Captivated Me

captivate : v. to attract and hold the attention or interest of, as by beauty or excellence; enchant.

Category: National Parks

September 20, 2022

In Brief: Joshua Tree National Park

A friend and I embarked on a two-week road trip in mid-September, traversing around 1,795 miles of America’s beautiful Southwest. For our first major stop, we were met by the vast and sun-scorched vistas – where the low Colorado and high Mojave deserts converge – which characterize the magical Joshua Tree National Park. What complex, mysterious geology and ecology weave together here. I saw the friendly and quirky Joshua Tree, reminiscent of a stick figure with myriad arms waving ‘hello’ in all directions, growing at a rate of only 0.5 to 3 inches per year. I observed the various species of the somewhat more guarded cactus whose countless spines provide shade and protection to allow for its survival in arid conditions. I noticed the mounds of fiery boulders, remnants of historical tectonic and volcanic activity underneath the earth’s crust. I felt the sun’s heat radiating from the rocky terrain by day, and the refuge of soft cool breeze by night. I marveled at the clearest, most starlit Milky Way skies I have ever beheld. And I was mesmerized. Our three-day itinerary involved:

  • Sunsets at Cholla Cactus Garden and Keys View
  • A daytime hike and later nighttime astrophotography at Arch Rock Trail, with a stop at Heart Rock
  • A graded, inclined hike up Ryan Mountain
  • Wandering the easy-going Barker Dam Loop, with a stop to observe ancient petroglyphs
  • Rock scrambling and searching for slot passages through the Hall of Horrors
  • A hot desert jaunt through 49 Palms Oasis Trail
  • Dinner at the cool, relaxing Kitchen in the Desert (Order the Brussels sprouts. Just do it.)
  • AirBnB lodging at the lovely Kozy Homes at 29
  • Drinking boatloads of water and reapplying tubfuls of sunscreen
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January 22, 2022

Day 5: Arches National Park

The morning air today carries a unique chill, the kind that seeps easily through your layers and into your bones. But no matter! The skies are clear, the birds are singing, and it’s bound to be a beautiful day chasing arches.

I am almost late for sunrise at the Windows, a pair of arcs situated to the north and south of a single rock formation in Arches National Park. I arrive at the landing within the North Window and am greeted by three photographers – one couple from Colorado, and one solo photographer – all directing their lenses around the landscape. The arch opens to a ravine, with beautiful views of the mountains directly to the east, where the sky is beginning to glow. Our perch within the arch happens to be serving as a special form of wind tunnel, and we four are hunkered down, sharing rocky ledges to hide behind, and offering extra hand warmers to fit into our gloves. I look around, noticing a view of nearby Turret Arch with the pink, lustrous valley behind it and a distinct moon overhead.

Opposite our ledge, on the other side of the ravine, is a daring, narrow bench that a handful of other photographers have hiked over to. Their tripods are at the ready, and they too await the idyllic spotlight that will soon expose what night has shaded. Within minutes, the sun arrives joyfully over the mountains to join the party, illuminating everything it touches. I marvel, snap a photo, and marvel again, and repeat this cycle ad nauseum until I have had my fill of the beauty from this vantage point. I then hike along the ridge to the opposing side of the ravine, stepping gingerly along the slickrock so as not to fall. This perspective affords a layered view of Turret Arch at the center of the eye of the North Window. I love how looking at the same subjects from different perspectives can reveal new facets, corners, studies, and beauty. This applies, I think, not just to photography, but to life.

I retrace my steps back through the North Window and toward its sibling just south, then across the rockscape to Turret Arch where I encounter another kind couple from Colorado. We exchange photos, and I climb up into the arch to peruse its stone-walled contents and gain a higher view of the Windows. Altogether, stunning. I thank God for the sunrise and how it warms my frozen nose, then make the short hike to another remarkable arch, or rather two – Double Arch. Here, I encounter a group of photographers performing a workshop, and after a fun parlance around our mutual hobby, we go separate ways along the trail. The formation is immense, intricate, unlike any of the others I have seen so far. It reminds me of an optical illusion, like the Magic Eye books I relished when I was a child. I snap a couple of photos, then continue my tour of the park, aiming for Balanced Rock.

This landmark is a quick stop, but interesting in its totem-like appearance. The portion of greatest breadth sits atop a stony pedestal, looking almost as if it could fall at any moment. I learn that the ‘teetering giant’ and the base that it stands on are composed of different types of rock, the base being more susceptible to erosion than the boulder above. One day, the base will crumble and the boulder will tumble off!

After admiring the balancing act, I drive along the main park road to its furthest extent, the Devil’s Garden campground and trailhead. My afternoon consists of two separate hikes with multiple arches of all shapes and sizes distributed along each, explored over a period of five hours. Tunnel Arch, Pine Tree Arch, and the ever-delicate Landscape Arch all lie along the Devil’s Garden trail. Others do as well, but an angry Achilles tendon today prevents me from scrambling upward along the angled slickrock that would otherwise permit access to them. I resolve to return to this trail again in the future to complete this unforgettable loop. I then reroute and hike along the unpaved, primitive trail which showcases extensive views of the mountains and valleys surrounding and beyond the park limits. This path is less traveled compared to the one toward Landscape Arch. Microspikes are handy here, as slushing snow is cooling into ice while the breeze blows. I hike through a flat wash, hugged on all sides by the smooth, phalangeal towers at the heart of the Garden. I then begin scaling the rock formations with my best effort, and regrettably come to the end of my ankle’s ability to tolerate the upward climb, so I make my return to the trailhead to set out on the next adventure.

Broken Arch and Tapestry Arch are my closing aspirations for the day. On this winding trail, I am one of only four hiking groups out and about. I take my time, noticing the detail of the sagebrush and the twisted bark of peculiar trees as I go. Tapestry Arch is a trio of beautifully woven stone formations that lie in sequence. Broken Arch hides further along on the path and involves some light climbing and scrambling, and I am delighted to find myself alone when I arrive. An unobstructed view of the mountains serves as the backdrop to Broken Arch, known for the large crack at its apex.

