Holiday on Asphalt

By Karl Kendall

 A small family, parents Joy and Roger, and Emma the daughter are on a road-trip vacation in a motorhome, when outside of an eastern Utah town, on a lonely backroad, they come upon a body, apparently that of a bicyclist, ostensibly shot. As the authorities become dutifully involved, the three learn of t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karl Kendall
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781735906478

Book preview

Prologue

Looping and twirling where the cool sky meets the heated air rising from the desert below, two vultures are catching the convection updrafts in late summer, circling over a back road in eastern Utah. Occupied in an activity somewhere between and blending recreation and survival, they converse between each other as vultures do, at least when the group doesn’t get too large, and too competitive over some dinner spied.

For the moment, there are only these two, and they are deliberating in a friendly manner over a dark lump on the road below, and noting adjacent on the road shoulder, some complex thing, reflective and silver that itself may pose danger. Roads are good for roadkill, jibes one of the vultures, which is a corny old joke amongst vultures, at least in this part of the world.

The other vulture does the vulture equivalent of a groan and signals the intent of going down for a closer inspection. In response to her companion’s trite witticism, she was about to match it with an equally hoary, When something is edible, it is a good time to eat, but almost simultaneously they spied one of those large noisy contraptions that rush down these roads, dangerous things to get near, but ironically, and vultures appreciate irony, also providers of so many meals. However, for the moment, it was time to be prudent, lay back in the updrafts. Observe whether it was approaching or leaving, and patiently watch from far above.

Chapter 1

Blueberry Waffles

The Class C motorhome is something of an inherent compromise among inherent compromises. It is larger than the relatively nimble but crammed and cramped Class B, and yet it does not exhume the extremely confident camper-luxuriousness of the Class A, those built upon a full commercial bus chassis and saddled with the inherent lumbering nature that implies.

In nautical terms, the Class C motorhome would most equivalently be somewhere between what some would view as a daysailer and something almost but not quite defensibly deemed a yacht. Something just good enough for a couple of nights at sea, maybe if only solo or for a couple, a week in port, but perhaps not for any extended stay. Just enough to avoid being not quite enough.

This particular Class C motorhome, a Roadtripper-Holiday Deluxe model, was making its way out of a medium-to-large-size-for-the-area town, on what the non-local occupants viewed as a lonesome high desert back road. It was surprisingly well paved and well maintained, considering the dearth of traffic. At least from the occupants’ very much big-city-suburban perspective, it lacked the pot-holes, frost-heaves, and the constant maintenance needs found on every block back home.

Not marked on the simple printed road map provided by the rental company, nor indicated on any of their apps, the road topographically was along a high crest. The desert curved away in all directions toward a close and indistinct, hazy horizon. The driver suffered slightly and only intermittently from vertigo because of this effect, and occasionally the wind would buffet the broad-sided vehicle, further keeping her on her toes. Otherwise, this ambling medium-speed gait on an empty, open road should have been relaxing to drive. It wasn’t.

The driver at that moment was the mother, first name Joy, one in a family-trio consisting also of her husband, Roger, and their daughter Emma. To anyone who may have asked, they were on vacation, officially enjoying themselves in the great expanses and incredible view of America’s great West.

And if left unspoken in response to any such query, this was possibly their last vacation together, as the daughter, in her early teens, was quickly approaching the age when parents, and anything they would want to do, would be intolerable, naturally so.

The family had picked up the motorhome from the recreational vehicle rental center just two days ago after flying into Salt Lake City. The center was near the airport and provided a handy shuttle, so after picking up their luggage, the family quickly found themselves sitting in this relatively large vehicle. With air conditioner running on high and engine idling, they listened to the rental representative explain the various systems for their comfort, safety and left unsaid but ever present, the preservation of the company’s property.

He assured them they’d quickly get used to the vehicle’s size once they got out on the open road, but reminded them to at least always try to stay conscious of its height, particularly around parking garages, tree limbs, and older bridges.

Emma became aware of the precise terms potable water, grey water, and black water for the first time, and expressed her disgust to her parent’s amusement. At her current age, they were still mostly amused by anything their daughter found disgusting.

