Ostomy Memories of Sand Dunes

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HenryM

THERE IS NO PINK that I can see at the Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park in southern Utah. The sand is coral, and plenty of it, a shade of orange, actually. At an elevation of 6,000 feet, it is near Zion National Park on a desolate, curving two-lane road that cuts into northern Arizona before angling back into Utah east of St. George. The twin polygamous towns of Hildale, Utah and Colorado City, Arizona are nearby, as well as a high percentage of government-hating loners living in the midst of sage brush, scrub oak, and a variety of squamate reptiles that thrive in the heat. The sand dunes have been there for ten, maybe fifteen thousand years, it is estimated, and they are constantly changing shape as the wind riffs over them. But it is not a quiet, contemplative place, as you might suspect to find in the middle of nowhere, as 90% of the park is open to ATV riders. They roar back and forth, throwing up cascades of sand as they swerve this way and that, the drivers and riders yelling and screaming like banshees as the earsplitting engine noise defiles the air. Perhaps the “pink” is on the reddening faces of the non-ATV aficionados who were hoping for a peaceful hike over the dunes with their children and a chance to marvel at the endless hills of coral sand and the unique flora of the area. The ATVers, however, prefer the noise and the speed. I suspect that ATVs, snowmobiles, and jet skis were invented by some guy that I hated in elementary school.

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