As I ventured to the north side of the Wonderland loop, it seemed more and more like I hopped into the pages of a children’s illustrated book of fairy tales. A land created by artists, not natural processes. Wildflowers bloomed everywhere and lush green plants and moss grew everywhere else.

At Mystic Lake, my view of Rainier was as close as ever. I got a better feel for how massive it is. I could now see cliffs of ice, several stories high, which formed where immense glaciers cracked and tumbled down the mountain. Eventually, I was close enough to see the thin meandering trails left by mountaineers climbing to its peak.

After setting up camp in a thick pine forest, I leaned against a log, ate dinner, and read a book. Through the trees, I heard pops, bangs, and cracks coming from Rainier. I wondered if the melting glaciers were cracking apart or if the swelled creeks from the melting snow and ice were tossing huge boulders downstream like billiard balls.

Soon, the crack of lightning joined the percussive sounds coming from Rainier. The sky above me still had a lot of blue behind nonthreatening white clouds, but Mount Rainier is so big it has its own weather.

It is definitely one of Earth’s great mountains.

The next morning I walked out of the pines and got this gorgeous open view. I stopped for a photo. An adventurous older man walked by and stopped. After we shared a silent moment staring at Rainier, I asked, "You ever think of hiking to the peak?"

He looked at the mountain reverently as though contemplating it for a bit then exhaled and said, "No."

"I think I might," I said.

Even though I crossed the Wonderland Trail from my life list, I added "Climb to the Top of Mount Rainier." Will this list ever get any shorter? If I don't stop adding to my list of things to do before I die, I don't think I'll ever get around to dying.

The winding road to Devil's Tower was hilly, green, and smelled of pine. It appeared when I was still six miles away, as a lonesome faint blue column soaring out of the ground. I've seen lots of photos, but it’s bigger than the image I carried in my head. You know how when you see a celebrity they always seem shorter in person? Well, imagine meeting Kevin Spacey and he's 1,208 feet tall!

Just accept that that analogy is perfect and continue.

I wondered what pre-scientific people thought when they first saw this strange monolith emerge through the atmosphere from far away. Such an odd thing would surely generate legends. I didn't have to wonder long though; a roadside plaque told me one such legend…

Native American's told of seven little girls being chased onto a low rock by attacking bears. The seven girl's prayers for help were heeded. The rock carried them upward to safety as the claws of the leaping bears left furrowed columns in the sides of the ascending tower. Ultimately, the rock grew so high that the girls reached the sky where they were transformed into the constellation known as the Pleiades.

Definitely an interesting story, but I think science is often better than fiction. In reality, ancient seas ebbed across this part of North America, including all of Wyoming, and split the continent into two. Silt, sand, and other rock fragments got deposited on the sea floor and formed soft sedimentary rock. 50 million years ago, molten rock pushed up through that sedimentary rock a mile and a half below the earth's surface and became a harder igneous rock that cooled and fractured into columns as it crystallized.

As eons passed, erosion more easily stripped away the softer rock around Devil’s Tower, leaving the 1,208-foot column. Knowing how long such a process takes, makes me more passionate about protecting it, and more grateful for our National Parks.

Now, the Pleiades on the other hand, those formed out of seven little girls. They got that part exactly right. Any scientist worth his salt will tell you the exact same thing.

If you're only going to have one road go through the heart of Glacier National Park, it's only fitting if the project is big and the result is stunningly beautiful. This was successfully accomplished in 1932 with the grand opening of the Going-to-the-Sun Road. 

During a three-month road trip out west last summer, I just finished a week backpacking through Glacier National Park. I wasn't looking forward to leaving, but I still had my drive out on the infamous road to look forward to.

Its allure has compelled many filmmakers to shoot footage of the road for their movies. It can be seen in the opening credits of “The Shining,” as Jack is presumably driving to the Overlook Hotel. It also appears in a scene in “Forrest Gump.” When Forest reminisces with Jenny about running across the United States, he says, "Like that mountain lake... it was so clear, Jenny. It looked like there were two skies, one on top of the other." The footage was of him running on the Going-to-the-Sun Road in front of a lake after the sun dropped below the mountains. The sky was that shade of blue that lingers around a bit before turning completely black. A field of golden grasses is swirling around in the wind.

