I hike as often as possible. Sometimes spontaneously. I like to be prepared. I travel a good deal. I live in the desert. I have learned to carry extra water. Two liters stays in the car – especially if I leave a full camelback pack in the back seat for a week or two. There is extra water in each of the conservancy fleet vehicles as well. 64 ounces regularly rolls around in the back recesses of the delivery van, clunking against seat braces at odd times. At work we have found that square, milk jug-type containers sprout leaks so staff prefers a nice sturdy juice bottle rinsed and refilled. Roll on sustaining waters. I solved the loose cannon problem in my Subaru by standing a 32-ounce Nalgene up in one of my hiking boots. The other boot holds an extra pair of wool socks and a bana (buff, neck-gaiter, whatever you choose to call it). The boots lodge perennially in the backseat foot well with toes tucked under the driver seat. I prefer to hike in sandals and wool socks or sneakers with socks but the boots – like the PFD, swim tote, hammock, tent, sleeping bag and hiking poles -are there for both storage and spontaneity. I want to be prepared. To put that another way; I don’t ever want to miss out on an opportunity to do the activities I love.
I got away for a few days in advance of the holidays, hiking and soaking at high and cold elevations. It was a sultry 34 degrees on my return to Page and may have hit the upper 30s next day as we conducted inventory at one of our visitor centers. Daylight lingered when I entered my car after work. A bit of water was pooling in the trench of the mud mat. And it was coming from my boot. This was not snowmelt coming from the sole of the boot. No, the water was oozing over the brim of the high top. The exterior of the boot was dry. But the padding around the ankle was wet. My 32-ounce Nalgene still wedged comfortably with a frozen core of ice, but the ice was beginning to melt. I tugged at the bottle. The bottom fell out. Water filled the interior of my boot. It held. Water tight as a leather wineskin, that boot. So. In case you were wondering, yes, in a pinch you could drink water from a boot. It will hold. It will haul. But I am fairly disappointed that my Nalgene will not freeze and thaw.
Preparing to travel for work is a lot like planning to hike in the early morning. I skipped my morning walk in order to make my flight. But I didn’t miss out on exercise, no. I packed my carryon and personal items carefully so as to have everything necessary at hand. Just like a planned hike, I charted my course the night before, discarding what I didn’t need for this trip and adding items unique to planned activities. No camp stove. No fuel. Yes to the layers. Yes to only one laptop. With not so much as a lipstick duplicated, I traveled without excess baggage.
I strapped on my hiking sandals in preparation for a fast walk between terminals.
My electronics and usual purse contents were stowed in my laptop backpack. Clothes and toiletries in my carefully, linear measured roller bag. No checked baggage for me. I knew I would have to make a run for it in Phoenix to catch the direct connection to Orlando.
But pockets! Where are the pockets? Why does business casual dress code translate to no pockets for a woman? No pockets in my short pencil skirts and no pockets in skinny dress pants and no pockets in collared and scarved suitable tops. If this was truly a hiking trip, there would be pockets. A deep pocket for my cellphone / camera. A pocket for my keys. A zippered pocket for my credit card. A hidden pocket for my ID. What distresses me is, I didn’t notice this lack of pockets until after I parked my car at the airport and felt for somewhere to stow the keys, cell phone and boarding pass. If this really was a hiking trip, there would be bandanas – several bandanas. With bandanas I could be innovative. If this were a real hiking trip I would know that my snack food was in the upper pouch of my backpack and my emergency provisions were deep in the bag. Furthermore, I wouldn’t have to pull out my shampoo and other toiletries and food at every checkpoint. I wouldn’t have to take off my shoes and go barefoot through security.
Still thinking myself a savvy traveler despite the omission of pockets, I strode confidently forward.
At least I am wearing my hiking sandals – the ones I normally slosh right on through shallow washes and creeks in, and they come quickly off at each checkpoint.
In Phoenix all my well-laid plans and preparation were foiled. The airline changed the boarding gate on me, thus nullifying my pre-boarding pass and my pre-screening security pass and entailing another 3 quarters of a mile hike and yet another pass through high security – and yes, for some reason I was also treated to the wand and a pat down, which further delayed. By the time I reached the gate that bird had flown.
