearn and relearn an entire ecosystem. What cruel fate! It was amusing to think though that out West, fog was an event reported on the morning forecast, something to shuffle plans around, and here it was only noticed if it was very thick because everyone was ugly. So the day actually got better.

  We scrambled up this tight rock slab, where a larger shelf jutted out overhead. The surface had been stained by a trickle of water which made it somewhat slick. I gave Ashley my hand once through the crawl and we took some photos at the nearest overlook. Our heads poked above the clouds for the first time in a while. In rapture by the clarity that oozed from each mountain peak, whether East or West, we squinted into the distance and saw all the other ones we summited before. Curated by God in a nearly perfect line, but from below it took on a labyrinth, frustrating for anyone to follow.

  

  “Life is old there, older than the trees. Younger than the mountains, growin’ like a breeze.” — John Denver

  By the time we pulled up in the slanted drive of our Airbnb, one of those communal concrete pads shared with the neighbor, Brooke and Dylan had already let themselves in with the code we gave them.

  “Well, do you feel any older?” Brooke said, mindfully stepping around the sharp coffee table. It was obvious she hadn’t mapped out her surroundings quite yet.

  “So much older,” Ashley confessed.

  We traded hugs with a little more maturity than we were used to having, like time wasn’t guaranteed anymore. Even though it was another birthday trip for Ashley, accompanied by the usual fanfare and songs we still delighted in, and really nothing on the surface changed, the weight of carrying crossroads through a season of transition gave our eyes a sunken look. After all, Dylan was displaced, Brooke was unemployed after working the family pool store, and Ashley and I felt the pressure of getting a house with nowhere good to put it. There was nothing desirable about our circumstances other than the fact that we had been suckered into the same, sorry corner of Virginia and Main Street was just a block away.

  “Is it time to start drinking?” I asked without leaving much room to answer, and fairly soon afterwards, we all had our shoes on.

  Our first stop was “Honey & Hops Brew Works”. A charming wood-lined alcove that crafted their own mead. Some of the repurposed wood, likely from wine casks, were shaped into hexagons jutting out from the wall in a honeycomb pattern. Not too many bars or breweries specialized in mead, which engineered honey into beer or wine to create proprietary, wacky flavors. Like “Fruity Sasquatch Nips” and “Papaya Chainsaw Pu—.” We sat at the vacant bar, because it was only afternoon and they just opened, where everyone presented their ID’s to the nosey barkeep.

  It wasn’t long before I noticed that I left my wallet at the house. And after explaining it was my wife’s 28th birthday where I posed the question: “Do you really think a 28-year-old woman would be married to an underage dude?” I reluctantly hoofed my way back to get it with Dylan while the girls drank.

  “Not that I didn’t believe you, it’s just—my job.”

  “Don’t even sweat it. Beautiful day outside, we actually just hiked Old Rag.”

  “Well hey, you’ve worked for it enough! Lemme get you that ‘Midnight Sun’.”

  

  Early next morning the four of us headed down the chilled mineshaft of Luray Caverns. While not as highly endorsed as Tennessee or Missouri for having some of the most in the country, roughly 10,000 and 7,300 respectively, the “Old Dominion” state still had plenty to offer with Luray regarded very best among its 4,400.

  Marching down the epic boardwalk at over a mile long, ca. 2019, it gradually stirred up an adrenaline rush like we were coming out the tunnel for an all-important football game—sustained all the while. And that was just above ground…

  For once we made our way through several chambers of moisture-monitored entry doors, our eyes adjusted to the noir underbelly that creaked and hummed inexplicably beneath our feet, gossiping about the surface world while we lived on it.

  The guided-tour was extensive with many breathtaking rooms to behold. Perhaps the most intriguing of them was the “Cathedral” which housed the ‘Great Stalacpipe Organ’; a moniker devised by the mad scientist Leland Sprinkle who previously worked for the Pentagon. One of those reclusive types that hid out in the shed and performed autopsies on the house cat.

  It was said to be the largest playable instrument in the entire world, covering 3.5 acres by sound cable and rubber mallets which struck stalactites of varying diameters to correspond with piano keys. An ingenious contraption that played at scheduled times and was riveting to wait for. Yet what we got instead was a sleepy, underwhelming tune that could’ve passed as a school recital comprised of tone-deaf amateurs. What made it hysterical was watching the enchantment slowly flee out the eyes of other onlookers who came a great way for the headlines. Fargo, Fayetteville, Laredo, Spain. Thanks a lot, Sprinkle.

  Fortunately not too far ahead was the “Wishing Well” where we all wished for new ears. A turquoise lit pool at the foot of our sorrows snarled its awful teeth at us. Always hungry for another metal chip to perhaps pay down some of the dental debt. Just enough to cover the interest, or so I thought.

  For as I watched the leaping dreams fly from every finger, slapping against the water like a frog that croaked and twist to the bottom where thousands of others shimmered like sunken treasure, I realized this couldn’t be healthy. The limestone and whatever the hell else caves were made of were in complete peril from copper erosion. Any discerning spelunker would withhold their change if it meant nature be left alone from utter pollution. But the people at Luray knew this, so they erected a jet-black billboard that read:

  “The pool is drained every year and the entire proceeds are donated to medical research educational grants, and to other worthy charitable and nonprofit organizations.”

  Then at the bottom—Grand Total To Date: 1,180,268.32.

  What a crock of sh—. They cried charity over and over throughout the decades on the breakdown, but I knew this was all for Sprinkle. Every penny was snorkeled out by Leland himself; laundered to fund his “nonprofit” of depravity.

  

  Once we made it back on the surface, our tickets included entry into the “Toy Town Junction” adjacent to the food court, and we just couldn’t refuse. An odd combination that probably made more sense on the drawing board. It was a museum for toys of yesteryear, and it smelled like it. Where cheerful colors met with poignant wafts of decayed memories. Raggedy Andy and metal tops covered in rust. Don’t get me wrong, it was cute to walk down memory lane but only when the air was fresh and unbounded, never stagnant. After a few short years disguised as minutes, the smiling faces surrounding us looked more macabre and I couldn’t tell if I was in Toy Town or an Anne Frank Exhibit.

  “So, let’s leave,” Ashely tugged on my arm. “Melanie and Albert are almost here.”

  “Yeahh, this was fun,” Brooke said thinly. “But I think that’s enough. Should we go to a winery?”

  “—Winery? Can we bring this guy?”

  Dylan’s eyes went to a painted clown doll that most spoke to him. One we all overlooked, perhaps out of self-preservation. It was complete with intensely arched eyebrows, top hat, and makeup smudged by water damage. The girls flung themselves at the door. I knew Dylan was ready to start drinking again.

  We reconvened at Chester Gap Cellars. A steep grade on freshly bulldozed dirt. It was hard to find parking. Once we got out and headed towards the main barn, Albert rolled down the window coming up the cliff.

  “This is a pretty cool spot,” he said casually, unfazed that his car was vertical.

  “Where do we find parking?” Melanie leaned over delightfully.

  “You might have to take it all the way back towards the entrance,” I said.

  “At the flat part?”

  “Yeah. We’ll see you down there!”

  Going separate ways, he shot a cannon of dirt at our ankles that nearly took me out. We ordered one tasting and a bottle of cab franc then proceeded out to the veranda. Every umbrella had wine underneath it along with spotted lantern flies zipping and leaping about.

  “What the f— is this?!”

  “We have to kill them,” I recalled Ashley saying. “They’re an invasive species!”

  “There’s a table out in the field, maybe it’s not so bad there?”

  I was wrong. Apparently the entire vineyard was under siege. Mel and Albert met us down there where one flew at Albert’s head.