I've seen that movie a dozen times and every time I watched that scene I thought of my own dream of living a nomadic life. I wanted my life to be that simple. Could I find myself in such beautiful places at such the right time?

The road is only 53 miles long, but I stopped so much that dusk loomed with several miles left to drive. I needed one last photo of the sunset. I looked up at the sky anxiously while I drove, waiting for the perfect spot. There wasn't much time left. The road took a bend to the right, then left, and I saw that scene above.

The section of road was under construction, so I parked my beaten down Honda between bulldozers on a makeshift parking lot made for the construction vehicles. I grabbed my camera. Since I felt like I might have been trespassing, I sprinted up the road and through the field until I was standing in a good spot.

I was in the right place, at the right time.

The anxiety of not getting a good photo before sunset melted away. I felt satisfied with the images now hidden away in the camera that I clutched to my chest as I ran back to my car. I drove out of the park that night and headed toward my next adventure.

I set an alarm so I’d wake up a couple hours before sunrise. Between the silhouettes of trees, the lake’s black surface sparkled under a starry sky. I switched on a lantern and rolled out of my hammock. 

At the edge of my campsite was an eroding hillside that sloped into the lake. Barefooted and with a lantern held out in front of me, I climbed down the crumbling dirt to the water’s edge. My kayak bobbed slowly on the waves, bumping into the fallen tree trunk where I had it secured with rope. 

Years before it became the primary focus in my life, this was one way I satisfied my need for adventure, short camping trips fifteen miles from home. 

I climbed into my kayak, scooted away from the shore, and paddled toward an island in the middle of the lake. When I was close enough, I fastened the paddle to the top of the boat and slid forward into the hull, so I could lie on my back for a better angle on the stars. 

I couldn't help but doze in and out of sleep. For a time, the only sound was water lapping against the boat. Then the sun came. 

This moment was the main reason I was on the water so early. A few weeks before, I drove out to the lake at three in the morning to paddle around in the dark. Moments before daybreak, I heard a lot of commotion coming from a small island, so I paddled closer. It seemed every bird in the county decided to rendezvous here that morning. Soon there was so much chirping from so many species of birds that it ceased to sound like chirping, like when a clap becomes an applause.

I’m not sure why they all flocked to this place, but it wasn't only birds. After the sun peaked over the horizon, two river otters surfaced only a few feet from my kayak. One swam straight toward me so fast I thought he might try to leap into my boat to either lick my face or rip it off. I had zero river otter experience, was this aggression, curiosity, or playfulness? I was so excited to take their photo that I momentarily forgot how to operate my camera. I snapped a couple shots of unidentifiable brown blurs then they were gone. I did manage to gain my composure enough to take this photo, which I like well enough, but I'd love to see a river otter in the shot. 

After the sun was fully above the horizon, the birds quieted down, but I saw two deer on a peninsula jutting out into the lake, so I paddled closer. While one grazed the other suddenly ran toward the water and leaped in with a big splash. It swam like a Golden Retriever toward Monument Island, a nature preserve in the middle of the lake. I paddled as fast as I could to coast along beside her, but my presence scared her off course. I wasn't sure how long deer could swim and I wasn't prepared to save a kicking and drowning deer with my kayak, so I backed off then paddled to her other side to steer her back toward the island. 

Then I saw another brown mammal swimming along the shore. I paddle toward it quickly hoping to have another chance to get my river otter picture. It was a beaver. I took a few unimpressive pictures. Soon the surge in wildlife withdrew and the lake would go back to its normal self. Full of motor boats and skiers, fisherman and loud radios blaring from pontoons. But I felt like I learned one of the lake's great secrets. And so, like the crowd of birds who packed themselves together on every available branch on that little island; I came back to this place at this same time every chance I got.

