Glen Canyon and Paria Canyon Areas

Horseshoe Bend in Glen Canyon

June 4 – Waking up on Arizona time is kind of a shock. The sun pushed through the thin walls of my tent, prying my eyes open before the alarm. I had decided to stay another night and needed to pay before heading out for my hikes in the morning, so I planned to get up by 6:30. When I checked my phone for the time, it was a little after five and the sun was full up.

Since Arizona has taken a moral objection to Daylight Savings time, everything is off-kilter here. This is exacerbated by the fact that we’re right on the border, so if a person drives a little way on Highway 89, she enters Utah and it’s an hour later. I’ve noticed some businesses on the 89 corridor have clocks that state both times. My cell phone couldn’t seem to decide which cell tower to pull from either, and the second morning at the campsite, my alarm went off twice – at 5:30 a.m. Utah time and 5:30 a.m. Arizona time.

But this morning, my phone only registered Arizona time, and so my timing was right to be dressed and ready to go when the campground office opened at 7 a.m. After paying for the second night, I set off to do a number of small hikes in the area, and to visit the BLM office near Kanab for trail information. This is the same office where Jesse and I secured our Wave permit, so I was eager to revisit it. I also knew they had a lot of information about area hikes, specifically Buckskin Gulch, one I’ve been interested in since we hiked the Wave in 2011.

Knowing the temperature would reach into the 90s, I decided to hike first and talk later. After a few stops in town for coffee, ice, and water, I drove out to Horseshoe Bend. Just outside of Page, Arizona, this is a short hike, only a mile and a half long. Much of the hike is on sandy ground and it has some elevation gain in that short distance, but it’s not what I would call a strenuous hike. And therein lies the issue.

I knew I was in for a crowd when a tour bus turned in just before I did. Sure enough, a whole load of Asian tourists poured out, and I knew I’d have to create my own mental space to enjoy the hike and the view. I mention that they are Asian because it amazes me, when I’m traveling in the west like this, how many of the tourists I run into are Asian or European. Sometimes they are Australian or South American too, but very few are American. The people who took my picture here were a father and daughter from Norway, and the ones who took my picture later in the day at the Hanging Gardens were a mother and son from Great Britain (however she was from Argentina originally).  It is so interesting to talk to these people and to hear briefly about their travels.

So I joined the crowd and hiked out to the rim of this beautiful Glen Canyon to see the Colorado meandering along, deceptively gentle in its flow at this point. The river was always slower through Glen Canyon, even before the dam was built, with this calm stretch between the famous rapids of Cataract Canyon and the Grand Canyon. That is one of the reasons planners thought it was a good idea to dam it here.  When you see the depth and beauty of this canyon, it brings home the tradeoff that was made between destroying a good part of one of the greatest geological formations on earth and supplying water to a growing, greedy population of humans. No easy answers are to be found here – human needs of course are important, but so are the needs of the earth. This seems to be one of the paramount questions of our time with the Earth’s exploding population and our dwindling resources and wild places. I certainly can offer no answers. I just know it breaks my heart to see what we humans are doing to the planet that is irreparable. Maybe we could get along with fewer golf courses in the desert and fewer conveniences like disposable water bottles and a new outfit for every day.

 

After this short hike I headed for the BLM office for more hiking ideas. The drive runs for a while along Lake Powell, the result of the canyons and tributaries flooded by the Glen Canyon Dam.  Water levels have dropped from their highest point years ago, and the regression of the water level is evidenced in the white mineral deposits left by the flood water on the re-exposed rocks. I was told that the water is down around 35 meters from its highest point, less than half full, and it is doubtful it’ll ever rise again to its full level. The town of Big Water is not on the water any more, and what looked once to be a marina is now just boat storage.