The sun is casting a serene glow over the scene, and I take a few photos. I then meet an older couple, a man and woman in town from Boulder and Telluride, respectively, who ask to exchange photos. We do, and in the meantime, they challenge me to a timed jumping photo. These happen to be some of my favorite, and I accept the challenge. They are playful and fun, kids at heart, and I note that I hope to carry that same playfulness and glee in my own heart as I journey through life.

We share about our gratitude for the beautiful day and about our hometowns, then we continue toward opposite arms of the looping path. The sun is making its way toward the horizon, and its golden rays are highlighting the rocks, trees, and trails in dreamy ways. I feel nestled in peace, free to relish the present moment, and ready for whatever curves and bends lie ahead when I fly home tomorrow. And above all, I remain thankful for the people, places, and precious moments that made this week so sweet.

I backtrack along the park road, driving slowly, eyes roaming the landscape and drinking in my last sunset in Moab. Skyline Arch makes its way into view from the road, and I spend a moment marveling before I continue on. Mile after mile, gratitude grows to overflowing. I get back to my hotel, rest a final few moments in the hot tub, and wind down the evening with a tired body, but a full and hopeful heart.

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January 21, 2022

Day 4: Dead Horse Point and the Colorado River

I arrive at Dead Horse Point around 7:25 AM. This morning’s sunrise is projected for 7:32, but a snowfall is also in the forecast. A thick, purple, luscious blanket of clouds covers the sky almost entirely, leaving only one thin, clear margin of heaven on the horizon where the sun is expected to announce the day.

Myself and two gentlemen – one traveling from Bozeman, the other a tour guide in Antelope Canyon – are here to capture these moments. We share photography tips and tricks and watch as the skies above and canyon below slowly, gently come to light in an array of jewel tones, as if earth and cloud are composed of ruby, sapphire, topaz and amethyst. Views of the canyons and serpiginous river inspire a combination of peace and awe. The sun smiles briefly, cheerily through the small degree of latitude between the horizon line and the cloud cover, then disappears as it continues its climb. Meanwhile, over the course of thirty minutes, grey clouds that clearly carry precipitation crawl toward our overlook. I slowly walk along the rim of the canyon taking photos, and in doing so, I encounter yesterday’s friends from Poland – Rafal and Stephania – once again. We linger a while, conversing and looking out over the vista, grateful to see each other anew. They plan to set course for Zion National Park this afternoon, and I bid them well as they go.

Next, I connect with Bridget, Tori and Loki, who have joined in the interval between my own arrival earlier this morning and the sunrise. They graciously extend a cup of fresh coffee from their Jetboil and we three continue meandering along the rim, noticing tiny, infrequent snowflakes falling. There is levity, joy, and beauty in sharing these experiences among friends. We have a blast shooting photos for each other and gazing in wonder as the snowfall intensifies over a period of around an hour. Tonight, we plan to share dinner together again, and we agree to select a location later on. They then return to Moab, while I abide a little longer.

The canyon, visible in clear detail earlier in the morning, is now shrouded in a soft, cozy fog. I see no one else around the overlook and I saunter slowly along the path with panoramic views of this landscape. I throw in a twirl through the snow every once in a while, delighted, akin to a child perusing a field of wildflowers. A cool, gentle snow, the kind that drops whimsically from heaven in the movies, is beginning to accumulate and sneak its way into my boots, gloves, and collar. I muster all the Minnesotan spirit that I can and press on, continuing to take photos for another hour. The gingerbread rocks and icing snow make for a magical, picturesque subject.

With gratitude and contentment, I return to the parking lot and brush the snow from my car’s windows. I feel tired and not up for further hiking today, but recall reading about a scenic drive just outside of town that sounds like a leisurely way to spend an afternoon. I find the highway – Highway 128 – heading north and east from Moab and feel comfortable and at home on the slushy streets. The moment I turn onto this long and winding road, I can tell it is going to be a beautiful drive.

Tall earthy cliffs line either side of the coursing Colorado River. Tucked in between the bluffs and over the water, there is a smoky, hypnotic layer of clouds that dance quickly between and across peaks. The rocky castles are reflected in the river water that darts by at their foundations. Untouched snow covers the river banks and conceals the plant life lining the highway. Patches of ice extend like puzzle pieces across shallower river shores. Who knew the American Southwest could be such a winter wonderland?

I drive for around fifteen miles, stopping every couple of minutes to snap photos of unique nooks and crannies along this byway. Ever so slowly, the snowfall ceases and the clouds tease at unraveling to allow open sky to pass through. I turn onto the La Sal Loop Road toward Castle Valley and drive with no destination in mind, stumbling on perhaps one of my favorite moments of the day.

Mine is the only car on this road. Red hills rise from the ground on either side, and the clouds held in suspension are just beginning to thin and disperse. There is a turn out along the side of the road where I pull aside and leave my car, noticing a makeshift trail that climbs one of the crimson mounds to a beautiful overlook. Patches of snow cover the ground, and my happy feet slosh step by step through it. As I reach the height of the mound, the sun declares itself with a bright, gleaming shine that illuminates blue skies and highlights the vibrant colors of the earth around me. Wispy clouds continue to flirt with some of the cliffs. Joyful tears fill my eyes, and I allow them to fall as I watch the scene unfold. So many moments on this trip (and many other trips, for that matter) have felt deeply special, leaving me in a speechless stupor. Moments such as this remind me, Tiana, look at how storms give way to beauty. Look at all that God has created and orchestrated. You can trust that He knows what He’s doing.

I descend and make my way back toward town, stopping a second time at many of the same overlooks I passed on the way in to take photos of a completely transformed riverscape. Open skies beam overhead, the waters of the Colorado glisten. Much of the snow that had previously accrued has already melted under the sun’s warmth. One area of rocky wall along the road contains petroglyphs that I stop to admire. A group of climbers is winding down after an epic day on what is called ‘Wall Street’, a nod to the scaleable, skyscraper-esque forms that enchant this highway. I take my time, unrushed, enjoying the vista through a new lens, and eventually find my way to a parking spot outside Moab Coffee Roasters, a local coffeehouse in the heart of town. Oat chai latte and chocolate truffles in hand, I walk about the town. I stop at a boutique known for showcasing local artists, called ‘Moab Made’, and lend my support. I then peruse the local bookstore, ‘Back of Beyond Books’, and make some selections before continuing my tour of the downtown area. Around 4:30 PM, I am back at the hotel and notice the sun will set soon. I get ready to go outside to the hot tub, which offers unobstructed views of the bluffs to the west. I soak, rest, refresh and watch as the day’s sunlight fades over the landscape. And for what feels like the millionth time today, I am thankful.