  “Woah,” he ducked, taking a second to look at it. “Is that a spotted lantern fly?”

  We agreed, as the sound of Dylan ferociously stomping in the background spooked Brooke: “Ah! Dylan!”

  “We can’t kill them all.”

  “So how was the drive from Philly?”

  “Not bad, minimal traffic once we got out of town. It was actually pretty qui—.” Albert took a sneak attack at one. “Yeah, got that bitch!”

  He dug his foot afterwards into the rocky ground where the guts of the twitching pest spread like strawberry jelly. Melanie frowned at the display, but eventually took a breath: “I feel bad because they have such beautiful colors, but they are harmful to grapevines and nature,” she conceded, purposefully looking away.

  “It’s a double-edged sword,” I said.

  “It is.”

  “Did you try the Merlot?”

  Dylan whacked the edge of the table and our tasting glasses clattered; he had his shoe off now like a barbarian.

  “Alright you’re gonna spill the wine.”

  We spent the better part of a couple hours this way: catching up, staring at mountains on the horizon, drinking more wine, and eradicating as many SLF’s as we saw fit.

  

  Once our buzz was good and strong, it was time to move the party back to Main Street where we had unfinished business. Our first stop was the Catamount Lounge, spoken highly from our mead professor earlier in the day. We were able to snag a table in the back where it was good to drink and make lewd remarks. Our cocktails came on a wet tray, so that every time someone drank there was a napkin covering their face. We did the carousel of updates as the band played their second set, which was always a formality, a little foreplay into talking about the Main Street of olde; the one we all grew up on. No matter how far removed, both in life and in actual distance, we couldn’t free ourselves from it. Like the strawberry jelly caked onto everybody’s shoes.

  Nothing sounded more obnoxious on drunken ears than an unexpected drum solo, so we paid, and slipped off into the cool night. The general feeling was to head back for our travels wore us down some. But as it turned out, a few blocks breathing in the moonlight was all we needed.

  Chester Street Tavern had a quaint backyard area where a fiddler drew us in from the alleyway. Adirondack chairs lined the tall haggard fence and I eased into one. After a round of brews, Ashley informed me that everyone was to head back—except Dylan.

  I kissed her and said I would be back in a little while. Soon after they left, the band broke for a shot and a piss. The night went quiet again. That was, until the owner approached us. He was very thankful we hung around and asked if we wanted to sing one, or pick up a guitar. When we politely declined he went up after some jeering from the regulars and played a song I never heard before. Then I thought about all the tiny corners of the world, the tucked away spots where souls were singing for seemingly nobody at all. Except for their close friends and neighbors. They weren’t trying to “make it”, for they already had.

  July 7, 2026

  Adventure Travel, Blue Ridge Mountains, Catamount lounge, Derek Osinski, Fall Travel, Front Royal, Hiking, Honey hops brew works, Luray Caverns, Nomadic Rag, North Carolina, NPS, Old Rag, Outdoor Activities, Pitbulls, Road Trip, Shenandoah National Park, Tourism, Travel, Travel Blog, Travel Inspiration

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• Orderville, UT

  There was arguably no better stronghold on the National Park system than Utah with its “Mighty Five”, renowned for otherworldly grandeur by travel purists yet for every beauty it had there were shadows, none more potent than among their “beehive” bureaucracy as it was run entirely, not-so discretely by Mormons…

  

  Of all the states to put a fence around, why couldn’t it be so that they switched with somewhere less remarkable, like Iowa or Indiana? That felt more natural in my mind—farmland and rolling acres to pervade their agenda, not over mountains and rock gardens. I was only half-joking of course, but if they really wanted to be successful why not relocate to a population already “polygamy inclined”? Low-hanging fruit?

  Nevertheless, we were enamored with their inheritance and perhaps it contributed to how pristine the landscape actually was. The people of Utah took pride in nature. Much like their cocky cousin Colorado to the East, they incorporated activity into their daily lifestyle that was infectious. The “Mighty Five” which consisted of Capitol Reef, Arches, Canyonland, Zion, and Bryce Canyon inspired even the most sedentary, benign lumps to action.

  It was that very call which brought us to Orderville. Perfectly situated between Zion and Bryce, an unassuming elbow of a town that gladly welcomed the stone’s throw. Forever sleepy with desolate sidewalks and juniper trees, we found ourselves alone with the grazing cattle much of the time. Which, in contrast from the bustling tourism that Zion and its round-the-clock buses had, the Disneyland of National Parks, was cozy to come home to and much needed after a physical day of sightseeing.

  Though in the heart of town drummed up a sense of urgency. An unmistakable shift that was easy to detect because for hundreds of miles beforehand there was nothing. But when we looked at the building it belonged to on the surface it resembled an ordinary Sinclair gas station.

  “What, are they giving away gas in there?” I said.

  Then making no mistake of it Ashley’s eyes grew to the size of saucers, “That’s a coffee shop!”

  I squeezed my foot on the brake a little so that we eased into a glide, there was nobody behind us, and looking through the paned glass garage door I saw the hanging greenery, and exposed brick, and the texture of the midnight coffee beans in the hopper, and the baristas mulling about. A plume of steam displaced the bangs on one of them as she leaned over to grab some exotic milk for a greasy looking man that was no doubt a liberal.

  “Ohh honey, it looks cute in there,” I mumbled mindlessly, still entranced with the warm glow that pressed out into the brilliant blue of autumn.

  “It’s got 4.8 stars,” she had already looked it up. “We have to go tomorrow. They have spiced chai.”

  The name of it was “The Shop Coffee Co.”, which I thought was a bit uninspired, yet it quickly became one of our favorite cafes we ever found.

  

  We awoke the next morning from the motor lodge a little ways past town, still on the main drag. They were nice enough to give us a corner suite, although I wasn’t exactly sure who “they” were as the tiny gazebo outfitted as their reception desk was more vacant than the lodge itself. Throughout the course of our stay, the few low-pile carpet swatches provided for towels became tired, and, in pursuit of fresh ones I tapped upon the door only to find an emergency maintenance number boldly typed on a single printer sheet—which sat on a lone executive desk next to a lone vending machine.

  “Wring out the towels and blow dry ‘em,” I told my wife, jokingly.

  This wasn’t Rolling Stone or Esquire. This was Nomadic Rag—where glamour met with sacrifice and travel met with detours.

  The spiced chai made our clammy skin feel better. We sat on a leather davenport while admiring each other’s eyes; finding all the colors through the silt in the bohemian rugs. Ashley realized that the adjacent desk to the cafe was where our horse-riding appointment would initially meet. Held by “East Zion Adventures”, a partnering business in the space, their eclectic services cycled through on a small television screen: ‘Jeep Tours’, ‘Canyoneering’, ‘Guided Hikes’, ‘UTV Tours’ and of course the horseback riding we planned for Ashley’s birthday, which was tomorrow—October 4th.

  Eagerly waiting out in the car for us was Ophelia who snuck into the driver seat. For a moment our presence went undetected. Despite being occupied with imaginary noises we saw resentment building through those milky eyes. She knew we were on a tight schedule, because she ran one. Of all the dogs that ever roamed Ophelia’s internal clock was striking in that for such a long period of time it worked uninterrupted and without fail.

  We didn’t do much in Bryce after taking some photos at Rainbow Point which was the furthest south the park road went. Though it also presented a moment to test out my new polaroid I bought from a camera shop in Denver before the overlooks went too oversaturated.

  Home to the world’s greatest assortment of “hoodoos”, a name given out by indigenous southern Paiute meaning “to fear or represent something scary”, it was believed that ancient beings or “Legend People” had been turned into stone as punishment for their bad behavior. This vast sea of erosion and spires looked handsome in the valley and I recalled saying that I wanted to find a trail away from the crowds.