Past the drying lake, the terrain changes to red cliffs and mountains. It is there that the BLM office is located. I had no problem finding it  – I remember exactly how it sits on the land and how the approach looks. When we were here before, it was my first hike ever, and it changed my life. The people working in there this year were just as helpful as the ones three years ago, and they gave me great advice for the next day’s hike at Buckskin Gulch. We talked some about how dangerous this part of the world is to hike in, discussing the three people who died last year hiking the Wave and the one who died a little farther north hiking to some slot canyons in Escalante National Monument. I have hiked both those routes, and know how confusing it can be trying to find the trail. I’m so glad I have learned more about reading compasses and maps and I have a good GPS.

            The ranger told me there’s already been a guy this year who had to be rescued from the Wave hike. He obtained his permit illegally – a friend of his had gotten the permit and couldn’t make the hike so gave it to him. The guy, of course, didn’t get the instructions hikers are given when they get the permit, and he took off unaware of some of the confusing elements of the hike. The rangers saw his car in the parking lot for the trailhead, but had no idea of who he was or what route he had taken since he didn’t have a legal permit. They searched for two days before finally finding him. He had fallen off of an outcropping and was in a bush, legs in the air, with ants crawling all over his face. The rescued him and he survived, but what a horrifying experience it must have been. I keep thinking of those ants . . .

            I DO NOT intend to be a cautionary tale rangers tell hikers, so I chose a route I felt safe to take alone. A 24-year-old volunteer ranger had just come back from backpacking a large loop that included the hike I wanted to do, so he suggested where to go in (Wire Pass) and which route to follow for the best hike. His advice would give me a six-miler, and that was just what I wanted. This gave me a game plan for the following day, but his advice didn’t stop there.

            I told them I wanted to do another short hike this day, so he suggested another short mile and a half hike – The Toadstools. By this time it was the hottest time of the day.  He suggested, to use time until it cooled a bit, I drive up to the Paria (pronounced Pa-ree-uh) Township, a ghost town and once the filming site of many western movies. He said the drive was beautiful, so I decided, again, to follow his advice.

            It was a beautiful drive. I stopped to eat lunch at the site, surrounded by cliffs of various shades of reds, pinks, oranges, and grays. I had the world to myself, and I tried to imagine living a life out there, threatened daily with heat and Indian attacks. In fact, the town was abandoned in the 1800s because its inhabitants couldn’t defend against the attacks. (Perhaps this is a good example of karma and turn about being fair play.) But still, those people worked hard to try to carve a life out of an unforgiving yet stunning landscape, and they did succeed for a while.

            When I squatted to take a picture, I had a sharp pain in my knee – a pain I’d noticed when I got up in the morning. I decided to drive in to Kanab and see if I could get in to see a chiropractor. In Kanab, after asking the advice from a local, I visited one of the two chiropractors in town. He happened to be between appointments and was familiar with the type of muscle or fascia release my therapist in Sioux City does, and he worked me over. My knee was indeed out of place, so he released my muscles and adjusted my knee. He gave me some exercises to work on the muscles that had caused the problem, and it was much better by the next morning. Funny how the universe gives us what we need when we need it. And I was quite relieved it wasn’t some sort of tear.

 

            I hiked two more short hikes that day – the Toadstools and the Hanging Gardens. Both were less than two miles each, and my total hike for the day gave me the five miles I’m hoping to hike regularly as I develop my trail legs for the JMT. The Toadstools are an easy, fun hike over some slick rock and along a few ledges, and there I visited briefly with a family from Mexico, the only other people I saw on the hike. I drove straight from that hike to the Hanging Gardens for a ranger-guided short hike. There I enjoyed the ranger’s informative discussion of the area, the canyon, the lake, and some of the geological features of the land. I met the mother and son from Great Britain I mentioned earlier and was fascinated to hear they were just winding up a six-month holiday. I thought I took long holidays.

            Returning to my tent, I showered quickly and bedded down early. I was set to get up early the next day and tackle Buckskin Gulch. 

The wash, before hitting the canyons

               June 5 – After waking up an hour earlier than I’d intended thanks to my cell phone deciding to pick up Utah’s tower at that moment, I packed up and headed for Buckskin Gulch. 