Later, I meet Bridget and Tori at a local Italian restaurant, Antica Forma, The Old Way. This eatery is known for its wood-fire brick oven Neapolitan pizza. I order a prosciutto pie with white sauce, and the others order incredible pastas. We delight in the good food, drink, and company, enjoy scrumptious desserts, and agree to keep in touch even after the two leave town tomorrow.

I get back to the hotel, turn on an episode on the Nature channel that teaches me about orcas (my favorite whale), and nod off, excited to find the sunrise in Arches National Park in the morning.

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January 20, 2022

Day 3: Canyonlands and Corona Arch

A calm, peaceful morning is underway. The skies above are a clear, velvety dark navy blanket bursting with starlight as I drive the short route to Canyonlands National Park. Situated around a half-hour from Moab, Canyonlands is known to offer an inverted, carved-inward landscape that juxtaposes the upward-reaching formations at Arches. My eyes squint carefully at the empty road before me to ensure that no wildlife are crossing along the way. I feel a familiar tingle of excitement for this morning’s hike.

Amos Lee sings as I pull into the trailhead parking lot, layer multiple times over for warmth, and collect my backpack. I get out of the car and adjust my headlamp, now necessary since the car lights have extinguished. Just a sliver of creamsicle coloring has started to tint the eastern horizon, and the area is dark. An easy, short jaunt leads me to the feet of Mesa Arch.

One of the most photographed icons in Canyonlands, I am surprised to be one of only four people at the landmark this morning. We all warm ourselves, exchange introductions and origins, and keep our eyes fixed on the horizon watching for first light. Tomas, one of the gentleman at the arch, shares a story from decades ago about his one and only visit to Minnesota, when he went tubing down the Apple River with his mother and brother. Soon after we start talking, the hiking duo from Minnesota that I met in Capitol Reef yesterday arrives, and we all visit further as we await the upcoming spectacle. These interactions remind me that home is something you carry in your heart, and it can include new people and new places and new moments, no matter where life takes you.

The canyon is grey with shadow several minutes longer. I cannot wait to see its depths and details revealed when sunrise comes, but I try to photograph its edges in the meantime as the sky slowly brightens. Then, one of many miracles that occurs every day in our lives, a tiny, vibrant sunburst peeks out from over the La Sal mountain range. In the minutes that follow, the arch before us exudes an ever-increasing tangerine glow. The canyon begins to fill with daylight. I gaze. And gaze. And gaze. And cannot believe the beauty before my eyes. I remain for two hours, noticing how the sun arches across the sky, admiring how the shadows dance along deep ravines in response to the sun’s gentle leading, marveling at how a scene can be at once so simple yet so intense. The first wave of explorers has gone, and a new couple has arrived. Rafal and Stephania are a loving duo from Warsaw, Poland who delight in finding adventure together and are on a tour of national parks in between work commitments. We admire the landscape together, then they leave to journey further into the park. My final friend this morning is named Phil, an aerospace engineer decades my senior, who is adventuring the park after a recent knee replacement. He works for NASA – which is the coolest – and we exchange our fascinations with astronomy. He and I exchange photos for one another, he departs, and for a moment, I stand before this luminous scene alone.

I feel breathless, humbled, grateful. A melody rises up from my heart, and I cannot help but sing and set it free. I go and sit beneath the gleaming arch and reflect on the drop-off to canyon views directly below. The layered rocks of peach and cream and seafoam green, the fringes and edges and expansive canyons that dive into the earth, the sheer, unadulterated artistry. I meditate for a moment on what a canyon can teach us about life. Can it teach us to embrace the depths, treasure the layers, brave the shadows? To watch the horizon expectantly for daylight, even when a season feels dark, and to appreciate the stars in the meantime?

Slowly, hesitantly, I leave my post and return along the looped trail toward my car. I spend the remainder of the morning driving the scenic roads of Canyonlands, stopping at any overlook or trail I can find to stand in awe of the views, and encountering Rafal, Stephania, and Phil several times along the way. To end the morning, I pass through the Visitor Center to pay my entrance fee and find gifts for family and friends. As I leave, Phil arrives and gifts me with a NASA pin, to my great surprise and giddy delight. I thank him profusely for the gesture. My heart is full.

I leave Canyonlands midday and make the drive to a trailhead along the Lower Colorado Scenic Byway just north of Moab. This quiet, tranquil road winding in tandem with the mighty Colorado River leads me to the desired parking lot. I am so eager to begin this hike that I start for a good few minutes up a strenuous staircase before realizing I left my phone on top of my car in the parking lot. I return quickly, gather my phone, and scale the staircase once again. There is a landing at the top, and I am unsure of where to go, so I veer right to follow a beautiful train track that appears to have a trail of footsteps beside it. Rocky walls line both sides of the tracks, and I take some photos as I hike on for another 15-20 minutes. I begin to question where this leads and, grateful to have my phone, notice on Google Maps that I am not at all following a hiking trail. This is unfortunate, because there are two duos of hikers behind me who have been following me all this way! I about-face and tell both groups that if they are destined for the local arches this afternoon, we are on the wrong path. We collectively laugh and joke, and begin our return to the landing from which we ought have ventured straight over the railroad rather than making a right hand turn. How wonderful it is, I observe, that when we go the wrong direction, it is never too late to turn around. How often does this happen in life, and God in all His goodness and grace allows us to course-correct and get back on track?