I took a trip to Rocky Mountain National Park right after they opened Trail Ridge Road, the highest highway in the USA. The road reaches a height of 12,183 feet. At just over 11,000 feet we pulled over at a turnout to stretch my legs and look at the view.

I was high above the treeline and the road had only been cleared for tourists for a couple days, yet dozens of chipmunks still knew right where to go to flash their big glossy eyes at snack-carrying tourists.

I don't feed the animals, as it's rightfully against the park rules, however another motorist did. I saw that it was about to happen, so I got my camera ready. I walked by, reached out, and quickly snapped his photograph.

Little did I know that months later this photo, along with a photo of me, would be on the cover of the Indianapolis Star. It won first place in their 2010 Travel Photo Contest and was feature in numerous sites online. Consequently, this is my most viewed photo to date.

Is it strange that a part of me wishes the chipmunk knew how much people like his picture?

“The guidebook calls it desolate,” said a passing ranger when I told him where I was headed. “But you be the judge.”

I hiked south along the shore of Elizabeth Lake, passed campsites all occupied with tents, then through wildflowers where butterflies perched. They fluttered about when I passed as though a gust of wind blew the flower petals off and whirled them around me. Beyond Elizabeth Lake, the trail became more overgrown and unkempt.

As I moved forward, I had to part a sea of tall grasses and green leaves that had grown higher than my waist. Much of the trail would have been invisible if not for a depression in the overgrowth leading the way. The head and back of a deer swam by like the world’s most passive crocodile, followed by two fawns barely able to keep their eyes above the green. I wouldn't call the region desolate, though. I prefer overlooked and secluded, two great qualities for a trail to have.

I knew I was close when I began to hear the Belly River, which begins at Helen Lake. I stopped to listen to it with my eyes shut. I absorbed every other sound as well, the beating of insect wings, the wind hissing between branches of pine, three different types of birds chirping: some rapid cheeps, some sporadic elongated whistles.

When I arrived at Helen Lake, I stood at its shore before taking off my pack and setting up camp. I balanced myself on flat rocks to keep the small ripples from soaking my feet and snapped this picture. Lush green hills and the sheer rocky face of Ahern peak, 3,700 feet above me, enclosed the back half of the lake. Ribbons of water from the melting Ahern Glacier fell over and down the mountainside accumulating in the clear blue pool.

Only four extra miles from the crowded Elizabeth Lake campsites to Helen Lake, and I’m all alone. That’s the real reason this site is overlooked and isolated, the extra miles. The solitude was worth every additional step.

To access Mokowanis Lake you must get off the main loop and stroll down a quiet spur trail, so it was a peaceful, less frequented, spot to set up camp.

The distant sound of a waterfall gave a constant background of white noise while I sat by that unbelievable turquoise lake for hours reading a book. Occasionally, I saw a deer grazing on foliage or sipping the lake water. It seemed as approachable and unafraid of people as a stray Labrador Retriever. It even wagged its white tail.

After the sun set, I retreated to my tent. I was still reading after dark under headlamp light when something moved outside my tent. I slowly poked my head out to see what it was. It was just the deer. I zipped the tent shut and went back to my book. Then I heard my trekking poles clack against a log. I stuck my head back out and saw the deer with one of the handle straps in his mouth sucking on the accumulated salty sweat.

“Hey! Stop that!” I yelled. Its eyes shifted over to me and it paused for a moment as if contemplating its next move. Suddenly, it grabbed the pole's handle in its teeth and took off into the woods.

“I paid $80 for those you son of a bitch!” I yelled while shoving my bare feet into my shoes. She didn't care though, what’s $80 to a deer? Chump change is what. I ran into the woods after it, leaping over logs and trampling through leaves. After a short chase, she stopped with the pole hanging from her mouth. She looked at me with that long dumb deer face.

“Drop the pole, you stupid deer!” I yelled and the pole dropped to its feet.

“What? I ain’t got anything,” its expression seemed to say. “Nah, nah, man. That was that other deer.”

For a moment, we stared each other down like it was high noon in Dodge City. Suddenly, she bolted into the woods leaving my saliva-drenched trekking pole on the ground.

