The Shenandoah Valley, Part Six - Numbers 13 and 96 on my life list.

Part Six: Thursday’s Blissfulness
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          “Nothing can be done well at a speed of forty miles a day.

           Far more time should be taken. Walk away quietly in any

           direction and taste the freedom of the mountaineer. Climb

           the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace

           will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds

           will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their

           energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves."

          - John Muir

Today my mood shifted from happiness towards blissfulness. On day one I was cold and frustrated; now it’s warm and I have an almost childlike giddiness.

This afternoon I’d set foot on the Appalachian Trail and fulfill number 13 on my life list, “Hike Overnight on the Appalachian Trail”. (Not to be confused with number 14, “Hike the entire 2,200 mile Appalachian Trail.” Some dreams need to be big.) First, I would finish my waterfall tour on the Rose River Falls loop, Dark Hollow Falls Trail, and then see my final Shenandoah waterfall on the Lewis Falls Trail.

I stopped frequently this morning as I found the beauty of the area incredible, not that it was any better than before, but it was exaggerated by my exceedingly good mood. At my first rest stop I sat on the ground with the pack beside me and my journal in my hand. I stared at a fern sitting on top of an algae covered boulder. Its leaves dangled over the edge inches above the water. A single yellow leaf caught my eye when it fluttered to the creek below. Days alone in nature give you time to closely examine such things. I contemplated the leaf's ephemeral existence.

Throughout its life, it was the flowers that got the attention, but now its color rivaled that of any petal. In its peak of loveliness, a breeze detaches it from its branch, sending it spiraling into black mirrored water. Lazily, it floats down the stream. The calmness occasionally interrupted by short burst of speed, as it is poured over cascading stair steps. Along the creek’s edge it stops, in a place with no significance. It is here that it will wait to return to atoms, nourish the soil and become something new again. Not at all an empty existence.

All things are fated to decay: fallen leaves and human beings. I know this may sound gloomy, but it isn’t meant to; rather it should be humbling and motivating. The atoms will become part of tomorrow’s trees, forest soil, bear cubs, and breathtaking views. So, everything is worthy of our reverence, and nothing should be taken for granted. While I can, I’ll collect these moments like fine jewels, cherish them, and share them with others.

Paying attention to these details has become second nature. I am not the man I was last week, or even yesterday. I am a man that is noticing the simplest things, the breezes, the softest sounds, the life of a single yellow leaf.

As much as I love the writings of John Muir (especially the quote above) and many others like him, I'd have to say it’s the scientists that have inspired me the most. Give me the words of Muir or Emerson, but not without the passion of Carl Sagan or the endless curiosity of E.O. Wilson. I owe much of my love of nature to scientists and find immense joy in learning about the natural world, but this morning I gloried in the life of a tree, without any consideration for the process of photosynthesis. I simply sat and paid attention.

This was a time that I will always remember when I hear the word Shenandoah. Sitting there alone in the early morning, I felt this almost indescribable feeling of joy. An even stronger feeling than I had on Tuesday afternoon. The solitude, beauty and simplicity has filled me up so much, it seemed the only way I could release the pressure was through tears. I closed my watered eyes, released the air from my lungs, and a weight seemed to lift away from my chest that I didn’t realize was there until it was gone.

In only the rarest of moments have I been this happy. If there were ever a time in my life where I could have produced an absolute perfect Care Bear Stare, this was it.

I pulled out my journal and tried to scribble down any words that would describe how I felt, but I’m not poetic enough to justify it, nor did any of the words in my vocabulary seem to fit. The last line I wrote however was, “Note to self: devote your life to the national parks.”

I didn’t know exactly what that meant. I felt like I wanted, actually needed, to quit my job, go back to school and become a park ranger or something. I'm not quite sure, but I definitely knew I wanted to dedicate more time to these aimless wanderings through natural worlds, while noticing the brilliance of something as simple as a falling leaf. It meant I wanted to be a part of the never-ending struggle to protect these remaining wild places, so others would grow to understand why they are necessary, to convince them to spend more time in them. So few allow themselves to be all alone in nature for even one night, let alone the many nights required to understand this feeling that has become so profoundly important to me.

A couple strolling down the trail, asked the obligatory, “How you doing?”

“Never better,” was my reply.

At Dark Hollow Falls, I stopped for a photo and checked my map. I see I’m coming up to a black square with a white letter P written inside. I know this symbol stands for Parking, but for me it meant People, since most don’t venture far from their car. As much as I don’t understand why, and as much as I want to convince people to head deeper into the backcountry, there is some good in it. The deep woods are left empty where the only life you come across are wild animals, and the occasional silent devotee of solitude and nature. In fact, I’m grateful for this solitude because without it, this fantastic morning, one that I’ll remember forever, probably wouldn’t have existed.

Higher up the falls, a crowd of people were packed together taking pictures, resting before their short hike back to the letter P. I wandered through the crowd looking at faces, feeling enlightened, like I knew something special about this place that they did not. And perhaps I did.

After passing the parking lot and crossing over a road, the number of people dwindled considerably. Only two remained, which were heading back to their campground. The trail, and forest, now seemed to be relatively new. Saplings grew inside protective cages and the trail still had grasses trying to poke through.

Another white-tailed deer stood in my path, grazing with her fawn. As before, they stared at me with those glistening trustful eyes for a few seconds then put their heads back down to eat. I pulled out my camera and took several photos. I moved slowly, to keep them from bouncing away into the forest, as I watched them through my camera’s LCD display. Sometimes I wonder if I watch too much through my camera, trying to preserve memories rather than completely living them.

The path now looked different from the map I held in front of me. My intersection should be around here, but I wasn’t seeing it. To find my bearings, I hiked a little further to a road which led to the campground. I circled the area for fifteen minutes when I met a couple who too were lost.

The young woman was certain she saw a signpost for my trail a quarter-mile back, near where I had just hiked. I show them our location on the map and point to what they were looking for, that same little black square with the white letter P. So, the three of us backtracked in that direction. They seemed interested in what I was doing. Which I admit I love because on our short hike together, I got to talk about backpacking and the places I’ve been.

We came to my intersection, which had two large and plainly visible signs. I saw wire cages protecting saplings and two grazing deer, then realized I missed the intersection while staring into the camera’s LCD display earlier. The answer to my question was, yes, I do watch too much through the lens of my camera.

The feeling of stupidity was fortunately masked by the confidence of being back on track. I trekked along at a good pace to make up some time, but froze suddenly when I caught an adult black bear in the corner of my eye, 40-feet from the trail.

I slowly turned to look at it scratching the ground in search of grubs. The bear seemed pleasant and affable enough. It definitely didn’t care about what I was doing, so instead of sanely continuing down the trail, I just stood there transfixed. Much like the deer, it gave me a somber look for a few seconds, and then continued poking is nose through the dried leaves on the ground. I would still never approach one, but any fear I had of these creatures diminished.

According to my map, a park restaurant was nearby. I initially didn’t want to leave the trail and join the civilized world, but decided everyone needs the occasional cheeseburger detour. I stopped at a trashcan by the entrance and rid my pack of extra garbage weight, because every ounce matters when you’re a human pack mule.

“You a thru hiker?” a grubby pot-bellied man exiting the restaurant asked while sucking the leftovers from his teeth. By thru hiker, he was asking if I was hiking the entire 2,200-mile Appalachian Trail.

“No, just here for the week.”

“How many miles you gone?”

“Uhh, almost fifty, I think.” He didn't seem impressed, not that he should have been as it wasn't an impressive pace. I know of people doubling and some even tripling this pace, but you meet two types of people on the trail, those shocked to hear you’ve been hiking alone all week, and those with experience backpacking (or experience talking to backpackers) that think of fifty miles as no more than a nice traipse through the woods.

I put my pack back on and headed through the double doors. The building split into sections: souvenirs on my left, a camp store straight ahead, and the restaurant to my right. The restaurant was crammed with tourists. I didn’t trust leaving my gear out of sight this far from my car, so I stood in line with it on, bumping into people and drawing some attention.

“Your combos are too big for us. We’re going to share one cheeseburger combo and add a drink,” said a woman with her husband at the front of the line. He told her what he wanted to drink and then she told the girl behind the counter for him, as if he was a child. But all I focused on at the time was, “Ooh, cheeseburger combo that’s too big for one adult human being? Do I need one or two?”

I’ll remember my personal rule to limit beef intake when I’m back at home. I have tried on several occasions to completely become a vegetarian, but I can never keep it up for long. I think if I ever utter the phrase, “this is my last cheeseburger,” I will collapse like a marionette in a puddle of tears. Overdramatic yes, but an accurate portrayal.

I walked away from the crowded building, found a tree to sit under, and devoured the calorific sandwich. The lettuce, tomato, and onion struggled to stay under the bun, slipping on ketchup, mustard and melted cheese. I ate every bit including the parts that fell off and the cheese stuck to the wrapper. Grease and condiments slathered my lips like an infant enjoying his first birthday cake.

Backpacking, or maybe its deprivation, makes any food taste better. The savory burger could have been peanut butter and jelly and would have been incredible. Either way, it was an order of magnitude better than if I was eating lunch at work right now. In fact, right about now on a normal week I’d probably be picking peas out of the cherry vanilla crisp section of a healthy choice meal.

I left the populated area, and made my way back to solitude and my final waterfall view, Lewis Falls. Miles later I came to the Appalachian Trail intersection and pulled out my camera. I needed to document the moment. I reached out and touched my first AT white blaze, a well known marker on trees along the AT that let backpackers know they are still on course.