I hike on happily, leap-frogging with my fellow explorers as we take photos and stop to gaze at the landscape at different intervals. The dirt path contains some light obstacles and scrambles, which eventually give way to slickrock. Jade green dashes of paint mark the trail along the rock, leading to a steep upward climb along a cable system, followed by a ladder climb up to a ledge where views of two remarkable arches come into view. I continue the hike to the left along a broad slickrock bench that curves around a ravine, noticing beautiful Bowtie Arch to my left. I pause and goggle here, then continue on to one of the largest arches in Moab, Corona Arch. A hiking couple arrives around the same time, and it turns out they are from my home state! They tarry a moment, along with one family who was already exploring the arch, then as both groups leave, I have the space to myself.

An orange ribbon against a blue sky; I love this complementary color combination. Birds sing nearby, and my heart sings with them. Once again, as before, I sit and enjoy the vista quietly, drinking in the moment. Then I take a second to introspect and ask – What can I learn and glean here, from this place? I crane my neck to follow the extent of the formation and notice how open an arch is, how flexible it appears as it bends, how strong it must be to withstand the elements of wind, rain, ice, snow that assail in any given season. I love how these qualities relate to life – When struggle or hardship come, can we learn and choose to courageously keep our hearts open, stay flexible as circumstances shift, and strengthen our faith in God and our resolve to endure?

I ready myself to return along the out-and-back trail, and as I do, I notice two fellow hiker women and one dog approaching – Tori, Bridget, and Loki. Recognizing them from the railroad track mishap, we greet each other with laughter. We visit a while, sharing observations and stories and photos, and quickly learn that we all work in healthcare. We very swiftly become friends, joined by a love for hiking, faith, and our jobs! They have just arrived to town today, and we make plans to meet for dinner at a local eatery this evening. We say farewell for now, and they go onward toward the arch while I make way down the ladder, down the cables, and toward the parking lot. I drive the short road back toward Moab and decide on a detour through Arches National Park where I watch the sunset. The sky transforms from a bright blue to a soft cerulean, the orange rocks turn grey-violet, the mountains appear lavender, and I am spellbound by the beauty.

After sunset, I swing past my hotel to change, then drive the brief mile into town for dinner. Tori, Bridget and I meet at the Trailhead Public House and Eatery for burgers and drinks, wonderful gifts after a long day of exploring. We enjoy learning about Moab from our waiter, Travis, who over time has made his way here from Alabama because of the incredible outdoor experiences that this locale has to offer. The time is precious and full of laughter, as we talk together about life, love, and other mysteries. We tentatively agree to meet at nearby Dead Horse Point State Park for sunrise tomorrow, provided no one out-sleeps their alarm.

Another day in Utah has come and gone. It was full to the brim, and my heart is full in kind. I return to my hotel, soak leisurely in the hot tub, and turn in for the night.

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January 19, 2022

Day 2: From Capitol Reef to Goblin Valley.

An early alarm heralds the morning, and as I get ready for the day, I make a last-minute decision to take a road trip rather than stay local. Clouds are projected here in Moab for today, but clear skies are anticipated in Torrey, Utah, the city nearest Capitol Reef National Park. It feels like a great day to track down some of that sunshine.

I find a warm breakfast in the hotel lobby and set out due north just before sunrise. The moon is barely visible behind a veil of grey clouds which interrupt a rainbow-colored sky. Mumford & Sons and the Avett Brothers serenade as I drive along the narrow highway. A raven happily hops along the side of the road as cars pass by. Noticing a near-empty gas tank, I find a small, quiet gas station along the side of the road. By happenstance, this stop yields wide-open views of the La Sal mountains, over which the sun is just beginning to rise. I linger here for twenty minutes, well longer than the time it takes to fill the gas tank, and softly hum hymns as I watch the sun reveal its light through thick marshmallow-cream clouds. A fellow sun-admirer driving a Moab Express shuttle pulls into the parking lot and takes photos in kind. She and I knowingly wave to each other from a distance, acknowledging this special, stunning moment, and continue on with our days.

The drive continues for ten, twenty, one hundred miles, mostly along abandoned highways lined with rustic, dilapidated buildings – humble monuments of a history that renders me curious about who lived and worked here or there. I catch brief glimpses of the coy moon and the elusive sun as I go, and delight in seeing a sun halo reflecting off low, crystalline clouds in the atmosphere. My soundtrack for the day changes from indie folk to show tunes, particularly Hamilton, which infuses me with a rapping, belting, beat-boxing energy to fuel the remainder of the drive. I cross the broad Green River Overlook, traverse pastures of happy cattle against a backdrop of orange and yellow sky, and enjoy peculiar, paradoxical views of a frozen desert. I finally arrive at Capitol Reef National Park Visitor Center, obtain recommendations from the local rangers about various hikes and experiences for a five or six hour stay, and am advised to begin my adventure at Hickman Bridge.

The trailhead is a short drive from the visitor center, and I find myself one of only three cars in the parking lot. I follow the short, well-marked trail toward the star of the show, a natural phenomenon which I have only ever seen photos of. The hike is exposed, the sunlight feels warmer than the measured 45-degree day, and I have to shed layers to stay cool – a welcome change from the subzero temperatures back home this time of year. I find myself quickly approaching the bridge, encountering a kind couple from across the Pacific as I arrive. We exchange photos, comment in awe on the beauty we see before us, and part ways – them returning along the path from which we came, myself sitting on a rock to gawk and reflect further.

“Dum spiro spero”. “While I breathe, I hope”.

I encountered this latin phrase and its translation in study over the past several weeks, and my mind has often returned to it as I contemplate upcoming decisions that relate to work, faith, relationship, and life as a whole. It reminds me of a wisdom communicated by a retiring professor I learned from at university over a decade ago. In her last days teaching at the university, she told our class very simply, “There is no alternative to hope.” This season has brought multiple reasons for heartache, which has joined me on this trip. How grateful I am, that with every breath we are given, we have hope to hold onto, even when life hurts, even as we heal.

I think on this for a fair amount of time in solitude, enjoying the feeling of warm sunshine on my skin. I welcome these moments to bask, breathe, and pray. Several minutes later, as I ready myself to hike back to the car, a duo from my home state arrive. We laugh together about the difference between the terrain here in Utah compared to that of Minnesota, and we share comments of appreciation to have this wonderful space to ourselves. After visiting for a few minutes and taking photos for them, I make the return trek and set course for the next stop in today’s journey.

