The Nicest Swedish Utah-ians You Will Ever Meet in a Crater

The interesting news is that Covid-19 is just not a thing in Utah. From the beginning, when other states were first locking down, Utah appeared to be looking wildly over its shoulders wondering just what everyone was freaking out about. What virus? Those of us in Vegas learned that if you needed a phone repaired or a windshield replaced during Nevada’s shutdown, it was a quick two hour drive to a land that was wide open. Feel free to head on in and order a nice decaffeinated, non-alcoholic, non-heated beverage.

Midway through our 6 hour drive to Northern Utah we stopped for gas. The RVs decided on their own to pull into the Walmart and not the gas station, because: Walmart + RVs 4Ever. This was fine, because I was lowkey afraid that I had not bought enough produce in the previous day’s 6 hour shopping trip and also we all had to use the bathroom but knew better than to try while the vehicle was in motion. Plus, we needed to obtain fishing licenses, a process that Zack and I managed a fevered debate about to pass the time on the drive. You can buy them online and download the app to prove that you have them, except you can’t do that if you are suspicious of the app and live life convinced that your wife is not doing it right. After putting the same license in my cart and taking it out repeatedly, we decided to let Jesus take the wheel and see if a place to buy them in person just showed up.

So many birds with just one Wal-Mart stone.

Leaving Zack with the RV for reasons that I am not sure about, the Hoyts, children and I headed on to the motherland. The girls immediately glommed onto Amber, because she is nicer than I am, and started shrieking about looking for craft supplies. They dragged her off to parts unknown, while Mark and Brady headed for the outdoor center and I hauled Evan to produce to circle around the people shopping there.

I love Utah Walmart’s for the single reason that hordes of fundamentalist families frequent them and the novelty of the prairie dresses and tube rolled hair never wears off for me.  After watching every single documentary and television show that exists about women rescued from polygamy, I am forever vigilant, wary, and ready to spring into action should any of these people ever actual ask for help or even respond to my greetings. It’s honestly kind of a miracle that I haven’t accidentally kidnapped a Utah resident fully believing that I am helping.

While they are not interested in me, they are usually not hostile toward me. Today was weird. People stared and gave us wide berth. One woman, wearing full prairie dress and sporting the classic hairstyle rolled by paper towel tubes, side eyed us as we walked and muttered “weirdos” as Evan and I passed her. Then I realized it.

We were the weirdos.

We were the weirdos in the masks. Utah has simply not gotten the mask memo. Employees were wearing them, begrudgingly, with noses mostly sticking out. Less than a sixth of the people in the store had some sort of mask on them in some way, most often dangling benignly from one ear. Super bizarre to be two hours away from a place where they are mandatory and land in a totally different mindset.

We are doubling down on handwashing.

I also mourn the loss of another opportunity to save someone from being a sister wife. One day.

Zack got comfortable driving the giant RV. So much in fact that he pulled a series of power moves so brazen that Amber texted to ask if we were still married as they watched our bus swing from side to side. The biggest silver lining is that the entire trip from Vegas to Heber City only involved two turns, so there was not enough map reading needed to cause Zack to become hostile toward me. We didn’t pass a motorcycle gang, so we couldn’t argue about who the cuts they were wearing represented. We did pass a solid three hours with Zack telling me the greatest hits from his 31 years as a first responder. My first book is done, so I plan to use all of those stories for my second, which meant listening more closely than I normally do.

Fun fact: Zack once killed a little boy’s fish in front of him on the scene of a fire. When you need water…..you need water.

We landed at a suspiciously friendly RV park in Heber City. This is a park where people settle down to live. I’m not kidding. A neighbor across the street is growing actual tomatoes in pots. Real tomatoes. The kind that I can’t manage to grow in my very stable raised garden bed with its strategic shade structure and sprinkler drip line. The ladies next to them are in their 60s, told us they have rented their space for a month, and polished off two boxes of wine in the time it took us to unpack and make dinner. The people on the other side have a wolf pack of four dogs, very satisfying to pet, who hate bicycles and spend all of their time defending their parking spot from the endless bikes circling the park.