My first AT white blaze

I was near a park campground when an elderly couple passed by on their late afternoon stroll. They saw my hiking poles and backpack and seemed incredibly excited to ask me about what I was doing. It was as though they’ve never heard of such things.

“You’re out here alone? For a whole week? And all you have is what’s in that backpack? Where do you get water? Do you sleep in a tent? A hammock, really? That’s amazing. I don’t think I could do that.”

I really enjoyed the company of these people.

As I rounded the campground I saw another black bear. It was much larger than the previous. I wanted to get the attention of the campers nearby so they wouldn’t miss it. The campground felt like a mobile home village. A clearcut section of forest filled in by heat absorbing blacktop, the stench of pit toilets, and oily automobile engines. A couple, probably in their 30s, sat on folding camp chairs angled towards the woods. A few yards beside them sat a car, a road, and a park dumpster. They couldn’t see the bear. Surrounded by nature, but still limiting themselves to the confines of their rented rectangle of land. It kind of made me sad. You've come so far, don’t stop now, you’re going to go home without seeing Shenandoah.

I decided to do the bear a favor and never pointed him out to any of the campers.

My hike along the Appalachian ridge was gorgeous at every step. The sun was setting, but I couldn’t keep myself from stopping at every view of the valley, and there were many. I moved forward until daylight was nearly gone and finally stopped to setup camp about fourteen miles from where I started this morning.

I turned off the trail and hiked into the woods looking for a clearing. A few hundred feet in, I decided I would hang my bear bag while I still had some light. While rushing, I got my rope and counterweight stuck in a tree. It took thirty minutes to get it back down. By the time I got to my camp site, the sun was long gone. I setup camp by the light of my headlamp.

The night was not unlike the others. Only now, I was talking to myself more regularly (another feature of the solo backpacker after a few days). I was glad to get off my aching right knee, which I knew would make the final miles difficult, but every uncomfortable step today was worth it. It was one of the best days I've ever had. I stayed up late in the hammock to finish my book about serial killers, often times reading aloud, and yes, doing different character voices, until it weighed on my eyelids.

Part 7 >
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A Backpacker's Life List by Ryan Grayson is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Shenandoah Valley, Part Five - Numbers 13 and 96 on my life list.

Part 5: A Wednesday Alone

Go to Part: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

       “Language has created the word loneliness to express the pain of
         being alone. And it has created the word solitude to express the
         glory of being alone.” - Paul Tillich

Yesterday, after leaving Corbin Cabin, the temperature began to feel more like summer.  I have experienced a year of seasons in five days. After looking around to make sure I was alone, I changed into warm weather clothes.

When the trail intersected a fire road, I stopped to check my location.  I slid my pack onto the ground, sat next to it with my map, and leaned my back against a trail signpost.  For no immediately apparent reason, I was overcome with a deep feeling of happiness. I rested the back of my head on the post with a peaceful grin on my face. 

It wasn’t a unique or exceptional spot in any way, just an ordinary forest floor covered in dried leaves.  There was no jaw-dropping view, or extraordinary sight or sound, but for whatever reason, I felt like I did that first time I got behind the wheel and pulled out of the driveway alone for the first time.  I felt free.

I’m sure many things contributed to the sentiment: not knowing what would be around the next bend, a backpack full of everything I needed and nothing more, nothing distracting my thoughts, and not needing to be anywhere, do anything, or answer to anyone.  Solo backpacking doesn’t even give you the option to have it any other way. It’s incredibly liberating.

It helps that I love being alone. “I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.” I remember reading those words when I was 24 in my tattered copy of Walden by Hendry David Thoreau.  It struck a chord with me.  Suddenly it was ok to love being alone, without wondering if it was a social disorder.  Not that that stops others from wondering.

I finished Tuesdays's hike meandering through the oldest trees in Shenandoah, then into Whiteoak Canyon, the most spectacular waterfall hike in the park. Just before sunset, I found a place to camp for the night.

Wednesday morning, I looked over my map and ate breakfast on a car-sized stone jutting out of the ground at the top of a hill. Even in late-October, the trees that covered the ground, sloping down hill forty feet below, still clung to their brilliantly green leaves.


I started the day hiking out of Whiteoak Canyon and onto Cedar Run Trail, which curled through the forest up hilltops, passed yellow leaves flowing down streams that crashed into boulders. Waterfalls poured over polished rock and surged into clear pools, many large enough for a swim.


With the grim of showerless days, I desperately wanted to hop in.  Some of these waterfall grottoes were just deep enough to sit down with water up to my chest, like natural hot tubs. The only problem, they were fifty-degree hot tubs. If the temperature was right, I would have had to add a day to my trip and would have had constantly pruned toes and fingertips.

The trail became steep and exhausting, so I stopped to rest at a small waterfall spilling into a pond shaded by trees.  The water cascaded from there through narrow channels, tumbling into puddles of varying sizes, until finally plummeting into one of the hot tub pools fifty feet below.


Surrounded by the shushing of flowing water, I sat by a deep puddle and took off my shoes and socks. I dipped my head into the puddle’s ice-cold water and then sat on the edge with my feet in.


I realized I loved being barefoot. I hadn’t really given it much thought before. It may be something insignificant and ordinarily taken for granted, but I grew up with shoes on from morning until night.  In fact, my only memory of being barefoot outdoors, when I was growing up in the eighties, was when my friends would run down our gravel driveway without shoes, while I pointlessly tried to keep up with unhurried cautious steps like Brook Shields walking over glass in Circus of the Stars. (It's surprising how many eighties references I can fit into this journal.)


So, rarely allowing myself to be barefoot outdoors, this is kind of new to me.  Now it seemed like strapping rubber soles to my feet just anesthetizes my brain from a fundamental human sensation. Imagine wearing gloves everywhere you went, what experiences would you miss?  It seemed the equivalent to kissing someone while wearing a Halloween mask, pulling it off, and realizing, “Wow, this is much better,” that millimeter thin mask might as well have been miles thick.

I discovered that I want to feel the warmth of sun-drenched bedrock on the arches of my feet, dig my toes into fresh mud, feel dry leaves and thin twigs crunch under my weight. I want to curl my toes over the edge of a granite pool, plunge my feet into the shallow water, and watch the cloud of silky sediment roll out from underneath.

Backpacking has shown me that in my effort to make life comfortable, there have been casualties that just made life duller. Being barefoot outside is only one of them.  Some of my favorite things on earth I sacrifice daily: the complete absence of unnatural noise, the excitement of wildlife confrontations, the lack of walls silencing nocturnal sounds, and being far from the city lights overwhelming the starlight.  My solo hikes in such beautiful places keep me from forgetting.  This contributes to the fact that I’m not the person today that I was last week or who I'll be next week.  I need this escape like I need the right amount of sleep and clean air.

Fully rested, and my feet sun-dried, I slipped my shoes back on and returned to the trail, the connection to the earth broken again by rubber soles. Miles later, I turned onto the horse hoof tilled Skyland-Big Meadows Trail. The rumble of cars on Skyline Drive was now in earshot.  To provide an unobstructed view for motorists, a large swath of trees had been removed, a manmade ecotone segregating two combating ecosystems. I was unhappy with this accommodation.  It made me feel like the wild wilderness didn't exist as it once did.


At the turnout on the other side of the divide, a woman got out of the car’s passenger door and sat down on a guardrail, her back to the view. Her husband stepped out of the driver’s side to get a picture.  They hopped back in and drove off. The windshield experience is almost no experience at all. Another casualty of a comfortable life, not knowing how much more majestic such a view is when it caps the end of a day-long hike.

With the lack of shade from missing trees, the sun beat down on me with more intensity that it had all week. The sweat began to pour and I sipped my water quickly. I walked with my gaze pointed down. The first day the ground was soggy, the second snow covered, but now I kicked up dusty soil and crunched through dry autumn leaves with every step.

At this elevation, the trees had fewer leaves, which had mostly taken on their brown mid-autumn hues. The balder plants opened up the view deeper into the forest. The wildlife found sneakiness impossible.  I could easily hear every one of them scurrying around on crunchy leaves, making even a sparrow sound large and significant.

I turned my gaze up and saw that I was being stared at by the glossy black eyes of a white-tailed deer.  We both stood unmoving, locked in a staring contest.  Our actions mirrored, but I assume our thoughts did not. Unless she was thinking, “Ooh, a human. Don’t move too suddenly, you’ll scare it. I can’t get tired of seeing these on the trail, so majestic! Where's my camera?” but she probably wasn't. She gave her tail a rattle and continued grazing.

I still hadn’t eaten since breakfast ten miles back, but was only a couple of miles from Rose Falls, so decided to wait.  It was worth it. Not only for the falls, but the declining elevation meant more color in the trees. I climbed down and sat on a rock near the base of the falls and decided I'd feast as much as I possibly could. A backpacking feast isn’t exactly Thanksgiving, as I ate less calories than I would normally eat on a lazy day at home: tuna salad in a half pita, cereal bar, crackers, and a couple handfuls of dried fruits and nuts.

I moved closer to the falls with my water filter and pumped water directly into my mouth.  Again I wished the water were warmer so I could get in. I craved a shower. I looked at the falls and visualized moving under it with my head pointed up and eyes closed, feeling each drop splash on my face.  I’ll never take warm showers for granted again.

On a sort of peninsula a short distance from the falls, I spotted a perfect place to call it a night. Two creeks converged to form a U thirty feet below, accompanying my hammock and I with the soothing murmurs of rippling water. Exhausted from a particularly grueling day, I setup camp, pulled my sleeping bag on like overalls, then laid down in the hammock without a struggle.  I've come a long way since that first night.


