Let me just start by saying that I have too much of it. My constant need to look like I know what I’m doing, even when I haven’t the foggiest idea, is laughable. I just wandered around a fairly simple campground trying to pay someone for my night’s stay, but got lost, within two acres, several times. I’ve pulled into gas stations like I own the place and some guy will scream out, “That’s the diesel pump!” It wouldn’t have been a big deal if I weren’t in this stupid, stupid, but really cool, van. I try and think where it comes from and I have to put it squarely at my mother’s feet. I remember as a child that she put on the most wonderful parties, winter or summer. In winter, cross-country skiers were supplied with skies, poles, the works, and wine and cheese chilling in the snow banks upon their return. When there wasn’t much else to celebrate, like April Fool’s Day, she threw a party that was in opposite land, but not really. Her Hors d’oeuvres looked like dessert, petit fours, but hotdog tasting, and she ended with a dessert that looked like the main course, but was really a sweet. It’s all about presentation.

So here I am in the most foreign of universes: the landscape, the people, the lodgings, and I whip out my prosciutto in a declaration that I have this covered. I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t even have a melon baller. When I drive through some of the most barren, yet awe-inspiring, landscapes I am left in a bit of a panic attack at the enormity of it all (though the stars at night have cured me of this nicely). Since I’ve written last, I have traveled through Idaho and the Craters of the Moon, Yellowstone, back down through Wyoming and Antelope Flats into Utah and the Flaming Gorge, all of which have left me dumbfounded and scrambling for adjectives. Every corner I turn there is a new wonder and, I don’t have this—none of it. I can pretend forever, but two-thirds of the way into my trip, I need to understand that life is big, it’s fucking huge. And I need to slow down and take bite-sized chunks or I will be overwhelmed or, worse, miss out on all of the incredible beauty that surrounds me.

So, here I sit trying to eat the rice and beans I just cooked on my Coleman stove—completely burned to a crisp while I typed at my laptop. Still, it tastes pretty darned good. Add a dash of this resplendent Utah sunset, and it might well be the best meal I’ve ever had.