Captivated Me

captivate : v. to attract and hold the attention or interest of, as by beauty or excellence; enchant.
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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December 5, 2020

48 Hours in the Black Hills and Badlands: Part One

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.

—–

It’s Saturday morning, and I wake up well before sunrise. Mount Rushmore is around 20 minutes away from my lodging in Rapid City, and I want to be there by the time the sun wakes up today. Skies are clear, the stars are out, and just outside the city skirts, I notice the big, barren hills start rolling for miles.

The drive takes me past Keystone, a quaint and small tourist town that is vacant this early in the morning and feels like driving through an old, abandoned western movie set. Soon, and with great anticipation, the weaving roads lead me toward the chiseled faces I’ve never seen before in person. One particular bend in the road takes me up a hill where a scenic overlook frames the sculpture. I pull over and get out of my car just as the sun peeks over the horizon and lights the hills and stone ablaze with orange light. A family of deer graze across the road in front of me. I lift a prayer of thanks, take in the views of the hills, and keep driving.

I park at Mount Rushmore, where very few cars have yet arrived. Armed with my bagged continental breakfast from the hotel and a cup of coffee, I go to share a meal with the Presidents. I walk up to the amphitheater where the view is perfect, visit briefly with some other guests, and sit and gaze and eat and think: If you could ask one of these icons anything, what would it be?

I hike the wooded, guided trail around the park, catching views anywhere I can of the massive faces carved in stone. I imagine what it would have been like to be tasked with the feat, and I learn about the carvers on the educational placards posted as I walk. A few deer meet me on the trail, then casually walk away. I am one of three people hiking the short path this morning, and I take my time.

Afterward, I walk around the visitor center, where plenty of learning is to be done. Most striking to me was the brief summary of American history conveyed in one exhibit. I notice my heart dropping – Our story as a country, though adventuresome and beautiful in some ways, is also filled with brokenness and exploitation. What would it take to truly heal and unite this country? The world? A lot of hard and intentional, but worthwhile work.

I leave the monument refreshed and set my sights for Custer State Park – a premier Black Hills experience, from what I’m told. On the way, I stop at the overlook where you can see Washington’s profile sculpted against the sky, then at a small lake where a family are throwing rocks on the thin ice resulting in the goofiest ‘boing’ sound I’ve ever heard. The drive is stunning. Hills and trees and sky, nothing more, nothing less. I love the feeling of being off-grid.

On the way to Custer, I stop and traverse the grounds of the Crazy Horse Memorial, an intricate and symbolic sculpture that is still in process. The museum on the grounds contains stories and memories of difficulty, adversity, and strength. I read the placards and anecdotes, reflect on the history – a history I cannot fathom – and my heart hurts. I am grateful to be here. To learn and become more aware. To examine my own life and heart, and to question how to live in light of the complexity, brokenness and beauty woven through the story of humanity.

I drive the remainder of the way to Sylvan Lake in Custer State Park, the hub from which many beautiful, wooded trails thread through the Black Hills. I circle the pristine, lightly frozen lake, surrounded by mounds of rock like warriors protecting it, and stand in awe. I meet a few other travelers (some with sweet puppies that I get to greet!), happy-heartedly enjoying the beautiful day and the stunning environs. I then hike along two different trails – Harney Peak Trail followed by Little Devil’s Tower Trail – not to trail’ s end, but just to the point that my knee (which is still recovering from a surgery four weeks ago) can tolerate. The paths are slick with ice, but worth the extra time it takes to find your footing. I find caves and sacred views along the way that take my breath away, encountering very few travelers as I go. This gives the woods a sense of solitude and peace. If I ever come back to this lake, these are two trails I will most certainly continue along.

As I trace my steps back along Little Devil’s Tower trail to my car, a deer meets me on the path. Grazing, unthreatened, and graceful. We stare at each other, then slowly work our way around each other, sure not to disturb one another’s space. I arrive at my car, excited for the next leg of the adventure today.

Wind Cave National Park, my final stop for the day, is a 30-minute drive from Sylvan Lake. Under normal circumstances, the park boasts scenic tours of beautiful, tunneled caves, which have been suspended during the pandemic. I find my way through the rolling plains of the park to the Visitor Center, where a kind park ranger meets me outside and asks if I have any questions. I ask for a trail recommendation with low mileage, acknowledging that my knee is on the achy side, that it is almost sunset, and that only a brief hike is possible at this point. He shares about Rankin’ Ridge Trail, a 1-mile loop with a fantastic lookout from a fire tower atop a hill, cautioning that a hurried step is prudent, since the roads through the park get very dark and are oft-traversed by wildlife after sunset. I start the short drive to the trailhead, encountering hearty bison along the road, and marveling at the color changes that are unfolding in the sky.

I pull up to the trailhead for Rankin’ Ridge Trail, and to my delight, I am the only car in the small lot. I start on the northbound path which ascends a steep hill through the woods, stopping every few steps to gaze at the views before me. Of all the sights today, this is fixing to be the most memorable. Pinks and yellows and oranges and blues and purples all evolve before my eyes, tickling the plains below and treetops above with soft color. My brain almost can’t compute what is in front of me – I have never seen such a palette in the sky before.

I continue my climb, and the path breaks east, then south. The woods are on my right, and to my left is a rolling, expansive, powerful, breathtaking (I could go on with the wonderful adjectives) landscape of hills and trees and grazing bison down below. I feel removed from it all, and also a part of it all, and altogether grateful for this moment. And the peace and beauty are so overwhelming, I just stand there awestruck. Then, I start singing. One of my favorite hymns from childhood:

Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder consider all the works Thy hands have made. I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder; Thy power throughout the universe displayed. Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee. How great Thou art. How great Thou art. Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee. How great Thou art. How great Thou art.

I ever-so-slowly keep walking, drinking in the sunset and the views. All is quiet and static, like a still-life painting, but somehow the shifting, vibrant sky breathes the landscape to life as its colors wash over the canvas. As the sun sets behind me, I start making my way further south down the hilly loop, then up the final stretch north back to my car. I make the drive back to my lodging in utter awe, meeting more bison on the road, weaving through the dark, black hills framed by a navy sky filled with stars, and unbelieving of the beauty and wonder that today held.

Tomorrow will bring a day of hiking in the Badlands. But before I get there, I reflect more and more on today. And I am grateful.

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October 31, 2020

Day 5: And I am Grateful.

I wake up after the sun this morning, heart feeling the ache of having to leave this natural wonder that has felt so much like home the past few days. But before I check out, I go fill my old thermos with hot water at the lodge, mix in my instant coffee, and take a final walk along the rim.

