Captivated Me

“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.

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.

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.

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.