I walked back to my tent with my pole in hand, victorious.To access Mokowanis Lake you must get off the main loop and stroll down a quiet spur trail, so it was a peaceful, less frequented, spot to set up camp.

The distant sound of a waterfall gave a constant background of white noise while I sat by that unbelievable turquoise lake for hours reading a book. Occasionally, I saw a deer grazing on foliage or sipping the lake water. It seemed as approachable and unafraid of people as a stray Labrador Retriever. It even wagged its white tail.

After the sun set, I retreated to my tent. I was still reading after dark under headlamp light when something moved outside my tent. I slowly poked my head out to see what it was. It was just the deer. I zipped the tent shut and went back to my book. Then I heard my trekking poles clack against a log. I stuck my head back out and saw the deer with one of the handle straps in his mouth sucking on the accumulated salty sweat.

“Hey! Stop that!” I yelled. Its eyes shifted over to me and it paused for a moment as if contemplating its next move. Suddenly, it grabbed the pole's handle in its teeth and took off into the woods.

“I paid $80 for those you son of a bitch!” I yelled while shoving my bare feet into my shoes. She didn't care though, what’s $80 to a deer? Chump change is what. I ran into the woods after it, leaping over logs and trampling through leaves. After a short chase, she stopped with the pole hanging from her mouth. She looked at me with that long dumb deer face.

“Drop the pole, you stupid deer!” I yelled and the pole dropped to its feet.

“What? I ain’t got anything,” its expression seemed to say. “Nah, nah, man. That was that other deer.”

For a moment, we stared each other down like it was high noon in Dodge City. Suddenly, she bolted into the woods leaving my saliva-drenched trekking pole on the ground.

I walked back to my tent with my pole in hand, victorious.

In Logan Pass, where snow can drift up to 80 feet high in winter, I pulled off of the Going-to-the-Sun Road to stretch my legs on a 3-mile hike to Hidden Lake. When the lake was in view, the sun was about to tuck in behind the mountains. The color in the sky warmed up a bit and rays of light shone through the clouds and reached between the mountains toward the lake. I setup my tripod for a picture.

While looking through my camera’s eyepiece, I heard hooves on the rocks behind me. A mountain goat stood a few feet away. It stopped to stare at me. Soon it was joined by another goat, then a baby, then suddenly a half dozen were walking all around me. My camera never clicked so much.

The goat in this picture walked away from the crowd and just stared out at the view. After I got the shot, he lay on the ground and stayed there long after all the other goats left. It’s as though he only came out for the view and didn't want to leave until the sun fully set. If that were the case, we had something in common.

There isn't much of a story actually. The woman who lived in the house before me had the two-acre property looking  like a city park. There were several species of trees, a creek, and a wide variety of wild flowers. The first year I lived in the house, I never knew what flowers might pop up next. This one was my favorite.

The lack of a story for this photo is the biggest endorsement I can give for getting out and seeing the world. Living for the anecdote is a great way to ensure you'll live an adventurous and fulfilling life.

The Tetons were… well, what word can I use to describe such a place when I’ve already used words like “breathtaking” to describe places that didn’t elicit that feeling-- you know the one-- when you can barely hold in that “eeeeeeee!” sound. A sound I quickly turned into a manlier laugh and wide grin, of course.

That’s the problem with exaggerated hyperbole. Where do you go from breathtaking? To keep the metaphors consistent, I’m left having to tell you that by the time I finished backpacking in the Tetons, I needed a tracheotomy.

It sprinkled a little after taking this picture. A cold rain, which oddly enough, did nothing to dampen my mood. Perhaps because the scattered showers also whipped up the smell of ozone and dirt. Maybe it was the way the lakes reflected those little bits of electric blue sky hiding between the advancing silver storm clouds, or how the rings of water droplets distorted that image. Maybe it was because I was surrounded by thousands of vibrant wildflowers that, even under diffused sun light, brightened the landscape.

I'm sure it was a combination of things. And also, because when I spun around to see the whole panorama, there were mountains in the distance, jagged and majestic. Mountains that continue so far into the horizon that it seemed a drifter like me could walk forever. Or at least long enough to finally learn to stop suppressing that “eeeeeeee!” feeling.