Lying in my bed of nylon and rope suspended from the trees, I heard a large animal only a yard or two away. This time, it wasn’t a sparrow rustling through the dry leaves.  It had heavy footsteps and a sniff that sounded big. With my headlamp on, I slowly poked my head out.  The forest was pitch black, but a pair of reflective yellow eyes stared back at me.


I fully expected to see a black bear, but to my relief, it was another deer.  A relief since this is one of the few large animals you’ll encounter in the woods that will rarely generate headlines such as, “Hiker Mauled to Death by Soulful-Eyed White-Tailed Deer.”

It stared at me for a few seconds then lowered its head to continue grazing, unconcerned with the man with the glowing forehead, hanging from the trees.

Throughout the rest of the night, it was apparent I picked a popular spot. The air was filled with sounds of nocturnal life, a constant reminder that wild, does in fact, still exists.



Part 6 >
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The Shenandoah Valley, Part Four - Numbers 13 and 96 on my life list.

Part 4: Tuesday Morning at Corbin Cabin
Go to Part: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Standing on the middle stone of five crossing a creek, I paused to look downstream. I breathed in the view meditatively until interrupted by an unfamiliar, sort of higher pitched, Chewbacca-like moan coming from the trees. I scanned the area closely, but didn't see any movement. I stepped over the remaining stones. The noise repeated, I stopped, and searched again. My eyes connected with a young black bear's, high up a slender tree. Startled, it hurried down as quickly as a firefighter down a pole; its paws hit the ground, and vanished behind a trail of shaking leaves.

Bears are generally safe if you take some necessary precautions. First of all, any bear expert worth his salt will tell you that under no circumstance should you try hugging or riding on one, regardless of how overwhelming that temptation may be. That being said, they'll also tell you to make noise so it knows you're coming, keep a clean camp, and do your best to hide the fact that you are carrying food. A black bear can detect strong smells from miles away and sniff out that energy bar in your pocket seven times better than any bloodhound, or 2,000 times better than any human. Another interesting item worth noting, a human or trained bloodhound will find it much more difficult to chew your face off while trying to steal your Snickers bar.

Regardless of this superpower, and the subsequent thieving of hundreds of pic-a-nic baskets, there has never been a fatal bear attack in Shenandoah National Park. On the other hand, If it does happen, I’d put my money on it happening to a hiker who inadvertently finds himself between a mother bear and her cub.

Adult bears are usually silent, but the sound in the trees came from a young cub. As they approach adolescence, they become intrigued with the idea of independence, and venture further and further from the protection of their mother. In times of danger, however, they lose confidence and realize they still need the security of an adult. Like when you’re six and a librarian ghost roars at you in the opening of the movie Ghostbusters. Don’t judge me, I was six.

I worried that the Chewbacca-like moan was a distress call. Was he calling for backup?

I spun around looking in all directions for an even larger mass of black fur, but didn't see mama bear. Even though I knew the danger was low, my heart raced, and I'm not ashamed to admit I moved at a faster pace for the next hundred yards. A futile attempt, since an average bear could chase down even the world's fastest human with ease.

Once I knew I was in the clear, my adrenal gland eased up on the adrenaline, I soon returned to the peaceful state of mind that I was enjoying on that middle stone in the creek. I now felt thrilled that I got to see my first black bear up close in the wild.

Through the trees up ahead, I spotted a mediocre, but inviting little cabin that once belonged to George Corbin. In 1909, he and his friends hewed logs from surrounding trees and constructed the dwelling. George lived here, in the smallest home on the smallest farm in Nicholson Hollow, for 29 years on what his family could grow or make themselves. George provided other necessities by supplying moonshine to the nearby resort town of Skyland.

During a harsh winter, George's wife died while giving birth to their third child. Her body was laid to rest a few hundred yards from the cabin, in a family cemetery. In 1938, when the land gained national park status, George and his children were forced to pack up and leave.

It is one of the few log houses still intact in the park after a fire destroyed nearly forty mountaineer homes. Corbin cabin is one of the last monuments of the vanished mountain community, and still provides shelter to passing backpackers. Today it served three: Jimmy, Jarrett, and Jonathan.

“Hey, do you know what time it is?” one of them asked.

“Yeah, I have a cell phone in my pack, just a sec.”

“Oh you don’t have to go to so much trouble. I thought maybe you just knew.”

“It’s alright, I’m ready to have that off my shoulders for a little bit,” I said, and pulled my phone out of my bag and gave them the time.

“You’re more than welcome to take a break here for a little while. Here, have a seat.” The man stood and offered the porch rocking chair. “It’s my turn to fix breakfast anyway. I should get started on that.”

“You think? Since it’s already ten?" scoffed the second person on the porch. "Hi, I’m Jimmy,” he put his hand out to shake mine. “Yeah have a seat, take a load off.” I sat down on the rocking chair. “So, where are you coming from?”

I enjoy the differences in the getting-to-know-you chitchat on the trail. The questions are more interesting, and more enjoyable to answer. The ones typically heard are: where are you coming from, how long have you been on the trail, where are you from, where have you backpacked before, what is your favorite trip, why do you do this, are you insane?

You rarely hear my least favorite introductory question, “What do you do?” In other words, what do you do for money? This is usually the least interesting thing about a person. It’s definitely the least interesting thing about me. I get the impression that as soon as I say, I work in IT, the person I’m talking to will immediately regret asking and go talk to someone else in the room. To which, I can defensively react with, “Yeah, but can that guy tie a clove hitch? That loser probably doesn’t even know what a clove hitch is!” Then, “Oh no he didn’t,” a passerby would invariably say.

“So where are you coming from?” I pulled out my map and briefly went over the trip so far. They pointed out areas I should try to visit. They highly recommended Whiteoak Canyon, which was luckily already under yellow highlighter ink.

I asked about the cabin, which they talked about adoringly. To a backpacker a modest shack like this is a fancy summer home, especially when you’ve been on the trail a few days or weeks.

“Jarrett is getting married so we’re trying to get one last trip in.” They looked at each other smiling, but I detected a slight feeling of trepidation. Maybe I just assumed, since it’s how I would feel if I ever utter the words “one last trip”.

“So, she doesn’t like this kind of thing?” He shook his head. “Maybe she’ll be glad to get you out of the house for a week every year so you can all go again?”

“Ah we both have fiancées too, so I don’t see that happening.” Jimmy chuckled, pointing to himself and Jonathan, followed by a short awkward silence. I felt very happy to be single.

“You want to take a tour of the cabin?” asked Jimmy. Jonathan went inside to check on breakfast. Jimmy and I followed.

Weak floorboards creaked under my hiking shoes. The living room was dark. A small amount of light seeped in through an opened nearly opaque window and from a small fire crackling in the fireplace. It felt good to feel heat again.

Backpacking gear suspended on hooks clung neatly to the wall below spider webs that stretched across the corners under the ceiling. A plaque with a brief history of the cabin hung beside an old sepia photo of George Corbin. He may have lost his home, but with it, gained a slice of immortality. Last night’s entertainment littered a large wooden table: a deck of cards, cigarettes, and ashtrays made from folded aluminum foil, not to mention long blade hunting knives and a couple of handguns. The weapons did little to add to the hospitable charm.

Corn beef hash simmered in an iron skillet on top of an old wood-burning stove. I thought of poor Mrs. Corbin. Pots and pans hung on the walls above the stove. Left by different generations of hikers, each varied in age and wear.

The smell of sizzling breakfast reminded me how much I craved a warm meal. “Ryan, you staying for breakfast?” Jonathan asked.

“Oh no, I’m alright. I’ll get going here pretty soon,” I replied, even though I secretly wanted to shove him out of the way and cram it into my mouth by the fistful.

“No, I can’t eat your food. It's not like there are supermarkets out here to restock.”

“You’ve been out hiking, I know you’re hungry. How do you want your eggs?” he asked. “Seriously, we’re leaving tomorrow morning and we have a dozen eggs, so either you eat them or we’ll be throwing some out I’m sure.”

“Ok, over easy.”

Jonathan cracked more eggs into the pan and Jimmy continued our conversation. “I used to work at Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore in Michigan, you ever get up there?” This may have been the first time I had more than brief conversation with another backpacker. Sleeping Bear was home to one of my favorite nearby backpacking destinations, North Manitou Island. He also worked at an outfitter and he had plenty of backpacking knowledge. He didn’t have a career, didn't stick with one job for too long, but did something he loved.

“Hey Jimmy can you finish these eggs? I’m out of commission.” Jonathan’s head was tilted back and he was pinching his nose. “I’m getting a bloody nose from this dry air; I need you to take over… Come on, I’m out of commission!” Later it seemed like they must have been doing Karate Kid lines during their trip, so I assume that is why he kept saying “out of commission”. This made me like them even more.

Jimmy picked up the spatula, but kept talking and asking me questions. When Jonathan’s nosebleed seemed to have stopped, he busied himself with other tasks. “You want to finish these now? “ Jimmy asked. “No, I can’t. I’m still out of commission.”

I moved out to the porch and sat on the rocking chair. “So what do you do Ryan?” Jarrett asked, sitting down on the nearby wooden bench. The question is bound to come up eventually; at least it took some time to get there. I told him about my job, in as few words as possible, and he told me about his.

“I’m a freelance photographer and graphic designer. Jonathan is a firefighter and Jimmy… Hey Jimmy what are you doing now. “

“I’m making eggs, dude.”

