So, I sit still in a place designed to be moved through. Somehow it feels like breaking the rules. Purgatory with a traffic pattern.

No time since then has one campground loop yielded as much head shaking, chuckling, or drama. I still wonder who won the music wars and whether the trash ever got put in the **** blue bin.

To my surprise - so incongruous to be on a lunar-like lava flow in the dawn quiet with few traces of humanity - it flashes at me.

Your Speed: 5

I chuckle a little. Yep, that’s about right. I’ve never been very fast, as this sign has so accurately assessed. But there’s a little something deeper that crops up as I go by.

But in the desert, even a sandy depression that holds water now and then warrants a name and a sign big enough to be read moving seventy five miles an hour. “Holy Moses Wash,” this one says. I imagine the storm that prompted someone to say that as they passed by. Or moved down it.