  Ashley pointed my attention out of the park entirely to a network suited for Phi Phi’s joints. In fact, we passed by it on the way down.

  

  “We’ve landed on Mars, Ash. Look at that—,” I said trailing off.

  Red sand kicked up from under her delicate stride, with each step sounding both crunchy and soft. Just ahead of me her feet froze and we both felt the individual grains sift back into the Earth like wind on the skin or a distant rainfall close enough to barely hear.

  “It’s like Moab, so peaceful.”

  The contrasting hues clashed along the ridge if not for hardy trees and yellow whispers of dead things that took root long ago. Part of us knew the connection we both had to dying moments, in our own lives, but greater was the life that grew in the face of it. She smiled at me and no matter how often it came it always felt like the first; I knew even before then that she was to be my wife. So seeing a new shine catch off her finger those first few months filled me with great joy.

  Ophelia relieved herself near Ashley’s foot with the biggest grin and after a while these territorial squats resulted in mere performance, as nothing was coming out. I imagined it inflated her hubris to think of all the places she had marked throughout our travels. She possessed spontaneity and toughness and a yearning spirit; all the attributes of a perfectly sound nomad, tucked inside an economic vessel—not too big to transport yet not too small to get kicked around either.

  Back in Orderville, we stopped by an irresistible build that we had eyed for nearly a day, which it demanded going to and from the motor lodge. What with dinosaur statues surveying over mine carts of glistening jewels, tall jungle leaves swaddling the rock-shaped shoppe, the smell of strong joe and cider doughnuts served in wax paper; it was the stop for curiosity, and it came with great restraint that we had not stopped sooner.

  

  But when it was morning we did not return as the coffee selection was more diverse and ironically tastier at the Sinclair, which of course had their own less-charming green Dino out front. Sellout. Our guide was also there, a petite blonde named Maggie dressed straight out of a western. She even tipped her cowboy hat at us when saying hello.

  “Did y’all want to ride with me or tail behind? It’s about a couple miles to the neighborhood where they’ll be a dirt road that goes a-ways up to our ranch—it’s seen better days from monsoon season which-, just finished up last week, but your call.”

  “We’ll meet you there!”

  The last time I rode a horse was back in New Jersey at summer camp and it bit a kid’s leg. Our cabin blotted out the afternoon to ride them up to the ridge to catch the sunset, where their stables were. He ended up going to the nurse only to find out that he was deathly allergic. Hay pollen or something. If it wasn’t for the intuition of my horse to bite that kid, well, his throat could’ve closed, seemingly forever…

  I thought of this when looking at Maverick. What a freaking spirit animal. Maggie informed me how much he was favorited amongst the townsfolk while helping me up with a rope from the other side. In one clean motion, I pushed against the leg strap and took hold of the horn, which protruded at the top of western saddles, until my other leg got round. His great age undoubtedly showed in his stoicism, unlike the modern desk slave who pouted in their role. Maverick did so without contempt, even welcomed his purpose by looking back at me to ensure I was settled.

  It wasn’t the same horse from my childhood, I knew that much, yet it felt like a continuum of moments to loosely remind me of a unique story being told.

  “If you want a cowboy on a white horse, riding off into the sunset. If that’s the kind of love you wanna wait for, hold on tight girl I ain’t there yet.” — Chris Stapleton

  Ashley had a bit more trouble with her mount since her horse, called Aztec, was somewhat of an inverse to mine. He was young, hard-nosed, and mischievous. Whipping his head about as we got along to munch on every juniper berry he came across. I recalled her constantly correcting him, like we did with Benjamin, and giggling when he did the opposite. Thankfully as we climbed up into the slot canyons, we hitched all of them to a wooden fence so that Maggie could show us around.

  

  When asked if she was a native she told us that she came from New Hampshire. Figuring life out through drips of school to please family and western sunsets for the soul. She weathered some lonely nights as a result, which lessened the more she spent as a farmhand looking after the horses, “a full-time job” she emphasized, but overall took to Mormon living quite well. It was opportunistic that we were trailing her again for I felt my face wrinkle when hit with the news. Miraculously not a speck of her was frostbitten by the northeast, her dialect was palatable and warm on the ears. Either Maggie had been changed by Utah, disillusioned by New Hampshire, or there really was something in those horses.

  “Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God” —(Matthew 19:24)

  Encouraged by transformative tales, we met our match when faced with the Mt. Carmel tunnel. At over a mile long, traffic control was necessary for the narrow squeeze. There was no stopping once permitted inside, like the slow and steady ascent of a roller coaster. Six arched windows passed one by one until we burst from the rock face into an all-encompassing, breath-taking picture of paradise. Our jaws fell and our troubles fell with them.

  We took the most enjoyable winding road down to the doorstep of Zion situated in Springdale—the only way to enter the park’s epicenter was to hop a ride on one of the buses there. Many of our fellow sunrise passengers wore bib coveralls that they rented in town for the sole expedition into the “Narrows”. Notched at the final loop of the bus route, the full trail required permits and wavers signed, which took up a whole day, wading against the temperamental torrent atop precarious river rocks for sixteen whole miles. A feat we joked about experiencing for ourselves, if we weren’t such mountain junkies.

  “Let’s ride it all the way and see where they hop in,” I said curiously. “Then we can hit ‘Weeping Rock’ before ‘Scout’s Lookout’.”

  Ashley groaned at the thought, for she loved sounding the alarm of any big hike and what toll it would bring on our bodies. Scout Lookout via West Rim Trail encompassed over 1,100 ft. of elevation gain in under two miles, one way—3.8 total…

  

  Even though the sun had long acquainted the day it was dawn in the valley. Cool air full of moisture felt good in the nose while adrenaline pumped to keep my chest warm. Looking out on those colder than I, about two dozen now, as they adjusted to the icy riverbed with excited laughter and screams. I saw the moon wink at me from atop the ridge, jeering like it beat me to it with legs of its own. We didn’t stay a moment more and got on the next bus out.

  Diamonds painted the ‘Weeping Wall’ with the sun reflecting off the West Rim. It was a short ascent to hide underneath the rock umbrella, which made for a surreal view of what looked like meandering twine, of a lighter brown, that scratched out our impending journey. It also left us some time to process any second thoughts.

  “I’m not doing Angel’s Landing,” Ashley confessed.

  “I don’t think I am either, not without you.”

  

  Not that I could anyhow, at least, not by regulatory means for a lottery system was in place to prevent congestion along the rail-lined tightrope known amongst climbers as a “knife’s edge”—or a dizzying, doom-filled abyss on either side. To obtain a coveted spot took months of premeditation—long enough to deter the average selfie-stick flailing tourist. It was ubiquitous with death, even internationally recognized, averaging one every two years since 2000.

  Of course, we knew better than to purchase a selfie-stick, and we were no stranger to the trail, but every trail was a stranger to us so there was a reverence we knew to give it. The only way across ‘Angel’s Landing’ at this juncture was to sneak on.

  Hiking up to the first vantage point had been steep and steady and predominately without a patch of shade to lap up any of that remaining cool on our messy tongues. The scorched shrubs were selfish in that regard, for they took it all for themselves. But turning into the mountain shortly after was ‘Refrigerator Canyon’ where extended shade and water brought the fuzz out of our eyes. The coolest transition, quite literally, of any hike for the remainder of it ascended along the backside.