Mostly lizards, but a few others

              I reached the trail head around 8:30, and was on the trail a little before 9 a.m. Don’t ask me why it took me so long to get there, I just took more time than I’d planned breaking camp and stopping in town. So I knew the end of the hike would be hot again, and I mentally prepared for it.

            It was a beautiful morning. Still in the upper 60s when I began, the sun was bright but not too hot yet. The trail was obvious and easy to follow; it basically followed an obvious wash into the slot canyons. The only hardships were having to first climb down some areas and then, on the return hike, climb back up them. I’m glad the chiropractor had put my knee back in place – it would have been extremely hard if I hadn’t been able to fully bend it. Climbing back up was hard enough with fully functioning knees – I was glad no one was there to see me ungracefully struggling up and over the rocks. It wasn’t pretty I’m sure as I teetered on the edge of the rock, pulling my body up and over like an ungainly turtle. But, I made it, and that’s all that matters.

Climbing this was tough

            But the rest of the hike was easy walking. There was about a mile of sandy hiking toward the turn around point, and my gluts got a good workout, but there were no real changes in elevation to contend with. And although it was hot at the end, it wasn’t unbearable. For a six-mile hike in the Utah desert, I couldn’t ask for more.

Trying for a slot canyon selfie

        

          The slot canyons were beautiful. I have hiked some before – last year in Escalante, not too far from Buckskin Gulch, I hike through two canyons. They too were wonderful. It’s amazing what a beautiful sculptor water is, carving those lovely curves in the multi-colored rock, and then combine that with the way the sun lights them as it passes over the narrow gap at the top and the effect is stunning. I stopped over and over to take pictures, and still it’s hard to really capture the beauty. These slot canyons can be deadly though – that water that sculpted the designs could sweep a hiker off her feet, dashing her against the walls and drowning her in minutes. A person never wants to be caught in a slot canyon in the rain.

 

            As I was finishing the hike, I ran into two couples whom I advised when they had questions about the trail and the hike. It was kind of cool to be the one who could give the answers instead of only having questions. I guess I am getting some experience under my belt now. Or should I say under my boots.

            I found a campsite in Kanab early and showered right away. It felt good to be clean and in town for a night. I also treated myself to Mexican food for dinner, which was wonderful, and planned on my favorite Mexican food restaurant for breakfast the next morning. I felt like I was living a life of leisure - I didn’t have to cook and when I got back to the campsite, I had WiFi and full cell reception. But I noticed the nights are a lot hotter in town than they are out of town; I suppose all that asphalt and concrete brings the temperature up.

            I love this part of the world, and I feel at home here. The days are hot, the hikes exhausting, and the sun relentless, but the beauty and energy of the landscape always calls to me. I am a little sad to be moving on, but I am grateful for the time I’ve been able to spend here.

Moab - Hiking, Flying, and Jumping

Back on the slick rock

June 2 – I made my first hike of the trip this morning. The Moab area has such a wealth of choices, from Canyonlands to Arches and everywhere in between. I decided I’d hike a trail I read about in Backpacker called the Moab Rim Trail. It promised a steep ascent with a wonderful payoff, and it was right.

I got a little later start than I wanted to – I had to stop and ask a cop where the trail head was. I had a map, but it was a topographical map and it didn’t show the name of the road. I knew where it ran, but I didn’t know how to access it. Once I had that figured out, it was about 9 a.m. when I arrived, which is late to begin a hike in the dry, hot Southwest.

As I was putting on my pack and setting my GPS, a couple came down from the hike. They were locals, and they said this was one of their choices for a morning walk with the dog. After I suffered a quick bout of envy, we talked a little about the hike, about living in Moab, and hiking with dogs.  As they drove off, I began the hike.

The Colorado, straining at its banks

Every year, when I first hike on slickrock, I’m surprised how unslick it actually is. This was the virgin excursion for my new boots, so I was eager to see how they performed, which they did superbly. Not only do they grip the rock well, but also they are very comfortable – more so than any boot I’ve tried. And again, they look outdoorsily hip.