It is a gorgeous, sun-drenched morning. Cool temperatures in the 40s, a person here and there walking casually to and fro, and the north face of the canyon looking ever-so-fetching as the sunrays paint the walls. I am grateful. A year ago, I’d have never imagined I’d be here.

Life changed in a way I hoped it never would a few years ago, a very painful way. But the path since has brought deeper healing, release, adventure, hope, relationship, and joy than I ever knew before. It brought new hobbies like backpacking the Superior Hiking Trail and taking dance classes and canoeing and portaging with friends through the Boundary Waters. It built courage and faith in the face of threat and brokenness. And it brought me here, checking off one of my highest bucket list items, filled with glee and peace beyond measure. And I am grateful.

I see deer and mules along my walk through Grand Canyon Village, and I take my time admiring the dense woods and the rustic buildings dotted throughout the grounds. One final look out over the rim, and I return to my room to turn to the next page of this trip. Belongings packed, I then load up the car and plug Doe Mountain into Google Maps. I spend the drive reflecting, humbled, thankful as I make my way back through Oak Creek Canyon to Sedona.

Doe Mountain boasts a short, ascending hike with a flat, expansive summit and incredible 360-degree views of the surroundings. It shares its trailhead with many other famed hikes in the area, and it shares a road with more hikes still. This particular climb is quick, and I encounter several friendly fellow hikers along the way. But on arriving at the top, there is ample space to chart your own path and enjoy the many vistas that await you!

I meander along the cacti and other flora, taking plenty of photos, impressed at the balanced rock piles that others have stacked high, and delighting in brief visits with other hikers along the way. One couple also hails from Minnesota, and we exchange stories of home. After about 45 minutes of exploring the summit, I tag along with a group of four sweet co-hikers – all local to Arizona – who quickly feel like friends. We talk about Coronavirus and careers, hobbies and other nice hikes in the area (which they blessedly share recommendations for). They most highly recommend Brins Mesa trail – an out-and-back trail with less foot traffic but with spectacular views and short mileage; a perfect distance for the remaining daylight. They mention that if I hike swiftly, I could also extend the hike to include Soldier Pass and Cibola Trail as a loop back to the trailhead. They caution that I might run out of sun if I choose that route, but that the views are matchless. We say our goodbyes after a lovely conversation, and I thank God for their kindness.

I set my GPS toward Brins Mesa Trailhead. Excited by the challenge of completing the loop, I quicken my steps, in perpetual wonder of the sights all around me. Canyons and trees and mesas and clear skies for days. The sun is falling in the sky, and I feel a tickle of fear at the thought of not completing the trail before sundown. I keep steady pace and decide for good to try the full loop – When in Rome, I suppose. I fork left at the junction for Soldier Pass Trail and hike on.

There are caves somewhere along Soldier Pass, I learn from two fellow hikers as they head toward the direction that I came from. They were just exploring the caves and elatedly share that they could not recommend them more highly. But they say the caves a) are a fairly challenging upward climb, and b) would add another 25 minutes or so to the hike. I do some mental math – If I hurry, I can make it and still finish the hike in time. The spur trail upward is hard to find, but myself and two other hikers locate it together. And we climb. And scramble. And climb some more. Over trees and up slippery, rocky slants. And then alas – We made it! And oh. my. word. I cannot believe my eyes.

The caves are lit up in golden orange as the setting sun shines on them. They frame a view of trees and mesas, like looking out a rocky window. Vertically upward, they create a slot canyon toward the light blue sky. We stand in awe.

I explore and breathe in the views, then with an eye on the time, I realize it is important to start making my way down-trail. Fast. I carefully descend the slippery slopes, then once back on the trail, I start to run. My aching, injured knee holds up well to the task, and I am grateful. I lose my way for about 1/4 mile, but re-route and find the trail again, running past the Seven Sacred Pools and the Devil’s Kitchen – two iconic stops along Soldier Pass. I gaze with eyes wide – Somehow, the golden mesas continue to increase in golden-ness the closer the sun draws to the horizon. The trees appear lined with similar gilded flecks as the sun shines through them. I find the junction for Cibola Trail, and I feel like I’m rounding third base headed for home. At last, as the sun disappears and the rocky structures around me start to fade to a pretty grey-purple, I get back to my car and ready for my final night in Arizona.

A local pizza joint called Picazzo’s Healthy Italian Kitchen stood out to me on my drive to Brins Mesa. I place an order online and go to pick up my order, and I find that it is open for socially-distanced dining. I ask if I may sit and eat my meal, and the host graciously accepts. I find my place at the bar and joke back and forth with the bartender who kindly offers coffee after hearing that I have a long night of driving ahead. I thank him. The pizza is amazing, and not just because I am ravenous from the day of hiking. And the staff are so friendly and welcoming! I would 100% recommend this place to anyone visiting Sedona and looking for a unique slice.

Around 8:30 PM, I leave the restaurant and type in the address for my final activity of the night – A stargazing tour! Sedona Stargazing is a company of knowledgeable astronomers who lead telescopic stargazing nights just outside of town. This works well given Sedona’s designation as an International Dark Sky Community, meaning there are policies surrounding the timing and type of lighting used in homes and businesses so as to avoid ambient light radiating to the sky at night. This means optimal stargazing conditions!

I arrive and meet the other six guests in attendance for the event, and we all get situated with our telescopes. The next 90 minutes are filled with stars and constellations and nebulae and meteors and moons and planets, and I am in heaven. There is something about the night sky that reminds me how wonderfully small I am and how beautifully vast God is.

The night comes to a close, and I drive the remaining two hours to Phoenix where I will nap before my early morning flight home. More meteors traverse the sky overhead as I drive. And again and again, I am grateful.

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October 30, 2020

Day 4: Adventures in Page.

I wake up at 2AM, somehow feeling refreshed and ready for the three and a half hour drive ahead of me. I am hoping to make it to Page by sunrise, and with road closures directly east of the Grand Canyon, the trip will take around one hour longer than the usual two and a half hours.

I get ready quickly, as if I’m running late, then step out into the chilled early morning. I stop and take a breath – a million stars twinkle overhead. As I pull away from the lodge, a family of five elk traverse the road in front of me, highlighted by the front beams of the car as they cross. Unbothered, they walk gracefully and calmly. I watch them in awe. I wait a few moments to see whether additional relatives will join them from the direction they came from. Then I drive on.

I drive south through Kaibab National Forest, east through Coconino National Forest – meeting two more elk along the way – and then back north once I arrive in Flagstaff. I meet no cars on the road for the first hour and a half of the journey. (Granted, it is three o’clock in the morning on a Thursday. Who in their right mind would be up at this time?) My route takes me a very short distance on historic route 66, and I start to notice hills spanning along the highway north of Flagstaff. The slopes are gently but forebodingly highlighted by the soft moon. A small wildfire is seen along the route, lighting the sky in smoky orange. As I drive on, the hills seem to continue for miles.