  Another notable locale, one of the final ones before summiting, was ‘Walter’s Wiggles’. A collection of twenty-one switchbacks held up by brick retaining walls; an optical illusion when looked at plainly, like Walter was a mid-century painter, so we adapted our necks down the rest of the way…

  

  At long last, we tasted victory atop the giants. Bushy-tailed chipmunks greeted us there and took peanuts from our hands. Delighted in the view, I gave Ashley a kiss and listened to other hikers gearing up for ‘Angel’s Landing’. The trail ahead was unguarded, vacant. I thought if I were to go, now was the time. But something in me refused and I relayed that to Ash.

  I thought it better than to sit with my fiancé and listen to other things. Things I found on the blue wind. What if life was meant to be this after all? Our displacement, our intimate suffering, we searched for a savior in status to clothe over nakedness. What if it was our job to find beauty in everything like the angels? Instead of currency at another’s expense for an insatiable number, it was a currency of praise to the one who gave us everything. Both undoubtedly infinite, yet one clung to desire and the other to refuge. What if existence was submission of that fact—through Him we could do all things.

  Then I thought to myself, “I better go home and dust off that ‘ol Bible.”

  March 9, 2026

  Angel’s Landing, Blog, Bryce Canyon, Christian, Coffee Shop Co., Derek Osinski, East Zion Adventures, Hiking, Hoodoos, Horseback Riding, Horses, Mighty Five, Mormons, Narrows, Nomadic Rag, NPS, NR, Orderville, Road Trip, Rock Stop, Romance Travel, Tourism, Travel, Travel Blog, Utah, Walter’s Wiggles, West Rim Trail, Zion

  ---

• Mt. Pleasant, SC

  What made summer romantic was knowing at any moment there could be a gleam caressing the water, someplace remote, somewhere uncanny, which corralled aloof nobodies with heavy souls, if only for a sunset, placing them in swim, folly, and serendipity.

  

  The first thing we did in Mt. Pleasant was grab breakfast sandwiches and a case of beer.

  Technically, it was two halves to one, comprised of Yuengling and Pacifico, but who the hell was counting? There was no need to count anything on the 4th of July. The low hang of the coastal sun made the purchase from Whole Foods somewhat thrilling, like I had a fake ID or something sharp in my pockets. I tore open a bag of ice that was melting fast in the parking lot and stuffed the coolers I brought full. We were back at our cheap hotel before eight ‘o clock.

  “What time is he coming here?” I asked eagerly.

  “He’s calling now,” Ashley whipped the phone to her ear but spoke indifferently into it. “Hi…Yeah, yeah we’re awake…I told you to start leaving earlier, we’ve been ready.”

  I could overhear his gruff voice in the quiet room say: “I thought you would take forever getting ready.”

  “We’re just going to the beach.”

  “Tell him we already went shopping and got beer,” I said nudging her.

  She did, in her own way, and the line fell silent so Ashley laughed to fill in the space. Pressured by our readiness he sounded louder, like he was moving around now, “Did you guys decide where you wanted to go?”

  “Well, we don’t know what’s good—you live here.”

  “—Right-right.”

  “Other than Isle of Palms.”

  “Yeah Isle of Palms is nice, there is a lot of places we can go closer to your hotel like Red’s. But I-, how long did you guys plan on staying at the beach?”

  Ashley darted her eyes at me and I said with a shrug, “Two hours…three tops.”

  We met him out front under the portico where he was practically naked, changing into his beach clothes next to a shiny new Bronco. We shook hands once he got his shirt on.

  “Hey Will, good to see you man,” I said looking up.

  “Good to see you too. How was the drive down? Hey Ashley.”

  They side-hugged and it never got less amusing to witness the difference between them. Will possessed the stature that made me feel short, but he wore it well. Unlike some lanky creatures that were uncomfortable to be around, like their height was the latest contagion from Wuhan.

  “Pretty good. A little tired this morning, but what a perfect day.”

  “Yes it is. You can nap on the beach.”

  

  We did the dreaded sand march that every beachgoer lamented over; the one that felt grueling as a child, for it was the first time, or among the very first, that the veil of leisure had been stripped away. There was no clearer picture into the shameless agony of adulthood than an awkward, sandy, metal frame of a beach chair pointedly struck into the achilles. None of us had that problem this time though, for we knew better than to drag it behind our backs.

  One by one our chairs sprawled out against the foothills of the dunes. The beach was crowded, but nothing like Point Pleasant or Seaside we’d grown accustomed to. This was a nice crowded. We cracked a couple beers and looked on in rapture. Where the crest of the waves met with the painted sky, it beckoned us to take a closer view. Will said he would sit for a while and told us to go on.

  Ashley and I meandered through the vibrant sand and umbrellas to greet the ocean. It was gentle on our feet, like bathwater, an impossible sensation we had yet to experience. As the sting of the salt was absent. I held her in my arms looking out, thinking to myself how God must’ve favored me. Like a sail, her hair caught in the wind and caressed my face. We eventually walked down the strip and admired the houses. There was a beach bar a few walkovers down from where Will was.

  “You want me to get you a Pina Colada?”

  She returned with her meek refusal that she was effortless on, which always told me she did. I met her back and she was stretched out on her towel, tanning, while Will spoke with his Dad on the phone—the tropical drink was for her alongside a cup of water meant for him.

  “Figured you’d need to hydrate,” I said.

  “Get that sh— away from me,” he quipped back.

  Having understood of my opportunistic mania, I felt compelled to face the ocean full-on. After all, summer was at its crux and what I considered of a perfect beach day had aptly materialized: mild humidity, morning UV’s, a swirling mixture of clouds, flirtatious breeze, all with the love of my life—and Will. I would’ve been foolish not to indulge with the bobbing and weaving of whatever the ocean threw at me.

  For the better part of an hour I was enveloped in the waves. Ever since I was young it fascinated me. Surely there were patterns, a natural rhythm like a metronome of the tide, held accountable by the lunar conductor. However, there were also discrepancies. A broken one would come early; a larger one would bring another shrouded in its wake. There were diagonal ripples to endlessly hurdle, and it was a suspicion of mine that these sequences were not random—but the ridges of a divine fingerprint, left behind for us to trace. Why then did it bring such profound relief as if I was home?

  Eventually I brought myself back to where my feet could touch and Ashley scolded me for going out so far.

  “I was trying to get your attention for like half an hour,” she said.

  “Sorry honey! It was my only time in the ocean and I was having fun—it’s not that late is it?”

  It ended up being around two hours we were at the beach, but to her credit, it did feel much longer. Will delighted in our return since we were eager to carry on.

  “That’s how I like the beach,” he proclaimed, with eyebrows poking above his Gucci sunglasses. “A couple hours to hang out, drink a beer, swim, and then go. Some people wanna spend the whole f—— day here. I get bored.”

  

  We regrouped at his three-bedroom bachelor pad where we showered, changed into nicer threads, and ate some gas station chicken. I putted around on the indoor green with a club more expensive than my entire outfit. The turf of which stretched from the screened-in porch through the living area where a cockeyed flatscreen streamed the Mets game Will had money on—a desperate parlay soon to be lost. It was also where we pregamed with beatboxes and beer over a drinking game called “Ride the Bus”. His brindle pitbull, Flex, much like Ophelia, was a senior dog who seemingly encouraged this destructive behavior.

  “This would be the perfect time for an a——,” Will said rubbing his eyes.

  “What are you getting tired?”

  “I’m always tired.”

  “Well Derek’s never done any of that,” my wife interjected before they were produced.

  However, this only piqued his interest more. He straightened up in his chair in sort of a dignified way and said: “What better time than at Shem’s for your first—just do a half.”

  I chuckled in the sheer mischief of it. For many other times they dangled seductively on a line, and the sales pitch always tickled me. But before I could say anything, another one came, in a well-rehearsed solicitor’s whisper.

