Riding in Bear River National Park.

After waking up at 3:30 on Monday morning for Girl's Camp (here) and running full tilt for the entire week on only 4 or 5 hours of sleep each night, I was exhausted by Friday.

But come Friday The Man was ready to go riding in Wyoming with Uncle Tim and Aunt Shirsten.  And me being the glutton for punishment that I am, didn't want to miss out on the fun.

So I came home from camp, unloaded the girls' stuff from the trailer, took some girls home, unloaded my stuff and my girls' stuff at our house, and with two hours to spare I showered, repacked, and loaded up the girls to meet their dad in Wyoming and we'd meet up with Uncle Tim and Aunt Shirsten.

Running away with The Man is one of my very favorite things to do.  Even if it is just to Evanston.

We bummed around Evanston by our twosome for the evening, doing nothing in particular but enjoying the conversation and being out together.  I'd missed him while I was at camp.

The next morning dawned and we headed over to where Uncle Tim and Aunt Shirsten were staying with friends, and then we headed to Bear River National Park for some riding.

This is honestly what I think of when I think of Wyoming, and it cracked me up when it happened on our way to find the trails.

We found the spot we wanted to ride in and Shirsten mentions that as they had been riding yesterday it was cold and threatened rain all day, but it didn't ever storm.

Which opened up joking about Joe's Valley (here) and knocking on wood that we wouldn't get caught in another storm.

And the gray clouds hovered, and it was a bit cold.  But then the sun would come out in a glorious burst and warm us up, only to cycle back to gray clouds and cold.

We stopped at a creek for a picnic lunch (Shirsten always packs the best food) and we watched a shepherd trying to round up some stray lambs near us.

And then it hit.

The gray clouds burst open in a quick rain and then a hard hail.

And we scrambled to pack up the food in the weather.

And we started racing back to the trucks while being pelted by marble sized hail.

 

I'm hoping this doesn't become a habit while riding with Tim and Shirst, but looking at the budding track record, I think I need to stuff some rain ponchos in the glove box.

Return to Moab.

I'm back from a blog sabbatical.

Sometimes there's just too much going on and things need to be set aside for moment.

Now that that's been said and done, it's time to catch up.

But isn't that the way it is for all families?

A few weekends ago The Man and I ran away to Moab.

The Man loves toys with engines, and he's pretty good at riding those toys.

When you live with The Man you have to put up with trips that involve these toys.

But when you live with me you have to put up with, "Hold on!  That's so cool and I need a picture!"

Combine those two and you get a blog with picture overload. 68 to be exact and you better believe that's after I cut a whole bunch out.

Two stories before I begin throwing pictures at you:

Our first morning we decided to head into town for breakfast because if it's one thing we love to do it's a breakfast date.  We were still waiting for Uncle Tim and Aunt Shirsten to pull in (best camping/riding buddies ever) and were in no particular hurry so The Man meandered to the end of Baby Lion's Back and found the worlds largest mud puddle.

See how deep we're getting into it?

And then suddenly the water starts rushing into the floor boards.

Which was kind of funny at first but then I realized that my purse was on the floor, and that it was now starting to float, and the water was fast approaching the height of my seat.

In the razor rebuild West installed harness seatbelts instead of regular seatbelts.  You know, the kind that go over both shoulders and attach across the chest.  So when I noticed my purse was starting to swim I jerked forward to grab it out of the water, but couldn't move.  My body jammed against the firm hold of the harness and I was getting no where fast.

I'm frantically telling West to back up and scrambling to grab my floating purse with my feet to lift it up to where I could reach it with my hands.

But tell you what, the view on top of Baby Lion's Back is pretty cool.  Even if it is little.

On another day West was flying down a sand whoop trail.  You know, the trail that rolls up and down... and your man is hitting the gas hoping to catch air when you come back up...

Maybe that's just my man, but I really don't think so.  Some of you ladies out there know what I'm talking about.

A bit like this...  but our whoops were a bit bigger

{pic source}

So we're flying down this whoop trail that's soft sand.

And we come down whoop and hit the bottom before going up another whoop when suddenly all I can see is sand.  Just nothing but sand coming straight at me.

It's like someone took a large shovel full of sand and just tossed the whole scoop straight into my face.

When we came down the whoop the front bumper dug into the sand and lifted a giant scoop up into the air, which we then drove into.

The Man thought it was funny.

Until he looked over at me and saw the expression on my face.

He couldn't tell if I was disgusted or mad, but either way he hit the brakes and came to a stop with a "sorry baby."

Guys, the sand was everywhere.

It was caked to the inside of my sunglasses lenses.  It was in my ears and you could build a sandcastle with the amount of sand that was caked in my hair.

My teeth were gritty and the inside of my nose was gooped with it.

It was down my shirt, and covering my lap.

Just for the record, I opted to laugh it off.

But I was a bit disgusted.

Also, when I take pictures, I like to take them from behind The Man when he doesn't know I'm doing it.

Otherwise I get pictures like this:

After our ride on Metal Masher and our side stop on Gemini Bridges, we were headed back to the truck and trailer when we came across a cyclist with a broken pedal.

"How much farther?" He called.

He'd just moved to Colorado from the east coast and it was his first time visiting Moab.

"A few miles still."

He visibly slumped.

So we loaded his bike on the roof of the razor and he climbed up on back for a lift to his car.  He'd lost his buddy somewhere a long the way and he had all the water so he was hoping his friend was okay.

We found that friend a couple miles down the road.  He was red and exhausted.  We gave him a gatorade and our passenger, Kevin, promised to come back and get him with the truck.

Turns out his truck wasn't at the parking lot at the trailhead, but 10 miles down the highway at the outskirts of town where they had started.

Pay it forward, Kevin.  We've had help when we've needed it.  Help others when you can.

The Man had two goals on this trip.

To conquer Mickey's Hot Tub and The Elevator.

He accomplished both.  (But not without me boldly declaring "let me out!" before he tried each one).

Mickey's Hot Tub:

The Escalator:

I do love this man.

West and Aunt Shirsten

We stopped for shakes in honor of Grandpa Dick who 1. loves shakes and 2. Milt being a family name through him.

Uncle Tim