I arrive at the Horseshoe Bend trailhead two minutes shy of its opening at 5:30 AM. One car pulls in directly ahead of me, and it happens to be the attendant who is there to admit cars to the trailhead parking lot. She moves the barricades, and myself along with one other car that has since arrived drive ahead. I pay the $10 admission and exchange smiles with the kind worker who shares that conditions were perfect for the upcoming sunrise this morning. “Make sure to hike out with your headlamp!”, she says. “The drop-off sneaks up on you, and is hard to see before the sun comes up.” Noted.

As I pull into a parking lot, I look at the sky overhead and see a sharp, bright streak of light flash across the sky. It comes and goes in less than one second. A beautiful shooting star to start the hike. I lift a prayer, feeling seen and delighted by what feels like a gift from above. Two other cars pull into the parking lot, and we each find our way to the path.

I hike the mile-long trail and start to see a deep, dark, arching crevice in the ground. I can’t make out the details within, at least not yet. All I can see are vague structures of charcoal and navy along the ground with the faintest trace of dawn in the far distance. The morning is cold, and even though I am layered like an onion, the chill soaks in deeply. I cannot wait for the sun to rise and warm the day! Stars still populate the sky above, and I am one of four attendants facing west to witness the show.

Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, a ribbon of orange is illuminated at the horizon line as the sun begins to awaken behind us. As the ribbon widens, crawling toward us along the ground, a shade of powder blue gradually extends upward from where the ground meets the sky, drowning out the starlight with daylight. For six hours, I stand there, walking along the ledge as shades of pink and orange and purple evolve along the ground accompanied overhead by blues and yellows. The Colorado River becomes more visible, defined as the sun rises and exposes its contours. And for hours, I watch the colors change, the people come and go, two tiny kayakers braving the river. A woman with panda drums carries out a live meditation on one of the rocky overlooks. A goldendoodle named Hazel comes to say hello. But most of my time is spent staring at the riverbend as shadows waltz along the walls of the canyon.

Hundreds of photos later, I hike back to my car in the warm sunshine. The sky is screaming blue, the earth is vibrant orange. The land around the bend is flat overall, but with small ripples as if a wavy water surface has been petrified. My stomach is grumbling with hunger, so I sit in my car and eat my lunch – A turkey wrap, granola bar, and apple. I drink some water and remember the name of a sweet coffee shop I had read about the night before that I think is nearby on North Navajo Drive. Coffee sounds like an excellent decision right about now. I turn the ignition, then I turn left out of the Horseshoe Bend parking lot, following signs toward downtown Page. I twist through unfamiliar roads until I find North Navajo Drive. As I continue along, I come upon a small strip mall and see the sign: LP Espresso! I park, secure my mask on my face, and walk inside. The spacious café has an eclectic atmosphere, with beautiful artwork along the walls featuring the same orange earth – blue sky dichotomy that I spent time enjoying this morning combined with quirky word art. I order a vanilla latte and almond croissant, then scoot back outside into the sunshine.

I have two hours to enjoy before my next adventure, so I make my way to the Carl Hayden Visitor Center with my coffee. I spend a few moments looking out over Glen Canyon Dam, and my eyes trace the azure waters of Lake Powell bound up behind the impressive wall. I rest and reflect on the day so far – the sweetness of a shooting star, the beauty of a riverbend, the hearty coffee in my hands, the sunrise, the warm rays. I am grateful.

After walking along the short paths around the visitor center, I set course for Glen Canyon Dam Overlook, a short five-minute drive away. This is a small but mighty park with rocky steps descending to another spectacular view of the dam. From this vantage point, rather than a view of Lake Powell, I can see the Colorado coursing southwest downstream from the dam. I sit on the rocky ledges at the overlook which have been warmed by the autumn sun, enjoying the views a moment longer. Then, I pile back in the Eclipse and make way toward Page Municipal Airport.

The airport is nearly vacant when I arrive. Very few cars rest in the parking lot, and no passengers are present inside, only employees. I again secure my mask, cross the entrance toward the counter designated “Grand Canyon Airlines”, and I check in for my next adventure. A helicopter ride.

I am one of three scheduled passengers sharing a six-seat helicopter for a 20 minute ride over Lake Powell this afternoon. An orientation video plays, reviewing the safety specifications for the helicopter, and I cannot believe I am about to ride in one. I meet the pilot and the two other passengers, and we get situated, spaced out and strapped in the helicopter. I am in the front, feet from the outside, feeling as if I am in a bubble that is getting ready to fly. We start to rise from the ground and everything feels weightless.

“You’re living, and that’s a good thing.”

My mom said these words to me two nights ago. A reminder of how God moves and heals and loves us to life through the trials and storms we encounter on our journey. A reminder of His unbridled grace extended toward me and others. A reminder that no matter what happens to us, we have a choice as to how we respond to it. A reminder that it is not selfish, but instead important and wise and fruitful to pursue rest. This is hard to stomach, coming from a society and a profession where self-care is not a built-in rule and instead has to be fought for. And after over a year of processing through such things, what a blessing that my heart feels as weightless as this helicopter ride. U2 plays on the headset: It’s a beautiful day. Don’t let it get away. My eyes water for the umpteenth time with joyful, grateful tears.

I enjoy every minute of the tour, thank the pilot profusely afterward, and stop at one more park in Page as the sun begins to tuck itself in. A few more deep breaths, then I hop in the car and begin the journey back to the Grand Canyon. This turns into a 5 hour drive involving a detour (i.e. period of time that I was very lost) through the beautiful Navajo reservation as a orange-purple sunset unfolds, and subsequently onto a deep sandy fire road in a desertland with no cell service where I nearly get the rental car stuck. Miraculously, I meet three kind people at interval along the way who I am convinced are angels, all directing me back to the correct highway. The rest of the way is smooth – full of acoustic hits, prayers of gratitude, and phone calls to family.

I chuckle as I reflect on the last 20 hours. Today was an adventure. And I am exhausted and delighted and spent. Tomorrow is my last full day in Arizona, and I can’t wait to see what’s in store.

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October 28, 2020

Day 3: A Day on the Bright Angel.

“We craft love from heartbreak,
Compassion from shame,
Grace from disappointment,
Courage from failure.

Showing up is our power.
Story is our way home.
Truth is our song.
We are the brave and brokenhearted.
We are rising strong.”

– Brené Brown

There is something so exciting about the prospect of hiking the Bright Angel Trail. I first heard about this adventure when I lived with a sweet family in Northern California for a year after college. The parents had hiked from rim to river at the Grand Canyon while they were dating; a journey to test their compatibility. I loved their love story. And I loved their sense of adventure. And at the same time, it sounded like an activity I would probably never do.