  “Nothing’s gonna happen to you except feel amazing. The fireworks start at what time? At Patriots Point—, 8:30-9? So if we take it around 4-5 you’re not gonna get tired from all the alcohol later. When I take it, it balances everything out and then I’m social and happy—conversation is easy. You’ll be vibing about 7, quarter after.”

  There was always a lot of time keeping in that supplement culture. “I have a problem shutting the hell up when I drink,” I admitted, raising my beatbox. “This is my a——.”

  “Alright, but you better not fall asleep on me.”

  

  Parking space was limited when we arrived, as Shem’s was steadily filling out. Even the marina looked stuffy from the pier. With pairs of vessels docked on either side, it left just enough room so that ships could pass through. A tight, nearly perilous squeeze, yet I was reluctant to feel too much sympathy for them—they could float home, which was always preferable when abusing alcohol.

  Red’s Ice House carried this mentality well, like a server who carried their student loans on a drink tray; the longer they paid them off, the better off they got. Besides, there was a bloody bar every twenty feet in this dim shanty hole. I practically stumbled into my first drink trying to find the bathroom.

  We sidled along the worn floorboards, through an open doorway that left the clamped overheard ceiling behind. A gentle hint of boat fumes tickled my nose and it brought me wondrous memories of childhood fishing adventures on Lake Ontario. Will casually asked if we wanted to go to the upper deck which also had a bar. There was a modest line in front of the adjacent stairs for capacity reasons so we waited in it.

  His friend, Kenny, accompanied us also for the night. He had a kind smile, infectious at times. Well-kept dreads that styled his baseball cap higher on his head. I believed he worked for Will in a sales position.

  “I’m not much of a drinker, but when I do—it’s this.”

  He was pointing to a second pineapple vodka that could’ve easily passed as his first: “I don’t f— with whiskey, gin, Campari, any of that dry sh—. A beer is okay with the guys but-, I like to drink what the ladies are drinking!”

  A group of frat rats came down a little too slow for my liking. They kept glancing back at each other as if for reassurance, or perhaps they knew how suddenly their rat king acted on some voluntary poison. When it was finally our turn, we hiked up a few zigzags and elbowed through to the far right corner where we poked our heads up to breathe. Will didn’t have to however, as he towered over everyone, grabbing them by the back of their necks if he needed them to move. Ashley and I joked about it as he bought us another round because he didn’t have to reach up or even across to do so. Instead, his arm mindlessly fell forward like one clasped a remote to change the channel.

  “Nothin’ wrong with another short plane ride through the sky, you and I—Lost, lost in the heat of it all.” — Frank Ocean

  And as the drinks kept flowing, the more the channel changed. Fireworks were slated to begin within an hour. I saw the warship at Patriots Point resting now in orange water. Four-engine yachts piled an additional row to the harbor and if someone there wanted to come ashore they had to traverse over two other boats. Everyone was getting snug. Even the upper deck felt like we were testing capacity.

  “What are we doing for dinner—should we get oysters?” I said.

  “Kenny and I gotta piss, then we can grab food. You can’t order it up here.”

  “Should we hold this spot?”

  “Guard it with your life.”

  Fifty minutes went by and we agreed they weren’t worth much more. After all, a gaggle of Charleston blondes swallowed them whole with their rears. Ashley’s face wrinkled in contempt since our feet had been resting on the bottom rungs that we kept closely against our own. Phones were being thrown around to find an angle that didn’t include our miserable faces. If we stayed any longer we risked the likelihood of taking a shot and not the kind we had been enjoying much of the holiday.

  We frantically stepped downstairs to find them, scanning around for that shaved head to surface like some sort of dorsal fin. It was of no use. What once might’ve been a distinguishable feature in the north, a coveted one at that, had been utterly ransacked by homegrown good ‘ol boys that frequented these parts. Moreover, I recounted Ashley shouting in my ear: “What, is everyone in the south six-foot-two in a trucker hat?!”

  “Let’s beat this crowd closer to the fireworks!”

  

  I led her across the arched bridge and along the pier until the crowd thinned out past Muddy’s. It was a colorful tiki bar with distressed wooden elements, strictly by design. They had a live rock band pounding the strings and skins which drew in any remaining stragglers. Not many of them knew this, but there was a separate bar in the back that was more secluded with an excellent view.

  Dusk lit a faint glow on the marsh beneath us where the heaviness of the wind burrowed in the grass, cascading throughout it. We followed the meandering boardwalk to a sand island that started up another. Not even fifty more feet we found a cozy spot on the railing and watched the fireworks start. I looked back to the heart of Shem’s where all the twinkling lights reflected off calm water, residential homes showcased their own stash in the sky, a kiss from Ashley; it was a great day to be an American.

  As the show tapered off, we still hadn’t heard from Will or Kenny. I imagined they were pretty loaded. My stomach growled as Ash tried him one more time—no answer. I was sober enough to drive to Moe’s and eventually our hotel. We were heading back inside when Ashley noticed a grey Bronco parked with its lights on.

  “Oh my God, he’s here??”

  “That’s not his, he had a blue one,” I said assuredly.

  “No he didn’t, go over and look in the window,” she insisted.

  “I’m not doing that! What if-, it’s a stranger—it’s gonna look weird. The car is running so whoever is in there is getting ready to leave.”

  The windows were also tinted which made it impossible to see at this hour. Reluctantly, Ashley followed me back to the room and we ate burritos and passed out.

  

  When I awoke, Ashley said Will had texted her around two ‘o clock in the morning with only one word: “F—.”

  The story later came out that when they went downstairs to use the bathroom Kenny puked and refused to get off of the floor. Will was bringing him water when a pair of bouncers dragged him out of the building and onto the curb. Will ordered him an Uber and he went home where Kenny said he slept by his toilet. By the time Will returned, the line to the upper deck was too long so he decided to stay at the bottom and wait it out. A carousel of Jack and Cokes went down easy and before long he had forgotten what he was waiting for, so he downed some more.

  In a miraculous glimpse of sobriety, he placed an Uber to go home only to realize halfway through, as his stupor wavered, that his car was back at our hotel. He informed the driver of his situation but to the driver it probably sounded like he was choking on his tongue, so he dropped him off at a local Spinx—which was a gas station chain in South Carolina. There he got a different Uber that finally brought him to our hotel, got into his car and knocked out. He texted Ashley at two when his head was pounding and he drove home.

  We all reconvened at Shem’s later that afternoon. I had the bartender make a Dark and Stormy while Ashley pecked at a fresh Daiquiri. They walked over to us, slow and straight-faced, near the spot where it all happened.

  Toasting my glass I jeered the first thing that came to mind: “Once a Shem always a Shem!”

  Nobody knew what that meant, but it sounded cool.

  November 30, 2025

  4th of July, Charleston, Derek Osinski, Drinking, Fireworks, Hiking, Isle of Palms, Mt. Pleasant, Muddy’s, Nightlife, Nomadic Rag, Oysters, Patriots Point, Pitbulls, Red’s Ice House, Shem Creek, South Carolina, Tourism, Travel

  ---

• Tucson, AZ

  Friends who endured the seasons seldom took on the desert, and rightfully so, yet for the native Saguaros which thrived there, crookedly perched on the hill they jumped and waved and whispered sweet things; as we rode faster along the foothills Flamenco strings could be heard, softly, strummed out of their golden flip-book.

  

  Albuquerque was a bust.

  I had heard from several accounts that the city was underrated and often misinterpreted by mountain elitists, who of course looked down on them. Which was laughable coming from Denver, a “sanctuary city” proudly touted at the time by governor Polis, yet he was more concerned over his damn tennis shoes to have afforded any notable change. But having went through the sand-blasted tunnel myself I came to concede to their agenda, almost begrudgingly.