“No, I mean for a job, what are you doing, like, for money.”

Jimmy paused for a couple seconds, “Political consultant.”

Jarrett laughed condescendingly and shook his head, “heh, political consultant.”

Later, Jimmy brought out a large plate, nearly overflowing with a mountain of corn beef hash and two fried eggs over-easy. Nothing short of an actual mountain could have looked as magnificent at that moment.

It was mouth-watering, the eggs cooked to perfection. A few minutes later, Jonathan brought me a cup of steaming black coffee in an old chipped black-and-white checkered coffee mug, a packet each of cream and sugar. I felt very thankful, and incredibly guilty.

To help ease some of the guilt, I offered to chop the remaining logs for firewood. The five logs I chopped, which were the first I’ve ever chopped, didn’t really make up for their hospitality, but I know they really didn’t care.

“Well, I better get back on the trail so I can get to my next site before it gets too dark.” I hadn’t planned on staying at the cabin for the two hours I was there. I thanked them for everything, but couldn’t thank them enough.


Part 5 >
Go to Part: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

The Shenandoah Valley, Part Three - Numbers 13 and 96 on my life list.

Part 3: Monday on Old Rag Summit
Go to Part: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Just after sunrise, I unzipped my sleeping bag and mourned the release of the sleep warmth inside.  I poked my head out of the tent; the cold cloaked my face. The quiet flow of water, the echoing birdcalls, and the promise of breakfast hanging safely in a tree, put me in a joyous mood. 

I poured a cup of water and powdered milk into a zip-top bag of cereal, then unfolded my map in front of me to review today’s hike. On the trail, even the simplest breakfast becomes a delicacy that you crave.  I’m coming back to this spot tonight, so don’t need to take much with me.  I sorted through my gear and decided what I could leave behind, and topped off my water at the creek.

After a two-mile hike from camp, I arrived at my trailhead and began to snake up the mountain on switchbacks.  Half a vertical mile above me awaited my destination, the summit of Old Rag.

An hour later my path ran into mounds of bedrock and boulders like elephant backs. I put the hiking poles away; I would need all fours for this one.

On my right, the trees were occasionally parted like curtains framing the mountains. I stopped to take a photo and two middle-aged hikers passed me.

“I picked this vacation, so what’s your choice for next year?” The exhausted man asked his wife. She paused to suck in some oxygen and declared, “A cruise!”

Birds hiding in bushes fluttered away as an expansive view of the valley opened up before me. Hundreds of feet below the sweeping view of forested hillsides, sprawled a patchwork of rural Virginian farmland.  It was a good spot for a break.

Soon a fellow hiker, who I will forever refer to as Paul (even though I actually have no idea what his name is) stopped to have lunch. Paul was an EMT, which was nice to learn. When is hiking in close proximity to an emergency medical technician ever a bad thing?

“Is that the summit?” I said pointing up the ridge at a huge rock jutted skyward.


“No, you still have a ways to go. There are a few false summits actually. This trail is a lot more challenging than people think. I’ve even seen kids trying this trail in flip-flops,” he scoffed while pulling out an orange. “I was hiking with a buddy of mine one year and a woman fell and cracked her head open against a rock." He dug his fingers into the orange rind, spraying a mist of juice, and slid his thumb underneath to peel it back, adding graphic imagery to his tale. "It took us nine hours to get her down from here. A helicopter came, but they couldn't land very close by. So, we carried her to it.”

“I try to help when I can,” he pointed at a backpack with a coil of thick nylon rope clipped to the side, “but I only bring a first aid kit and 100 feet of rope with me, so I can only help so much.”


A few minutes after some dispiriting medical dramas, I picked up my backpack. “We’ll, I’ll let you enjoy your lunch.  I’m going to continue on.” Sliding the pack on my shoulders, I started up the trail. “My name’s Ryan by the way, so now if you see a body on the rocks below you'll know what to call me.”


“I’m Paul,” he said in an almost demanding tone that didn’t make sense to me at the time.

“Nice meeting you.” I waved and proceeded up the trail.


“Oh,” he called back. “You’re going to get to a narrow ravine. Look for a little handhold on your left; it will help you get down,” I thanked him for the information. He turned back to the view and dropped an orange wedge into his mouth.


Wait, he didn't say "I'm Paul", he said "don't fall". Oh well, the name stuck. He's Paul whether he likes it or not.


At a shallow ravine two or three feet wide, I paused to figure out the best way get down. Realizing this is where Paul was talking about, I looked to my left. Sure enough, there was the handhold on the opposite side. I lowered my backpack and hiking poles into the ravine. I sat down, legs dangling over the edge, and slipped my left fingers into the handhold and slid in. I dropped onto the large boulders resting in the bottom, happy I didn’t smack my face on the rock wall.  

My shoulders bumped along the sides as I hiked a short distance to the much shallower end.  A small blue arrow spray-painted on a boulder directed hikers to the left. I threw my gear over the ledge and climbed out.

The trail twisted through a maze of granite slabs and enormous boulders. Often, I had to take my pack off to slide sideways through narrow gaps between rocks toward slivers of light at the other end.


I stopped at a smooth round boulder, as tall as me, that blocked the trail . It leaned against a granite wall to the right, and on its left was a steep drop. I struggled to think of a scenario where I got on top of this thing. “Surely there’s another way around it,” I thought, but there wasn’t. I had to get on top.

I could hear voices. “…took us nine hours to get her out.” It was Paul, who had passed me at some point earlier on, telling the same story to other hikers. If they could get up there, then I believed I could too. And if I was lucky, I could get passed it before Paul told them all the ways you can die up here.


I threw my gear on top of the rock and out of the way. I tried jumping and pulling myself onto it but it was too large, too slick, and too round. I tried once again while kicking off the granite wall next to it.  I grabbed for anything to pull myself up but slid back down, skin scraping on rock. The third time I got a short running start and once again jumped kicked off the wall with my right foot.  This time, I got my forearms and elbows on top. I knew I could make it now. I pushed up on my hands, got my knee under me, and crawled the rest of the way up. I felt very proud of myself. I felt like an accomplished seasoned hiker. I felt like Ninja Gaiden. And bruised, I also felt very bruised.


It was a beautiful day. The chill had gone. I removed my jacket, but still sweat profusely. I hid behind a rock and took off my base layer and got down to just a t-shirt and pants. I was so happy to be warm for the first time in days.


On a level area of exposed bedrock, with a clear view of the valley, I stopped to take a break. Paul was standing there taking advantage of the cell phone reception.

“How you doing?” he asked while stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

“Pretty good. Just a little trouble getting over a giant rock back there, other than that no problems.”

“Oh yeah, I know where you mean. That’s where that woman fell and busted her skull. They had to land the helicopter right here actually. We carried her all this way.” It was good to be in one piece, bones intact, with only the regular holes in my skull. And really how often are you reminded of how great it is to not have a gaping head wound? Thanks Paul.

He warned me about missteps, loose gravel next to dizzying cliffs, mountain lions, bears, poisonous snakes, raccoons stealing your only food, and any other unlikely fatal scenario that came to mind. I know occasionally someone is seriously injured or killed in our national parks, but people also die on toilets, in bowling alleys, at all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets and in Wal-Mart parking lots. Dying on a beautiful mountain range seems a far better way to go than dying like Elvis, or the thousands a day spending their last hours in hospital beds hooked up to beeping monitors.

The drive to the park is far more dangerous. Only about 100 of the 275 million people who visit the national parks each year will suffer a fatal injury, and it’s safe to say alcohol and stupidity inflate that statistic. It’s absolutely something to prepare for, but it’s just not something worth worrying about. Paul seemed preoccupied with it.  I suppose being an EMT means you’re going to see it and think about it more often than most.


Even though I'm regularly guilty of taking the path with the least resistance in life, I believe it’s important to be unafraid to take a small risk now and again. I’d rather live a short adventurous life, than a long repetitive one, with the regret that I've wasted all my youth and good health.


If only I could have pulled from memory one of my favorite John Muir quotes to end my conversation with Paul.  “Accidents in the mountains are less common than in the lowlands, and these mountain mansions are decent, delightful, even divine, places to die in, compared to the doleful chambers of civilization. Few places in this world are more dangerous than home.  Fear not, therefore, to try the mountain passes. They will kill care, save you from deadly apathy, set you free, and call forth every faculty into vigorous, enthusiastic action. Even the sick should try these so-called dangerous passes, because for every unfortunate they kill, they cure a thousand."  Nobody says it better than John Muir.


A couple false summits came and went, but I was getting close. I felt more confident on the rough terrain now. I hopped onto boulders and over thin ravines like an old pro. When I got to the top, I was both overjoyed and a little saddened that one of the best trails I’ve ever hiked had ended.


On large boulders sat a scattering of day-hikers. Some of them were eating their lunches, while others sat with arms around a loved one just looking at the view. I found the boulder I thought was the highest and scrambled as close to the top as I could. I began nearly half a vertical mile down. Why stop with only a few more feet to go?

I stuffed an energy bar and my journal into a pocket before climbing up, then sat for a while writing and eating next to the breathtaking 360-degree view, the Blue Ridge Mountains on my left, and rural Virginia Farmland on my right.


I hiked through Weakly Hollow on my journey back down to camp. A much less challenging hike, but there were fewer people. Actually there were no people.


