The Dirtbag Database

VII. The Road To Zion 

September 26th, 2024 – Missoula, MT

I left Missoula mid-morning, Autumn waving from her porch, wrapped in the golden glow of late September. Caught one last glimpse of her through the rearview mirror, her hair loose, a hopeful smile etched on her face, the old sun-faded porch beneath her bare feet. Wanted to freeze the moment. To stay. But the road was calling, and I wasn’t the kind of man who could stay still for long, not yet.

Southbound, the miles began to blur. Passed through Bozeman where I spent the night, restless in the college dormitory of an old friend, replaying everything I was already beginning to miss, her laugh, the smell of pancakes in the morning, the way her arms felt like home.

September 27th, 2024 – Yellowstone National Park

The next day, I rose with the sun and entered Yellowstone through the north. Herds of bison grazed along the roadside, waterfalls crashed into ancient canyons, steam hissed from the ground like some sacred breath of the Earth. It was beautiful, undeniably, but even surrounded by that grandeur, a quiet ache lingered. Moving forward, but my heart was trailing somewhere behind.

By dusk, I reached the Tetons, where jagged peaks tore through the horizon like a cathedral to the sky. Parked facing the range, cooked dinner from the campground, and watched the sun melt behind the mountains. That night, the stars burned bright, bright in a way I could never forget.

September 28th, 2024 – On the Road

The following morning, I headed south toward Jackson Hole, the road winding like a ribbon through golden acres of ranchland. Debated my route cut east to Colorado or keep heading south into Utah. Followed a hunch, an impulse. Utah was pulling at me, and I’ve learned not to question those pulls.

Hours later, I crested the Wasatch Range and descended into Salt Lake City. Nearing the downtown park, the sound of drums and laughter drew my attention. Pulled over. A patchwork band of hippies, musicians, and strangers danced barefoot in the grass. Smoke hung low in the autumn air, and the rhythm of a fifteen-piece jam band shook the trees.

“Why not?” I whispered, stepping into the mix.

I danced. I laughed. Passed a joint with a stranger who called himself Coyote. Time stopped for a little while.

That night I didn’t know where to sleep, so I drove west until the lights disappeared. Found a quiet stretch of beach along the Great Salt Lake, parked by the water, and fell asleep to the sound of silence. 

September 29th, 2024 – The Great Salt Lake

When I woke, the lake was a mirror. Still. Infinite. It felt holy. Later that morning, I drove to the Bonneville Salt Flats. Cranked the stereo and rolled out across the endless white. Crystals crunched beneath my tires. Floored it, wind tearing through the open window, the bandana around my neck flapping wildly. Hanging out the side, I screamed into the nothing. Weightless, infinite, freedom in its truest form.

After that flight, I looped back to Salt Lake and then made the long, dusty drive south to Moab. Took a narrow canyon road deep into red rock country, past petroglyphs and crumbling ruins, signs of those who’d walked here long before me. That night I built a fire alone in the canyon. Flames danced off the ancient walls, and I let myself feel the solitude. Not the kind that aches, but the kind that lets you know you’re alive.

October 1st, 2024 – October 7th, 2024 – On The Road

From there I drifted east to Aspen, Colorado, wandering the quiet serenity of the John Denver Memorial Garden. Peaceful. Reflective. I understood, finally, the songs he wrote. I was living them now.

I crossed the Continental Divide at dawn, thin mountain air filling my lungs as I paused at the pass. Watched the shadows of the Rockies stretch to the west and knew I was getting closer to something, though I still didn’t know what.

On the descent, I stopped in a small mining town named Argonaut. A woman in the coffee shop told me how water had flooded the mines years ago, ending an era. I sipped a latte, dipped in the cold river, and watched the wind rattle old windowpanes. That night, I slept beneath the stars, the ghosts of miners in the hills above.

Golden came next. Stayed with a friend from high school attending college in the small Rocky Mountain town, and wandered the vibrant streets while he was in class. 