Climbing the initial ascent was rigorous, but most of the route was shaded and I felt fresh and alive. I could look out over the Colorado River as I climbed, and it felt so good to be back on a challenging, beautiful trail here in red rock country. When I was near the top, I ran into a hiker coming down. He was another local, and we visited for quite a while as he gave me advice on hikes to take and places to see. I’ve filed it all away, and I hope to use some of his suggestions. But the conversation delayed me another 30 minutes, and I knew the day was getting hotter by the minute. We said our goodbyes, and I soon climbed out of the shade and into the full force of the southern Utah sun. In not too long, though, I came to the reason for the trail’s name – a grand view of Moab and Arches National Park.

(My camera did this automatically - I took a number of quick pictures, and it stitched them together. WTH? I love this Galaxy s5!)

I soaked in the view, climbing out as far as I could on the jutting rocks. I decided to hike about another mile and a half before heading back to the car, making the full hike about five miles. The trail took me away from the rim and back toward the rising and falling landscape. The trail led up some slick rock and down through some washes, and it offered some spectacular views of Canyonlands. The beauty of this area defies words. I can’t begin to communicate the feeling of connection and attachment I have to these lands. They’re brutal and unforgiving, harsh and rough, but the contours and colors of the landscape – the reds and oranges, juxstaposed with creams and grays – is breathtaking. Every step leads to a different view, a new combination. And this time of year the land is not overly stingy with her greenery, and the wild flowers are sprinkled more liberally than later in the year.

I turned around right at two and a half miles, and retraced my steps. The day was getting hotter, and I was getting tired. I have a tendency, when I get fatigued hiking, to push harder rather than to rest. This is not really a good plan, and I’m trying to break that habit. I kept thinking I’d stop for an energy bar and some rest when I hit some shade, but that didn’t happen until I was more than four miles into the hike. When I finally did find some shade I could sit in – what had been shaded for the climb up was now in full sun – I remembered how much it helps to take those few minutes to rest. I had renewed energy to finish the hike, and was back at the car before long.

Appreciating my new boots

I returned to town, showered, and drove around the area a little. As I was heading back to my campsite, I passed a billboard for Skydive Moab. Before thinking about it too much, I called the number. It turned out they had a special of $25 off a jump and had an opening the next morning at 7 a.m. The voice on the phone gave me a few hours to decide, and I texted the kids and asked their opinion.

Me: I’m thinking about skydiving tomorrow. What do you think?

Emilie: Do it!

Anna: Jealous!

Nick: Dope!

I took this as encouragement, called back, and made the reservation. I was going to jump out of a perfectly good airplane in the morning.

Ready to go!

June 3 – I rose early, broke camp, and allowed myself time to grab a cup of coffee before heading to the airport for my appointment to jump. I had initially been worried about hurting my ankle or feet before the big hike at the end of the month, but realized I could turn my ankle on one of the hikes I’m doing just as easily – maybe even more easily – than hurting myself skydiving.

 

            I met Dani, the woman who was jumping at the same time, in the parking lot, and we walked in together. She was from Arkansas, and her husband was with her. He was not jumping. We approached the hangar, and it had an airplane parked in the middle of it, some office equipment on one side of the plane and a couple dirty sofas with a television on the other side.

            We began our training by filling out a four-page form that basically said we could die and we wouldn’t sue anyone. Then we watched a video that said we could die and we couldn’t sue anyone. The instructor, Kevin, ended up being my jumping partner. He was probably in his late 20s or early 30s, was tattooed liberally, and was hipsterish in an outdoorsy adventure kind of way. He was the older, more mature appearing of the two instructors.

            We quickly donned our harnesses with help from Kevin, after being warned by the video that we “may be touched in ways that at other times might be considered inappropriate, but was necessary to secure our harnesses,” and were instructed where to stand, how to exit the plane, and what to do when we began our fall: “Look back as we do the free fall flip to see the plane flying away – it’s awesome!”