  It felt like a town once brimming with deep roots, traditions, and architecture diluted after some biblical flood. Like a concentrated source of culture seeped for far too long; a sustainable means to end drought season, year-in and year-out. By high-noon, when the scorched white sand baked through, the townsfolk were left scratching at their heads, wondering where the magic had gone? As it turned out, Denver had siphoned much of what they wanted into their own city, for their own gain, and whatever they didn’t found its way into Pueblo.

  One of my favorite Western dishes, Pork Green Chile, was a notable casualty there. The entire meal relied on a single chile, native to New Mexico’s “Hatch Valley”, where intense dry heat coupled with sandy loam soil produced perfection. A hearty blend of a robust, refreshing, and tangy chile that held back its spice much like Ashley at a social event—but once fully acquainted, all bets were off indeed.

  What started as an innocent leap one autumn turned into a sick obsession. I had no choice but to scour Colorado, for every which way held a listing of the soup somewhere, with the hawkish pursuit to find the very best it had to offer.

  

  Those curvy green peppers and I began seeing each other so much, in fact, to where they knew me by name; ultimately, my house, from a practical standpoint, became the rendezvous of which we’d frequent—a quiet place for us to just “be ourselves”. Away from the noise and predetermined portions. However, just as our relationship deepened into the unknown was when I uncovered the shocking truth: hatch chiles were not from Colorado.

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me that?” I asked earnestly. Dumbfounded that my emotions were played by a mere chile.

  Yet the chile said not a word, and as we crossed the Arizona border I came to reconcile my hostility towards it. For what seemed at first as a blatant lie, for the sake of only lying, turned into a product of their broken past; betrayed and abandoned by those that grew them. Poor chiles. They were delicious however, and so, I hadn’t lost much sleep over it.

  Ashley, on the other hand, was still feeling particularly hostile by the troubling news we received from Brooke earlier in the drive. That our newly rescued dog, Benjamin, had somehow gotten into the box of fire starter cubes that sat atop our bookshelf.

  “Oh my God!” Ashley exclaimed, with enough force to throw her head back. “Benny ate all of our fire starter.”

  “Great, now he has to get his stomach pumped.” I said. “How the hell did he even get up there??”

  “I don’t know. Brooke said she saw the empty box on the floor when she got home from work. Apparently it says ‘natural ingredients’.”

  It was not long after I ordered a humongous crate for him which might as well have been a twin bed. Brooke reassured Ash that she would monitor his every move in the event of abrupt illness, even overnight. It helped that Brooke was sort of nocturnal.

  We of course talked down the situation, justifying her past as a geriatric caregiver, for there was no turning back at this point in the drive. Storm clouds followed us throughout the remainder of the trip, and it was unclear whether they came from our neuroses or the tail-end of monsoon season.

  From mid-June to early Fall, the Pacific Ocean drew humidity inland—the natural remedy to desert drought, although rain totals varied widely year to year. It was also around this point that the rolling terrain shifted into a redder hue.

  Agave stalks stretched tall from their pointed leaves, flowering delicately at the ends like fingers to the sun. It was a conjoined effort to grab hold of their heat lamp and yank it closer, so that those without arms could survive. And there were more than I ever imagined. Skinny cacti feverishly sprouted from the Earth as if God took it from a greater tree we knew nothing about. Yucca plants looked like lava lamps. Barrel cacti were green pumpkins covered in spines. It was all very surreal, but nothing could’ve prepared us for the Saguaros that lurked beyond.

  

  It was around eight thirty when we reached Tucson and the sun was winding down behind the mountains. We stopped only briefly to eat something forgettable. Sometimes, extensive travel warranted garbage meals in order to fill the sentiment of greater things.

  We snaked out of town along the back roads. With every window down, warm desert air feathered across our skin. My left arm hung outside of it and I watched the hair there peel back. Great silhouettes of the Saguaros painted the orange sky, like taffy laid out in the sun. It almost felt like we were too close to them. Their posture demanded reverence despite how cockeyed some of them were. I imagined they carried the souls of the dead, like the gulls held sailors lost at sea. Even though their strong gaze felt ominous at times, they never felt like they were judging us.

  There was a metal gate to the property where our Casita was. Triangles of metal welded in the shape of mountains on the front of it. Many desert homes had pieces of recycled metal for decor. We went up the dirt road slowly and found a diagonal parking space next to a grid of livestock pens, yet there were no animals in them. I cut the lights and saw the beautiful yellow home with lime-green trim, adjacent to the ranch home where our hosts lived. Ash and I unloaded our things and I took Ophelia on a walk—carefully shining my flashlight for anything sharp on the desert floor.

  Morning came with more clouds and cacti. The town of Tucson split Saguaro National Park into two sections, East and West. Our Casita was much closer to the East division, the larger of the two, so naturally we fell into that one first. Of course, the park pass was good for seven days on either side. To fully explore them both would’ve taken those seven, but we hadn’t the luxury to saunter.

  In an interest of time, we rode along the Cactus Forest Loop—stopping for pictures to catch our breath. It was like a reunion of some sort, an overdue reunion where everybody wanted a brief and quiet moment to connect. I belly-laughed with most, got misty-eyed with a few, and I think I hugged one of them…

  

  While up close, I noticed most of the cacti had several holes scattered about their flesh. Some went deep enough as an exit-wound, to where I saw Ashley wave from the other side.

  “Hello!!”

  “Hi, honey! What do you think these are from?”

  “Bullet-holes,” her light expression dimmed.

  Perhaps a gang of Desperados fought on horseback for the territory? Popping their pistols carelessly for miles. I mentioned something about how they couldn’t have hit water if they fell out of a boat, whoever was the cause, but even sharp-shooters were lushes every now and then. However, the actual truth, which appeared to me on a sign, was because of Gila woodpeckers that built their nests out of the sun. Still a cool thought albeit less mystifying. It only became cooler once it had more time to swirl a bit in my head; even the smallest of creatures’ mark felt charming to the soul, like they related in some way.

  “Don’t you draw the Queen of Diamonds boy, she’ll beat you when she’s able. You know the Queen of Hearts is always your best bet.” — Eagles

  

  Much of the beauty in the East could be found in the West, which was not always the case. Though the Saguaros seemed to extend to greater heights on this side of the park. Where they resembled their own city that abided by laws of their own. A green metropolis with art institutes, office buildings, and modern saloons to lounge. Where all the inhabitants held no civil unrest and were confident in what they were. I imagined nature scoffed at our own concrete creations for they missed out on the very ideal they wished to embody—equivalence. Yet with any ounce of pride came only imagination…

  We celebrated Ashley’s birthday with prickly pear margaritas at a nearby Mexican joint. The rich purple fruit came from the top of the cactus, and was the perfect companion to some Reposado. I sang her a quiet birthday song, so that no one but her could hear it, and she made a wish from the complimentary flan. The food was very good, with the only surprising delight being in the tamales. Up until that point, I had never tasted a tamale that wasn’t dryer than a sandy diaper. However, this one was moist and rather flavorful.

  Later in the evening, generous rainfall peppered the top of the Casita. Causing water to pool at the base of the front door. Ashley ran to get our towels from the bathroom closet, and I laid them against the slick intrusion. Our host, Ayda, later said how appreciative she was for the care we brought to her Casita—she herself took great care, so it was only right to follow suit.

  The storm went from a downpour to a drizzle then back again to a downpour before it was done. I soaked in the hot tub with a wandering eye for the stars to come out. Ashley came too, but opted to sit outside and play around with the buttons. It was awkwardly placed near Ayda’s living room window, that shimmered off their T.V. by some gameshow. I peeked my head in and saw her husband’s feet hanging off the couch. They were still enough to have either been in a deep sleep or heavily invested in whatever cash was at stake. This was the closest we ever got to seeing them in-person.