After a stroll along a boardwalk lined with ancient petroglyphs attributed to the incredible Fremont culture, I drive toward Capitol Gorge, which was described to me by the park’s rangers as a ‘slot canyon for cars’. The scenic drive toward the gorge was dazzling, reminiscent of the colors and sights one might see in Zion National Park. And the gorge itself? It constitutes winding walls of rock extending straight upward hundreds of feet overhead on either side, with two packed-dirt driving lanes smushed together in the wash in between. This leaves a grand, amazing, borderline terrifying impression on the nerves; the sense of feeling humble and small while at the same time feeling part and parcel of something bigger. I reflect on a quote I remember encountering years ago, just after college: “How cool is it that the same God who created mountains and oceans and galaxies looked and thought the world needed one of you too.”

I gingerly continue my drive through the gorge, careful to avoid the interspersed potholes in my compact rental car. A big horn sheep, unfortunately limping on one of its hind legs, climbs a rocky ridge near my car; it eats from the shrubs at its feet, then sits to rest and stares in my direction. I sit silently for a moment as we observe each other, then I continue slowly. Wildlife amazes my soul.

My final stop today in Capitol Reef is Panorama Point, which affords 360-degree views of the surrounding Cathedral Valley and the bright red and white stone classic to the Reef. The wind cuts, and my time here is short, but it feels like the perfect conclusion to this chapter of the trip. I reload into my car and type my next destination, Goblin Valley, into the GPS.

Goblin Valley is situated around halfway between Moab and Torrey. I enjoy the scenes as I drive – Clouds float across the sky at interval, causing the bright scarlet rocks to take on a violaceous hue. I continue to sing songs from Hamilton at the top of my lungs, dancing in my seat as I navigate the empty highways back in the direction of my home base for the week. I take the appointed left at the junction for Goblin Valley, continue to drive another 20 minutes toward the park entrance, and pull off to one side of the road as I enter the grounds. There are maybe 40 minutes that stand between this moment and sunset, and I cannot wait to explore.

The small pitstop yields innumerable paths among peculiar, bright orange totems of sandstone called ‘goblins’, named so for their ghoulish appearance. If you engage your imagination a little bit, some even appear to have faces! (As it turns out, this field of goblins is just scratching the surface of what is to come!) A man on a business trip from Texas pulls in to the same pit stop, and seemingly the only two visitors in the park, we take a few photos for each other to capture the moment. We bid one another adieu, and I drive the final stretch to the parking lot for the Valley of the Goblins. My new friend from Texas tarries a few moments, then leaves, and I have the whole space to myself.

Here, I descend a wooden staircase into the valley. Families of goblins are clustered along the valley floor, with rocky fortresses surrounding, and blue-tinted mountains in the distance to the southwest. I wander, skip, frolic among the stones, observing the golden-hour shadows and colors as the sun inches ever closer to the westward horizon. I am surrounded by a vacuum of peaceful silence. The sky emits an otherworldly, neon glow that – taken together with the martian landscape – lends itself to the feeling of being in a galaxy far, far away. I gaze, slack-jawed, until well after sunset, and have no further words to describe the scene that unfolded in a way that would do any justice. I thank God for the moment, and remain at a loss for words when I reflect on it, even to this day.

I drive the remaining miles to Moab in darkness, humbled and grateful once again. Stars punctuate the sky like diamonds as I go, and while my body is in the car driving, my mind is already relaxing in the hot tub that will soon be a reality. After I get to the hotel, change, ease into the soothing water, and breathe a lovely sigh of renewal, I meet a kind couple from Grand Junction, CO. Experts in archaeology, they share with me about various nearby sites where I can explore rock art, peruse prehistoric museums, and learn about the history of uranium mining in the area. I am realizing, there is well more to encounter here than I will have time for on this trip. Moab begins to feel much like locales such as Santa Fe and Lake Powell that I have written about elsewhere – A special place that you do not journey to just once in your life, but over and over again. We three visit for some time and go our respective ways. I float down the hallway on a cloud of gratitude for the day, readily snuggle in to the cozy king bed, and fall asleep swiftly yet again.

References:

Fremont Culture – https://www.nps.gov/care/learn/historyculture/fremont.htm

Capitol Reef National Park – https://www.nps.gov/care/index.htm

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January 18, 2022

Day 1: From Minneapolis to Moab.

A cheerful ‘ding’ awakens me from my light sleep, and I find myself at once excited and alert after a solid two-hour nap. I look to my left, past my seat mate, out the small window overlooking the mountains. An early morning flight brought me to Salt Lake City this morning, and gorgeous views are welcoming the plane as it makes its final descent. A hazy fog is nestled over the city such that only the snowy mountaintops are clearly visible. I’m grateful for the opportunity to get away, to embrace a week of retreat and renewal.

After deplaning, I find my way to the rental car agency, select a vehicle, and immediately set course south and east. I am headed to a place I do not know, somewhere I have never been before, and yet I feel as though I am exactly where I am meant to be. The drive is long, over three hours duration, but charged with sights unlike any that lie roadside back home. The time is filled with iconic tunes from the local classic rock station. In this midwinter season, the highways here weave among snow-peaked mountains and eventually bright red cliffs that are illuminated by sunlight, big sky views rising above. Creeks meander across the ground and give way to rivers, all frozen to a trickle and covered with a soft blanket of snow, the surface of which is dotted with tiny footprints belonging to local rabbits, deer, and the like. These scenes extend for dozens of miles as I pass through Provo, Price, and onward to my destination: Moab.

I have heard Moab described as an outdoor enthusiast’s mecca, a gem of a region that combines as many imaginable seasons and terrains as you can dream of. And as I approach, watching the ‘Welcome to Moab’ sign soar by my window, I feel my soul readying itself to step away for a time from life’s demands and sink into this all-natural atmosphere.

