The mountains of Utah are like nothing I’d ever seen before.
Unlike the mountains of West Virginia, of Colorado, that I’d driven through, mountains that tower over you, that crowd you as you wind up and over them, the Utah mountains are on a scale I’d not seen.
Enormous, but sitting on a plain of such immensity that they are somehow seemingly diminished, the mountains of Utah are primordial beasts, gigantic craggy teeth forever reaching for the sky, forever straining out of the earth.
I was stunned into stopping and staring, over and over again, at the viewing areas Utah provides along Route 50.
It’s easy to imagine these mountains, this landscape, being the home to magical things, to mystical beings, to lonely ghosts riding on the high, thin wind.
I was mesmerized my entire time driving in Utah, even when I rolled into the flat land on the other side of the mountains. It’s a grandeur hard to describe unless experienced.
And I want to go back.
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