Then south to Pikes Peak, where I pushed my truck to 14,000 feet. The Rockies stretched endlessly, a living map of everything I had left behind, and everything still to come.

In Pagosa Springs, I soaked in hot pools by the river. The October sun warmed my skin, steam curling into the blue sky. A man with a man bun passed a joint my way. We talked for hours, about nothing and everything, coffee, music, fear, freedom. It felt like dirtbag church.

The next morning, I drove into New Mexico. The land was dry, empty, strange. Passed abandoned outposts, crossed winding dirt roads, and eventually found myself in Monument Valley. That night, I shared my fire with a stray dog and watched the red towers rise around us like stone gods. Smoked an herbal cigarette from the reservation and stared up at the blanket of diamonds. Felt something shift. A page turning. A new chapter beginning.

October 8th, 2024 – Zion National Park

The next morning, I hit the road one final time. The drive into Zion was magic. Sunlight spilled between sandstone giants, and the long tunnel carved into the mountain opened into a view that took my breath away. Zion Canyon. It was more than beautiful, it felt destined.

At the base, I punched in the gate code from my employment email. The private road snaked toward the lodge, closed to all but workers and tour buses. The Virgin River shimmered beside me, Angel’s Landing towering in the distance like a monument to the divine.

I parked. I stepped out. I smiled.

I had made it.

My road to Zion was complete.

VIII. Where the Misfits Fit

October 8th, 2024 – Zion National Park

I checked into Zion and filled out the usual paperwork. They handed me a room key, gave a few directions, and left me to it. I unpacked the trunk of my truck and tried to settle into my new quarters, a cramped, stale room in the old bunkhouse. The air inside was thick with the scent of dust and mold. My mattress sagged in the middle like it had hosted decades of worn-out wanderers before me.

I wandered down the hallway into the common room. A few cracked leather couches sat slumped against the walls, cushions tired and lopsided like they’d given up trying to hold form. Beyond that was the patio, two weathered wooden benches surrounded by a mess of cigarette butts scattered like breadcrumbs from someone else’s long night.

No one was around. It was the middle of the day, so I figured most folks were on shift. I made my way toward the main lodge, where the mess hall sat, and where I’d be working for the next few months.

As I stepped outside, the canyon swallowed me whole. Towering walls of Navajo sandstone stretched thousands of feet into the sky, layers stacked like stories of ancient time, each one glowing warm under the sun. I let out a small chuckle. I’d lived in some pretty wild places before, but between two monoliths of fire-red rock in a national park? This was something else entirely.

The lodge itself showed its age in all the best ways; classic, weather-worn architecture, solid wood beams, and a front lawn so green it felt surreal against the desert hues. Families sprawled out on picnic blankets while deer grazed lazily among them, undisturbed and perfectly at peace.

I sat down on a bench at the edge of the grass and let my eyes drift up the canyon walls. From the cottonwoods lining the Virgin River to the towering peaks that kissed the clouds, it was hard to believe this would be home. I could see Angels Landing rising in the distance like a giant’s spine, and I knew The Narrows lay just beyond that, waiting.

I was eager to see what life in the canyon might bring, but my mind was still anchored to sleepy Missoula mornings with Autumn, her smile, her touch, the serenity she carried. I could picture it so easily: moving there, enrolling at the college, building a simple, steady life with her. But I knew I had to let that vision go, at least for now. I pulled out my phone and called her. She answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” I began, my voice already heavier than I’d planned. “I miss you terribly… but I need to put some distance between us. If I keep selling myself on the idea that I’ll see you again, making promises I’m not sure I can keep, things will turn sour.”

On the other end, I heard her breathing, shaky and uneven, each exhale cutting into me.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I hope you can understand.”

A pause, then her soft reply: “I do… I’ll miss you, that’s all.”

“I’ll miss you too,” I promised. I thought of all the peace she brought me, how I’d never met anyone quite like her, but the right words refused to come.