For the remainder of my hike, the sky stayed blue, but the trees’ shadows lengthened and began to darken the forest floor. The hike was peaceful, mainly due to the absence of humans, but also the lack of any unnatural noise, something you forget is greatly important until you're experiencing it. I could hear the tiniest sounds as birds fluttered from branch to branch and rodents bustled along the ground. The wind rocked the treetops back and forth while their drying leaves shivered and hissed, as calm as ocean waves.


Part 4 >
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The Shenandoah Valley, Part Two - Numbers 13 and 96 on my life list.

Part 2: A Snowy Sunday
Go to Part: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

It was a long night. Short catnaps and restlessness divided the hours. I woke up curled in a fetal position low in my sleeping bag, with my sock hat pulled tight over my eyes. I saw light through the knitted fibers and lifted it above one eye to search for my flashlight, which I assumed I accidentally switched on.

I was damn near exultant to realize the light wasn't coming from the flashlight. To give you an idea of how happy I was, I just used the word exultant for the first time in my life. I folded the hat onto my forehead and sat up to see that the sun had finally risen. It suddenly seemed so amazing that an object separated from me by 90 million miles of black void could feel as close or as reassuring.

The cold wind still hadn’t let up, but it left the air crisp and clean. My hands soon returned to their cold pale purple as I worked through the knotted ropes and repacked. I didn’t get mugged by a bear last night and I was thrilled to get back on the trail and my blood moving again.

I continued to gain in elevation. Hefty snowflake confetti fluttered to the ground and soon the forest was dusted in white. Tree branches sagged under the snow’s weight blocking portions of the trail. I smacked the base of them with my hiking poles to knock the snow off. Minus the weight, the branches rose up above my head, as if honoring me with an avenue of crossed swords.

By noon, my thermometer confirmed it was above freezing. The snow turned to a combination of rain and sleet. Droplets of water and ice pummeled my raincoat. Snap, crackle, pop. My knitted gloves, gripped around hiking poles, were glittered with specks of moisture. Beads of water glistened on the edge of the raincoat hood framing my view. The occasional hard step knocked them loose, sending them sparkling to the ground.

The rain rarely accompanies me on my backpacking trips, but it didn't bother me. Actually, I reveled in it. Not only did it keep others indoors, leaving the trail all to myself, but also the engulfing pattering sound narrowed my focus. I felt even more isolated from the rest of the world. A major reason I escape to the wilderness in the first place.

That afternoon, the once snow-white forest floor was already back to soaked brown leaves mixed with red, orange, and yellow. Up ahead the path curved over a creek. I lifted my sock hat on top of my ears, so I could hear the rippling sounds as I carefully stepped across on deliberately placed rocks.

The bright autumn foliage is Shenandoah National Park’s most anticipated show of the year, which is what initially lured me to this park. I looked over reports and photographs from the last few years to figure out when the colors would be at their peak. I chose the 3rd week in October, and it worked out perfectly.

My route’s frequent changes in elevation took me to ridge tops of rich red-brown oaks, down through canary yellow forests of birch and poplar. In the valley most trees were still thick with green, but bright patches of yellow leaves were scattered throughout. Some of them now flowing down streams and over waterfalls. The maples, Virginia Creepers, sumacs, and other vivid red plants were the stars of the show. Their bright pink and scarlet leaves seemed to glow under theater spotlights and grab your attention.

I stopped and took off my pack shortly after entering Nicholson Hollow. Between the trail and the banks of a gushing stream called Rocky Run, I sat on a tree stump and had lunch. Last night's irritation was long gone. My gaze moved to a clear patch of land which shown through the trees. After eating, I surveyed the area then decided to stay here for the next two nights.

It was a rough beginning, but I was so overjoyed to be out here now. I still had three hours of sunlight left, so I could take my time and leisurely setup camp. I located two trees to hang my hammock, away from weak branches, next to a large pile of boulders to help block the cold wind. My odor-proof bag filled with all food and scented items, hung high above the ground and several yards away, not attracting all the animals in the area.


I spent the rest of the daylight strolling along Rocky Run without weight on my back, and filtered it's water to replenished the supply in my pack. The last dwindling hour of sunlight was spent sitting sideways in a relaxing swaying hammock.

Mental note: This is the way the end of a day backpacking should be.

Part Three >

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The Shenandoah Valley, Part One - Numbers 13 and 96 on my life list.

Go to Part: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

I try to keep my life simple. I’ve managed to avoid most of the responsibilities that tend to ride shotgun with adulthood: marriage, children, a career with even the slightest potential of upward mobility, or any measurable role in the community. But even without those things, ordinary day-to-day life can still keep me distracted from the simple relaxing moments I crave.

Staying on top of requests at work and merely maintaining a clean healthy home and body, so they don’t end up like a post-Chernobyl event, is a daily grind. So even a simplified life can bring with it some short frantic days and nights where you don’t even realize you’re tired until your worn out body hits the pillow.

Often, when I try to relax or spend time on something I enjoy, my mind drifts onto those chores and errands and a tiny pang of guilt seeps in for not working on them. I can't imagine how parents and people with more responsibilities handle it. You must have to be sick to get a guilt-free break from your to-do lists. Fortunately I have a solution that doesn't require being bedridden with the flu: a combination of solitude, a trail meandering through the natural world, and a bare minimum of necessities on your back.

Picture your own to-do list, and imagine for at least a week, that seemingly endless and ever-growing list has been simplified. Now it only contains (and when your transportation is miles away, it's noteworthy to say, it can only contain) one item: take another step. 

You don't think about laundry or mowing the yard. Nobody is going to call asking you for a favor, nor will a deadline at work even cross your mind.  No sense in feeling guilty about it, you are in the woods miles from a vehicle, there is nothing you can do but move forward. Soon you find that your mind unclutters and relaxes.  You can breathe easy.  The important decisions of the day are relegated to where to walk, where to eat, where to sleep, and where to poop. It just doesn’t get any simpler than that.

I know I often romanticize my time in nature and mostly remember the good things, but I want to be honest and not leave the undesirable moments out of my journal. John Muir once said it takes at least two weeks alone in nature to truly learn what it can teach us. I think I know what he was getting at, but for me, at least on this particular adventure, it took about five days. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed nearly every moment I spent in Shenandoah, utterly joyful and exhilarating moments, but there is a threshold. A threshold that once crossed, it’s hard to imagine ever returning to that busy normal life.

But let me start from the beginning. Early in the trip, let’s just say, small mistakes were made and frustration ensued.

Part 1: Saturday, the First Night

“Shit, I think I missed my intersection.” Nearly getting lost didn’t take long, always a good sign at the start of a solo backpacking trip. I’m on a trek through the Shenandoah Valley, paying more attention to the soggy autumn leaves under my feet and the parallel running creek than my location on the map.

I consider turning around, so pull out my map. Yellow highlighter ink zigzagged along to some of the best features in Shenandoah National Park, but I left plenty of opportunities to change course like this, or venture down side trails. Going ahead will only add a couple miles, so I continue.

This morning, as I drove into the mountains on the normally scenic Skyline Drive in the fall of 2009, the wintry conditions worried me. As my altitude increased, ice encased tree branches and thick curtains of fog concealed the turnouts’ views. I checked the weather daily before driving out and expected mid-40s for the low. I asked the man at the gate, who glanced over at the backpack in my seat, what the low was suppose to be tonight.

“They say about 29 degrees,” he said in a tone of “better you than me." 

The temperature concerned me. I wasn’t exactly prepared for it. Everything was frozen or wet and the sun was behind thick gray clouds. I would be sleeping outside in a thin hammock tent and sleeping bag that is far from cozy in freezing temperatures. I should have been better prepared. Forgive me Les Stroud, for I have forsaken you.

Back on the trail, my modified route proved to be more challenging than the one planned. The last three-quarter mile ascended over a thousand feet. I pushed as fast as I could to get on top of the chilly wind-facing hill before nightfall, but didn’t make it. With the sun almost set, I had to stop.

The last hour’s scramble covered me in sweat and the temperature fell below freezing. Even with my new vapor-wicking clothing, the sweat didn't help my comfort. I found two strong trees a good distance apart to hang my hammock. There wasn’t enough daylight left to setup camp properly, and my cold pale-purple hands refused to cooperate when tying the knots for my hammock and bear bag.

With the sunlight gone, I finally settled in for the night. I struggled to get into my sleeping bag, which isn’t easy to do in a hammock tent. It swings and you can’t lift much of your body up at the same time to get the bag underneath you. Until I nailed down a method, it was frustrating and exhausting like trying to take your winter coat off in the car while driving.

If you're having any trouble picturing it, I imagine it looked really similar to me being tazed while attempting to try on pants in a crowded bouncy castle. I hope that helps.

Finally I was settled in, then I realized I forgot to hang my toothpaste, deodorant, and other scented non-food items that bears often mistake for nighttime snacks. Shivering and irritated, I slid on my headlamp and got back out in the cold wind. I stuffed the items into a mesh bag tied to the end of a rope, and tossed it over a tree branch. I knew it would be easy pickings for a large bear with even a small amount of effort.

Strong winds rocked the hammock and whipped through creaking branches. Sharp undergrowth and thorns prevented me from lowering the hammock onto the ground for the warmth and stability. Now, I know none of this would hardly show up on any cable specials about harrowing tales of wilderness survival, but the point is, getting adjusted to leaving the comforts of home can take a bit of time. 

As I lay in my hammock bed, mild paranoia swirled through my brain. Did I do a thorough enough job checking for dead branches above the hammock? Would the wind send one careening towards me? Is that bear bag high enough? Would it get even colder? I wanted to slip into a blissful unconscious slumber, but I was far from sleepy.

