My name is Tepe Gahal and I will go back to the door.

Please.

I put that in a tape.

A production of tape and beer.

A production of tape and beer.

Good job, kid.

This is The Shorts.

When you're listening to the Dirt Bag Diaries, a duct tape and beer production,

with additional support from New Belgium Brewing, Kuat Rax and Patagonia.

A broken pistol in your hand.

My first few days in Moab's Red Rock Desert were kind of like a blind date where everything went wrong.

For one, it was August.

My metal aviator sunglasses got so hot in the sun that I couldn't smile or they burned my cheeks.

Trying to sleep at our campsite was like trying to get comfortable on a griddle.

Lying on my thermarist, I kept flipping myself back and forth like a pancake when either my stomach or my back began to feel too cooked from the heat that radiated up from the packed dirt.

I was 26 and I've been dreaming of visiting Moab since the first time I'd ever heard of it back in college at Colorado State.

Of course, I'd seen photos in Outside Magazine.

I traced the route on MapQuest from my dorm room in Fort Collins to Moab and tried to get my friends psyched on a road trip.

But they weren't too into it at the time and I wasn't brave enough to just fill up my gas tank and drive over the Rockies to discover it for myself.

Four years out of college, I had finally turned off I-70, heading toward Moab.

I didn't know what quite to expect, except I knew it would be beautiful.

When the highway tucked down along the river and the canyon walls rose up on each side, my heart started fluttering.

...