Fuel systems too were discussed, for both the engine and the kitchenette, and after a cautiously and necessarily limited tutorial of twenty minutes, the rental agent declared them Ready to go.

The father happily declared he’d take the first shift at the wheel, and that they should go into the city to see the sights. The mother reminded him if they passed a grocery store, they should stop so they could larder-up for this near-camping adventure.

Meanwhile, Emma, after quietly pondering the three potential sleeping locations, something approaching a queen bed bedroom aft, bunk over the driver’s compartment, and a convertible dinette, declared the separable bedroom in the back as hers, and insisted it only fair since her parents got the entire rest of the interior to enjoy for this grand vacation. Old people obviously didn’t care about privacy anyway.

However, she pondered a potential downside to this already compromised situation. The rear master bedroom shared a wall with the lavatory, the only lavatory. The rental agent referred to it as a wet head so God knows what that would mean. It didn’t sound good, and the question of noise isolation played in her mind. Only time would tell whether the bunk over the driver’s compartment could prove the better choice; it had curtains. It certainly was not the convertible dinette in the middle of everything.

The family found a large grocery store, the Mega-Superstore, and billed as such, after exiting off the Dwight D. Eisenhower Highway driving the short trip towards Salt Lake City’s downtown. They purchased what they estimated as several days-worth of so-deemed vacation foods and drinks, more junk and trash food than they’d ever allow themselves at home, then stowed it, as necessary, in the motorhome’s small refrigerator, and its various cabinets and holds.

Once in the heart of downtown, they found a parking space, two technically owing to the size of their vehicle, on a side street near the Salt Lake Temple. The father was mindful, perhaps overly cautious of the tree limbs overhead, taking about five minutes to park, but managed without damaging anything whatsoever.

They spent a good ninety minutes seeing the sights, before youthful impatience and boredom got the best of at least one-third of their party. It was getting hot and dusty anyway and the sun was bearing down. Annoyed, the daughter urged that this was supposed to be a big country road trip adventure, but right now she was stuck in some downtown environment.

Ultimately, they planned to end their trip with a visit to the mother’s aunt, reportedly something of an eccentric and recluse, at least according to the mother’s side of the family.

Yet the aunt lived only about three hours east of Salt Lake City and in a not terribly reclusive location. They planned to visit her last on their holiday, after doing a big loop, more of a criss-cross in reality, to see the area sights for several days before spending the last of their vacation with this lone family member.

The motorhome was the father’s idea, instead of renting a car and staying in motels, as would be typical in an ideal American road-trip scenario. After calculating vehicle rental, campground, and fuel costs compared to a regular motel, this was not particularly an economic decision, but one ostensibly of convenience, as sometimes motels would be located inconveniently, crowded, or even unavailable when desired.

His vision was at least they could always pull a motorhome over at a rest stop when desired. Absolutely left unsaid was the utility of the motorhome as a personal redoubt when staying with his wife’s aunt in her small house, maybe even just more of a cabin, even for those few last days. It was his insurance against too much eccentricity.

After leaving downtown, first they drove north, through the suburbs and along a causeway, to see the great salty lake itself. It was less but more than they imagined, with even bison on an island they had never heard of. A seemingly remote location so close to a city. Then they retreated, retraced, and headed west.

To the dumbfounding of both mother and daughter, dad just had to see the Bonneville Salt Flats, which turned out to be absolutely true to their name. The sun was low in the sky by the time they arrived, but the father was treated to some old timer on an antique motorcycle, if not trying for some absolute speed record, at least certainly making better time on the flats than would ever be attempted in a rental motorhome. Roger wouldn’t even try, but he thought about it for just a second.

They headed further west, crossing state lines and turning north; it was early evening as they approached Twin Falls. They found a campground out of the rental agency-provided directory and phoned ahead for a slot. Sorry, they were full. Same with the second and third campground they tried. Motorhome travel must be quite popular this year.

As they were about to call the fourth campground, the one with fewest stars in the directory, they were just by happenstance passing a regular motel, one of those chains with an on-the-marquee pitch of an indoor swimming pool, king-sized beds, and breakfast buffet. The vacancy sign was lit.