It is mid-afternoon, around 3 PM, and with the sun setting early these days, I have only one hike in mind today: Delicate Arch, a 52-foot tall formation hidden from road view, tucked deep within Arches National Park. I gain entry into the park, thanking the ranger at the entrance station after a ‘small-world’ moment discussing loved ones back home in the Midwest, and navigate toward Wolfe Ranch Trailhead. The winding roads through the park expose delicious views of the La Sal mountain range, the iconic red rock formations erupting from the earth, the high-desert flora and fauna at every turn. I stop multiple times, jaw agape, to photograph the landscape, and slowly but surely find my way to the trailhead. One of very few cars there, I park, hurriedly collect my daypack, don multiple warm layers, and make way. A small, abandoned homestead marks the trail’s beginning, and after a short stretch on loose dirt, I find myself angling upward along slickrock toward the serial markings that line the path. It feels incredible to move my body after spending hours seated on a plane and in the car. A bitter wind tickles my exposed nose, and I am grateful for the warmth of fleece and feather covering the rest of my body as I go.

Fellow hikers are sparse and far between today, lending to a feeling of serenity and solitude in what would otherwise – to my understanding – be a charged and busy trail if this was peak season. Interspersed, we climb and descend and climb and descend, making our way eventually along an icy, exposed ledge hidden by shade toward the end of the about 1.5 mile trail. I turn a corner toward the south and, suddenly in view, the masterpiece. The arch rises from its stage to the backdrop of the nearby mountains; shades of purple, blue and orange reflect into the clouds overhead from the sun’s spotlight; and an amphitheater of red rock stretches out at the arch’s feet where one might sit and marvel in awe as if delighting in a premier musical or opera.

Myself, and others around me, are giddy with delight at the view. Maybe ten hikers are there, spaced out across the grounds, staring in awe and trying to capture the arch in photograph in a way that does its beauty justice (which feels darn near impossible). I meet a family from Los Angeles, one trio and one couple from Colorado, a local couple who are taking photographs for their ‘baby due’ announcement, and we all celebrate this day and share insights and recommendations for the must-sees in and around Moab. Individually and collectively, we marvel at the work of art surrounding us, snap photos for each other to keepsake these memories, and laugh at how cold our fingers and toes feel. These special moments with strangers warm the heart and add to the beauty and joy of this experience; and I am grateful.

The sun continues to float toward the horizon, and the light cast over the arch shifts and changes in kind. The impressionist in me is tickled pink. I stay for around two hours, taking some time to meet the arch up close and crane my neck to appreciate its immensity, then switch on my headlamp and begin the return hike to my car as the skies dim. The views opposite the arch to the north are just as dazzling – Hills and valleys painted orange with sunlight, with a vibrant purple-orange sky overhead. I pray my hundredth ‘thank You’ to the heavens for this precious experience, and step lightly down the slickrock back toward the dirt trail.

Darkness falls quickly, and I set course for my hotel just a few miles from the park entrance, on the outskirts of downtown Moab. I check in, partake at the hotel’s restaurant, refresh in the hot tub situated outside under the stars, and reflect in gratitude on the beautiful flight and drive and hike all contained within the past twelve hours. I fall asleep faster than I can type a letter on this keyboard, humbled, thankful and excited to see what tomorrow will hold.

Locations:

Wolfe Ranch: https://www.nps.gov/places/arch-wolfe-ranch.htm

Delicate Arch: https://www.nps.gov/arch/planyourvisit/delicate-arch.htm

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February 4, 2021

Angel’s Landing: One Step at a Time.

What frightens you?

I woke up this morning to watch the sun rise over the mountains. The river on the east side of this idyllic bed and breakfast property in Springdale, Utah was coursing with life as the sky changed from blue to orange to yellow, and my heart filled with the anticipation of another sweet day in nature. Coffee in hand, I planned my final day of hiking in Zion National Park. As I perused the various trail options on the park map, I had every active intention of avoiding Angel’s Landing, the one hike that struck the strongest chord of fear in my body. I’ll do two or three lighter treks today, I thought. In my heart of hearts, I admit to myself that I have doubts about if I’d be physically or emotionally able to complete a hike like the Angel. As I continue to make a tentative itinerary for the day, though, curiosity beckons. I fill my pack with water, food, and my emergency kit, then hop in the car for the short drive toward the park.

On the way, I quickly visit the local gear company to return the dry suit I had rented to hike the Narrows yesterday. As I visit with the man helping me with the gear, I casually ask him what he thinks of Angel’s Landing. “What do you know about exposure in hiking and climbing?”, he asks. I share my simpleton understanding – that it’s when you have a lot of air around you and the potential for a steep fall. He validates that response and expands on it, noting that many of the hikes and summits in this striking park (and elsewhere, for that matter) are more taxing psychologically than physically. He shares that Angel’s Landing is one of them, largely because of the exposure. You do have a lot of air around you, you have sharp drop-offs on either side of you, and the fear of mis-stepping or falling or any number of dangerous outcomes can overpower the focus it takes to simply take the next step in front of you. “If you can navigate the fear, and have the physical capacity, you can complete the hike for sure.”

I thank the man for his explanation, then leap back into my car as curiosity grows still further. Maybe I’ll just go see if there is a parking spot at the trailhead, I think. I don’t actually have to hike it; I just want to see. Hoping that maybe the parking area – which serves as one point from which multiple trails radiate – might be full, I approach it and notice one final space available, situated as close to the trailhead as can be. I pull in, turn the car off, and get out of the car, gazing at the face of the beautiful rock formation, and I get nauseated with fear at the thought of trying to climb it. Fascination and awe lead me on, and I feel drawn to the challenge. Surprising myself, I start up the trail toward the first switchbacks, enjoying the views of the aqua Virgin River as it weaves through the canyon with towers of layered rock hugging it on either side.

We are not strangers to fear. We all experience it in one way or another. In some ways, fear is a survival mechanism, a sort of panic-button that our body activates when it feels it is in danger. It heightens your awareness to the situation in front of you. If you see a bear, you want your sympathetic nervous system to awaken; you want to be aware and prepare for what to do next. If you hike to 1,500 feet of elevation along the spine of a wild cliff, you want to be aware of the tree roots and slanted rocks that line your path and to navigate them accordingly. Responding to fear from a healthy, regulated, compassionate place allows us to respect the gravity of a situation, leverage the fear and awe that accompany that situation, and make sound decisions under duress.

