Weaving, winding, carving deep through snow-capped mountains, Utah summits grasping weakly to what still remains of winter. The Douglas firs fall down in breakneck order, the empty streets feel like the backdrop from some movie. I stop for gas outside Park City and the attendant can’t believe that I’m an “actual New Yorker.” I think better of explaining I identify much more with Philadelphia and continue driving south along the interstate. It is twilight when I break the plane of northwest Arizona. Looking off toward my left I am reminded of the final stanza from Bob Dylan’s “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie”:
You can either go to the church of your choice,
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital.
You’ll find God in the church of your choice,
You’ll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital.
And though it’s only my opinion,
I may be right or wrong,
You’ll find them both,
In the Grand Canyon