They stopped. They got a room with two king-sized beds, no smoking thank-you-very-much, as if that needed to be said. Just for the first night only, of course, and dinner need not be prepared as there was a well-known-nationally and highly advertised family restaurant right next door. The restaurant was still serving for at least one more hour. So simple, and particularly it was nice to leave the motion of the vehicle behind, regain one’s land-legs. Emma took a quick dip in the pool, even though it was after permitted hours, and everyone slept well.

They awoke a little later than intended. Emma went for another dip in the pool, but still managed to join her parents at the breakfast buffet. Roger would never think about cooking bacon at home, or eating so much at one sitting with his egg and toast, but they were on vacation. Joy and Emma joked about the nearby convenience of the wall mounted defibrillator as they ate their yogurt and fruit.

Leaving the desert behind, they drove into the hills and through the mountain passes, very glad not to have a Class A motorhome. At one point, Joy remarked it surprised her that more people were not honking at them to speed up. Surprising her parents, Emma granted this was nicer than traveling in the back seat of some rental car or SUV; maybe that made it all worth it.

While still in Twin Falls, they had booked ahead for a campground the next evening, just outside of Jackson, and actually drove past it around mid-day, stopping in a parking lot for a quick in-the-vehicle lunch of cold-cut sandwiches, potato chips and cola. First, before going to the campground, they’d go to the Grand Teton National Park for the afternoon, their park-pass economically allowing unlimited ingress to the parks.

Once in the park and even around the park, Joy managed in a relatively short expanse of time to take many pictures of mountains and lakes, trails full of hikers, plus bison blocking the road and even of people who said they just saw a bear being hustled into their cars by worried looking rangers.

Emma asked her mother why she was taking so many photos of almost-anything, as she described the act, and her mother responded with the questions, asking if she remembered when Emma’s grandmother would bring out the family photo album and how much fun it was. Emma, dutifully for her family station and age, responded with an appropriate if intentionally provocative Uh, no.

After doing the park in Roger’s words, they decided while the sun was still up to head for the campground. Arriving, Joy commented it wasn’t as bad as she feared, but questioned whether Emma would want to go swimming in a pool so crowded with children. Emma agreed.

So, they parked and hooked up at their reserved space, between a category A and a category B motorhome, nicely in size order, if not alphabetized. They made up the bed and bunk, leaving the convertible dinette until later, and Joy tried her hand at cooking an actual meal in the kitchenette galley. Emma elected to be first to try the shower in the wet-head, or more correctly, refused to be second or third.

Roger, engaging in classicism, took a beer out of the small refrigerator, a cheap domestic at the limit of alcohol content allowed in Utah, and a folding chair, and stepped outside to enjoy the outdoors of the parking pad at twilight.

He nodded at a neighbor, who was doing the same. Joy came out, looked around, and told him it was perhaps dumb what he was doing, asking him if he would sit in the driveway in front of the garage drinking beer at home. Then she joined him with her own beer and chair. The weather was nice but getting chilly as the sun had set completely.

So it happened, their parking pad neighbor too was named Roger. Rogers, Rogers everywhere, he replied when hearing Joy and Roger introduce themselves, as if it was a constantly recurring theme in his life. He was the owner, not simply renter, of his small Class B motorhome. It was thirty years old and still going strong according to him.

Roger Class B was a retired government worker, a widower, enjoying his retirement on the road in the summer. He mused with Roger Class C and Joy Class C about the occupants in the Class A motorhome next door, apparently two couples appearing to be in their thirties, according to Roger Class B thus, to his reckoning fairly young for such a big expensive rig.

He noted they stayed indoors after sunset, and you could see at a largish screen television through the semi-privacy curtains, at the moment with some comic-book superhero movie on the screen.

Emma, apparently watching and assessing from inside, appeared at the door to say a tentative hi to Roger Class-B, and to tell her parent that dinner was done, at least the microwave chimed. Camping at its finest with beer, sparkling water for Emma, and corned beef hash. Just like the pioneers. They asked if Roger Class B wished to join them, instead he just took a beer as a courtesy and said he had his own meal waiting back in his rig.

The family arose early. Emma, who had scored the queen bed, complained about hearing people walking around outside and talking all night, something her parents did not notice. Joy and Roger had initially tried to share the converted double-bed dinette, finally giving up with Roger climbing into the bunk over the driving area, which was actually roomier than it appeared, if a bit stuffy. Despite all that, they slept well.

