As fate would have it, November of 2006 saw us all wrapped up on the great City of Angels and heading back to Colorado. I wanted to avoid Tuba City... and I know Phliffer did too. But we were also drawn there: when we broke down two years prior we were mere miles from the entrance to the Grand Canyon - a destination to which neither of us had previously traveled. Instead of spending the night on the edge of a huge mystery, we ended up passing the park gates in the cab of a flatbed tow truck, faces pressed to the window glass, on the way to Flagstaff and a Goodyear mechanic named Chilson. We could taste the depth, but we could not see it.
At any rate, they patched us up and life continued westward. Sure, eventually we got used to Los Angeles and our new lives out there, and we put that wild drive across the Southwest behind us. But planning our return route to Colorado brought everything roaring back, like a river sluicing through rock: since we were forced to head right through canyon country in order to arrive in Denver, we knew we couldn't miss another opportunity to see the grandest canyon of them all. And to do that, we'd have to hit up Tuba City.
Needless to say, we gotterdun.
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