Sticking the landing

            It all happened so fast. Even though we flew for about 20 minutes over Canyonlands, I felt I had no time to get nervous. I’m not one to worry a lot about something like that until I’m actually beginning it, and it happened so fast, the first time I felt nervous was when they opened the door and a blast of cold air hit me. Dani jumped first, and I didn’t even have time to watch her as we moved quickly into position and were out the door. Hovering a few seconds with my feet on a little ledge below the wings, my guide pushed us out into the sky.

            The free fall was amazing. I wore goggles to protect my eyes as the wind hit us at 120 miles per hour. But it was spectacular. I never felt afraid, I never felt anxious. I just wish it could have lasted longer. Paradoxically, we seemed suspended in the air for a long time before Kevin pulled the chute and we were jerked back into a gentle float. He let me guide the chute a few times, turning us one way then the other, before he took control back. Soon the landing spot was in front of us, and the ground was approaching. He called for me to lift my feet, and then as soon as his hit the ground he said to put mine down too, and we jog-walked into the landing.

Time is completely non-existent when you jump. It seems to last forever and it seems to happen in a split second.  The whole experience was phenomenal, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Before I jumped, Deb Heaton reminded me to keep my eyes open, and to be honest, I don’t remember if I did or not. I do remember getting a look at the bottom of the plane when my instructor reminded me, but when we actually launched off the platform, I don’t remember. 

Valley of the Gods

            These guys, all young and a bit rumpled, were professional and very good at what they did. I could have let appearances put me off, but that would have only detracted from the experience. As it was, I loved every bit of it and was so glad I took the leap. (Nice pun, no?)

            The jump took me out of the mood for the short hike I had planned for the morning, so instead I stopped at the Moab Diner and tried an omelet smothered with their famous green chile. I now understand why it’s famous – the omelet was spectacular and a fitting close to my time in Moab this year.

Monument Valley

            I drove most of the rest of the day, taking the drive through The Valley of the Gods and Monument Valley, enjoying these monoliths rising from the desert floor. After some consideration of camping near Monument Valley, I decided to drive on to the Glen Canyon Recreation Area to camp and find some hikes the next day. I chose to camp at the main campground on Lake Powell, giving up seclusion for good showers, real restrooms with running water, cell service and Wi-Fi, and a breeze off the lake. I could have swum or dined at the yacht club, but I’ll only take this pampering stuff so far.

View from my campsite at Wahweap Bay on Lake Powell

            So I’m sitting here, with my feet warmed by the campfire and a soft breeze blowing across the lake and the slick rock, enjoying the evening. This day I’ve checked another main item off my bucket list, and for that – and for so many other things – I’m grateful.

Nebraska, Colorado, and Utah

Rather than posting daily, I’ll probably post every few days. I think everyone gets blog fatigue – I know I do! So here are a few highlights from the first few days:

Cattle cooling themselves near Niobrara - 94 degrees

May 30 – I drove across the top of Nebraska, staying on Highway 12 till I moved south about halfway across the state. I stopped in the little town of Spencer, Nebraska, to fill my soda and use the restroom. It was 95 degrees out, and there were about six damp blonde girls, wet pony tails “hanging their pencil leads” down their backs, purchasing a variety of candy.

Making conversation, I said to one of them, “You’ve been at the pool. It’s a good day for it.”

She answered, in her very serious 8-year-old voice, “Yes. And we’re going back. The concession stand isn’t open yet.”

Ah, of course.

On their way back to the pool

I smiled as I backed out of the lot, watching the slew of them walking back to the pool, sucking on their various selections. THAT is what summer is all about.

I realized, as I pondered the joy that exchange brought me, how we glorify busy. We Americans often demean the French for their long vacations and short work weeks, but I think they have something there. Our lives have become so busy – it’s all about how much money we make or how successful we are. And we’ve all left behind that kid, out for summer, loving life and taking it just as it is, strolling to and from the pool without an agenda for improvement or goal in mind. I guess that’s what my summers have become – and I’m quite grateful for that.

