“The bright blessed day; The dark sacred night; And I think to myself; What a wonderful world”

Years ago, I sat in a sterile dental patient chair in an upscale, suburban Connecticut town as the dentist described the current status of my mouth and home care hygiene. In a no-nonsense tone with a deadpanned expression, she compared it to a newly-washed four-wheel-drive vehicle … in the desert … on the front lines of a war … after it had just run over an improvised explosive device. I presume she referred to the various implants, chips, and the nightly tooth-grinding habit that left my molars flat, but, regardless, I’ve since been unable to erase the imagery.

Today, though, as I leave my mouth slightly ajar with my tongue relaxing between my molars, I compare her description to amateur hour at the local comedy club. Frankly, I’m in the big leagues now.

The dry, dusty gravel road, which I doubt has ever seen asphalt, is uneven and jerky. I spring from my seat like a coil being tested for its elasticity or a young child taught to bounce in the saddle to the rhythm of the horse he’s riding. But, there is no tempo. I volley between tiny teeth-chattering shuddering to thanking the heavens above for my sports bra as I’m convinced one of these bumps will throw me out of my seat and across the jeep. The backpacks and shoes on the floor of the all-terrain vehicle bounce from the farthest back seat to the front. The water in the old plastic twenty-ounce soda bottles leap with such momentum that the jugs on the dashboard venture closer and closer from the center of the hard plastic lining toward the open window. Someone within the jeep remarks about the “African massage,” a joke that’s made little sense until now.

Finding a comfortable position within the vehicle is nearly impossible. There’s little legroom and an adult in every possible seat, plus our camping gear and water pitchers in the trunk.

Additionally, there is no air conditioning. I bravely and frequently volley between fresh dry air with circulation for the compartment and dust in my eyes as I don’t have sunglasses readily available. Closing the window means a buildup of dry, dusty sweat. Opening it brings me inches closer the magnificent terrain that causes my eyes to itch. Neither option is a winner.

Drier than the most arid land I’ve seen, the dust, nearly as white as clouds in the sky, rises from the cracked ground, sometimes forming swirling funnels. The trees appear brittle and grass is an ideal fire starter.

We ride like this for at least an hour, racing to leave one of the most famous national parks in the world to reach the equally famed nature conservation areas before dark. After all, there are no street lamps, marked roads, or anything resembling modern civilization.