After a breakfast of eggs and patty turkey-sausages, and showers for mom, then dad, the family repackaged everything, stowed incidentals, flushed and unhooked systems and prepared their yacht for blue-water travel.

Once confirming at the campground’s front office of their return that evening, they set off on the same highway again, and again north, past yesterday’s park, for the expected three or four hours to the great lodge at Yellowstone, depending on traffic.

Joy took her turn at the wheel, and commented that it was like driving a school or church bus, not that she had ever driven either. She remarked that the high driving position certainly helped to see over the guardrails, only once complaining that sometimes she’d rather not be so high as to see over the guardrails. Joy apparently had a degree of intermittent acrophobia, and at least was glad it wasn’t windy, anticipating a vehicle such as this wouldn’t handle it well.

Although they retraced much of their route traversed the day before, at roughly the estimated midway point they entered fresh territory, entering the caldera as related by Emma reading travel tips from her cell phone. The road was well trafficked, but not unduly so, including some of their fellow Class C’s and B’s, those A’s being a bit of a high-end novelty, and of course the regular traffic of trucks and cars, ubiquitous brown delivery vans and such.

All three kept agreeing the scenery was magnificent, although Joy thought it was not as dramatic as they would have guessed before entering the park. Must have been that entering the caldera thing. Finally, they pulled into the lot for the Great Lodge, found a suitable location to park, and spent lunch plus the better part of an hour inside the lodge, exploring the public access areas of this historic structure. Sometimes architecture outranked the great outdoors. They took a walking tour of the geysers, faithfully so. Emma, apparently not looking up from her phone at any point, still managed to see it all.

At after maybe the fifth or sixth geyser, maybe two hours since lunch, Roger announced he was well baked, and the trio retreated to the lodge for a break and for Joy to buy postcards. Emma claimed she took tons of pictures and would show them to her parents later.

It was very nice to settle back into the motorhome, although it took some time for the air conditioning to cool down the interior. Emma said it should be her turn to drive the motorhome, which caused her parents to give her displeasing looks. Naturally, they declined the offer, and Roger took the wheel.

Retracing their route, they returned to the campground and, in fact, got the same parking slot as the previous night. Roger Class B apparently had moved on, and his area remained vacant. The large Class A on the other side was still there; its occupants still hidden inside and the television still visibly showing some super-hero movie behind the curtains.

Joy called her aunt to let her know where they were and how, maybe, they could reach her place late in the day the next day, if they applied themselves. The map application on her phone showed a drive of just under seven hours.

The aunt responded with an adamant no, that they could not come until the day after tomorrow, and even then, not before noon. Although Joy was curious, she wouldn’t prod her aunt for more information, which she sensed wouldn’t be especially forthcoming. Certainly, the aunt did not offer more detail. She asked her aunt, since she was familiar with the area, what she recommended they do in the meantime.

The response was that they were tourists and should go touring, mentioning all the scads of parks and forests between there and her home, or even to skip on over to Colorado, concluding with a suggestion to go see the dinosaurs, although Joy didn’t immediately appreciate what she meant by that last part.

Joy scanned around at the interior of the motorhome, Emma and Roger were sitting across at the dinette, looking intently at their smart phones. She concluded that her aunt maybe had a point. They did have a motorhome and all that, and just maybe they wouldn’t have cell phone service at a more remote campground. Maybe that would be a good thing.

They spent the morning and the better part of the afternoon on the road. Joy took the first shift driving, with Roger taking over late morning when they stopped to refuel. Emma had a little too much fun talking with the teenage boy behind the counter at the convenience store. He may have been five years older than she. He already had many tattoos, some of them not so professionally done.

They lunched at a picnic turnoff, high above a river gorge. Although it was beautiful and not too hot, it was simply too windy to eat outside. Windblasts came up along the canyon and rocked the motorhome as it sat. Phone service was marginal at this location, although eventually Roger reached someone who gave recommendations on where to camp overnight, what accommodations were available, and roughly for how much.