In the middle of the night, sleeping alone in my car next to an old fire tower deep in the Hoosier National Forest, I heard voices. Apparently, I stumbled upon the place local teenagers go to smoke weed and howl at the moon. Whenever I’d fall back asleep, I'd be woken again by a different car and a different group of kids clanging up the metal fire tower steps.

After work earlier that afternoon, I grabbed my gear and drove down to the Charles C. Deam Wilderness, just southeast of Bloomington, Indiana. I arrived late, so I slept in my car rather than look for a campsite in the dark.

Regardless of the teenage potheads, I managed to get a few hours of sleep before sunrise. By seven, I was on the trail. Drops of dew and the rain that never made it to the forest floor collected and dripped from tree leaves. Their collision with other leaves on the way down filled the forest with a constant snap, crackle, and pop. Birds were also out singing and I saw my first Pileated Woodpecker. It hammered a Sycamore Tree until he saw me then flew away yapping.

Whenever I go hiking for the weekend, I wonder why I'm not hiking every weekend. You just get stuck in a routine sometimes. Next thing you know the warm weather is nearly gone and you hate yourself.

I setup camp by Lake Monroe. When the sun started to set, I walked along the beach. I didn't plan on swimming. I didn't even have a change of clothes or a towel, but I was compelled. I slowly lingered out, maneuvering over smooth algae-covered stones. A chill crept up my body as I descended into its depths, acclimating a little bit of skin at a time. By the time the chill reached my chest, the ground was soft and sandy. I pushed off of it and floated onto my back, drifting like a log with my arms and legs splayed out.

I filled my lungs full of air, rolled over, and then plunged headfirst toward the bottom of the murky lake.  I kicked my feet a moment too early and splashed the surface. The water pressed on my ears. Utter silence. I cracked open my eyes, but I could see just as much with them closed.  I imagined the surface of the lake going still, smooth as black volcanic glass. I had disappeared, invisible. Like I never existed. There's an odd comfort in that.

I loved my time in the lake so much that I wanted to get a photo to remember it. I went back to the shore for my camera. Out of the water, my body had to acclimate all over again. When I returned, the water was like a warm bath. I carefully took some photos without getting my camera wet then headed back to camp.

I dropped a match in the kindling I had waiting for my return. A fire roared to life, cracking dry pine needles. I stood next to it until my clothes were dry then retreated to my hammock. Tonight, I'd sleep to cicadas and water lapping against the shore.

There is something life-affirming about time spent alone in nature. Who cared about all the spring and summer weekends I wasted? It no longer matters. I'm here now.

I didn’t actually spend my first night on California’s John Muir Trail on the John Muir Trail, but I’d be oblivious of that fact until morning. Under the cloudless twilight, I hauled myself up switchbacks in the wrong direction with a kind of joy that can only accompany ignorance.

Nevada Falls, although slowing down this late in the season, still hissed down its slick rock slope, making the quiet forest a little bit more alive. I snapped this picture then finished climbing the unnecessary switchbacks and setup camp. All alone, except for a campfire crackling, I sat against a log and stared at a purple-tinted Half Dome, like I did two years before, almost to the day. 

I wish I could say I checked my map and took this detour intentionally, knowing this view would be waiting for me by nightfall. Or that I just had an intuition for these things now. A feeling that came from somewhere unexplainable. Perhaps a scent on the breeze imperceptible to ordinary men, which plainly said to me, veer right up these switchbacks. There’s some good camping up there.

No, it was ignorance and ignorance alone that lead me here that night, but fortunately the so-called correct paths in life do not have a monopoly on the great moments in life. 

Nearly three years ago today, the sun sank below the horizon. A momentous event. I figure it happened about ten thousand times since I became conscious, but ordinary events often turn momentous after a really long walk.

It has a similar effect on sitting in the dirt with my back against a log, with nothing better to do but watch a sunset. As the sun dropped, the sky above Yosemite blushed and on the other side of the valley, a shadow crept up Half Dome. I grabbed my camera and climbed to the top of North Dome for a better view.

