12 hours in Strawberry
7 pm: Arrive in desperate need of accommodations…it was a long day.
9 pm: Decide to visit the “Dirty Cowboy”
11 pm: Regret visiting the Dirty Cowboy & drunkenly pass out sleep like a baby
5 am: Wake up to vomit admire the sunrise… and go running
6 am: Run away from elk
7 am: Back on the road to Winslow
Okay, it doesn’t sound like the nicest time but I swear it was wonderful. Read more!
Yes, it is as cute as it sounds
Seriously, how cute is the name Strawberry? Not only does it have a super sweet name but the town is adorable. The main drag is about a mile long and has nothing more than one or two hotels and a handful of restaurants. But the highlight of this town, in my opinion, is an absolutely darling hotel called the Strawberry Inn.
As luck would have it, I had just enough cell service as I pulled into town to check their website and they happened to have availability for that night. Room. Booked. Just like that. However, this Inn operates more like a vacation rental in that they don’t have someone on-site at all times to check people in and everything is done online. So it took me a hot minute to get checked in but once I did it was such a welcome relief.
There was a family on the front lawn playing cornhole and talking away while I stood in the parking lot trying to check in. After getting settled into my room a bit, I went out to chat with my neighbors for the evening. They were a lovely couple with their parents, three teenage boys and two dogs. We said hello and sat around together enjoying the cool weather and the relative peace of a small town. Even with the boys rambunctious game for ambiance, the quiet of such a small town was relaxing. I felt like I could breathe again.
Dirty Cowboy, Dare I?
While swinging peacefully on the front porch of my hotel as the last of the day’s light faded into blackness, I observed the glow from the sign just down the road. It read “Dirty Cowboy Saloon.” Dare I ask? I was tired and not really interested in drinking but with a name like that I was intrigued. Plus, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to meet some locals… so I said goodnight to my neighbors and wandered next door.
I sat at the bar and ordered a drink as a sweet little dog ran over to say hello. His owner immediately apologized but I wasn’t bothered at all so we started chatting. He was wearing a Moab t-shirt and I mentioned that’s where I was headed next so it was easy to find common ground. Turns out he and his wife are doing exactly what I want to do; traveling the country and writing about their adventures!
They recommended a number of nearby places that I had never heard about and we spent the next few hours swapping stories and suggestions of various places to visit in the Southwest. I stayed up much later (and drank much more) than I meant to but it was completely worth my time. If I hadn’t opened myself up to the possibility of trying new things and meeting new people I would never have discovered so many interesting places to visit right in my backyard!
Hangovers make for the best workouts
That’s a lie. But the next morning I did wake up at dawn and go for a run. Never mind the fact that I woke up to puke and couldn’t go back to sleep. One look out the window convinced me to go outside and wander. It was so idyllic that it hardly seemed real. The clouds formed a golden ocean in the sky and there was wildlife throughout the whole town. Many of the homes had animal statues in their yards-bears, mountain lions, deer and the like. So when I rounded a corner to see a life-size female elk, I thought it was so odd that they would have chosen a statue without antlers.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
That’s a real elk. I was still groggy from the night before so it took a beat longer than it should have for me to figure that one out. Don’t worry, I promptly turned myself around and walked the other way–well, after I took a picture, obviously. I may love adventure but I didn’t need to try to outrun an elk that morning. And let’s be honest, that would never happen. So back to the hotel I went to get on my way to Winslow.
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