They settled on a so-called dry camping location on the east side of the large main reservoir inside a designated recreational area. It would be quiet, they were told, and wildlife would abound, mostly pronghorns and rabbits. Emma searched pronghorn on her phone; it was a new animal to her. She didn’t seem too excited about possibly coming face to face with one. Wildlife, it turned out, was not her thing.

It turned out that night they weren’t absolutely alone at the campsite, but their few neighbors were spaced well away, and like them, they didn’t seem to be here for the socializing. There were rabbits darting about as evening approached and the sunset was the sort that the big sky country was all about. What they didn’t expect was the dark sky, the vast number of stars, and even the visibility of the Milky Way. Roger always wanted a telescope as a child.

Here, too, they slept well, Emma in her back bed, Joy’s turn for the overhead bunk, and Roger on the converted dinette. There was no report of people walking around or voices heard in the nighttime. There was a small open fire, against regulations, kept going overnight, two camping spaces over, but they were quiet, and they seemed to be cautiously tending it.

With the sun not quite clearing the horizon, Joy and Roger went for a hike in the morning dewy almost-coolness. They set off with coffee mugs in hand along a trail with a two-mile loop. This should be fun. Emma, although awakening with her parents, elected to sleep in, locking the door behind them when they set out on their sojourn.

It was a pleasant stroll along the sandy trail by the shoreline. For a minute, the bluffs on the far side of the reservoir were ablaze in orange from the morning sunlight. Rabbits, or were they hares, darted from between the sage and when their coffees was finished, the couple held hands while they walked.

They returned after about an hour, the sun well up and the temperature noticeably rising. Roger made one comment that next time they should bring along some bicycles, or e-bicycles, to extend their camping radius. Joy agreed.

Emma was still in her royal bedroom as breakfast was prepared and only roused when the coffee maker starting making rude noises. Joy had some misgivings about Emma’s recent enthusiastic adoption of coffee for one so young, but Roger always referenced how he grew up in a family where coffee was always available, a pot always on, even when he was young. It never did me any harm, he would say. Joy always thought of his hypertension when he said that.

Roger reminded Emma, and thus indirectly, too, Joy, that since they weren’t hooked up to a water supply, they should not be too luxuriant when showering. Emma assured him it wouldn’t be luxuriant regardless, so not to worry.

They plotted the next leg of their journey and decided on which things to do until noon the next day, which was when Suzie had said they could arrive.

Emma announced she was going swimming and walked down the short bluff to the water. She started tip-toeing into the water in her swimsuit, but also still in her cut-offs and beach sandals, and got as far as mid-calf before calling out something about the water. She returned to the motorhome.

It seemed the midges were bothering her; she suggested they stay some place with an indoor swimming pool. Roger happened to be on the phone but the service was very intermittent, so he wasn’t able to contact the next planned upon campground. He suggested they stay where they were until the next morning. Joy and Emma outvoted him by a two-thirds majority.

After doing a little research, Joy noted there was a national park nearby with a massive display of dinosaur fossils, so explaining the aunt’s dinosaur comments, and Joy’s inner-nerd was aching to see them. They would have to move from this campsite and only return in lieu of better options. Thoughtful Emma reminded her parents that anyway the water supply was ever dwindling, not to mention who-knows-what with the battery power, and added they needed a resupply of food that wasn’t gross.

So, they packed up again, not much required at that point, bringing in the folding chairs and cranking up the built-in side-canopy. Joy volunteer it was her turn to drive and Roger’s again to navigate as needed. The map application showed their destination was only a ninety-minute drive. They pulled onto the highway, two-lane blacktop with a single white stripe, very hypnotic at moderate cruising speeds. Not unexpectedly, the roads were nearly empty, at least by the standards of Roger and Joy’s urban mindset. They were with the dinosaurs in short order.

As a initial appraisal, this was possibly an unappreciated park in Joy’s view. She at least found the massive display of fossils fascinating. Roger and Emma dutifully followed along. At least it was air-conditioned in the main display building and out of the driving sun.

The two soon became bored and wandered out to the shuttle area, to return to the visitor’s center and main parking lot and thus the motorhome. First, they went through the park’s visitor’s area and small museum, Emma buying some postcards she thought her mother would like, while Roger used the facilities. Joy caught up to the two with the next shuttle and pointed out some of the other roads worth exploring at the park.

Emma said she