Standing alone on the summit, I looked into the valley almost 4,000 feet below. Drivers heading down a serpentine highway began to turn on headlights, but the bustle was silent from high above. Actually, the lack of sound was peculiar. Not a whisper of leaves or a cricket’s chirp.

I continued to watch the shadow rise on Half Dome until only a bright sunny cap remained. Then that too was gone. I felt perfectly happy and content, and I never wanted it to end.

It wouldn’t have to if I could travel around the globe fast enough. I could chase an everlasting sunset. That sounded nice, until the sun completely vanished and the massive granite cliffs turned dusky purple and the stars came out.

I laid on my back with fingers intertwined behind my head. Not even a wisp of cloud shrouded the brilliance of the moon and starlight. It was the time of my life, and I never wanted it to end.

The cold hard granite became less comfortable with time. Then thoughts of a warm crackling campfire helped get me to my feet. But, there was Half Dome again, so beautiful under the azure glow of a half moon.  I knew as soon as I walked down to camp, the night would be over. In that fleeting moment, I wanted to memorize every mountain slope lit by moonlight, every tree forming the saw-toothed edge of the horizon, and the position of every star that hung so radiant above a view that stretched for miles.

“Alright, I’ll just stay a little bit longer,” I thought and laid back on the ground. I needed to feel that moment of closure, when I could call it a night and feel confident that I didn’t waste any of it. Consequently, that bit longer turned into another hour.

In that deep silence under the stars, my eyes wanted to sleep, but I kept jolting them awake. Then unexpectedly, exactly where my eyes were focused, a meteor shot across the sky.  Its bright fiery tail lasted for a few seconds then faded away.  I grinned. There was my moment. I had my closure.

As silly as it sounds now, I made a wish. I wished that nothing had to change.

I stood up and leaned with both hands on a trekking pole. I panned around in a complete circle to see it all one last time, and then headed back to camp.

Soon after, I’d make the decision to leave my job and walk away from everything I had, except what I could sling over my shoulders. That was three years ago. I’ve done a lot since then. I've watched countless sunsets. How crazy it seems now, that I never wanted this one to end.

I still struggle with changes and endings, but this lifestyle has taught me that rather than chase an everlasting sunset, I should just enjoy every experience while it lasts, and then wait for the next one.

Ten thousand sunsets had to come and go before I learned this lesson. Luckily, the best things in life are patient.

“So you just drove all that way here without any kind of plan?” the ranger at the Grand Teton National Park backcountry registration desk said. The park limits the number of people allowed in the backcountry.

“Well I didn't really know I was coming here when I left home. And I figured if it was full, I’d just go somewhere else and wait.” I said. “I don’t really have anywhere else to be.”

She finally found a route that I could start that afternoon. A route that I had no preconceptions about. How could I?

That's the great thing about under-planning, when you find yourself climbing a ridge to overlook Paintbrush Canyon from 10,000 feet, no expectations can diminish the feeling as you're approaching the mountain pass. There's an excitement in those seconds between not knowing and knowing what you will find on the other side. A feeling radiates from your chest to the tips of your fingers and toes, as though something apart from you stirs inside, an animal that sleeps through routine and lives on surprise. Feed them well.

In the heart of Glacier National Park, beyond the waterfall and over the ridge, is Grinnell Glacier. While slowly migrating and freezing and thawing, it grinds against the rock and generates silt-sized particles called glacial flour. As the glacier melts, this glacial flour gets suspended in the water then flows over the falls and into Grinnell Lake, turning what would have been an ordinary mountain lake into this turquoise gem tucked away in the mountains.
 

I slept in my car, so I could wake up before sunrise to get a specific picture. On my first Yellowstone visit in 2004, I tried to get a photo of the falls, but it didn't turn out very well. I wanted to try again.

I wasn't the only person who lugged a camera and tripod up to the view of the lower falls in "The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone." A row of photographers were already there quietly watching the sunlight melt down the canyon's yellow rock.