May 31 – I awoke to the sound of rain on my tent after finding a small campground just outside Long Pine, NE, where I’d pitched my tent. There had been a chance for thunderstorms, but they had passed me by, leaving only a light rain that came and went during the night and the morning. I broke camp sporadically, dodging rain and trying to keep dry. Back on the road, I looked for the most interesting path. I passed cattle grazing in fields – one herd was all white, and the juxtaposition of those tiny white calves and big cows against the new, fresh green of late spring fields, was lovely. The smell of hay and grass and earth and rain reminded me of the way a farmer-lover I’d once had smelled when we lay together. It was a lovely drive.

I visited Carhenge, a place I’d wanted to see for a while, and strolled around some farmer’s idea of car-art. What a wonderful thing the human imagination is.

 

I drove on, making my way out of Nebraska, and the drive was filled with trains hauling coal and turtles crossing the road. As I drove into Colorado, the fields were heavily spotted with oil and gas wells. I had no idea so much drilling was going on in that part of the state – it was the main focal point of much of the landscape. Those wells, along with cattle feedlots that ran for miles, created an impression of northeastern Colorado that is a sad one where profit trumps common sense and the dignity of the land. But more on that later.

The biggest hurdle of the night was trying to find a place to sleep. I visited a few campsites north of Denver, but they were full. Calling around, all the others I had numbers for were full too. I decided to head south through Denver and hit an REI store, then resume my hunt. I did score at REI – I finally found the right boots. They’re Asolo brand hiking boots, and were a bit spendy. But I was able to trade in the ones I bought last year, making the difference I had to come up with quite manageable. They look different from a traditional boot, with dark green suede uppers and striped laces, and I told the hikerish/hipsterish check-out guy I had some reservations about the look of them. He replied, “They’re totally like European mountaineering boots.” So, okay, I’m good with that.

Back on the road, I headed south again, resuming my hunt for lodging and found nothing. It was dark by now, and driving unfamiliar mountain roads in the dark is not my favorite thing to do. After wandering through some back highways, I returned to I-70 and stopped at a Super 8. Not the classiest or newest hotel, it was clean and reasonable, and I was tired. (Note to self: never wait to find a campsite after dark near a metropolis.)

Grazing along the interstate when I left my hotel

June 1 – I rose and began meandering toward Moab. I decided to take a scenic byway, leaving the interstate and dipping down through Leadville and Aspen. The drive was surprising in many ways. Again, from the interstate to Leadville, the landscape was often marked with oil and gas wells and mining operations. Mountains were sheered off and terraced, and large, concrete structures dotted the land. I noticed, too, that almost all of the lakes I passed showed evidence of the ongoing drought with exposed lakebed and often brackish water. Juxtaposed with the low lake levels were some of the highest, fastest running rivers I’ve seen on my drives through Colorado. What a strange time for our earth.

Lots of snow at the pass

But the drive was a good choice. Rounding the southern-most dip of the drive, I started up toward Independence Pass. Signs warned that any vehicles more than 35 feet long were prohibited, would get stuck, hold up traffic, and be fined heavily. Clearly, the Colorado powers that be wanted to leave no room for doubt. Because the road was so narrow in places and the turns so sharp with steep drop-offs, no semis or huge travel trailers could make the drive. I climbed and climbed, and the drive became snowier and snowier. Soon, I was navigating alongside 10-foot walls of snow, cut to follow the road, at more than 11,000 feet. I began to feel dizzy, seeing a few little floaters, and feeling sick to my stomach. I realized I’d been drinking only Diet Coke all day, and I was probably getting dehydrated. I pulled over, opened my water jug, and guzzled the whole thing. I also ate some nuts and licorice. I began to feel better almost immediately, noting that I needed to be sure to drink water regularly and Diet Coke occasionally, not the reverse. Good thing when I hike I only have water.

After coming down from the pass, I returned to the interstate, and continued to Moab. I love that point, just after passing through Grand Junction, Colorado, where I see the LaSalle Mountains off to my left. I know then that I’m close. I stopped to take a picture of the Utah sign, and visited with a young couple from Wisconsin on a road trip. They too were headed first to Moab and then California, with a stop in Las Vegas. Nice kids, and we ended up running into each other in Moab the next day.