Ahead of me were twelve long hours before sunrise. I searched for my book to help pass the time. Dexter. Brilliant. To top it off, I brought a book about serial killers.

Part 2 >

Go to Part: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

The Grand Staircase, Part Ten - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Saturday 
Click Here for Part One

On our final day, we drove out of Zion through two long tunnels carved into cliffs. We passed a herd of big horn sheep and pulled over. Since my point-and-shoot camera can’t zoom in any closer than the naked eye, I slowly moved toward them for a picture. The largest and clearly dominant male never averted his eyes away from me. A stare I didn’t want to get too close to. I got back into the car and we went to Bryce Canyon to finish our Grand Staircase tour, but first we stopped for breakfast at Ruby’s Inn, a western diner near the entrance of the park.

The waiter covered our table with plates of mouth-watering breakfast foods. After eating, we stopped at the Sunrise point trailhead and filled our hydration packs for a long hike into 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. Some of which, it seems, a stiff breeze could knock over.  

We meandered over miles of curling trails slowly towards the canyon floor. Storm clouds moved in an out. For a short time, cold raindrops came down and a chilly breeze forced me to put on a sweatshirt. Quickly as it came, the rains were gone and it warmed back up. 

Shadows and colors at Bryce change between sunrise and sunset, making it look a little different every hour of the day. It was so beautiful that no matter where your camera pointed, you could get a great shot. This meant I had a hard time putting my camera away, taking well over three hundred pictures on this day alone.

We hiked a few miles back out of the canyon, then along the rim to the car. Number 131, Hike at Bryce Canyon, was off the list. I successfully crossed off all six of the plan items on this trip, a very productive nine days. We began our drive north to Salt Lake, neither of us ready to see it end. My plane would leave in the early afternoon the following day.

Sunday 

Randy dropped me off at the SLC airport in the late morning. It was busier and more chaotic than my arrival, but everything went smoothly. As my plane lifted me out of the Salt Lake Valley and back towards home, I again stared out at the view from above. As usual with these trips, no part of me was ready to be leaving. I hadn’t been away from Indiana long enough to care to see it again so soon. 

I have to find a way to have more weeks like this one. We did a lot, in such a short number of days, yet I still have over a hundred things to experience on my list. We walked down the Vegas strip and saw one of the great engineering marvels in all of human history, but as impressive as those enormous human endeavors are, they pale in comparison to the things created by nature. You only have to think of how you feel in both places to know what I mean.

The action and thrill of Vegas can’t compare with the feeling you get perched on the edge of the Grand Canyon gaping at a forever-long landscape, stumbling upon wildlife on a trail, looking up dizzying cliff walls from the canyon floor, or to the thrill of riding on top of a powerful uncompromising river.

We knew our planned destinations would be incredible, so we had certain expectations on the trip. One of the best things about it, however, was all the small details we hadn’t really thought of. The early morning drives passed sunrises, a bumpy ride into an infamous canyon in an old elementary school bus, a beaver dam holding back the emerald waters of a canyon sculpting river, waking up under bright starlight to a silent and peaceful night, the delicious food at never before seen restaurants, experiencing the day in the life of interesting strangers, laughing and conversing with an old friend, and just seeing anything, no matter what it was, for the first time. 

< Part Nine

Click here to see more photos from the trip.

The Grand Staircase, Part Nine - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Friday 
Click Here for Part One

We rose to our final full day at Zion. We agreed on a hike to Observation Point, high on the east rim, 2,148 feet above the canyon floor. First, we got off the shuttle at Zion Lodge and crossed the street to hike to the Emerald Pools, three small ponds that reflected emerald green with trickling waterfalls.

The trail to Observation point begins near Weeping Rock, an eroded cliff face where water seeps out nourishing hanging mosses, ferns, and wildflowers. The path is steep, gaining elevation quickly, making it one of the most strenuous of the popular hikes in the park. Most of the trail is on carved slickrock in full sun.

Every few minutes of hiking, we’d look around at a gradually higher view, slowly increasing in magnificence with each step. The trail was nearly always gaining in elevation. Knowing of Randy’s exhaustion, I told him I thought we were getting close. I wasn’t positive but it seemed like we had to be nearing the end of the 4-mile hike up. Soon I came to a sign that said 2 miles to Observation Point. I thought about not telling Randy, but I did, and he proceeded to shit a brick (his words). 

The trail flattened out through Echo Canyon, probably the most beautiful section on the trail. That is saying a lot when you consider where we were. The trail coiled around ensuring we’d see every angle.

Much too soon, we were leaving Echo and winding our way up once again. When stopping for a break, a fit middle-aged woman was hiking passed me at a quick pace, breathing heavily. “We’re almost there,” I said thinking she’d be relieved. “I wish we weren’t,” she said, reminding me that the journey, not the destination, is where we find happiness; effectively putting me in my philosophical place. We reached the top at Mount Baldy, the trail flattened out on an outcrop of land with shear drop offs on three sides overhanging the canyon. 

The view up here rivaled any other in the country, even those seen just days ago at the Grand Canyon. Angel’s Landing was visible at a distance and six or seven hundred feet lower in elevation. We sat on the deep-red rocky ground near the edge, looking straight down Zion Canyon, feet dangling 2,148 feet above its thin winding creator below, the Virgin River.

After dozens of photos, we both found a spot to pull out our packed lunches. We ate while gaping at one of the best panoramas we’ve ever seen. Zion is my favorite place that I’ve ever been to, I decided while sitting atop this, another scratch in the blue cue ball’s surface.

The four miles back, going downhill, was much less strenuous. I hoped to get a photo of observation point from the canyon floor before the sun went down but I was running out of time. I went on ahead, jogging down the trail, and got my photo with only a sliver of sunlight still shining on it. 

At the end of the trail, a mother Mule Deer was leading her young around, as we waited for the next shuttle. We got off at an area with scattered picnic tables called, the grotto. Randy was ready to call it a day, so he went back to camp and headed into town for another pack of Nathan’s hot dogs for later that night. After realizing we forgot another hiking pole at the grotto, I got on another shuttle heading back north to retrieve it and to hopefully get one last hike in before sundown. I was happy to see the shuttle heading south to pick me up, was Jim’s.

< Part Eight | Part Ten >

The Grand Staircase, Part Eight - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Thursday 
Click Here for Part One

After breakfast, we went to the base of Angel’s Landing. Switchbacks snaked their way up hundreds of feet, foretelling a strenuous hike ahead. I wasn’t used to the altitude, Randy wasn’t used to hiking this much, but we made it without any complications. The steep but straightforward section of trail ended and the final ½-mile push to the top was along a narrow scramble with nearly 1,500-foot vertical drops on either side. Randy decided to stay behind. A chain bolted into the rock helped people get to the top without a terrifying freefall. I very much appreciated this addition.

At a far distance, this narrow ½-mile section to the top resembles a rocky serrated dorsal fin, with people hiking along its edge. Some steep sections required all fours to traverse safely. It wasn’t too difficult, with the help of the chain, unless you have a fear of heights. A couple of times, I had to duck under and move to the other side of the chain, millimeters from a lethal drop, to make room for oncoming traffic. As long as the chain held, and I didn’t do anything stupid, I would be fine. Even though most people could make this hike if they felt motivated, I still felt a feeling of accomplishment when I got to the top. 

The 360-degree view was spectacular. A few people scattered around on the cream-colored smooth stone surface. A girl sat a few feet up on a rock to write in a journal. An older couple sat on the ground too weak in the knees to stand. They asked a person they didn’t know to take their picture. He backed up slowly to frame them in, nearing the edge, which added some drama to the simple picture taking. Another girl in clothes displaying her college’s initials stood at the edge and looked out at the view. The canyon road and Virgin River were now thin wavy lines surrounded by mammoth jagged red cliffs topped with forested mesas. 

I captured several photos myself and made my way back down about twenty minutes later. I loved every step. A ranger was hiking close behind me. I decided to let him pass. “I’m going to let you go around me since you’re faster and know the way better than I do.” A minute later he started to go one way, changed his mind, and chose a different route. “See I’m glad I let you lead,” I said. “Oh no you can go that way if you want. It’s just that a guy fell to his death over there a little over a year ago, and I wanted to avoid it,” he said in the same tone he’d use if he saw a pile of dog shit and was telling me to watch my step. “Oh, does that happen often?” I asked. “Uhh, we had three die in the past year or so, one was from a heart attack. But, you know, that’s out of tens of thousands of visitors a year.” 

The unfortunate hiker was fifty-three year old Barry Goldstein of St. Louis. Hiking up Angel’s Landing with a family wedding party, he accidently fell to his death in June of 2007. Rangers estimated that he fell about 1,000 feet. An eyewitness who called 911 said, “It was a sheer drop-off. There were no second chances when he went off. We could see him fall…. Just like that, he was gone.”

Just days before, a canyoneer fell to his death around Upper Emerald Pools. The park received a lot of press with such an upsetting week, but this didn’t stop the flow of day-hikers aspiring to reach the top. I’m glad I didn’t hear these stories before beginning my hike up. Fear tends to generate boring lives. I’d rather not know. 

After making my way back down, I found Randy and we started down the long switchback decent to wait for the next shuttle. At Zion Lodge, we decided to get a sandwich at the Lodge restaurant, before going back to camp. Few things in life are better than a nice fattening cheeseburger after a grueling hike. 

After finishing our meals, I saw taps for natural Zion spring water on the side of the restaurant. All day we had been drinking bad tasting well water from a spigot near camp. We promptly dumped our hydration packs and filled them with the refreshing cold spring water, free of aftertaste. 