On the other hand, there are triggers and traumatic experiences in our lives that can become so engrained, so codified into our nervous system’s fear response that our body reacts with paralysis, anger, hypervigilance, or other secondary reactions. We freeze, our feet glued to the ground, unwilling and unable to move forward, move backward, or move at all. We get caught in reinforced, hard-wired, fearful loops. And so often, it is not our fault. Situations and histories of abuse, abandonment, loss, grief, and other trauma – if we don’t learn how to move through them well – can render us stuck.

In these stuck places, we might shame or criticize ourselves for being afraid, or shun the fear, or try to convince and rationalize our way out of it. We might take onto our own shoulders the shame that others pass to us when they find our fear and trauma to be inconvenient. We might train ourselves to think or dream small so as not to offend others or get our hopes up (in case we fail). If we’re not careful, it can be easier to give our precious attention to the risks and reasons not to do something, rather than balancing our perspective with the benefits. And in the end, in choosing any of these avenues, we dampen, stagnate, and wither rather than grow and flourish.

I follow the paved portion of the path, reflecting on fear. Curiously, I ask myself: What frightens you right now? I give myself an honest answer: Heights, falling, failing…exposure. At a certain point along this trail, much higher up in elevation than where I am right now, there will be stretches where I am completely exposed to the elements – every gust of wind, every loose rock or root ready to trip me if I step the wrong way – and there will be nothing to catch me. I am dizzy with vertigo as I hike another switchback, and I pause to let my body adjust to the height.

How do we move through our fear? I think back to a season in my life that was wrought with fear. A season of that left me feeling on-edge, unsafe, uncertain about the future, and camped out in tension. A season that exposed the cumulative trauma that has taken place in my lifetime, and the ways I’d avoided addressing those painful memories and the fears that grew from them. A completely different scenario, with so many parallels to this hike in front of me. I question again, how do we move through our fear? One step at a time.

Step one, acknowledge the fear, the trauma, whatever it might be. Don’t suppress it, don’t shame it, don’t judge it. Validate and allow it. Learn to sit with it, curious and compassionate, and let your body adjust to it before taking the next step forward.

Step two, in my own story, was to lift it up in prayer to God’s hands and allow Him to heal the triggers and memories at the root of every fear. This was the hardest work I’ve ever had to do in my life, even more so than working through medical school and residency. But little by little, healing and peace came, and my hike through life became more steady and sure-footed along the way.

Step three, desensitization and disconfirming experiences. From the new, healed path, allow exposures to the things and people that used to frighten you. Little by little, you will see that you are strong enough to confront them well, gently, healthfully. Pursue opportunities that prove the opposite of your fear. If you were told you’re not worthy of love, read what God says about His love for you in Scripture, and be with the people He’s placed in your life who do show you your worth. If you were afraid you couldn’t do X, Y, or Z – try, and be willing to learn from the attempt even if it doesn’t go well. If you are afraid of heights, find a trail that is just a few feet higher than the last one you hiked, and go from there. This is brave and difficult work; it is an evolution that takes a lifetime to grow through. But our hearts and lives come awake before our eyes if we stay patient, committed, and compassionate toward the process.

I realize that the same goes for today, and I start training my mind for the upcoming exposure. I think back on other exposure-laden hikes I have done in the past, and I realize I am prepared for today. I set my aim for the next rock along the path or the next crack in the trail, and once I get there, I choose another one to step towards. Up the many switchbacks I go, weaving and pausing, weaving and pausing, giving myself needed moments to acclimate to the height and the increasingly steep drop-offs. At the same time, I soak in the vastness of the rock formations before me, the canyon below me, the sunny blue sky above me. One stretch of trail faces a beautiful, bright canyon, and I pause to admire the view, allowing myself to look down to the floor of the canyon which I now stand rather high above. Then, carefully, I pick my next target on the trail and keep going.

And as I go, I find myself not only marveling at the views but welcoming the fear that comes with them. Inviting it, but not submitting to it, not allowing fear to overpower my focus. Enjoying and delighting in the process. Because every step I take is proof that I can move beyond the fear rather than be hindered by it. My body shakes at times, and I respond to the trembling with pause and compassion, not shame or reproach. It’s okay to be afraid. We can turn around if we need to or if we do not feel safe. Our worth is not contingent on finishing this hike. Let’s pause here, and there, and here, and just get used to this. You’re doing great! What in the past for me has tended to sound like more critical, militant, and tactical messaging is now lathered with grace and kindness. And that feels so much more healthy. And somehow, fear has become my ally.

I approach Scout’s Landing, where the more intense climbing begins. A single thick chain lines the narrow 1/2-mile of trail that remains, tickling the spine of the rock formation, with some intervening lapses in the continuity of the chain. One. Step. At. A. Time. I climb, I crawl, and sometimes I slip and slide and wiggle my way along. I cast all pride and dignity aside, more focused on safety than on doing this gracefully, and I giggle playfully with other hikers who are doing the same. Very few fellow hikers trek here today, and the ones that do are equally cautious, encouraging, and kind (though admittedly, some look way more comfortable than others, and I watch in awe at how easily some move over the path). One group of climbers from my home state of Minnesota are here climbing together, and we laugh at finding out that we are practically neighbors. With an approximate scramble upward of around 500 feet in elevation, gripping handholds and footholds in the rock, the path gives way to a broad landing with panoramic views of the valley below and the mountains surrounding it. Somehow, I am here. In a place where I never thought I’d be – In fact, in a place where I told myself I wouldn’t or couldn’t possibly go.

This vista is unparalleled. My eyes fill with tears and I am left breathless by the colors and peaks and valleys and shadows filling the landscape in front of me. And as my mind fills up with mental photos, my heart fills up with peace and awe and wonder. I sit and enjoy some packed snacks, visit with two couples also enjoying the cliff today, and lift prayers and praise from the summit where lore tells that angels land. I wish there was a way to stay here forever. The other hikers agree.