Fast forward ten years, and here I am. I got into hiking, camping, and backpacking over the past two to three years as life transitioned from one of full-time schoolwork to entering the workforce, practicing medicine, and establishing healthier balance in my life. Years worth of unresolved trauma surfaced in this same time frame, and being in nature has been a precious way to heal well, have fun, spend time with God, and find a sweet midpoint between embracing solitude and cultivating enduring friendships. I have progressive damage in one knee which was first injured in high school and has worsened over the past five years, and hiking has also kept me active. This will be one of my final hikes before my knee is surgically repaired next week; the same iconic trail I first heard about years ago. I am grateful, and excited to get after it!

It is 7AM, around 25 degrees Fahrenheit at the South Rim, and I am daunted but energized. I also find myself layered to marshmallow status, anticipating wind and cold as I descend. My trekking poles (aka – life-savers) are ready to go. The sun is rising behind the rim across a nearly cloudless sky, and I am ready to take on the trail. I hear it is moderate-difficulty, steep in some places. And of course, they say “the descent is optional, the ascent thereafter is mandatory, and the latter is the most difficult part”. A couple of other hikers have started ahead of me; I can see them becoming smaller and smaller as they weave on the switchbacks below. What a perfect morning for an adventure.

The first mile is relatively level, just a subtle, switch-backing descent. The air is more calm and still than the past two days, much less wind; cool, but refreshing. As I hike, a small bird jumps happily, little by little, along the path ahead of me for around a tenth of a mile. Two short, rocky tunnels arch beautifully over the path within the first mile of trail. I stop to take pictures, and allow a foursome behind me to pass by. We exchange hellos and they continue on. Little did we know we’d develop a sweet trail family by the end of the day.

I take in the canyon from where I stand below the rim. The sun hasn’t yet risen over the rim’s edge, but it is spilling light over the desert-land that I am descending toward. The walls of the canyon to my left are imposing. I crane my neck to see the edge above. These sights are other-worldly. I think about how awe-inspiring this vast space of creation is. I think about how awe-inspiring the heart of our Creator is. With the canyon walls surrounding and enveloping me, this hike feels like a hug directly from above.

I hike on, pausing every few minutes to stand in awe. I pass the group of four again as they pause for a break along the path, and we share another hello. We discover we are aiming for the same destination today – Plateau Point, 6.1 miles from the rim. I learn their names – Caroline, Daniel, Nicholas, and Courtney. I hope I will remember their names; we are sure to encounter each other again on this sweet journey! I hike on, then meet two men, one from Phoenix and one from England, who are on their way to the river (around a 9 mile hike from the rim to the campgrounds). The three of us hike together a ways, joking and sharing stories, then part ways as they pause to watch for famed bighorn sheep along the canyon wall. I hike on.

There are blessed rest stops at approximate 1.5-mile intervals along Bright Angel Trail. I pass the first, determined to stay in rhythm. At this point, hikers who had camped at the river during days prior are making their way up canyon. Everyone is kind. Everyone is supportive and encouraging. Everyone appreciates and respects this nature space so deeply. What a sweet gift it is to take part in this community.

I stop briefly at the 3-mile rest stop, taking in the views, and removing some layers. It has warmed by about 25 degrees at this point, and feels even warmer still given the pace so far this morning. As the journey continues, I find myself intermittently falling behind and then venturing ahead of my fellow hikers that morning, laughing and saying hello or exchanging a joke with each passing by. More photos, and on I go, reaching Indian Gardens – the 4.5-mile point – at around 9:00 AM.

Indian Gardens is a sanctuary of trees, streams, and tranquility that represents a vastly different ecosystem from the rim above. I hear the trickling streams that descend like a thread from the canyon north. I close my eyes, take in the sound, and open them again. A deer is refreshing itself by the water, peaceful and at ease. The density of cacti, wildflowers, and deciduous trees is heightened in this sweet garden retreat. It is set up with benches, potable water, and a campsite for those who take multi-day journeys into and out of the canyon. From here, the trail forks, the left leading to Plateau Point, the right weaving toward the Colorado River and Bright Angel Campground. I veer left toward the sign indicating “Plateau Point”, and within minutes I find the trail to be relatively flat. My knees are grateful.

The climate has changed completely from where I began on the rim in the morning. I am on a flatland at around 3800 feet of elevation, compared to the approximate 6800 feet of elevation that I came from just a couple of short hours ago. The weather is warm, in the mid to high 60s, and I am now in a tank top, having removed my long-sleeved wool baselayer, fleece button up, and puffy coat. I see orange sand and spiky flora interspersed with bright yellow flowers all around on the ground. Tiny, agile, terra cotta-colored geckos cross the path at interim, scurrying about their day. Ahead of me, rising, rusted peaks appear to grow in size as I work my way toward them. The canyon walls behind me shrink smaller in kind. I cannot believe I am here.

After another 1.5 mile hike, I see a short descent to an overlook. I inch carefully forward along an edge and am taken aback by what I see. Layered rocks give way to a drop-off, the base of which contains the coursing, surging, strikingly teal Colorado River. I can hear the rapids from where I stand, just under 1500 feet above the river surface. I am one of two travelers here at this moment in time. A man stands on the overlook, photographing the incredible scene. We exchange pleasantries, introduce ourselves, and I learn that Luke from Hawaii used to work in this very park. He shares about his travels this year, his time working in the Grand Canyon as a younger man, and his favorite trails and memories from the park. Soon after, the friendly foursome I had encountered earlier in the morning (who also had encountered Luke along the way) arrive. They are from Tennessee and have been road-tripping from Denver through multiple National Parks in Utah and now the Grand Canyon before returning back to Denver for their ride home. We space out on the giant boulders overlooking the river and share a meal, excited and delighted to have reached the day’s destination. Refueling will be important for the return journey – We’ve got what feel like mountains to climb. Emboldened squirrels inch toward us in attempts to sneak our food, and I learn that squirrel bites are among the most commonly reported injuries in the park. I close and stow my trail mix, giggling as I watch the squirrels jump to and fro between us. I am grateful to share these moments, even with strangers, who quickly feel like friends.

We take our time and take photos of the stunning vista. The complementary red-orange tones of the canyon are stunning against the bright blue sky above and the teal river below. I stare. I breathe. This place is unbelievable. It feels like a dream. My Hawaii and Tennessee friends start the return journey ahead of me. I linger and put away my phone, etching this special scene into my brain. I want so much to remember these precious moments.

With a final deep breath and a final glance at the river, I turn to face the rim, invigorated. Retracing my steps to Indian Gardens, I see Caroline, Daniel, Nicholas, Courtney, and Luke once again. The men from Phoenix and England have rested here as well and are ready to continue their journey to the river; we wish them well. We visit more and snap a photo together to commemorate our day-hike family. Then collectively we look up at the path ahead of us and begin the climb.

