All it took was my cousin Instagramming a picture of the kitchen-sink-window view from our little Hatch house, and that road-trip itch had us wandering again. I showed the picture to Cody and said, “Oh man, I just want to be there.” And he said, “Let’s go this weekend.” And so, we went.
Going to Hatch is akin to going home. It makes me feel like this song. The drive there is a familiar entity, lovable and dependable like a grandparent or a friend. It seems to wrap me up like the crisp, sunrise mornings when I was three and my dad was wrapping me in my Sesame Street quilt to go to Grandma’s house while he worked and my mom went to school. Every pitstop is a destination in itself, and whether en route or in Hatch or Panguitch, I love all the traditions and places that have together woven so much of the fabric of my heart.
I have an unnatural love for the baby goats at the inexplicable gas station petting zoo in Scipio. The above picture captures my devastation when we passed through an hour too late to love them. Clearly we remedied that on the way home. Look at those little eyes. I NEED ONE.
And of course, we can’t go to Panguitch without a stop at Henrie’s for a burger. Last time I took Cody to Hatch, we really found out what “closed for the season” meant. NOTHING was open, including Henry’s. But let’s just say, good things come to those who wait.
No trip to Bryce is ever complete without home-cooking from The Pines, along with a slice of legendary pie. (Not pictured because it didn’t last long enough…)
I remember being in Hatch for first my Grandma’s funeral, and then my Great-grandpa’s. I remember lying in the dark with my mom the night before her mother’s funeral, the smell of wind and dirt in the curtains and her hand in mine. I remember sitting on the old back porch, pre-renovation, thirsty wood supporting my knobby knees while I sketched a running horse in the brightest colors Crayola could offer, because my Great-grandpa and greatest friend was no longer colorblind.