I did have the oldest crappiest equipment though. I felt like a kid from the Mighty Ducks with a worn-out jersey and hockey stick held together with duct tape, just trying to compete against the spoiled rich kids with their expensive new gear.

I still wasn't happy with the pictures I was getting, but I heard that from a certain angle, the sun and the mist from the falls produces a rainbow around 9:30, so I searched for a better place to set my tripod.

In the end it was worth waking up cold and groggy in my car. I'm much happier with the picture this time. There is just something about devoting an entire morning to getting a specific photo that makes me love this one even more. There are hours of great memories packed into this fraction of a second.

After we climbed about halfway up Ryan Mountain in Joshua Tree National Park, my friend Liv pointed down to this huge rock and said, "I'm going to climb on top of that when we get down."

While traveling across the country from national park to national park, it amazed me the places she would climb without the safety of ropes and harnesses. Sometimes I would hear strangers whispering things like, "look at that girl over there, she's crazy," or "you'll never see me doing that."

After leaving the Ryan Mountain summit, she beat me to the bottom, but I couldn't find her anywhere. I waited by the car for a little while then walked around to look for her. I started to wonder if she took a wrong turn. Then I heard a familiar whistle.

Liv and I met on the Appalachian Trail. When we couldn't find each other, we'd whistle back and forth until we honed in on each other's location. So, I whistled back. She whistled again. It was coming from the top of this giant rock. Suddenly, I remembered her saying she said she was going to climb on top of it. I looked up and there she was. She's a woman of her word.   

In the Presidential Range of New Hampshire's White Mountains, we stopped to savor this view. Actually, we didn't stop for the view as much as the view stopped us.

If it were exactly two months before, you would have found me at a desk staring at a computer screen. The cubicle walls surrounding me had been replaced by mountain views. Views that forced me to wonder why I wasted so much of my life slaving away. I guess it just seemed like the responsible thing to do at the time. I realize now how decidedly irresponsible that was.

My phone beeped in my pocket. At this elevation, it managed to find a strong enough signal to receive a text from a friend back in the real world.

"Ahh, why can't it be Saturday?" the message said.

I replied back, "It isn't Saturday? Funny, it definitely feels like Saturday."

A chipmunk ponders his life's meaning and insignificance in a world that is but a speck of dust in the vast cosmic ocean, while taking in the silent splendor of Bryce Canyon... I like to think so anyway.

After leaving Zion National Park, the next stop on our hiking tour of the Grand Staircase was Bryce Canyon. 

The early settler, Ebenezer Bryce, called it “a helluva place to lose a cow.” He was right, it certainly would be. We wandered through a labyrinth of multi-hued and impossibly thin pillars of rock called hoodoos that fill the canyon floor. Some look as though a stiff breeze could knock them over. 

The shadow and color at Bryce change between sunrise and sunset, making it look a little different every hour of the day. And no matter where you point your camera, you capture something wonderful. This meant I had a hard time putting my camera away. I took well over three hundred pictures on this day alone. This was the first one I took in the park and my favorite. The way he seems to be staring out at the view somehow reminds me of how it feels to stand on the edge looking down at such a place. My narrow depth of field blurs the landscape itself, but that was intentional. It's that feeling that matters to me most.

While traveling in the Pacific Northwest, after I told people I was from Indiana, they acted as though their immense soaring views must be utterly mind-blowing to a flatlander hayseed like myself. It almost solicited a feeling of Midwesterner pride in me. Although they were right, of course.

I've long held romantic ideas of the west. As a kid, traveling west seemed like travelling to another world. They had mountains, geysers, and wildlife that didn't exist in my small patch of Earth. My world existed in a place where the views through the windshield were largely determined by the current height of the corn.

Sometimes I think my appreciation for nature and romantic view of the west wouldn't exist if not for my Midwestern roots. Might I have grown up thinking mountain views were ordinary? Would they have the same power over me? This picture, however, reminds me that my love of nature goes deeper than that. I look at this photo with the same sense of awe as any grand mountain view.

