Letter from Utah (Still in the Works.)

I'm still working on my 'Letter from Utah.' Turns out, it's really difficult. One can only write how beautiful the formations are over and over, before nothing means anything anymore. I'll keep working on it, and post it here when it's done. For now, here's the opening:

My anxiety was focused on whether I had the correct equipment. I become obsessed with specialized gear, reading website reviews, and browsing hiker’s message boards looking for answers, advice, warnings. What kind of shoes? “Light hiking, or just for wear?” asks the salesman. “As for clothes,” he continues, “get layers with good wicking properties.” A list of items tumbles out of his mouth, and I listen, try things on, and come away with nothing. Should I get pants that could zip off into shorts? Will there be hotel rooms? Will everything covered in snow? “Oh,” someone says, “start thinking about getting a vehicle that can take the mountains.”

My boyfriend and I are headed to Utah for a week, to hike, drive, see the earth. A friend emails to ask why. “I need to see the horizon all around me,” I write.

The man sitting next to me on the plane pulls the Sky Magazine from the seat pocket and begins the crossword. “Group effort, guys,” he says. He passes the crinkled pages across the seats. “Group effort,” he repeats. I want him to go away. “Hiking? For a week?” He takes in the information, then says to Kip: “You must not be married. Your wife certainly wouldn’t let you go hiking for a week with your buddy.” I wonder if this is the sort of reaction get all over Utah. Will people recognize us as lovers? I avoid all questions about what I do for a living. Kip, ever kind, ever even, has to talk briefly about children’s toys and television programming. “I build houses,” says Brain-Dead. “I take houses that have been converted into multi-family two-bedrooms and convert them back into single family townhomes. You know, luxury living.” New York City is facing a catastrophic affordable housing crisis, and here is this guy, who doesn’t even live in New York—he lives with his family in California and commutes back and forth—housing rich people on the Upper East Side. He keeps talking. I thumb through the seat pocket, to make sure there’s a barf bag.