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Between a Rock - Reflections on Arches National Park

The desert can be an unforgiving place. Still, there are times in your life when you crave extremes. When I headed to Moab, I wanted to be between a rock and a hard place, although the cliche jars. I wanted dry stream beds and cactus as brittle as broken glass.

Perhaps I was haunted by that time when I drove back through Bakewell, so many years ago back through the Derbyshire Dales with their quaint tea rooms and honey colored stones. When you are pursued by your intrusive thoughts, you don’t want Bakewell pies. 

You don’t want meandering brooks and bridges and hordes of tourists or to wander around Chatsworth to see ladies in frilly frocks. You want sand as hard as iron and unyielding rock faces.
I wasn’t so shaken this time but there was the sad realization of the breaking of the human spirit, of something that seemed of substance but crumbled like a foundation of sand. It had been a long journey across the bone-dry ridge to a shimmering mirage. Had the last few years been so illusory …

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