It had been far too long since we’d gone on an adventure. Over a year since we’d taken the Jeep off-road. But earlier in the week, Shelby and I started talking. No real plans—just the verbal wheels beginning to turn, and something small inside me starting to stir too.
Friday, after work, I stopped by the SLC main store and stocked up on automotive fluids. When you're heading into the desert in a 30-year-old Jeep with 230,000 miles on it, it’s smart to be prepared.
When I got home, I finally cleaned out the Jeep—something I’d been meaning to do for weeks. Somehow, the energy had evaded me until that exact moment—like some dormant part of me finally stretched awake. I cleared out the front seat, the glove box, the center console. Realized the binoculars I always leave behind would now fit neatly in the console.
Then the back seat—trash, random tools, kid snacks, small forgotten things. I cleared it all out, then loaded in the fluids: oil, coolant, power steering. I poked around under the hood. Oil still in the safe zone. Coolant and power steering both needed a top-off. It's an old Jeep—if it's not leaking, it's probably empty.
The Plan That Wasn’t
After the monkey went to bed, I sat at the computer. Still no plan. Just ideas and Google Maps tabs. Trails, drive times, old posts. Around midnight, I stumbled on Wonderstone Quarry. One vague post said it was recently purchased and closed to the public, but I found nothing to confirm it.
I decided to roll the dice. That’s kind of who I am—or at least who I used to be. Maybe this trip wasn’t just about rocks and roads. Maybe it was about remembering that version of me again.
Packing the Jeep, Waking the Monkey
Saturday morning started slower than expected—but clearly, we needed the sleep. Once we were up, I dug out the adventuring gear: boots, gloves, collapsible shovel, pickaxe, metal detector. I packed a black plastic bin for Shelby and me to collect rocks in. The monkey got her own smaller container—past experience had taught me the chaos of an uncontained kid rock collection.
We topped off the gas and made our final bathroom stop at Love’s. GPS was set for Wonderstone Quarry. We cued up our blended playlist—Shelby, the Monkey, and me. This was also Rain’s first big adventure. Shortly after we hit the road, both the kid and the dog were asleep in the back seat.
The quarry was just over an hour away. The drive was scenic desert, punctuated by Tooele and a few small towns. Finally, we turned off the pavement. This was where the real adventure began.
Arrival at the Quarry
No gates. No fences. No “No Trespassing” signs. So we pressed on.
Shelby spotted a small rock pile and got excited, but the GPS pin said we weren’t quite there. Around the bend, we saw it: the full quarry—wide, weathered, and scattered with stone.
We woke the monkey with a few horn honks. Kind of worked. Rain was let off leash after a quick debate about her recall. Shelby was unsure. I reminded them that Rain sticks close at the dog park. And sure enough, she did amazing—never wandered, just explored right along with us.
There was something comforting in that—watching her trust the space around her. I realized I’ve been holding myself on a tight leash lately too, keeping things safe, contained. Maybe it’s time to loosen the grip, to believe that the world won’t run off without me if I let go.
We all found treasures. The Monkey asked me to crack a few rocks open, so I did. Inside: swirls and surprises. Shelby and I handed her some of the best pieces we found. After about an hour of hounding, and a few hydration stops, we packed up and headed back to the Jeep.
On the way in, Shelby had pointed out a moderately steep hill climb and joked I was going to attempt it. So, to a mix of protest and laughter, I did. Coming down, we spotted a few nice pieces of wonderstone. I slowed the Jeep.
“You should grab those,” Shelby said.
“As the driver,” I replied, “I think someone else should. I don’t fully trust a 30-year-old transmission and emergency brake on this slope.”
Obscure Sodas & Ghost Town Dreams
Someone online had mentioned a gas station near the quarry that sold obscure sodas. As we turned toward the road home, Shelby asked if we wanted to go through Lehi.
“Why do you assume the adventure is over already?” I teased—but maybe I was also asking myself that. For too long, I’d assumed that chapter of my life had closed. But here I was, opening it again.
The Monkey and I went into the gas station first while Shelby waited outside with Rain. And yes—they did have an obscure soda collection. The Monkey reached for a glass bottle of Fanta.
“Not today,” I said. “Today, we try new things.”
She picked a watermelon soda. “Delicious,” she said. Shelby got a cream soda. I went with huckleberry. A small stop, but a sweet one.
Shelby has always wanted to see the ghost town of Ophir. It’s not much of a ghost town anymore—more of a vacation spot with a few preserved buildings and a little educational display tucked in a canyon. But it mattered to them, so we went.
The Jeep didn’t love the climb. We had to stop for a while when it started to run hot. Probably time for another new fan clutch. Maybe hood vents. Maybe an external trans cooler. The 4.0 engine is fantastic, but its cooling system has always been a bit... sensitive.
Still, we made it home.
Mother's Day and Purple Paint
Sunday morning, I woke early and met the Monkey in the kitchen. She asked for cereal. I told her: “Not until I have coffee.”
She helped me make it.
Shelby came upstairs soon after, and we all sat down together—cereal, coffee, and calm.
It was Mother’s Day. I pulled out the art supplies. Painted the Monkey’s hand with purple glow-in-the-dark paint and stamped it on paper. Gave it a stem. Used her thumb to make puffball flowers. We added grass, a sun, and a couple of clouds.
She had a blast.
And so did I. It felt good to be creative again. To paint. To play. To be present. Something about the way the brush moved, the way the colors mixed—it reminded me that I’m still an artist, even if I’ve been quiet for a while.
More Than Just Surviving
This weekend reminded me: I’ve been living in survival mode. Just getting through the days, keeping everything functional. But function isn’t the same as joy.
I’ve spent so much time being the problem solver for everyone but myself—navigating life in a way that avoids conflict, keeping the undeserved peace, letting anxiety call the shots. I’ve quieted myself just to keep things smooth. But that’s not living. That’s shrinking.
This is one of the reasons I need to reclaim my voice.
I’m meant to take up space. To speak with clarity. To choose for myself and not just accommodate. But too often, I shy away from using that voice. I’m tired of shrinking.
I’m reading again, just for fun. I’m writing again, like this. These are signs. But there’s more to me than words. I love to create. To build. To explore. To get lost and maybe find something.
Slowly, I’m coming back. Piece by piece. Trail by trail. Brushstroke by brushstroke.
I’m learning how to be more than just functional—I’m remembering how to feel alive, and how to be loud in my own life again.
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