“Wake up Jake! It’s past 6!”
I muttered something unintelligible, possibly rude, and burrowed further into my sleeping bag.
“It’s your birthday!”
Poking my maroon-capped head out of my sleeping bag, just enough to squint and glower at the early-morning sunshine, I surveyed the scene. My girlfriend Rita and I were scrunched into the cab of her CR-V, just where we’d parked it in the russet-colored pullout in the high, southern Utah desert.
“That means donuts, right?” I asked, groggily finding my glasses underneath the spaghetti-squash quilt, my only remaining defense against the crisp February morning.
It was our last morning in Brian Head, a ski area 4,000 feet above the desert floor, but mere miles from Zion National Park. We’d slept in the valley below because we’d come from the southern California coast and ascending to…