I hike some of the way with Caroline, Daniel, and Luke. Eventually, Luke moves ahead of the three of us. A little later on, I climb ahead and weather the path on my own for a ways. I encounter a man from Florida who had hiked as far as the 1.5-mile rest stop, and we hike upward from there together, sharing about our homes and what we are doing at the canyon. We visit, and then he moves ahead with a friendly “Good luck finishing your hike, Minnesota! You’re almost to the top!” I manage a “Thank you; likewise Florida!”, despite being very out of breath at this point. The tunnels along the path come into view, a welcome sight, as I heave for air and put every mental and physical effort into keeping my arms and legs moving. I am still in my tank top, dripping sweat despite the return to approximate freezing temperatures. Where a small bird flitted ahead of me this morning, a squirrel meets me on the path and hikes a distance with me. The remaining 0.2 miles of trail I traverse on my own. A sense of gratitude and completion takes over. My legs hurt, my knee is rather angry, and my heart is beating a mile a minute. But it feels amazing.

I layer back up and walk slowly, gingerly back to my motel. I change into fresh clothes, check in with my energy and my body, and discover I have more adventure in the tank today. I pack some food (I ended up grocery shopping before my trip and just bringing all my food with me in my checked luggage) and make my way to the Red Route shuttle bus stop, which is back near where the Bright Angel Trailhead is situated. I take the bus west from the village, stopping at overlooks along the southwest rim of the park, similar to how I journeyed along the easternmost overlooks yesterday. I get off the shuttle at Trailview Overlook, Powell Point, Mohave Point, Pima Point, and finally at Hermit’s Rest where I am met by two sweet elk. I wander along this westmost stop along the South Rim and see a salient psalm imprinted on a plaque overlooking the canyon: Sing to God, Sing praises to His name; Lift up a song to Him. Psalm 68:4. That is all my heart can do – Sing. And I thank Him again and again for reviving this heart-song that was once extinguished.

Revive. This is the word that was on my heart as I flew to Phoenix three nights ago. I didn’t know why at the time. But I understand a little better now. This retreat is serving as a celebration of just that – of revival. A heart that was once battered seemingly beyond repair being restored to wholeness by God’s healing hands. A spirit that was once weak and weary that now has new breath and life coursing through it. A mind that was once paralyzed by fear, now confronting and facing fear with defiant joy and faith in big and little moments every day. I have nothing but gratitude to God for this. To truly live. To awaken back to life. What a gift. What a miracle.

I shuttle back toward my motel home, shower the day’s aches from my body, play a game of Solitaire and watch some football. I journal today’s key moments and snuggle into bed at around 8PM with plans for another distant adventure tomorrow.

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October 27, 2020

Day 2: Sunrise and South Rim Adventures

“There is a sunrise and sunset every day, and you can choose to be there for it. You can put yourself in the way of beauty.” – Bobbi Lambrecht

My alarm again heralds a new day. 5:20 AM. Sunrise is in just over an hour. I have the age-old debate with myself about whether to hit the snooze button or roll out of this warm, cozy bed. I opt for the former.

5:29. And the extra nine minutes of sleep gave me just the jumpstart I needed to get going. I wake up, layer up – readying to brave the 20-ish degree weather – grab my bagel, clementine, and some leftover peach tea from last night, and start the short walk to my car. Happy-hearted and excited to put myself in the way of beauty, I hope to make the quick 10-minute drive to Yaki Point in time to welcome the sun for the new day.

I arrive at the left hand turn for Yaki Point and discover that it is a shuttle-bus-only route, so I park along Desert View Drive and get ready to walk the one-mile road to the overlook. The sky is just beginning to hint at dawn, and the road looks dark. I recently learned that red light rather than white light helps to spare some night vision. I click on my headlamp to the red setting, and find with silly delight that I have enough light to navigate the path before me while still being able to see a slight way into the distance.

My anticipation grows as I walk – In part because I cannot wait to see the canyon come to life as light rises; in part because I hear the eerie sounds of unknown wildlife beyond my field of vision. My senses are awakened. A squawking bird of some kind sounds like it is soaring across the road ahead of me from left to right. It then seems to fly further into the dense woods to my right, the east. I hear the sounds of howling wolves to the east, distant, and some rustling among the foliage to that side of the road. I hear a screeching chaos in that same direction, then silence. I suddenly feel exposed, aware of how alone I am on this adventure. Aware, and certainly activated in fight or flight, but incredibly alive. I breathe deeply and continue along the road.

As I approach Yaki point, I take a moment to stand at the guardrails near the shuttle bus stop which is currently vacant. The canyon vista is still in shadow, but somehow the shadows evoke an amazing smoky blue-grey color. Dense clouds cover most of the sky overhead, releasing small, graceful snowflakes which float quietly to the ground. Another deep breath, then I venture along the cliffs and rocks lining the rim beyond the guardrail. The canyon seems to extend forever. I find a boulder positioned at the edge of the canyon to sit on for breakfast. My thermos is a welcome, warming comfort for my stinging fingers. I sit and I wait as a masterpiece unfolds.

The sun rises over an eastward ridge, still concealed by clouds, but casting bright rays over the vast canyon. The clouds slowly break open, allowing even more light to pour into the shadows. The tippy-tops of each peak are painted with orange and pink, vibrant color that floats along the canyon as the clouds pass over. Birds fly freely and bravely overhead, singing and playing and bringing joy just by existing. This canyon, this deep and wide space of uncertainty and discovery and beauty, feels like a familiar friend. I feel very much at-home.

I eat breakfast slowly, drinking in the views, then stand and continue along the rim, in awe of how the canyon’s appearance changes from minute to minute as the light toys with its walls. I find the most perfect pine cone and place it in the trusty sunglass compartment in my backpack. Thank you God for this beautiful morning!

After two hours of frolicking, I make my way back to the shuttle stop just as a bus arrives. I hop on board the empty bus to warm my hands, visit and joke with the driver for a brief moment, and learn that there is a scenic trail along the rim back to Desert View Drive where my car is parked. I am thankful for the suggestion – I was otherwise going to simply shuttle to my car. We smile at each other with our eyes, masks secured over our faces as a precaution during this pandemic, and say goodbye. I leave the bus to find the trail, which is only a short distance away. My marveling continues as I walk along a golden path, weaving back and forth toward and away from the canyon. Each time I think I should be accustomed to the views, I approach the rim, and my jaw drops anew.