  We were saddened to leave Casita, but there was one more stop on our itinerary before our resources felt a drought of their own—‘Petrified Forest’.

  It was Arizona’s lesser-known National Park; the one that everybody hocked their loogies on and dragged their rears across like a sick dog, the runt of the litter. However, for those that knew me well knew that I fancied the unremarkable. It became a distinct mission of mine to rope it into the trip. Little by little the GPS ticked down the mileage, yet there was nothing around us but sand and desperation. I smelled myself and it might’ve been perspiration. Ash, like the naysayers who came before, knew it all along and had wished we spent the trip’s entirety in Tucson.

  

  For the history-buffs out there, the middle-aged men in New Balance or Jared Polis, ‘Petrified Forest’ was, in fact, fossilized wood leftover from a Triassic-era rainforest that occurred over 200 million years ago on the supercontinent of Pangea. Volcanic ash and other sediment preserved it and eventually replaced the organic matter with quartz crystals. The entire park was a desolate dumping ground for these wood crystals, much too heavy to lift as a souvenir.

  We roamed the walkable trails until we had enough, which in total was about thirty minutes or so. Everything tasted the same after a while. The hidden gem in the park wouldn’t have occurred until later, towards the end of the one-way drive, where an old rusted jalopy looked in need of some attention. It was a 1932 Studebaker, sat all by itself next to a road overgrown with prairie grass, the sign read: Route 66. Amazed we stared off into oblivion feeling the rush of the wind, undoubtedly the traffic that still persisted from Chicago to L.A.

  The park finally spat us back onto the highway which took us directly to our rental north of Holbrook, a small town fifteen minutes west. I had booked a yurt in the middle of nowhere for our final night in Arizona.

  There was a noticeable shift around us, where it felt like we were being followed. The buildings progressively became more and more anemic, but not in an urban sort of way. Where brick infrastructure and right angles remained, still tangible to society. This was more of a devil’s playground in that the surrounding dwellings were constructed with scrap metal, tires, and dingy tapestry. There were no walls and there were no rules—no limitations of congenial norms.

  Ashley looked on, almost in horror, once we reached the battered street of our yurt. And on the corner was a twenty foot silver knife that belonged to an A-frame building called “Knife City”.

  “Derek, I don’t like this.”

  “It must be the local knife shop,” I said. “They probably got some great deals in there!”

  “You sound like the guy who dies first in a horror movie, justifying the obvious,” she said sharply.

  “Honey, I know it’s creepy—but we paid for—.”

  “—I don’t give a sh—! There’s like skin-walkers everywhere, I’m not gonna be here when it gets dark.”

  “Okay, let’s just check it out first since we’re right here, and we’ll see.”

  

  Needless to say we got a hotel, for upon further inspection of the yurt it looked like there was a bloodstain on the entry flap. We took a few photos and left. Though the red mud wasn’t as kind to us on the way out. I got stuck in it, rocking forward and back to try to free the front tires. Ashley went stiff as a board. Dark clouds were closing in and the temperature sunk. We prayed for momentum, and we got it with a full refund. ‘Take it Easy’ came on the shuffle, and we did.

  August 26, 2025

  Albuquerque, Blog, Cactus, Casita, Catalina Foothills, Derek Osinski, Eagles, Hatch Chiles, Hiking, Nomadic Rag, NPS, NR, Petrified Forest National Park, Pitbulls, Pork Green Chile, Prickly Pear, Road Trip, Saguaro National Park, Take It Easy, Tourism, Travel, Travel Blog, Tucson

  ---

• Estes Park, CO

  Snowshoeing was like walking the beach, except that the ocean churned on mountaintop—made only accessible to those with layers of grit and swollen feet.

  

  Our time living in Colorado was a transformative endeavor. When I first moved to the Centennial state, at age 19, I had done so without ever seeing it beforehand; moreover, it was an impulsive entry into CFS (Colorado Film School). For some reason or another, my heart burdened itself with burning fury—a great manifestation of life without my father perhaps. Such intense burning that I felt I had to prove myself to the rocks on the street. There was nothing anyone could tell me that wouldn’t face disparage. I was brash, in a crude attempt to protect myself from heartache, and I brought that way of thinking into my art. Those formative years could adequately be described as an endurance test of the soul, a cry for notoriety. Fits of desperation drove me away, far away at a sickening speed by way of cannon fire, yet the mountains snatched me from the sky where my wife was, ready with the net.

  Beneath the vast and vivid blue we pondered our own personal journeys, the strife that brooded there, and how it always led to greater understanding. Despite hailing from the East Coast, we felt a pathway to our Western ancestors; the true pioneers and outlaws who came before. Their rugged spirit clung to these peaks, and perhaps, that was the origin of their spirit entirely.

  Whatever it was remained: the endless awaited adventure comprised of equal parts craft beer and trailheads, the sensitivity surrounding animals, the thinner air which permeated the lungs—it had done something chemically to our brains. Much more, mind you, than any dispensary facilitated, although it had been in rotation from time to time.

  One of these highs came from Estes Park—the self-proclaimed gateway to the ‘Rocky Mountains’. It was our second anniversary, back before I slipped the ring on her delicate finger, where Ashley found vacancy for us in a creekside bungalow.

  Our sweet Ophelia sat this adventure out. This trip had taken place before we rescued our other dog, Benjamin, from the clutches of the ‘Dumb Friends League’ shelter—a fitting name for its furry inhabitants, yet it was later changed due to popular demand. However, in hindsight, he had been born a couple months prior to our anniversary.

  “Benny, what the hell were you doing before we saved you??” Ashley asked as he wagged his tail at her.

  “He was abandoned because he has a lot of problems.”

  Much like other rescue adopters, it brought us great amusement and wonder to envision our dog being weird elsewhere. Every now and then, we listened to Benny’s adoption voicemail left by Bill, the whimsical warden of ‘Dumb Friends’, back when he was named “Benedict Cumberbark”.

  Getting back to Estes, we were reluctant to bring Ophelia as this was meant to be a more “romantic” outing unfit for daughters. Brooke reassured us that she could wrangle Phi Phi back at our apartment flat in Denver, of which we were all on the lease. She was Ashley’s other sister, older than Morgan.

  Our window view overlooked the boulevard, adorn with vaulted ceilings and ample natural light. A grand oasis where plants thrived despite the arid climate; where we poked as many holes in our work schedules so that we could make a new discovery someplace. To this day, Ash still dreamt of waking up there with a stack of banana pancakes.

  

  ~ Recipe for 2 ~

  • 3 Ripe Bananas, mashed
  • 1 Whole Egg
  • 2 Egg Yokes
  • 1/2 to 1 Tbsp. Cinnamon (preference)
  • 2 Tbsp. Flour
  • 1 Tsp. Vanilla Extract
  • 1/2 Tsp. Nutmeg
  • 1/2 Cup of Oats
    • Pan Fry with Butter
    • Serve with Maple Syrup

  We rode northwest out of the city, stop and go—the typical city slog. Yet our patience wore thin passing ‘Mile High’ stadium, as was the sentiment with most natives during the Russell Wilson era.

  I still recounted the ad-campaign with ‘Centura Health’ that locally aired nonstop the moment they signed him. It depicted Russ as the successor to Peyton Manning, who also appeared, in a mockumentary style famously popularized by ‘The Office’. Not only that, but they plastered his face to countless billboards across town, mascarading him like some kind of “savior”. It was far too much pressure; he was sat at greater heights than the 14’er’s themselves (14,000+ft. mountains). The city of Denver failed Russ, not the other way around. Even Miles hopped on the damn bandwagon.

