We arrived in Moab on Thursday, January 30. We were out early on our way to our favorite secluded hike, the Juniper Trail, three days later. It felt like we were the only car on the road.
Just outside of the downtown, flashing lights appeared behind us.
“Did you not see the stop sign?”
“I did, and I stopped—mostly.”
The cop was in his mid-thirties, I’m guessing. He was polite when he asked for my driver’s license.
No small talk, though; no questions about what brings us out from New Hampshire; nothing. This meant I was getting a ticket.
Funny thing about stop signs is that every region has its distinct rules. Had I paused with no traffic around in New England, I would have been fine.
And yet, technically, I was in the wrong, and the officer was just doing his job.
Moab is strict with traffic. The speed limit throughout town is 20 mph unless marked otherwise. I’ve never been to such a place, but I’m okay with it.
Sure enough, when he returned, he had a ticket for me and an explana…
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