“Take care of yourself, Autumn. I love you,” I finally said.

More shaky breaths, then her voice, choked but certain, “I will. And you better do the same, Matt. I love you too.”

The line went quiet. I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, the weight of the call settling over me like the canyon walls themselves.

I sat there until the sun dipped below the cliffs and the canyon filled with shadow. It was early still, but the falling light made it feel like night. I walked over to the cafeteria, which smelled exactly how you’d expect a desert park mess hall to smell, not good, not bad, just… institutional.

Inside, a handful of coworkers were gathered around long tables, eating and chatting. I grabbed a plate of gumbo and rice, tonight’s special, and took a seat near the edge. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I started eating. I cleaned my plate and went back for seconds, grateful for something warm.

After dinner, I stepped back outside. The lawn was dark now, a soft desert breeze threading through the cottonwoods. Sitting beneath one of them was a young woman I’d seen earlier in the mess hall. I walked over and introduced myself.

She told me a bit about herself; where she was from, how she ended up in Zion. She said the job had its ups and downs but that the people made it worth it. “If you want to meet everyone,” she told me, “you’ll find them hanging out on the porch outside the dorm.”

I thanked her, told her I’d see her around, and started back the way I came. Something about the moment struck me, the stillness of the canyon, the hush of new beginnings. Zion felt like a turning point, a place I was meant to be.

Approaching the dorms, I heard laughter and caught a cloud of smoke drifting in the porch light, that warm amber hue that made every face look like a ghost from some half-remembered dream. I climbed the steps and felt their eyes on me. Not hostile. Not exactly curious either. Just that indifferent, seasoned look, the kind of gaze you get after you’ve watched a hundred new arrivals come and go. The kind of gaze that’s been the new kid, too.

At the top, I tipped my hat.

“Hey, new guy,” someone called. “Pull up a chair.”

Leaning up against the railing, I found a stack of beat-up camp chairs, sun-faded, stained with coffee and God knows what else. I dragged one over and joined the circle.

Introductions went around like a bottle. I caught half the names, the rest would come with time. And they would come. This wasn’t a crowd you brushed past. This was my new family.

They were all some version of me, burned out, blown in, or just plain curious. Nobody ends up working for minimum wage in the desert unless they’re running from something, or trying to find something worth staying for. We were housekeepers, servers, line cooks, front desk attendants. Holding degrees never used or dreams we hadn’t fully let go of. Some of us had left relationships. Others left cities. Some just caught a westbound wind and didn’t ask questions.

Someone passed me a cigarette. Then offered me a pull from a bottle of brown liquor.

“Where you from?” a voice asked from the shadows.

“And what brought you to Zion?”

The first question was easy. The second made me pause.

What had brought me here?

I flicked the lighter, took a drag, and let the silence stretch for just a second longer than polite.

“Needed a change,” I said. “The road just kind of led here.”

The guy nodded, his hoodie casting a shadow over his eyes. “That’s the only kind of answer that makes sense around here.”

As I listened to the conversation late past midnight, I noticed eyes, everyone’s told a story. Everyone’s eyes held a different map.

Some were weathered, like old trail signs on backcountry roads, pointing to lives lived hard and fast. You could see miles behind them: the heartbreaks, the addiction, the nights they almost didn’t make it home. Others had the dull weight of fatigue, not from one long night, but from years of compromise. The eyes of people who had tried to fit into a world that didn’t quite have a place for them, tired of the city, tired of the grind, tired of love that turned to dust.

And then there were the bright ones. Eyes still wide with wonder. New to the park. New to this life. They scanned the faces around the circle like they were looking for proof that magic still existed, or at least that this wasn’t all just another dead end. You could see the light catching in them, reflecting the canyon walls even in the dark, like they were still falling in love with everything, the desert air, the feeling of being untethered, the kind of freedom that doesn’t show up on a map. The eyes of dreamers, black cats, and runaways.