I want to stay here forever. I am pretty that if I had just a few weeks I could integrate myself with both the people and the dog communities in this park. I could learn their stories and get invited to their boxed wine happy hours.

I had anticipated a night of horrible back breaking semi slumber, based off of last year’s murder bus experience. Instead I discovered that the kind man we rented this one from outfitted the king sized bed with the most comfortable memory foam topper I’ve ever had the privilege to lie upon. I meant to get up early and do some yoga and go for a run, instead I slept the sleep of the dead for ten straight hours. Zack and I woke up like we were coming out of the movie Cocoon, perfectly primed for a day of exploring Heber City and bobbing in a crater.

When my kids were little I accepted that my fate was the diaper bag. It was forever my job to carry all of the things that could possibly be needed for a day out, no matter how gender neutral of a backpack I tried to purchase. I assumed that this would get better with age, that by the time they both surpassed me in height I would no longer be required to carry all of the things for all of the people. It turns out that this is not true.

Here is the most essential mom truth of all essential mom truths: When you are taking a family trek that will require some kind of swimming it will be the mom’s job to procure the bag and fill it with the appropriate amount of towels, sunscreen, goggles, swim shoes, band aids, and assorted accoutrements necessary for an hour or less near a body of water. The part that hurts a little is the reckless abandon with which the rest of the family, grown man included, will throw things into that bag. Changes of clothes, five pound filled leaky hydroflasks, extra snacks, hairbrushes, bags of just in case medicine, more snacks. I fended off Petey as she came at me with a backup pair of tennis shoes “just in case”. The ten pound bag of towels quickly reaches thirty as it becomes the ultimate in mom ball and chain. This is our Atlas Shrugged, our cross to bear.

A delightful Scandinavian man named Raoul turned up to shuttle us to town. I know he is Scandinavian because I made him explain lutefisk to me for several miles. As we drove he explained the Swedish architecture we were rapidly passing. The town of Zermatt, Utah was founded by a group of homesick Swissman OR an LDS missionary who did his mission in Sweden and came home nostalgic, depending on who you believe. Either way, the result is the Alps firmly planted in northern Utah. For real.

Once, when extreme couponing was big and Zack had more faith in my organizational skills, I had a binder of coupons I would take to the store with me. I spent an afternoon with a young woman at Albertson’s trading coupons until she asked me what ward I belonged to. When I told her I wasn’t Mormon she seemed shocked because I was “so nice and so happy.” Which basically sums up about every Mormon I’ve ever met. And also, I hear, exactly how everyone is in Sweden (not to stereotype an entire country…..or religion). BUT, it turns out that combining the two nicest and happiest groups of people into one resort town results in a population that is desperate to hold the door for you, laugh at your jokes, and insist that you go first in line.

Eerily, creepily, unfailing kind at every turn. Again, because all I listen to are murder podcasts, I am concerned that we are going to be kidnapped and forced into some kind of salted fish eating/hot chocolate drinking cult.

We got left in the middle of what seemed to be a ski lodge, where earnest Swiss Utah teenagers insisted on assisting us in finding a spot open for lunch. After that, it was into the crater. The Homestead Crater is truly not to be missed if you ever find yourself in the Provo/Salt Lake Area. After entering through a tunnel, you are treated to a clear blue 90 degree soak inside an actual crater. Sunlight peaks through the opening at the top as you bob in the tranquil warm water, distracted only by the local teens attempting to impregnate each other in the corner and the Karens floating by concerned about cocktail hour.

The people working the crater swear that the water has magical healing properties, so we remain collectively hopeful that this will be my ticket out of early menopause.

We hoofed it back to the campground where we forced the youngest and most compliant child in our party to battle the grease fires of the travel grill to make burgers for everyone. We are settling in to the most magical time of the night in this RV park; the time when all of the dogs have nighttime walkies.

I have to go get to petting.