I put a lot of miles on my feet that day, but when I arrived in Philadelphia at 9:00 pm – which was plan “C” or “D,” or maybe even “E,” I arrived without baggage. Does that ever happen on an outdoor hiking trip? Oh, you may lay your bag at the side of the trail when you walk off to water a tree, but you pick it back up when you find the trail. Or if you forget, you notice quite soon and trudge back for it (I once hiked an extra mile each way for a camera that slipped out – but that is another story). Some of you will chide that I should never let it leave my hand. But in Phoenix, as I boarded a full plane for Philadelphia where I had never planned to go – with the eighth group – all our roller bags were taken from us – mandatory – and checked on through to our final destination. Sometimes you really can’t take it with you.
But I did have a coat – backpacking has taught me something. Even though I was booked directly to Florida, I had stuff-sacked my down jacket into the last remaining space beside my MacAir. For that, I was thankful at 4:00 am the next morning. The lack of toothbrush, I could circumvent, but what to do with the contacts during a needed sleep? If I had my hiking daypack, I would have my contact lens case. It fits right in there with the extra pair of dry socks and the matches. Once again, preparation for a fourteener differs from airport backpacking. My contact lens case had checked on through to Florida with my shampoo and all my clothes and underwear.
If you must know, I slept in a hotel towel. I rose the next morning and popped my contacts back in, moistened only by water. I arrived back at the airport at 5:00 am – 2:00 am back home. I successfully landed in Florida and arrived at the hotel precisely 24 hours later than planned. My bag, with all the pocketless business casual items arrived an additional 24 hours later. But it did arrive! And I did make it home five days later without a hiccup. I even successfully caught my first Uber to the airport and gate checked my roller bag for the final leg in order to bring home freebies from the gathering to the waiting office staff.
But what do I prefer? I prefer the 11- mile hikes into red sandstone or cool lakes and conifers. I think I’ll keep my feet on the ground for awhile.
The headwaters of the Everglades? That will do for a morning walk.
“It’s so beautiful,” They told me before I moved here. “Think of the lake and the red rocks!” Yes. The desert has its own kind of beauty even to one accustomed to pine trees and aspens. Undeniably such a large volume of water right in the midst of the desert is a thing of wonder. It is beautiful. But it is hot. So hot that a coveted morning hike turns into merely a walk that must be taken before 6:00 am. So rocky and barren I must drive an hour or two to find a shady canyon in which to stretch my legs on the weekend.
What do you do to pick yourself up when you are down? When you are blue, how do you make yourself feel better? If you are agitated, how do you calm yourself? How do you engage in self care – manage your mental and emotional health?
Making ourselves feel better is how we cope. What is your coping mechanism? Do you gravitate toward a crowd? Have a cigarette? Music? Sex? What makes you feel all better? How we cope can become an addition. Who doesn’t want to feel better all the time? I do. So when I feel myself ready to drop into that downward spiral, I walk. I run out the door and hit the trail. But it is hot. Too hot to hike.
Having once discovered the piñon-pine forests of Navajo National Monument (established 1909), I returned again to hike all the short trails and snap more photos. The most popular of the short trails will take you to an overlook from which you can see Betakin in the distance. A second trail descends down the side of an inverted mountain. Beginning at 7,000 feet, the inverted mountain goes down, down to where the canyon floor hosts similar flora to that normally found high up a mountainside – an aspen forest and conifer trees. It was cooler here and with a more regular source of moisture. It has to be to grow aspen trees. This type of canyon is situated such that parts of it never see the sun. So narrow one of the sides is always in the shade. The snow is slow to melt.
And suddenly, I knew the answer to the oft asked question as to why the Anasazi were cliff dwellers rather than living up top where it appears life would have been easier-less precipitous. And now, I understand why certain folks mourn the loss of Glen Canyon as was, and want to drain Lake Powell.
It is too hot to hike – except in lush, deep, narrow canyons.
Betakin at Navajo National MonumentInverted mountain
It was the perfect setting for an early morning walk. The sun perched, ready to rise behind the far distant lake and rocks. Shards of light illuminated the leftover clouds from a midnight storm. Blooms lingered on desert willows. On the pavement, I was passing through a section of exquisitely detailed high-end southwestern homes.