Colorado River is overflowing its banks

I intended to stay at a campground where I’ve stayed twice before – once with Deb and Jesse when we made the trip to hike the Grand Canyon, and then again last year. It’s a lovely shaded little primitive BLM campground right on the Colorado River. Unfortunately, the campsites were already taken, but I found a place just one campground down. It doesn’t have the same full shade, but it did have evening shade and it’s right on the river also. So I set up camp, ran to town for essentials, and bedded down for the night.

It’s been a good trip so far – I’m happy and content, even when I couldn’t find a place to stay. If I can stay centered, I can’t imagine I’ll have anything to complain about. Finding things to complain about seems so subjective anyway – either I do or I don’t find fault in the world around me, regardless of the circumstances. Being away from those who find it necessary to find fault (99% of the people in our world) makes it easier to leave that all behind and just experience with mindfulness and clarity. So far, I’m remembering to let judgment go – of others, of myself, of situations. So I’m going with that right now.

One more time . . .

            Well, I’m off again for a summer adventure. This year, hopefully, I’ll complete the most difficult hike so far – the John Muir Trail. I’m also planning to be gone for 11 weeks – the longest I’ve ever been away from those I love and familiar surroundings. Since I live alone, you wouldn’t think it would be that difficult, but I found out last summer just how hard it is to be away from all you know.

            Last year, I was naïve in many ways. I had no idea how lonely it can get on the road. I have traveled alone before, for as long as 30 days, so I expected I would miss my kids. But I didn’t realize how many times, when they had something come up in their own lives, I missed being able to be there for them in person, to be able to drive an hour or so down the interstate and give them a hug or a reassuring word. I know how much physical comfort means to receive, but I had no idea how much it means to be able to give it. 

I also missed intimacy. While Facebook and the blog help me feel connected while I’m on the road, and random connections with strangers fill some of those empty places, having no one with whom to share the intimacies that come from sharing new experiences can sometimes create a palpable, deep loneliness. I have no doubt I’ll experience those bouts of loneliness along the way, but I seem somehow more prepared just knowing to expect them.

I was naïve in other ways too. I realize that last year I had expectations of some grand realization or life-changing event. I approached each day, each new experience, as if hidden within it was a fortune cookie promise actualized., and by showing up, I’d cracked the cookie open, its riches eager to shower upon me. Of course, these were unreal expectations. Sure, I had some amazing, unforgettable experiences, and I was changed by the events of the summer, but none of them were that earth-shattering, paradigm-shifting, mind-blowing experience I’d imagined. And so I had a nagging sense of disappointment much of the time.

Finally, last year the trip was handicapped by circumstance and timing. I was sorting through the fresh loss of a man I dearly loved and whom I expected to be always in my life in one form or another. The various stages of grief tag-teamed my psyche most of the summer, and I spent a lot of time aching from that raw wound of loss.

Not only was I emotionally wounded last year, but also I suffered a physical injury to my foot. This injury crippled me and forced me to abort the biggest event of the summer, the 220-mile John Muir Trail from Yosemite to Mt. Whitney. The disappointment was devastating, and making the decision to pull out at the last minute was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Even though I knew then and I know now it was the right decision, I felt like a quitter and a failure. That feeling followed me home where I lay around the house for the second half of the summer, nursing my wounds.

I am blessed to have another chance at that hike and the summer of adventure. This year is a new opportunity, even though I’m redoing some of the events I’d planned last year. I am hiking the JMT this summer with a foot that is about 95 percent healthy. I’m in a stronger place emotionally and spiritually than I was last summer, and, maybe more than anything, I have lost the naiveté from last year. I know to expect the loneliness. I know not to expect an earth-shattering experience. I am more fully awake to the present moment, remembering most of the time to let go of expectation, judgment, and desire. I feel more able to take whatever comes without having to label it as a “good” experience or a “bad” experience, and simply take it in.

Who knows what the summer will bring. But I know one thing: It will be what it is. And I’m ready for just that. Nothing more and nothing less.