As I listened, I learned more about what life in the park would be like, and it sure wasn’t glamorous. The pay sucked, the work was dirty, the showers barely ran hot, but I knew there was something sacred in it. Something raw and untamed. We were misfits, sure, but the canyon didn’t care. It held all of us the same, the broken, the lost, the idealistic, the reckless, and in doing so, it gave us room to breathe again.

IX. Paths Crossed 

Even as life in Zion settled in, a part of me still felt tethered to Missoula. In quiet moments, thoughts of Autumn came, her smile, her touch, the serenity she carried. But something unshakable whispered: Not yet. Not here.

There’s a legend deep in Zion’s red rock canyon, of an angel standing at the edge of the cliffs, welcoming weary travelers with grace.

Nearly two weeks in the canyon, learning how life moved between towering walls. By day, working the café’s greasy grill, wiping down sticky counters, keeping the stream of tourists fed. By night, gathering with the misfits, servers, dishwashers, vagabonds, seekers, on the porch beneath stars, sharing cheap liquor and stories from the road. Zion had a way of drawing us all in: those on the run, those chasing something, those who had no clue which they were.

I was ready for an adventure, I remembered, a quiet digital connection lingering on the edges of my life. Her name was Dani. We’d followed each other online for a while, trading glances through screens. Wanted to meet her for some time. Knew she lived in Northern Arizona, figured now was as good a time as ever. I finally sent a message: Wanna go on an adventure? Told her I’d been living in Zion for a little while and would be here for the foreseeable future. She replied later that day, Let’s meet in the middle. Horseshoe Bend. Friday. 8am. Be there or be square. I Liked that, no questions, no second-guessing.

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October 18th, 2024 – Page, AZ

Before sunrise, hit the road, winding out of Zion’s red cathedral and racing south toward the Arizona desert. As the sun cracked open the sky, light spilled over empty roads and vast desolate plains. To some, a wasteland. To me, freedom. Buzzing,  not with nerves, but the electric hum when fate shifts in your chest.

I pulled into the lot at Horseshoe Bend and walked to the overlook. The Colorado River carved a perfect U through the earth, the canyon glowing a sandstone hue of gold beneath the October sky. Stood there in my dad’s old Carhartt, breath clouding in the crisp air, when footsteps sounded behind.

I turned. Reddish-blonde hair slipped out from beneath a hoodie. Then her eyes, gray-blue and stormy, flickering like lightning across a desert plain. I smiled. “Hey Dani. Good to finally meet you.”

She grinned back, cool and easy. “Likewise.”

Leaning on the rail overlooking the river, the kind of view that makes anything feel sacred, talking like we’d known each other for years. She carried a calm confidence, someone who didn’t need to prove anything, just show up and be. After that brief chat, she said, “Come on. I’ve got something to show you.”

Followed her north to the edge of Page, Arizona. She pulled into an empty lot behind an old general store, gave me that look, trust me, and sprinted up a sandy trail. I Slammed my truck door and ran after her, laughing.

At the top of the hill, she turned. “Check it out.”

Before us sat a massive sandstone formation, an open cave shaped like an amphitheater, carved by time and wind. We ran down to it, sand kicked up behind our steps, we sat beneath the arch. The space felt divine. The way our voices echoed, the way light hit her hair, it was like sitting in a cathedral carved by nature itself.

We talked deeper now. I asked about her roots, where she grew up. That’s when she hit me with it: “I thought you knew… I’m from where you are. Back in California.”

She named my hometown. Knew my friends. Knew the very hills I ran through as a kid. Somehow we hadn’t met until now, we laughed at the impossibility of it, the smallness of the world. But part of me didn’t feel surprised.

Looking at her beneath that red rock arch, something clicked into place. I remembered the tarot reading in Missoula, rain pattering at the café windows, cards splayed on purple velvet. The reader warned: You’ll have to choose. A path that feels safe… or the one that feels like destiny.

