flat (as a pancake) destinations
The summer I turned twelve, my parents decided we needed an adventure, something off the beaten path. They chose the desolate, windswept expanse of the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah, a place where the earth stretched out like a mirror, reflecting the sky’s endless blue. Most kids at school had gone to Disneyland or tropical beaches, but my parents were artists, of a sort, and their idea of a memorable vacation was more… unconventional.
We arrived in our old, beat-up station wagon that still hadn’t been paid off despite being older than me, packed with camping gear and an assortment of art supplies. The landscape was alien, a vast, shimmering white desert that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The sun hung high, a merciless overseer, casting long, stark shadows that exaggerated every contour of the terrain.
For the first few hours, I was convinced we were lost. My parents, however, were ecstatic. My mother, a painter, saw the endless white as a canvas, while my father, a sculptor, envisioned grand installations that would interact with the horizon. They set up their easels and tools with the enthusiasm of pioneers discovering a new world.
I wandered away, feeling the crunch of salt under my sneakers, the air crisp and dry. The flatness was deceptive. Occasionally, I stumbled upon small pools of brine, their surfaces smooth and glassy, reflecting the sky perfectly. I imagined they were portals to another dimension, places where reality was bent and reshaped.
The first night, we camped under a sky so clear it felt like we were adrift in space. Stars crowded every inch of the sky, and the Milky Way arched overhead like a cosmic bridge. My parents set up a bonfire, and we huddled around it, the flames casting flickering shadows on our faces. My mother sketched by firelight, capturing the surreal landscape on paper, while my father carved small sculptures from the blocks of salt he had brought along.
The next day, we explored further. My parents had planned a series of art projects, but they encouraged me to find my own way to engage with the land. I took my camera, an old film model my dad had given me, and set off on my own.
I spent hours photographing the subtle variations in the landscape—the ripples in the salt where the wind had blown, the tiny crystals that formed intricate patterns, and the distant mountains that framed the horizon like the edges of a grand painting. There was a stillness to the place, a silence so profound it felt like the world had stopped turning. It was in this silence that I felt something shift within me, a sense of peace and wonder I had never experienced before.
One afternoon, I stumbled upon a patch of earth where the salt had cracked and split, revealing the clay beneath. It was here that I decided to create my own art. I spent hours digging and shaping, using the clay to form small sculptures of animals and mythical creatures. I arranged them in a circle, a tiny community in the middle of the vast expanse. When I was done, I stood back and admired my work, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment.
As the days passed, the Salt Flats became our playground and our studio. My parents created their own masterpieces, but it was my little clay village that captured their attention. My father was particularly impressed, and he spent hours photographing it from different angles, capturing the way the light played on the sculptures at various times of the day.
On our last night, we held an impromptu exhibition. We arranged all our artworks around the campsite, lit by the golden glow of the setting sun. My parents’ paintings and sculptures, my photographs, and my clay figures—each piece told a story of our time in this otherworldly place. We invited the few other campers we had encountered to join us, and they walked among our creations, admiring and asking questions. It was a small, intimate gathering, but it felt significant.
As we packed up to leave the next morning, I took one last look at the Salt Flats. I felt a pang of sadness, but also a deep sense of gratitude. This strange, beautiful place had given me more than just a memorable vacation; it had sparked something within me, a desire to see the world through different eyes, to find beauty in the unexpected.
Years later, when people ask about my most memorable vacation, they expect tales of exotic beaches or bustling cities. Instead, I tell them about the Bonneville Salt Flats, a place where the earth meets the sky in an endless tapestry that seems to encompass infinity. I usually don’t get many follow questions about it, though.
Fred Aiken Writing 