  The knot of cars unraveled until we hit Boulder—not “a” boulder, mind you, which was not uncommon to hear; and frankly, if heard again, it would have caused me to seek one out. No, no—the Boulder I brought up was a scenic college town filled with rich people pretending to be poor. ‘Pearl Street Mall’, one of the famous strips there, displayed a lot of this “humility”. Full of great cocktail bars and shopping, sulky street acts drew sympathetic crowds only to return, by bicycle, to their modern-mountain-mansions that overlooked the ‘Flat Irons’. Some of my favorite hiking trails meandered through those diagonal rocks though—what a shame. Everyone was wearing long pants and sandals. Dog of choice, Australian shepherd. Means of living, hedge fund. “New money”, I believe was how Ashley described it.

  At last, we descended down the pass to Estes Park, which was equally as affluent but at least they owned it. The town had a beautiful lake nestled safely within a pocket of mountains. The tallest, ‘Long’s Peak’, the only 14’er nearby, sat as the crown jewel to the blustery landscape. Colorado was home to 58 peaks over this revered benchmark, the most of any state in the country.

  Light flurries peppered off the glass, but a clearing was in sight. We didn’t see any elk initially as we had in the fall. Autumn in Estes was the best chance to see one as it was the mating period for the bulls; consequently, the town also acted as a refuge from hunters during this time. However, it wasn’t long until we spotted a row of cars peeled off onto the shoulder, cameras trained in one direction.

  “Oh my God, no way—no wayyyy!”

  “Look at all them.”

  

  Our suite had a brick fireplace in the bedroom with some wood leftover. I purchased extra upon checking in, the lobby at the resort felt how old records played. Softly at first, antiquated perhaps, but having sat with it long enough the soul hummed a familiar tune. There was a tree of ornate wind chimes for sale, and I suspected that one of the lady clerks fashioned them in her spare time. A few swayed from a blowing heat duct, and light danced in the stained glass designs. Everything had a delicate touch, contrasted overhead to thick rustic beams.

  It was nice to get away with Ashley, especially in the mountains. After all, romance was most abundant in such remote areas. What made it particularly attractive arose from the unknown. Partly within the wilderness, and the other part within ourselves. We relied on each other to be honest—a not so easy ideal when faced with the world. For within the world, romance, as we knew it, saw no place. But within the wild, it held infinite.

  We climbed a hill of snow behind our suite which lead to another. I tackled her in the valley, only because it felt like the thing to do. We flopped around a bit and threw snowballs that disintegrated mid-air. Our laughter filled the peaceful sky, and I kissed her on the forehead. Eventually, we listened for the sky to laugh back, but it never did.

  The sun was getting ready to set so we went back to the room, changed, and drove down into town. By the time we did this, it was dusk and the flurries started up again—which made the ‘Stanley Hotel’ look more formidable than usual.

  It was famously depicted as the ‘Overlook Hotel’ in the Stephen King novel, ‘The Shining’, where his wife and him stayed for a night back in 1974. Though not shown in the film adaptation, against popular belief, it served as a means of inspiration to artists and onlookers alike. Ash and I would’ve booked our stay there, but the reviews were sort of muddled.

  “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” — James Howell, Proverbs (1659)

  

  On the backside of E. Elkhorn Ave., we stumbled into Nepal’s with rosy cheeks. The cold front was pushing in and our stomachs hadn’t anything to keep us warm. It felt like we just made it to safety from an avalanche. Although the restaurant was largely vacant upon our arrival, we were cautiously optimistic on the food’s quality; the staff seemed to be family-operated by true mountain people—the Nepalese.

  It had been our first foray into the cuisine, but it resembled much of Indian. Ashley eyed their hot chai, which they all sipped on from freshly brewed pots, so we both ordered some. Our waiter was extremely cute. He enjoyed seeing young people come into what was likely his restaurant, despite the obvious language barrier. Once we tasted the hot silky tea, we knew we were in for something special. It seemed at first that the hot chai was what brought us back to warmth, but it had been the one that served it.

  Much to our delight, diners flocked in as we received our appetizers. I ordered a dozen chicken momo and Ash got their vegetable curry. The momo was simply divine. Just like any phenomenal pasta, the wanton wrappers were prepared fresh—packed full of onions, herbs, and turmeric. But what made them truly unforgettable was the rich, comforting sauce to dip.

  

  The curry held layers of flavor that prompted me to order more, but with meat this time. Our waiter grinned once he heard I wanted to try the lamb. It was served with stewed jalapeños, other peppers, and onions. I was sweating through the heat, but the tenderness alone had me shoveling it down. It was so good, in fact, that once I finished I ordered another—the only time I ever consumed two whole entrees in my life, that’s how feral it made me. He refilled our hot chai more times than a Jersey diner; he was beaming from our enjoyment.

  “Everything was so delicious, thank you again. We can’t wait ’til next time,” I said.

  He responded, almost in a whisper, “Ohhh—very happy you like it.”

  Later that night, we cozied up to the crackle of the fire and went to sleep. It was nights like these that hit us even in the moment—how great life was.

  I started a couple of logs in the morning soot, which was nature’s best alarm clock. It was a gradual awakening that drew more focus and tending as the fire grew. Once it was fully lit, so too was the lighter. Nothing quite matched the hot burn of fire against the face on a cold day.

  We ate a light breakfast and rented our snowshoes from ‘Estes Park Mountain Shop’. The longhaired millennial quickly fitted us and breezed through the paperwork.

  “‘Estes Park Mountain Shop’, its owners, employees are not responsible for bodily injury, damages, or losses sustained as a result of using the rented item/property, even if caused by the negligence of ‘Estes Park Mountain Shop’ up to and including death—sign here.”

  We looked at each other and smiled, then I said, “Sounds like a sweet deal, how many hours do we get?”

  “Oh no, you get them for the whole day—just bring them back before we close.”

  Ashley mapped a trail that looped across ‘Bierstadt Lake’, which was a popular summer spot. We were technically inside of ‘Rocky Mountain National Park’, excited to test our rentals on the fresh snow.

  

  The footprints along the way were scarce, so at times we felt aimless. Normally a path of dirt or gravel mindlessly directed the hike, but without it, the hike felt more visceral. We found ourselves questioning junctures to where we even considered turning around. Trails into the unknown were mostly a balancing act; a duality of either pushing forth or prudent retreat. Communication, weather forecasts, and necessary supplies were at the epicenter of what made a successful outing—and these things were always changing.

  However, we brushed into some fellow hikers who told us we were nearly there so we kept on. Each step felt like it came with wet concrete. Our spikes had collected and packed thick snow beneath us, but eventually we saw the clearing. The frozen lake was vast and the crosswinds had kicked up. Clouds rolled in over the mountains, ready to erase the foot-traffic of the day. We knew it was time to return our rentals.

  The remainder of our trip was spent in and around our suite where there was a hot tub. We soaked off the grueling hike, went downtown and grabbed dinner. E. Elkhorn Ave. was an amazing strip that was fun to brewery hop in the summer. But in the winter, it was best enjoyed around a mug of hot chai.

  June 12, 2025

  14er, Banana Pancakes, Bierstadt, Boulder, Colorado, Denver, Derek Osinski, Elk, Estes Park, Hiking, Humane Colorado, Jack Johnson, Long’s Peak, Nepals Cafe, Nomadic Rag, NPS, Pitbulls, Road Trip, Rockies, Rocky Mountains, Russell Wilson, snowshoe, Stephen King, The Stanley, Tourism, Travel

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