1. A lot of places in the West named after the Devil.
The firstborn of a minister but I visited several.
Giant bears clawed Devil’s Tower, permanent scars,
But the Lakota girls escaped, became stars.
Devil’s Playground: fantastic geo-graphics.
Ethan on a rock formation in mid-back-flip.
If that’s really the Devil’s Backbone, then I guess
The Prince of the Power of the Air is spineless.
But all’s not devilish, the West has sacred parts.
Zion overseen by the three ancient Patriarchs.
Up Angel’s Landing, not touching the chain.
One false step, I wouldn’t be much of a stain.
Any long, steep trail, I’m bringing up the rear.
It isn’t true that you’ve got to be fit to persevere.
Ethan keeps trying to joke with other hikers, it’s futile.
Keeps mildly offending them, frowns of disapproval.
Lost in Bryce Canyon, the Saint tried to follow me.
Everyone mad so I bought ‘em pizza as an apology.
In the Subway, in the frigid pools, semi-nude,
Under waterfalls, failed at keeping the shrieking subdued.
Something coming prowling ‘round the tent? We’re ready.
Ethan’s a light sleeper, got his hatchet and machete.
Might’ve taken terrifying local lore talk too far.
“Skinwalker, skinwalker, skinwalker, you are.”
Homemade roadside signs warn that meth
Will summon the poorly-painted specter of Death.
Go West before it all belongs to Chom:
Every restaurant playing nothing but The Greatest Hits of Elton John.
Certain members of our group are wholly unsuited
For seeing a bear and keeping their obscenity muted.
Watching amateur photographers creeping closer to a mother grizzly is enthralling,
Wouldn’t mind seeing a light mauling.

Chorus: It’s a basic human tendency
To mix myth and legend in with memory.
My West only exists for me.
In the passing of time clarity decreases.
Frequent retelling helps me cling to pieces.
My West only exists for me.

2. Out to where the people know Hardee’s as Carl’s Jr.
Where a cattle decapitation’s a little less peculiar.
Where the work of Ben Goode’s somehow found amusing.
His whole catalogue’s at the convenience store of your choosing.
On the van’s back window wrote “Eastward Bound!”
No good Samaritan tried to turn us around.
Switched to “Honk if you hate honking” and caused a sensation.
Especially among the native peoples on the reservation.
Tell Dave we haven’t yet been to the visitors’ center,
That was a filthy, fly-filled latrine, remember?
This windbreak might appear quite sound,
But one earthquake and it’d come right down.
Rialto Beach on the Northwest coast:
If it wasn’t my best ever sleep, it was close.
Tug-o-war pantomime, navigating menus on the camera,
The Saint can’t stand “panorama.”
Trash bag ponchos, downpour torrential.
Pass around the Mountain House, share one utensil.
Steve declared our Beartooth campsite “No bueno.”
I was snoring well before the tents were even staked though.
Sleeping bag rated down to twenty, still I shiver.
Wonder if I got giardia from drinking from the river.
On his back, through deep mud, Dutch ferried us across.
Only dropped Dave, but that was pre-weight-loss.
At Craters of the Moon, learning types of lava:
The differences between pahoehoe and a’a.
In Monument Valley, the cold rain seeped
Inside the tarp under which we tried to sleep.
Deep Hink Pink session in the Hoh Rainforest.
Reynolds Mountain: spontaneous hymn chorus.
Personal encounters with the West I sift through.
Sunsets perfect for riding off into.

Chorus (x2): It’s a basic human tendency
To mix myth and legend in with memory.
My West only exists for me.
In the passing of time clarity decreases.
Frequent retelling helps me cling to pieces.
My West only exists for me.