Thank you, Phyllis

It hadn't even occurred to me that to get to SLC from Boise, I'd have to pass Twin Falls, where, allegedly, I was conceived. Straight out of a country song: Mama was a waitress, daddy was a truck driver.

It didn't actually occur to me until I was about 30 miles west of the town. I84 East doesn't go straight into Twin Falls; you have to turn off. I didn't. I passed plenty of truck stops, though, any one of which might have been where Phyllis and Mr. X met, making eyes over plates of salisbury steak with fries and cups of hot joe.

Up to the Twin Falls turnoff, that part of Idaho is scrubby and ass-ugly. After the turnoff, it becomes farmland until it gets scrubby again -- scorched and smoking earth at the Utah border, recent fires not completely extinguished.

Thank you, Phyllis, for not letting me grow up there, out in the middle of nowhere, the unwanted child of some illicit affair. Thank you for going to San Clemente, having me there and giving me up to the doctor who delivered me. You made the better choice.

SLC is hot, hot. hot. I'm going to go out when the light's better and take some pictures of the Great Salt Lake.

But here's my first view of Utah.