Was this her? Sitting right in front of me. With eyes like desert lightning and a voice that echoed against sandstone. Didn’t know what this was yet. But it felt more than coincidence, and it sure didn’t feel like a choice.

Running back down to the cars, she hopped into the passenger seat of my truck. I Looked over and said,

“Pick a direction.”

She pointed east with a sly smile.

“Roger that,” I grinned, cranking the wheel and pulling onto the next open road.

We drove deeper into rural Arizona,  just desert, tumbleweeds, and sky. Endless sky.

The kind of place where time evaporates.

Wandered down long-forgotten ranch roads, explored broken bones of old gas stations long abandoned, rusted relics from another era. Conversation flowed effortlessly. Dani was fascinating. The more she shared, the more I sensed there was buried deeper still. Her big eyes held secrets, not the kind she’d give away easily, not the kind I could ignore. Didn’t want easy answers. I wanted to earn the story behind her gaze.

As the sun dipped to the horizon, we found ourselves west of Page, chasing fading light toward the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Storm clouds rolled in, low and brooding, and the first raindrops began to fall. Not sure how late we’d be out, decided to grab her car and caravan the rest of the way. I led, with her headlights glowing steady behind, cutting through the desert gloom. The vermilion cliffs rose to our right, a brooding red beneath the darkening sky.

Then, we began to climb.

The road wound into higher elevation. Watched the outside temperature drop on the dash, 46… 45… 44. Rain turned to sleet, then thick flakes of snow. Patches gathered at the road’s edge, then began to cover the pavement. Flicked wipers to high, squinting through the blur. Trees rose like ghosts from the roadside, and soon, nothing was visible behind but white haze and her twin beams.

I pulled over.

A moment later, she was at the door, hopping back into the passenger seat. We both knew my tires had better tread.

Kept climbing, deeper into snowy silence. Spotted a forest road and turned, tires skidding as I gunned the gas to keep from sliding into the trees. She laughed, a wild, fearless laugh, and gave a look that made me forget the danger altogether. A short way down the road, it appeared like a dream: an old fire watchtower rising eighty feet into the sky.

Threw on layers in the cab, then bolted through the snow to the base of the tower. The steps were slick, rails biting at our fingers, but climbed fast, adrenaline warming us. At the top, we stood inside a swirling vortex of snow, the wind circling like a spell cast by the mountain itself.

I turned to her, and time cracked open.

She looked like something out of legend. Skin glowing against the stormlight, hair that soft sandstone hue, eyes,  those impossible, storm-colored eyes, stopped me cold.

Everything paused.

The snow. The wind. My breath.

All that was felt was the space between us, electric.

Then, she leaned in and kissed me.

The kind of kiss that sears itself into memory. Can still feel it. Still taste the cold on her lips and the warmth beneath it. When she pulled away, there were no words. None needed.

Finally, I broke the silence with a breathless chuckle,

“It’s getting cold as fuck up here.”

She laughed. “Wanna go warm up in the car?”

“Already headed down,” I said, turning for the stairs.

Night fell fast. Any last trace of daylight lost behind the clouds. Drove back to her car. She jumped out and walked to my window, cheeks flushed red from cold, wearing a soft smile.

“Thanks for the adventure,” she said, then leaned in and kissed me again longer, slower.

“Glad we finally met,” I said.

“I’ll follow you down,” I said, voice lower. “Make sure we both get out safe.”

For the next hour, she led us back through the desert, her taillights through the windshield like a tether to the present. Could still feel her lips, still hear the snow spinning around the tower, couldn’t stop seeing her eyes. Overwhelmed, haunted in the best way.

Eventually, we reached the split, her road headed south, mine north.

Flicked high beams twice.

And watched her taillights fade slowly from the mirror, swallowed by the night.

Didn’t know when I’d see her again.

But already felt like I was racing time.