I slowly find my way to my car and return to Maswik Lodge. Entering my unit, I walk toward the balcony, open the sliding door, and meet two new elk friends who are busy snacking on the trees outside. I sit and watch the peaceful two, who look at me gently then go about their day. I soak up the balcony view a while longer, feel the cool air seeping into my bones, and snuggle turtle-style into my jacket. Checking in with my body and my energy, I decide that a nap is in order. Crawling in to the cozy bed, I am asleep in minutes, grateful to not have any reason to set an alarm.

Light seeps in through the window, and I wake up softly around 10:30AM, refreshed and ready for whatever the rest of the day brings.

I walk to the food court at the Lodge and request some hot water for my thermos from one of the cashiers. She is a cheerful woman, about my age, and when I ask how her morning is going, she smiles and says “I woke up this morning to this beautiful day; so my day is going great!”. I thank her for sharing her joy, hop in my car, mix some instant coffee into my hot water, and set course once again along Desert View Drive.

This is an about 25-mile road extending eastward along the rim from Grand Canyon Village. The drive feels like a journey through a Headspace meditation – Tall pines line both sides of the road, and the canyon peeks through on occasion as you go. This particular day, the sky is blue, the sunlight kisses the trees, the breeze is cool, and Ben Howard and friends sing sweet serenades through Spotify as I drive. My mind wanders. I am reminded of the Uber driver who shuttled me to the airport two days ago. A kind man in his 60s, he had recounted to me the story of his family as we drove. He grew up in Southeast Asia and his family had sought asylum in the United States after the Vietnam War, which his father served in. He shared about his love for travel, about how important it is in life to see new places, explore new spaces, meet new people who are different from you. We heartily agree on this. He had tales from the urban center of Abu Dhabi, the forests of southern China, the rushing Niagara Falls, and more. We talked about how no matter what chaos or confusion pervade the news, we are grateful to have a wildly beautiful world to appreciate, learn about, and take care of. We don’t always have to go far – there are beautiful moments and places and spaces in each seemingly ‘ordinary’ day – but what a gift it can be to adventure more broadly every now and again. This entire trip feels like one great, big, unexpected gift.

After a steady, sweet 20-minute drive, I arrive at a cement barricade demarcating the end of the route, as construction is underway along the final few miles. I turn left into a parking lot. Navajo Point. I get out and look around, stunned at the panoramic views of the easternmost point of the national park. A park guide is there with a darling couple, providing context about this particular point in the canyon. From where we stand, we can see the sands of the sacred Navajo Reservation as we look east. Desert View Watchtower, an overlook point along the eastern edge of the national park, is visible in the distance. The serpentine Colorado River and its beautiful rapids weave in and out of view between the canyon depths. A couple on their honeymoon takes photos. We visit joyfully. Cold, gusting winds take aim at all of us, but we stand transfixed on the views.

I am again struck by the vastness of this canyon. And I am reminded of what the Bible says about the big-ness of God’s love for us. How high, how wide, how deep. I catch my breath, grateful. Blown away.

Over the next four hours, I dot my way along the South Rim heading back west from Navajo Point. Lipan Point, Moran Point and Grandview Point follow. Each location with its own flair, its own unique views, its own sense of awe. I let my heart heal bit by bit, as it has been all year. I allow emotion to come, tearing up and smiling like a giddy schoolgirl more than once at the views. I see the same sweet honeymooning couple along the way, say hello again, and congratulate them anew. I think briefly, sadly, on the past. But thank you God for the healing, forgiveness, growth, ease and renewal that have transpired since then. Eyes on the present and the future, I think of how sweet it will be to share moments, fun, play, laughter, and adventures like this with a special someone some day.

After today’s mini-road trip, my heart continues to overflow. Gratitude. Joy. Hope. Love. I cannot keep them inside. I drive, content, back toward the Lodge, encountering sweet families of deer and elk and horses crossing the road along the way. I park just before sunset and start to make my plan for tomorrow, a 12.2 mile roundtrip hike from Bright Angel Trailhead to Plateau Point and back. Excitedly, I discover that my motel is a short four-minute walk from the trailhead. I take the short walk there to get a sense of the trailhead and the path ahead for tomorrow. As I review the map, three other women planning on performing the same hike approach. We visit, share a laugh at stories of our Grand Canyon escapades so far, wish each other luck on the hike, and part ways.

And although it is just after 7PM, it is time for bed. Tomorrow is going to be an early and exciting one!

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October 26, 2020

Day 1: From Sweet Sedona to South Kaibab.

“We are alive, our skin is leaving these bones. Fire in the wind, we’re burning out of control. We are the children chasing wondrous thrills; chasing a vision, baby, like we’re running downhill.” – Needtobreathe

A familiar tone begins to sing me into consciousness, coaxing me awake after a four-hour nap. I look at my phone. 4:30 AM.

I had landed in Phoenix just six hours prior, with a skeleton of a plan for the week and a “what the heck am I doing here?“. I was able to quickly collect my baggage, find my way to the car rental shuttle bus, weave through the short car rental line, and hone in on a cute black 2019 Mitsubishi Eclipse. I then set course toward the budget-friendly Airbnb that I’d reserved a week earlier when I first decided to take this trip. After finding the guest house – (thank you, map apps) – I fell asleep faster than a lightning strike. And now it is time to wake up if I would like to get where I am going in good time. Breakfast is quick – a bagel slathered with honey cinnamon cream cheese and a clementine. I heat up some water in the microwave and add a packet of instant coffee that I brought from home, then load up the car.

I know what I’m going to. As in, I know the name of the landmark. But I don’t actually know where I am going. I have never been to Arizona before; I’ve only ever dreamed of it and heard rave reviews. So when I had margin to plan a weeklong healing retreat, ahead of a knee surgery that I was to undergo two weeks later, the Southwest was an exciting choice.

I plug in my destination – Cathedral Rock – and follow the route like a recipe. The air is warm, much warmer than the Minnesota breeze I left behind to come here, and the drive is smooth; highways, mostly. I drive for two hours, and as I take a couple of turns from the highway, the dark sky slowly starts to lighten, casting a pastel glow over a collection of towering structures not able to be seen before. I am arriving in Sedona.

I continue driving, and the structures only grow taller, the sky only grows more golden. Day breaks, and the sights are breathtaking. I clutch one hand to my heart and breathe: Is this even real?

A few more turns and some long scenic roads, and I am at the trailhead. The main parking lot is already full, but there is one spot remaining in the alternative lot just down the road. For how many cars are here, I see so few people; perhaps one of the underrated benefits of having such ample recreation space to spread out safely (especially with the pandemic) and drink in nature.

I fumble awkwardly and enthusiastically out of the car, eyes fixed on the scene and the trail before me, and lace up my hiking boots. It looks graded, then steep. Above all, it looks beyond beautiful. I have never seen anything like this before. I start climbing.