Twenty feet away from me a full-grown jackrabbit paused and posed, silhouetted in front of an iron arch complete with some sort of desert vine, ears upright and transparent in the sunrise like the hoodoos of Bryce Canyon during a 6:00 am entrance to Queens Garden. I looked and longed beyond the rabbit to the vanishing point far, far away in lake and rocks. And I had no camera. I have long ceased to carry it in my own neighborhood. What could possibly be different one day to the next?
Wylie Coyote crosses your paved path on a furtive sunrise mission. Bushes previously bearing every semblance to willows have burst into orchid–like bloom. A light desert perfume fills the air. And the birds, the birds each in their native language are calling, screaming, whooping and chortling at the top of their lungs. One last cool breeze of late spring causes you to raise your thin hoodie to cover neck and ears. The sun peeps over a barren movie set laden with monoliths and monuments and you, yourself, cast a long, very long shadow.
The foremost reason I hike is for emotional health. I love it. Can’t live without it. What others find healthful in prayer or meditation, I find in walking out in nature. Clarity, soul–refreshment. The added benefit, of course, is physical health. And way down in tertiary position is the word goal or success.
Nevertheless, I hiked to Rattlesnake Arches last week and thus chalked up another score for the bucket list. It was a goal well-met; a decision well-made. Despite the urging of some friends not to go alone and others not to take my Subaru, I set my face toward the arches and I went.
There are two ways to get to the arches. From the North; a seven-mile hike in and through Rattlesnake Canyon with a seven-mile return. From the South; a seven-mile dirt road, connecting to 1.5 miles of jeep road and then two miles on foot. I chose the dirt road thinking at any time to pull over and hoof it the rest of the way. It was my lucky day. The dirt road was freshly graded. The Red Pearl made it the full seven miles – at 10 miles per hour. Trucking on down the Jeep road in my bald tennies; I came upon this wondrous sign:
Solitude. Oh how I love that word. On my way in, I met a lone cyclist, on the road out only one vehicle. I was alone, in utter solitude for a seven-mile radius. There are times I need the counsel and restoration of friends and times I need to be alone, self-paced, quiet, in self-examination.
Cresting the hill, canyons and valleys of the Colorado River stretch out before me, on into ruby colored sandstone and to Utah. The world is so vast. I am so very small. Instantly I trust.
The fear which chronically dogs me, is utterly gone. I rest. Finally in the arms of Nature. There is nothing I can do. Nothing for me to fix, manipulate or take responsibility for. It is beyond me. And yet, all will be most well. It is in the hands of the supernatural.
When I first moved to my little adobe abode on the fringes of town, I gave my cousin directions as to how to get here for lunch. Trouble was, I couldn’t remember if the left turn was at D or D 1/2 Road. I had confidence in my cousin’s ability to find me from my description because she grew up locally. Turns out it didn’t really matter because the road sign was missing. After one false turn, she arrived in my driveway, apologizing for a few minutes of tardiness. “Why didn’t you just say you were up the road to the Mica Mine?” she asked.
“Mica Mine?” I questioned blankly.
For reasons that are not a part of this story, every level of my social life; home, school, and work; from junior high through young adulthood was cloistered and stunted. Not so my cousin’s. She had boyfriends, school leadership roles, summer jobs and an effervescent and indomitable spirit.
My goal for 2012 is to live as though I have only been given one year-to seize the day, so to speak. Part of that means redeeming things that were lost or missed in childhood and the intervening years.
I pricked up my ears when a co-worker arrived at the office the other day, saying she had taken an early morning walk at the Mica Mine.
Miniature balanced rock
“What makes it so special?” I asked.
“It’s just beautiful,” was her reply.
At the next opportunity, I decided to explore. In so doing, I discovered a place that I should have been familiar with in my youth, but somehow missed; a place so beautiful it belongs on my local bucket list, but I was ignorant. Right there, less than 10 miles up the road from my house, was a mini red
Greenery and flowers
rock canyon complete with trickling stream, amazing rock formations, wild-flowers and glittering rocks.
Was it worth driving and spending a morning to hike? Take a look at the pictures and then tell me what you think.
Stream exists only after rain
There is even a mini window or archA sparkling pathand a quarry
rock formation
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