Once back, we got in the car and drove to the adjacent town of Springdale for firewood. At the campsite, we again got a campfire crackling and sat at the picnic table, talking and playing poker with headlamps on for the remainder of the night.

< Part Seven | Part Nine >

The Grand Staircase, Part Seven - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Wednesday
Click Here for Part One

Alarm buzzing, the snooze bar within reach was a challenging temptation. If the park was full, we had to make sure we could get there early enough to get a backcountry permit or the next available campsite. “No Vacancy” remained posted, but we could clearly see a sparsely filled campground. There was a small spot, not too close to other campers, with a picnic table, fire pit, access to a river, and a spectacular view of the 6500-foot high Watchman cliff side. We pulled out our tents and staked them into a hard dusty red ground that coated our shoes.

Zion in Hebrew means sanctuary, a perfect name for this walled desert oasis carved by the Virgin River. The river took 13 million years to sculpt its masterpiece, molding the Colorado Plateau into cliffs and towers. All while giving life to numerous plants and providing water and food to diverse wildlife. All the life in this safe-haven, including us tourists who enjoy it, owe it all to this unaware but persistent river.

Zion Canyon Road, recently repaved to match the red hue of the canyon, is accessible only by shuttle. Stop at one of several bus stops and in less than 7 minutes, they will be there to pick you up. This has done wonders for the park. Traffic jams are now due only to the abundance of wildlife that has returned since the shuttle program started. Plants and wildlife can more easily take shelter and flourish in the park.

We waited for our approaching ride to the Zion Narrows, my most anticipated region in the park. After a screech of the breaks, the doors opened. We climbed aboard the shuttle, captained by Jim.

Other passengers filled the seats so I remained in the aisle standing in a Y holding onto two rings for stability. Jim, a man in his early to mid sixties, drove us up through the red forested canyon toward our destination. He spoke in a loud assertive whisper, reminiscent of Jack Boyer or Clint Eastwood. It had a weight that demanded your full attention. It worked on me. I listened to every word.

“The other drivers will just play the same recording over the speakers,” he said holding a microphone to his mouth, steering with the other hand. “It’s called an M-P-3 player. They do it because it’s easy, but then you hear the same thing on every shuttle all day every day. Not me, I want to try to give you something unique.”

The Virgin River came into clear view from the shuttle windows. “Some people ask how this tiny river can form this big canyon,” he said, displeased with anyone who might speak ill of his beloved river. “It looks small now, but when storms strike, flash floods will flow down the river blasting out log jams and hurtling boulders. Trust me. The Virgin River is no pup.”

My steadying grip tightened on every turn, as we winded up the canyon. “Rain water from thousands of years ago soaked through the sandstone cliffs and is used after all those years by these plants today. That’s why even in the middle of the desert you see Fir, Cottonwood, aspen trees, and… the Ponderosa Pine,” finishing with emphasis and a lower tone on the last one in that Jack Bower voice that Randy and I couldn’t stop mimicking on our whole trip. Actually as I write this, I’m saying “Ponderosa Pine” in my best assertive whispered Jim voice.

“Right here on your left, you see that slope? A flash flood from the Virgin River caused a massive mudslide that dammed up the river and washed out the only access road, trapping a couple hundred visitors at the Zion Lodge. Like I said, the Virgin River is no pup.”

“All the major news networks: ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, Fox News,” he read in quick rehearsed succession, “for some reason had reporters here for a month. Probably because they never seen this place and wanted a paid business trip. The headlines said ‘200 People Trapped at Zion Lodge’. Trapped? Hmmph. They got a free night’s stay in the park at a beautiful lodge with food and drinks paid for.” He lowered his voice slightly and scoffed, “I’m sure it was horrible for them,”.

Jim’s shuttle arrived at the Temple of Sinawava. We walked down the short paved Riverside Walk that ended at the river. Here the canyon converges into the 16-mile long Narrows formed by the Virgin River. The trail actually is the river, nearly running canyon wall to canyon wall at all times. With our aqua shoes on, we sloshed into the 57-degree water.

Some of the hike was along the sandy shorelines, but most was through water ankle to knee deep. That is, if it’s clear enough to see where you’re stepping. Fortunately, today the water was clear. The deep sections were clearly visible as a darker emerald green. If storms upstream dirtied the river, hikers might suddenly find themselves swimming in several feet of water.

Our legs soon acclimated to the cold temperature as we made our way through the narrowing cliff walls. The trail was, at first, crowded. Barefoot people posed for photos with long hiking sticks in hand.

The narrows are unlike any place I’ve been. The cliff walls loom over you, soaring 2,000 feet overhead and come 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. Deep emerald water flows around fallen boulders, getting louder in spots, as water channels through narrower spaces, causing white caps to surge though. This is undoubtedly one of the most stunning places on earth.

Once again, the further we hiked, the less we saw other people. “I feel like a kid at Christmas, every turn reveals another unknown gift,” Randy said as we neared a sharp bend in the trail. We hiked within an arm’s reach to the walls, on sand bordering the river’s edge, and over slick algae-covered boulders. Our path zigzagged back and forth, as we looked for the best place to make our next step. Swift flowing water occasionally made crossing difficult.

We climbed on top of a large boulder to have lunch. Other hikers sloshed by below us. This trip (like this blog post) seems to have lasted forever. It was hard to believe it had only been five days. Months after the trip I still sometimes close my eyes and try to imagine being back at this spot. I so desperately want to go back.

At what looked like a sizable beaver dam about five miles in, we stood for a few minutes, admired the view, and made the hard decision to head back before nightfall. Surprisingly, the hike in the other direction wasn’t very familiar. The new angle made it a new trail.

Less than a mile from the Riverside Walk, we passed a young family of four. “I wish we could keep going, but it’s getting late. Are we going to miss anything great if we turn around now?” the mother asked us. “Well, more of this,” I said. “So… yes,” Randy added.

The Zion Narrows still stands as my favorite hike. It’s conceivable that I’ll be lucky enough to find one that can even come close, but this will be hard to top. Number 130, “Hike Zion Narrows”, was technically off my list, but I hope to return one day when I have more time to hike the other two-thirds that we missed.

We arrived at the bus stop and were happy to see Jim’s shuttle waiting there. I put my hiking poles in the crack between the seats, slid out of my pack, and sat down. Jim passed the time with stories about the park’s wild turkeys, in that Eastwood whisper. “Come back here at about eight o’clock and you’ll see the wild turkeys all turning in for the night. They fly to the same tree, in the same order, one at a time, the alpha male always going first. Turkey’s can’t control themselves when they are in the air. If another turkey gets in their way, they’ll just crash into each other and hit the ground hard, so they go one at a time. They get to that tree there and then one at a time will fly to other trees where they will stay for the night.” Suddenly he stopped the shuttle. A Blue Herron stood tall by the river. Jim made sure everyone got a look.

As we slowed for the next stop, Jim said, “If you want to see a mountain lion, this spot is your best bet. I’m not guaranteeing you’ll see one but your chances are better if you come back here… after sunset… and come alone.” After a second pause, everyone laughed.

Jim reminded everyone when they got off, to not leave anything on his shuttle. “If you do, I have to take it to the front office at the end of my shift. When I park the bus, I can either, walk 50 feet to my car, or 300 yards to the office to fill out paper work. How many of you think I’m gonna do that? No, it’s going in my trunk. I’ll look at it in the morning and see if it’s worth keepin’. If not I’ll get rid of it… eBay.” When it was our turn to get off, I left behind my hiking poles still standing between the seats anyway. The next day I went to the visitor center’s lost and found, but Jim kept his promise.

Back at camp, we marveled at the view, got a fire crackling, prepared dinner, and played poker by the light of headlamps until retreating to our tents. The sky was clear. Billions of stars were out. Other than muffled voices from nearby campsites, the night was quiet. I shimmied into my sleeping bag and pulled out my camera to look at photos from today. I scrawled a few sentences about the day in my journal and put everything away in the tent’s pockets next to my headt. With ease, I feel asleep.

My subconscious projector lit up to replay a familiar dream. Often my dreams are disturbing in ways only David Fincher could direct, but none are more mentally exhausting as ones that put me back to my old closed-down pet store. The store is always dark and I struggle trying to find a way to get the lights on as customers flood back in. They were intensely stressful years that I’m thrilled to have behind me. In the dream, however, I’m led me to believe that all the hard work successfully getting out from under those years is the dream. The retail aggravation is back, only confusing, dark, and noisier.

Lying in my tent, I forcibly jolted myself awake. A million specks of starlight comfort me overhead. Blue moonlight scatters onto the ground and across the Watchman cliff sides. The frustration of the dream melts away, as though reality dunked my head into pool of cool blue water, instantly silencing the noise.

I thought about how glad I am to have that all behind me. To be in a location I could only daydream about a few years ago. This moment helps justify that stressful past. Without it, would I know the luxury of silence, the value in being able to leave thoughts of work at the office, and the importance of unruffled simplicity?

I tried to force attentiveness, to make this time last, but was too tired and eventually succumbed to heavy eyelids. The next morning I woke up and continued admiring the view of the Watchman until I could hear that Randy was also awake.

< Part Six | Part Eight >

The Grand Staircase, Part Six - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Tuesday
Click Here for Part One

The next morning we went to tour the Hoover Dam. A car accident had a quarter-mile line of vehicles sitting in park, and the line was quickly growing. For no apparent reason, I had the Who song “Behind Blue Eyes” stuck in my head and kept singing it. “No one knows what it’s like… to be the bad man… to be the sad man… behind blue eyes.” Sitting in traffic with me singing the same song repeatedly could turn annoying fast. Randy turned on his XM.

