March in Moab is high season. We drove down one back road and another and followed the Colorado River in search of a campsite. All of them were full. Horse Thief Hollow. Granstaff. Drinks Canyon. Cowboy Camp. It was six in the evening and we were getting hungry and tired. Did we need to drive to Monticello and get a hotel? We couldn’t get one in Moab - we couldn’t afford it. Jim drove south and I continued to search Google maps until I finally said, “Turn left here.”
“Here” was Ken’s Lake Campground. Just ten miles south of Moab, it was serene and sparsely populated, with only five of its thirty-one campsites occupied. We had a spacious site with a table and a fire ring just a short walk to the pit toilets. The sun set behind red rocks and rose over the snow-capped La Sal peaks. The lake was a man-made reservoir in the Spanish Valley created by diverting nearby Mill Creek. I walked a short distance in the morning to see its shimmering surface, nodding to my fellow early-risers. It was quiet, peaceful.