After quality time with these views, it is time to make the descent. I slowly climb down, happily, steadily, refreshed, encountering multiple kind faces and impressive vistas along the way. Grateful for the last four hours of reflection, exertion, and learning, I make my way toward my final hike for the day at Watchman Trail. The sun is slowly falling to the horizon line, and it is fixing to be a beauty of a sunset.

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December 7, 2020

48 Hours in the Black Hills and Badlands: Part Two

Rapid City, South Dakota is about an 8 hour drive from the Twin Cities. But if you have the time, it is well worth the trip! I drove in on a Friday, rested that night, then packed the following two days with sights and hiking before driving back to the Cities late Sunday night. The schedule was tight, but that only added to the adventure.

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Another early morning. Another day of waking up before the sun. And I am thrilled about it! From what I understand, Badlands National Park lies about one hour east of where I am in Rapid City right now, and my hope is to catch another South Dakota sunrise there. I quickly run by the hotel’s front desk for a bag of breakfast, check my room again to make sure everything is packed, check out, and hit the road.

It’s a quiet, peaceful drive. I turn on some easy acoustic ballads and make my way east, watching the fading of the stars and the faintest of color changes develop along the horizon. The exit for Wall, South Dakota approaches, and I continue on the one-lane, two-way road cutting through the plains to the north entrance of Badlands National Park. Pronghorn and buffalo graze leisurely as I navigate past the entrance. I make a hasty right hand turn onto Sagecreek Rim Road as I see the earth open up into golden canyons. Parking quickly on the side of the sandy, dirt way, I hop from the car to look out over the rocky crevices. I stand there, jaw agape, staring, stunned. The sun peeks over the horizon and illuminates the canyon with fire, inch by inch.

I watch the spectacle for over an hour, soaking in the sunshine and the views. It’s a chilly morning, but not prohibitively so. I sip my instant coffee and eat my breakfast seated on the rim. I walk the edge of the canyon to see different vantage points, different angles. I am alone, but feel surrounded and held and seen in this moment.

After some time, I return to the car and drive along the main road through the park. I stop intermittently to take photos of the various overlooks, each offering a unique perspective. I see a porcupine scurry along the road, then a big-horn sheep clip-clipping slowly down the shoulder, unbothered by my presence there. I stop at one viewpoint and notice a ‘Beware of Rattlesnakes’ sign – No rattlesnake encounters today, please and thank you. I quickly walk to boardwalk for a brief photo of the view, then run on tip-toes back to my car as if the marshy land was wrought with snakes (even though it wasn’t). As I drive toward the Visitor Center to purchase my pass, the canyons that descend from road level turn into castles extending upward toward the bright blue sky. It is difficult to keep your eyes on the road in front of you when there is so much beauty to witness all around you!

The Visitor Center is quiet, almost uninhabited. I purchase a pass, then peruse a map to decide where to hike today. There are three trails in close proximity to each other – in fact, all three are accessible from a single parking lot – which spark my intrigue. I begin with Notch Trail, the approximate 1.5-mile round trip hike upward to a scenic overlook oriented southward. After a short jaunt at ground level, a climb up a wooden ladder grants you access to an other-worldly hiking experience. After the climb, I notice I am alone on the trail this morning, and surrounded by mansions of a spongy-appearing, clay-consistency, popcorn-like rock called bentonite. I learn later on that this type of earth expands when wet, its pores closing and its surface becoming as slippery as ice with rain or other precipitation. Grateful for a dry, sun-drenched day, I trek along a few minor drop-offs, into and out of a few small slot canyons forming between the towers that soar above my head, and slowly toward the dramatic overlook with broad views of canyon, plain, and sky. I spend some time there, around one hour alone and reflective; seated on the warm, grey clay; happy and content and amazed by the beauty. Then, I slowly retreat to the parking lot and down the next short trail.

Window Trail is a brief trek, around 1/4 mile round trip to an east-facing canyon view. Aptly-named, a ‘window’ in the Badlands Wall frames the canyon beautifully, as if designed to be enjoyed by viewers at the most natural of museums. I am at once a part of the nature scene, and removed from it by the obligation to remain on the boardwalk. A welcoming bench at the end of the boardwalk invites me to sit and breathe in the scene. I wait there a moment, snapping mental photos to keep as memories in my mind, then return to the car to prepare for my final hike of the day. I reload my pack with water and snacks, then proceed.

Just a short walk down the long parking area is the access for Door Trail. This is an approximate 1-mile round-trip path through a ‘door’ in the Badlands Wall. The first 1/8 mile is an easily-accessible boardwalk to a beautiful view of the canyons and spires so characteristic of this park. Thereafter, the trail extends along a path over the canyon itself, so that you are in the heart of the crevices and spires. I follow the numbered yellow posts interspersed along the trail, grateful they are there, as it would be incredibly easy to get lost and disoriented out here! The rugged landscape is warm with sunlight, and as I approach the end of the pathway, I perch myself on an overlook and sit in awe and wonder with the view before me. I take out my hiking journal and jot notes, reflections, prayers, and moments from today that I hope to remember. Then, I simply sit there, breathing deeply, marveling. Nature has a way of making me feel closer and more connected to the heart of God, and more aware of the wild, wonderful diversity and creativity in all He’s created. I love that about getaways like this.

After around an hour, I make my way slowly, carefully back toward the boardwalk and ultimately my car, admiring the bright yellow glow cast across the canyon and the trees by the setting sun. I drive ever-so-sluggishly toward the park exit, stopping to capture a few final photos before the sun rests, and allowing the last warmth from the day to seep into my soul, hopeful that it will help fuel the 7-hour drive ahead of me toward home. The drive is long, but smooth – Full of phone calls to loved ones, a clear night with meteors accompanying the starlight, and a loudly-belted version of The Greatest Showman soundtrack which helps me to stay awake as a I drive deep into the early morning hours of the new day.

Over and over again, I am grateful for this time of adventure and exploration. And over and over again, I would recommend a getaway to this sweet corner of South Dakota, where the buffalo roam and the pronghorns play and the spires astound and the heart is rejuvenated by a special type of wonder and simplicity found only in nature.

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