Blooming Onion
June 2003. Ben, Lisa, Jenya, and I were on the road back home after a week of adventures in southern Utah. Our chosen route for the return trip had us going through Las Vegas. That city always has a regular ugliness to it but seemed particularly gross immediately after several glorious days in wild nature away from humans and their folly. The sprawl exploded into view as we approached, and we reflexively sighed in defeat.
We didn’t want to stop, but we were fucking starving. And when your diet is no longer constrained to whatever you can carry on your back, your id kinda takes over. We scanned the billboards for an obvious restaurant which could serve to satisfy base urges and maximize swift caloric intake. Such a place became immediately evident: Outback Steakhouse. We pulled off the highway.
The four of us poured out of the Chevy Blazer and filed into the themed chain restaurant. We got seated right away and handed epic menus. Hunger and exhaustion hamper one's ability to decide anything, even when simply choosing a burger or whatever. But that's why god made appetizers. We ordered a bloomin' onion - the pinnacle of all fry cook achievement - just to buy us time.
Not only does backpacking for days make you super appreciative of prepared foods, but public restrooms with running water also seem like a miraculous luxury. Time to live large! I excused myself and headed to the men's and took care of business.
I washed my hands, almost shocked by the sight of an otherwise pristine white sink filling with the brownish silt running off my fingers. And then the memories from the last four days of activity splashed around my monkey brain - driving on sandy bumpy dirt roads, hiking on exposed sand dunes in 100 degree heat, climbing boulders, squeezing through rocky crevasses, trudging miles through various gulches, and even stepping into quicksand at one point. We hadn't showered at all during this time.
Then last night we hiked out of the canyon as the sun set and camped on the hard ground right beside our SUV. This very morning we woke up at sunrise, and drove back into town. During the trek the brake line broke. This is a story for another time, but this episode involved me writhing underneath the car at a gas station, swimming in puddles of unknown fluids which were (hopefully) of vehicular origin. After repairs we hit the highway, and some five hours later we landed at this Outback.
So it's no wonder my hands were gross with all kinds of sweat, dirt, grease, and whatever other residue. While scrubbing away I glanced up at the mirror and almost didn't recognize the fiend staring back. Stubble galore, sun-withered skin, countless smudges, chapped lips, and matted hair all over the damn place.
I literally laughed out loud. Holy shit I'm soooo fuckin' gross! Ha ha HA! Normally I'd be embarrassed by my unkempt appearance, but after kicking ass in America's own outback being this unsightly felt like a full-body badge of honor.
I did freshen up a little bit, though. Splashed the face, wet down the hair, etc. I also probably smelled really horrible, but I've long since stopped registering such odors, and I figured that bloomin' onion would nicely conceal my vapors.
I returned to the table, still chuckling to myself. We were all bedraggled to the core. Given our stink and uncleanliness it was no wonder they seated us all the way in the back of the restaurant in a room to ourselves. We were so disgusting even Vegas - the proudly self-proclaimed "Sin City" - couldn't handle us.