I spotted this tendril grabbing onto a branch for support while hiking through Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. I tend to forget that plants aren't stationary. In fact, they are rarely still. They simply live by a different clock than we do.

No matter where I live, a major part of me will always live somewhere out west, but beauty in nature is everywhere. You just have to stop and look.

“Some people ask me how such a tiny river can form this big canyon,” the shuttle driver said, displeased with anyone who might speak ill of his beloved river. He spoke in a sort of loud assertive whisper, like Clint Eastwood. 

“It looks small now, but when a storm strikes, flash floods will flow down river hurtling boulders and blasting out log jams. And sometimes the poor souls hiking in the Narrows at the time. It'll hit'cha before you even know it's coming. Trust me. The Virgin River is no pup.”

He stopped and opened the shuttle doors at the Temple of Sinawava. My friend Randy and I got out and walked down a short path that ended at the Virgin River where the walls of the canyon converge into the 16-mile long Zion Narrows. From this point forward, the trail is the river.

We stepped into the 57-degree water. For some of the hike we walked along the sandy shorelines next to the canyon walls, but mostly we sloshed through ankle to knee deep water. We zigzagged back and forth looking for the best place to take our next step, trying our best to avoid slick algae-covered boulders and deep pools that might turn the hike into a swim without warning. Swift currents occasionally made crossing difficult, but there didn't seem to be any threat of flash floods. The sky was as blue as it can be. At least the tiny sliver that we could see hundreds of feet above our heads between the canyon walls.

The narrows are unlike any place I’ve been. The two thousand foot high cliff walls loom over you, coming together as close as thirty feet apart. Water weeps out of red-hued sandstone giving life to hanging gardens of moss, ferns, grasses, and wild flowers. The deeper the water gets the deeper its shade emerald green. As it surges through the narrow spaces between fallen boulders, it turns to white caps that fill the canyon with the hiss and whoosh of flowing water. This is undoubtedly one of the most stunning places on earth.

At a log jam about five miles in I stopped to admire the view and snapped this picture. 

On our way back out, we passed a young family of four. “I wish we could keep going, but it’s getting late," the mother said. "Are we going to miss anything great if we turn around now?”  

“Well, more of this,” I said. 

“So… yes,” Randy added.

I have hiked thousands of miles since this day, but when people ask me which trails are my favorite, more often than not, Zion Narrows still pops in my head first.

After we climbed about halfway up Ryan Mountain in Joshua Tree National Park, my friend Liv pointed down to this huge rock and said, "I'm going to climb on top of that when we get down."

While traveling across the country from national park to national park, it amazed me the places she would climb without the safety of ropes and harnesses. Sometimes I would hear strangers whispering things like, "look at that girl over there, she's crazy," or "you'll never see me doing that."

After leaving the Ryan Mountain summit, she beat me to the bottom, but I couldn't find her anywhere. I waited by the car for a little while then walked around to look for her. I started to wonder if she took a wrong turn. Then I heard a familiar whistle.

Liv and I met on the Appalachian Trail. When we couldn't find each other, we'd whistle back and forth until we honed in on each other's location. So, I whistled back. She whistled again. It was coming from the top of this giant rock. Suddenly, I remembered her saying she said she was going to climb on top of it. I looked up and there she was. She's a woman of her word.   

I hiked all day around Devil's Tower National Monument, in Wyoming, to find a better angle to take its picture. I took dozens of photos, but didn't love any of them. I decided I needed to be by the river, which required climbing a fence and trespassing. Many prairie dog heads popped out of the ground to keep a close watch on me. After a few photos, I still wasn't in love with any. Then this bee started flying around me, so I increased the aperture, sped up the shutter speed and took its picture instead. The bee is still a bit blurry, but I like it anyway.

In the heart of Glacier National Park, beyond the waterfall and over the ridge, is Grinnell Glacier. While slowly migrating and freezing and thawing, it grinds against the rock and generates silt-sized particles called glacial flour. As the glacier melts, this glacial flour gets suspended in the water then flows over the falls and into Grinnell Lake, turning what would have been an ordinary mountain lake into this turquoise gem tucked away in the mountains.