Climbing at the Echo Rest Area

Ten PM EST brought us to the Echo Rest Area on Route 80 in Echo, Utah.  Evening light softened the landscape in this pocket between the hills.  The Trucker parked on the edge of the lot, facing a small hill with a narrow path leading to the top.  Could we climb it to see what is on the other side?  He didn't think so.

This night, the Passenger retired to the upper bunk for a bit of reading and study before lights out. Sliding the upper windows open and feeling the cool breeze brush her face was a pleasant way to drift off.  During chill predawn hours, when the thermometer dropped to 40 degrees, the Trucker flipped the heat switch.  While he was comfortably roasting down below, on the upper oven rack the Passenger was broiling, and those little windows were a blessing.  Now what might happen, when the warm air from below collides with the cold air from above?  No thunderstorms here, unless one counts laughter, a rare occurrence, but the more precious for that.

The facilities were welcome n the morning, though brushing one's teeth with no available paper towels, and only an air dryer on the wall was rather tricky.  Add to that the water faucet whose sensor  was confused, causing water to gush out every minute on the minute, whether or not soapy hands were waiting.

The walkway outside held a plaque which educated readers on the construction of Route 80, the Dwight D. Eisenhower Highway.  It seems we have President Eisenhower to thank for initiating the plan for a nationwide road system.  As a young man in the military in 1919, he was part of a convoy that traveled from Washington, DC, to San Francisco, CA.  That trip took 62 days.

An idea was born.  And in 1956, the soldier turned President signed a bill to set in motion the building of a network of highways to knit this nation together.

Back in the truck, at 8AM EST, day was breaking.  The Passenger was still intrigued by that uphill path.  The Trucker suggested the paved path instead, and was willing for his Passenger to become a Disruption, for a few minutes. Phone with camera in hand, I start up the path, then pause by the curious holes along it.  Gophers??  Maybe.  Snakes??  Hope not.  Further on, more holes.  Front doors, back doors, air vents, some neatly packed, some with signs of recent excavation.

At the top, I meet a trucker in flip flops and gym shorts.  He greets me with a smile.

"Good Morning Ma'am."  Gotta be from the south.  No respect like that elsewhere.
"Where y'all from?"
"Pennsylvania, Sir," I replied with a grin.  This is catching!
Turns out he was from Georgia, and "We don't got no views like this down there!"

Photo by Michael Grass

Together we appreciated the view, red/orange, wind-carved hills, and the canyon below, through which railroad tracks ran.  As he turned to leave, with a wish for our safe travels, he pointed to a second path that led upward to our right.  "Y'all might want to try that one, Ma'am!"

Yes, I would.  "Further up, and further in!" as the Lion said.  Trotting up the steeply curving sidewalk, heart rate accelerating, I come round to the top, and learn what that white object is, that we saw glowing in the moonlight in the night.

Looking back down the path.

First, a paved area, with a bench, a glorious view in all directions.  Mountains, canyons, sky, glowing red, orange, gold, in the sunrise.  No words came to mind, but - "The hand of the LORD has done this!"  Down below, the row of trucks slumbering in the lot looked like my sons' matchbox toy collection.  In every direction a view that defied description.  Did I check out the possibility of an echo in Echo, Utah?

No, this was a time to be silent.  It was a time for silent worship in the still morning.  Not for the first time, gratitude overwhelmed me, and I was bereft of words.  The Psalmist said it for me,

I will lift mine eyes unto the hills.

Where does my help come from?

My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.

And if my help comes from Him, I need no more,

And behind the bench, a life size  statue of an ox, and behind it  a real, original, covered wagon.  With warnings not to climb, sit, or stand on the structure.  Though quite weathered, it was in surprisingly good condition.  The white canvas cover is what we saw reflecting last night's moon.  Wishing for a tape measure while tiptoeing around with camera in hand, I was in awe again of those who packed up family and possessions to make a cross country trip.  With no roads or amenities.  There was less room in that wagon than in the Trucker's bunk. 

Wikipedia says the average Conestoga wagon was 18 feet long,

11 feet long, and 4 feet wide.  Looked right for this one.

My head came up to just below the H.

A bit rusty on the gears, and the caulking 

between the boards is gone.

The canvas and ropes looked nearly

new, except for a few holes worn

on the lower left side in back.

Littering, even here at an historical landmark.

And the high seat was a tad askew.

Then, down the steep, curving, path.  Back to the paved lot, and back to the green Kenworth and the patient Trucker.  Back to the highway, through the canyons toward Salt Lake, with the sun rising behind us.