Stories of both heartbreak and resilience are rampant these days. It has been a long year for everyone. If I am honest, it has felt like a long three or more years. (I am sure I am not the only one who feels this way.) Beautiful in many ways – marrying who I thought I would spend my life with, beginning work in the field I have longed to practice in since I was a little girl, and beginning a healing journey that I never knew I needed. But long and hard and painful in other ways – finally confronting unresolved trauma from the past that I did not realize I had been carrying, unwittingly entering a story of domestic trauma which also needed healing, and acknowledging an emerging global pandemic and deep community grief.

Step. Step. Step. What the heck am I doing here? I look up, again in awe, awakened from my thoughts and centered on the moment. I encounter a twosome of friends who had road-tripped from Orange County, California. Together, we approach the segment of trail that increases from an approximate 20-degree steep to about 70 degrees. We laugh at how uneasy it feels to scramble upward over these rocks, however short the steep section is, but we make it and celebrate the triumph. Little victories are always worth celebrating.

We part ways along the trail and I keep climbing. It looks like around half of the hike upward remains. I pause on an overlook and turn around, to get a sense of how much trail lies behind me. I breathe deeply. The sun rises warmly over Sedona, lighting up its towers in a bright orange-gold. The blue sky contrasts in stunning fashion with the rocky columns. Greens look greener. Cactus spikes are well-defined. Cacti! We certainly don’t have these in Minnesota! I see my car in the trailhead lot, a speck. I feel content, at peace, alive.

The climb again steepens, the boulders and trees are leverage to stabilize my footwork. I am grateful they are there. A support system is a blessed gift. Huffing and puffing, I continue to scale, eyes on the ground in front of me so as not to misstep, and suddenly, the land beneath me evens out and I look up. My jaw drops, and I can barely breathe.

Eastward views from Cathedral Rock.

Before and behind me, extending seemingly beyond the horizon, a ground of dark green foliage blended with sands and structures of bright, rusted orange goes on for miles to meet a cerulean sky. On my left and on my right rise the rocky castles that seemed so far away when I observed them from the trailhead. A wedding ceremony with bride, groom, and four witnesses is unfolding to my left. Marriage is so beautiful. Unity. Tender promises. Two wildly unique hearts determined to join and adventure through life together – highs and lows, fun and tears. Learning to make harmony out of your differences. Learning forgiveness and intimacy and grace.

I am reminded that love is a freeing partnership between two beautifully different people. That forgiveness is necessary and exceedingly liberating, even in the absence of an apology. These principles used to come with tears of grief daily, but not anymore as healing has come. Now, I cherish them as simple truths and important lessons. Nuances of love to carry forward.

I stand in awe. Heart overflowing for this newlywed couple and the exciting journey ahead for them; heart beating wildly at the thought of what beauty the future will hold; heart grateful to God for His faithfulness and for His hand in the creation stretching out all around me. Tears fall, and I smile. Life is rich and so beautiful, albeit unpredictable and incomprehensible at times.

I take photos of the scenery, and a kind stranger offers to take photos for me on my phone. “I’ve traveled alone before; it’s nice to have photos of yourself in places like this.” I thank him, and he encourages me to walk along a path to the endpoint of a cliff for a wide view of the landscape. Not something I would normally do, especially with a bad knee and with historically unsteady footing the closer I get to any edge. But at the same time, I am here, and here I am. I walk to the edge, heart beating faster as I do, Lady Gaga’s Edge of Glory playing in my mind, and suddenly I am there. At the edge. I breathe. I smile. Little victories.

Sunrise at Cathedral Rock. Sedona, AZ.

I visit a while longer with the stranger and the two friends I had met earlier in the morning. I make my way down the trail, a few more stops for mental and photographic landscapes along the way. Midway down, I hear a loud cheer from above, signaling the end of the wedding ceremony. I smile, and a joyful tear falls. Grateful to be here; grateful to be party to this place and this moment. I finish the hike, taking one last look at the surroundings, and load into the car once again.

My final destination today is Grand Canyon National Park, but I have no set itinerary. I drive, unrushed, and take in the views along the wondrous Oak Creek Canyon and Coconino National Forest. Sedona and its environs appear every bit as charming and magical as I’ve heard them described, and then some, as if venturing through a modern country western movie. I stop at an overlook after driving switchbacks up the canyon-side, and I am met with the kinds of wind gusts that tousle the hair and cause you to pull your jacket in a little bit closer. A beautiful day, with rolling hills and treetops for days. Nature heals.

Lookout over Oak Creek Canyon.

The drive continues, and I make my way to the entrance of Grand Canyon National Park. Tom Petty, Queen, and Needtobreathe’s Alive are my soundtrack for the final stretch. I park at the Market, walk the short distance to the iconic Mather Point, and as I approach, I once again find myself short of breath. Not because of the altitude, at least not entirely. More so because of the carpet of layers and edges and shadows and highlights that ripple out before me like a real-life painting. The vastness is terrifying and awe-inspiring and more than beautiful, all at once. Clouds float daintily overhead, and the juxtaposition with the rugged canyon is striking. How is this real? I gaze, lost in the scene, delighting in how unbelievable this natural masterpiece is.

Looking at the time, I discover I have about 4 hours until I can check in to the hotel. Shuttle buses run like clockwork east and west from the Market to impactful viewpoints along the South Rim of the canyon, and I choose one heading eastward to the South Kaibab Trailhead, ready and excited to explore in closer detail.

South Kaibab Trail is a pathway from the rim to the river, with various beautiful rest points along the way. I start down the trail and find that the same gusting wind that met me at Oak Creek Canyon is present along the trail in kind. Cliffside switchbacks continue seemingly for days, and the views both frighten and astound. On one side, rocky neighbors loom vertically overhead, while on the other side, a steep drop-off descends from the edge of the trail. The Grand-ness is not subtle. Back and forth I weave until I reach Ooh-Aah Point, where the gusts of wind are so strong we hikers have to crouch to lower our center of gravity and remain steady on trail. One school-aged boy on the trail ducks all the way to the ground until the gusts ease. A fellow hiker notes that this is the worst of the wind, that it will get better further down-trail. The set of two hikers I encounter next – one of whom is braving the trail as rehabilitation on a prosthetic limb (can you say inspiring and amazing) – attest that the wind actually gets worse as you go. I continue on and, meeting a fresh new wind gust, brace myself against the solid side of the trail just as a mule train turns the corner ahead of me, ascending. They pass and I watch in awe as the wranglers lead the train with steady grace, despite the wind, despite the sheer cliff they ride along. They are practiced, assured, impressive. Strong winds make for skilled sailors. I continue on a new stretch of trail, exposed to gusts from all sides and with steep drop-offs to my left and my right. I check in with my energy level and my knees – This is my limit for today. This is where I turn around.

I climb the way I came, my steps more sure with each familiar inch of trail I retrace, and the views leading upward are every bit as spectacular as those on the descent. My fear begins to subside as a simple, deep respect for this very Grand Canyon grows. I reach the trailhead once again. At the same moment, a man completes his 10-mile out-and-back from the same trailhead – People are amazing in their strength and resilience of mind, heart and body.

I shuttle back to my car and am now due to check in. I drive the short way to Maswik Lodge, my rest-place for the next four nights. Charming, simple, cozy, and again friendly on the budget, the rustic units are organized motel-style and only a 2-3 minute walk from the South Rim. I find my unit – a second-floor space with a small, sweet balcony overlooking old pines and a railroad – bundle up anew, and route toward Shoshone Point Trailhead. It’s almost time for sunset.

I reach the quiet trailhead, where only two other cars are parked. The trail courses flatly through a quiet woods. The sun tickles the path between the shadows of the trees, and I am alone. Content. I cannot believe I get to be here. I have never taken a trip like this before. I have taken 2- to 3-day excursions on my own, but never a week. Today felt like an entire week in and of itself, and I am pleasantly exhausted. I still don’t quite know what I am doing here. But it feels right. I feel present, centered, whole, joyful. Like a giddy child who believes once again that anything is possible.

We lose our wonder sometimes, don’t we? We lose our faculties to dream and play and be light and wild. Something truly heartbreaking happens, or we are betrayed, or we are judged and told that we should be ashamed of our hearts. We entrust our story to someone, and they mistreat or manipulate it. Maybe we absorb the message that we are unworthy of love. Maybe it confirms a fear that we’ve carried with us much longer than we realize. And with each blow, our hearts grow progressively more numb. We start to live from a place of fear rather than faith, hypervigilant against anything that has the potential to hurt us more. The past two years for me have been a slow breaking open, an undoing of this process of succumbing to trauma. A regaining of that childlike wonder, of the belief that God works everything – even the most painful, rejection-packed, grief-filled, difficult circumstances we encounter – together for our good and His glory. I watch the sunset from Shoshone Point, meeting three precious people along the way who are doing the same, and I take a moment to celebrate wonder. The wonder of this canyon. The wonder of healing. The wonder of this journey. Little victories.

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October 3, 2020

A Weekend in BWCAW: Release.

Reflecting on the sweetest weekend with dear friends,

On canoeing and paddling and portaging, ⁣⁣⁣

Cooking over the campfire, ⁣⁣⁣

Laughing, reading, hammock-napping,

⁣⁣⁣Being bombarded with sneaky pupper kisses, 

⁣⁣⁣Being 100% content with soaked socks, smelly boots, and unwashed hair,⁣⁣⁣

Embracing sun, wind, rain, whatever came,⁣⁣⁣

And taking each day one paddle stroke at a time. ⁣⁣⁣⁣

This year has been a sweet lesson in release. ⁣⁣⁣

Understanding in new ways that we can’t control the current,

⁣⁣⁣But we can find a happy rhythm within it;⁣⁣⁣

We can’t direct the wind,⁣⁣⁣

But we can adjust our sails.⁣⁣⁣

Learning that sometimes the most loving thing we can do 

⁣⁣⁣Is let go.

Learning that confronting, healing, and finally laying to rest our heartscars

⁣⁣⁣Is the hard but necessary, freeing and worthwhile work that life demands if we want to grow and thrive.

⁣⁣⁣Learning that our communities might burn to the ground, ⁣⁣⁣

Our loved ones might fall ill,

⁣⁣⁣Our lives might take a turn we never expected.⁣⁣⁣

And that when faced with these circumstances

⁣⁣⁣It is only in the brave releasing of our fears, wounds, and preconceived notions⁣⁣⁣

That we are enabled to fully show up, hold space, be present, and engage patiently and lovingly in the beauty and brokenness within and around us. ⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣

And I’m finding again and again

That on the other side of release ⁣⁣⁣

Lies the deeply joyful, exuberant, whole, authentic life our hearts crave.

⁣⁣⁣A life that flows more freely, breathes more easily, laughs more readily, sees more clearly⁣⁣⁣.

Where the best is yet to come.

Where fear fades as faith builds and swells and rises.⁣⁣⁣

Where we accept and sit with what is,⁣⁣⁣

And still dream of and hope for and create and discover what is to come.⁣⁣⁣

Where every day we feel

Open-hearted.⁣⁣⁣

Playful.

Alive.⁣⁣⁣

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April 12, 2020

Hang in there, world.

Hang in there, world.
We can do this.

We will get through this.
It is not easy – There is proof of this already.
There are fears and tears and losses and unknowns.
There are unprecedented (and very important) precautions in place.
Please remember, no matter what comes,
We do not carry with us a spirit of timidity, but of power and love.
There is strength in our families, our friendships, our neighborhoods, our hearts.
There is bravery in our homes, our grocery stores, our hospitals, our businesses, our communities.
There is joy in our crafting, our playing, our laughing, our dancing, our singing, our virtual gatherings.
There is space for both our toughness and tenderness, our courage and caution, our fierceness and fears, our grit and grace, our calm and concern in this season.
There is hope, evident by the kindnesses being multiplied throughout the globe each day, even in moments when nothing but hard news seems to prevail.

Hang in there, world.
We can do this.

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December 3, 2019

GROW.

I went for a jaunt recently along the shores of the Mississippi, reflecting back on this year (and in many ways, this decade). It has been a wintery season of confronting wounds and traumas previously buried for years. A year of growth, of learning, of setting and understanding healthier boundaries, of being released from captivity to the past, of rediscovering passion and wonder that was lost nearly seven years ago. And as I look back, despite the painful moments, I feel my heart pounding with gratitude and an eager desire to keep evolving on this path. Winter seasons can be challenging, but they can also sustain growth – Just look at the evergreens.

May we move into the coming decade with hearts that long to continually GROW.

G – Gain perspective. Be compassionately curious about what is going on around us, about the hearts and souls we encounter, about who God made us to be, about how things work, and about how to make the world a better place.

R – Release the past. Process it, but don’t live in shame because of it. Forgive your own mistakes and the mistakes of others. Extend wild grace in every situation. Learn from and let go of the negative; appreciate and carry forward the good.

O – Own up and level up. Take responsibility for your own words and actions; you are not responsible for others. Do what you can to seek understanding and pursue peace. Remember problems can’t be solved at the level at which they were created.

W – Welcome change, and welcome God into every season. Things will happen that you cannot foresee or expect. And in the unknown of it all, there is joy and wonder to take hold of. Uncertainty is the fertile soil where adventure can bloom.

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