The thought of turning around to head to the next destination on our list was starting to enter our minds, but we decided to wait it out. Neither of us minded sitting there listening to music and talking. The song on the radio ended. The next one started, Behind Blue Eyes, by The Who. I couldn’t believe it. Fortunately, the traffic soon picked up.

When we arrived, we got in line for tickets. “You going on the Dam Tour?” the girl asked with slight emphasis on the word dam. “Yeah, one please,” I said. “Ok, one for theDam Tour.” She really enjoyed saying that. “She must be new,” I thought.

A group of us herded into a theatre for a 20-minute video about the dam’s construction. With plenty of time to kill afterwards, we went outside to peer over the dam’s edge and look around at the interesting art deco architecture and various exhibits, until it was time for our tour.

Some elevator doors closed and a group of people descended deep underground. “Shoot, I forgot to tell those people that there isn’t a restroom down there. Oh well they’ll figure it out. If you have to use the restroom you better go now.”

They flooded us with the typical “damn” jokes, I assumed because it was better than having to hear every damtourists make the same dam jokes as though they were the first to come up with them. “I’ve been a Dam tour guide for 30 years now…” “Ok, now let’s all squeeze into the Dam Elevator…” Thousands overhear it all day, every day.

We got in line. The group ahead of us was now dropping a couple hundred feet below. “Shoot, I forgot to tell those people that there isn’t a restroom down there. Oh well they’ll figure it out. If you have to use the restroom you better go now.” The people not here long enough, to have already heard the jokes, chuckled.

The Hoover Dam is truly one of the greatest engineering marvels of the 20th century. It was absolutely worth going to, even with the delay. We went into its depths, walked through tunnels hundreds of feet deep, and peered out a window half way up the smooth dam wall.

After getting back on the road, we stopped to eat at the overhyped In-and-Out burger, and then back through Vegas towards Zion National Park. We waited in more traffic from another accident, but by then I was unconscious in the passenger seat. By the time we got to the beautiful city of St. George, Utah, we were again ready to stop to eat.

We arrived at Zion after nightfall. It’s grandeur was hidden, but you could almost sense something massive just behind the darkness. An engraved wooden sign at the gate said, “No Vacancy.” We drove back out of the park until our cell phone had some bars and called a hotel. Only one had a room available, and it was their only one. It cost more than the stay in Vegas but it beat sleeping in the car. The room was a typical cheap hotel room, but huge. A small wooden table with four chairs sat in the middle surrounded by three beds, with their headboards up against the walls. We pulled everything out of the car, scattered it over scratchy cheap hotel comforters, and repacked it to get organized.

On the TV, Obama and McCain campaign press conferences warned us of a looming economy-sized recession. We couldn’t really care any less. Only the next few days mattered. I turned it to South Park, and we made our plans for tomorrow’s hike.

< Part Five | Part Seven >

The Grand Staircase, Part Five - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Monday Night
Click Here for Part One

We got back to the car, pulled onto Route 66, and headed to Las Vegas. We aren’t Vegas-type people, as anyone that knows us would assume, but we were this close to it. I’ve wanted to see what it was like and it was on my list. Besides, it was a nice way to split up our week with showers and real beds.

We drove down the strip. I stared up at all the familiar buildings and lights like a 6-month old staring at a ceiling fan. We got to the Luxor and checked in.

“To get to your room make a left at that Starbucks right down there and go straight until you get to the next Starbucks and make a right and you’ll see the elevators,” said the girl at the front desk. I am not making that up.

We dropped off our stuff and started down the 4-mile Las Vegas strip, the world capital of gambling, chapels and cheap buffets. We didn’t have a lot in mind to do. We just walked. I wanted to see all the famous casinos and maybe a few chemically imbalanced people.

I found slot machines extraordinarily boring, but I could say gambling in Vegas was officially off my list (number 111). I wanted to play a few just to get the feel of pulling down the handle and hearing the jingling change pouring out. To my disappointment, they got rid of the handle, in place of a monotonous little button. I quickly turned ten dollars into fifteen, but my winnings printed out on a little receipt. Where’s the excitement in that? Can I get some jiggling change over here please?

Neither of us felt our gambling skills were sufficient to sit at the $15 or higher per bet tables, and the cheaper tables were always full. When playing the Caesar’s Palace Nintendo game I cleaned up, but when faced with the real Caesar’s Palace, suddenly I couldn’t even remember how to play craps anymore. Nor did I have confidence in my Texas Hold ‘Em skills. It was probably for the best. I only lost enough money to buy dinner for two from a fast food value menu. I think I’ll recover.

I had more solicitations for prostitution than dollars lost to gambling actually. Randy warned me of this before getting to Vegas. I always knew about it, but there was more of it than I imagined. Everywhere we went someone is there flipping a card at us with some woman’s image. I didn’t take any, but I assumed they were something like prostitute trading cards. (Collect them all! Trade them with friends!) I wondered if they would have stats on the back, but I didn’t want to know enough to acknowledge their existence.

“Eh, just look forward and pretend they’re not there,” Randy reminded me. I wanted to bring a few souvenirs home with me but I didn’t want one to be an STD. If I’m looking for a souvenir that will last a lifetime, I’d just assume have one of those pressed pennies inscribed with “Viva Las Vegas” than herpes.

We stopped for drinks and a great meal, and continued down the strip, going into every casino whose name I recognized. All of them, on the inside, looked the same to me, like fancy Chuck E. Cheese’s for adults. If only they had adult-sized ball pits and skee ball. If I could gamble on skee ball, I’d be a rich man.

We took a few photos, hung out in a few more casinos, decided I would be ok if I never went to Vegas again, and made it back to the hotel around 4:00 am. We flipped on the TV, but I crashed and fell asleep in no time.

< Part Four | Part Six >

The Grand Staircase, Part Four - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Monday
Click Here for Part One

We woke well before dawn, at 3:30. We packed our tents and drove to Peach Springs, the Hualapai Tribe Capital, via Route 66. There was no traffic. Wild flowers and mountain ranges ran parallel to the infamous highway. The timing of the drive coincided with the sunrise. Rays foreshadowed its arrival from behind the rocky horizon.

We drove though lofty sprawling views of open undeveloped land. Fields of green cacti filled in the flat areas between immense red cliffs. At times, we could look up at the cliffs on one side of the road and down toward the canyon floor on the other side.

The Hualapai Native Americans own a 100-mile stretch of western Grand Canyon. The small town of 600 used to have a steady flow of visitors, until Interstate 40 overshadowed Route 66. The traffic now directed away from town. At a quick glance, it seemed the only thing here was the Hualapai Lodge, the meeting place for our Colorado River rafting trip.

We went into the Lodge diner to have breakfast. As I ate the best scrambled eggs that have ever existed, I glanced around at the other people and wondered who would also be on our trip. Would I have stories about any of them by this afternoon? Those who wore shorts and sandals on this chilly morning gave away who they might be.

We finished our breakfast and went to the front desk to register. “We’ll start getting on the bus in a half hour so you’ll need to be back here at 8 o’clock,” said a heavy-set Native American girl behind the counter that reminded me of Marilyn on Northern Exposure. We showed her our IDs and signed the obligatory its-not-our-fault-if-you-die insurance forms.

An old school bus pulled up and waited outside. I haven’t been on a school bus for 14 years. “Is there anything you ever wanted to do on a school bus but wasn’t allowed as a kid, like stick your arm out the window or anything,” I asked Randy as we walked out to the bus. “Ha ha, uh, no,” he said, less excited about it than me.

The driver back then told us about a kid whose arm got cut off by sticking it out the window. Enough to keep me in line at the time, but I’m an adult now. I know about scare tactics. I’m not letting such devices control me anymore. It’s just the principle of the matter. I don’t like all this manipulation and lying by our country’s school bus drivers. Let me live damnit!

In addition, I was sitting towards the back like one of the cool kids. I climbed up the bus’s steps and could smell the familiar plastic school bus seats. Most of the people already on the bus were in the front (i.e. losers). We moved to a few rows behind them and sat on opposite sides. I sat sideways with my legs up on the seat, feet hanging into the aisle. Obviously, throwing caution to the wind. How you like me now bus driver?

I imagined the retired Kingman Elementary school bus was in heaven as it bounced down the only road into the Grand Canyon. It screeched, rattled and ground its brakes around every bend. Heads of passengers in front of me sprang toward the ceiling with every hard bump. 

The views of Arizona cliff sides were incredible at every moment. As we snaked our way toward the Colorado River, the road became less discernable as it merged with Diamond Creek, until it was more creek than road. The bus splashed through the water then shrieked to a halt near the edge of the infamous river. Most human retirements aren’t this good.

Several powder blue motorized rafts bobbed up and down at the edge of the “Willie Wonka chocolate river brown” Colorado. The boats had been loaded with gear, ready to continue our journey. We put on life jackets and climbed aboard. “Ok, now we are going to go upstream a little bit, jump in, and test the life jackets for defects,” said a stout Hualapai river guide with dark sunglasses and a chubby cheeked smile on his face. His name was Louis.

Louis secured all of the supplies then laid down a blue foam mat on the floor at the bow. “When we get to the rapids one of you kneel down and hold onto the front like this.” He knelt down and grabbed hold of the front edge of the raft. “This is the best view of the rapids. I guarantee it.” I wasn’t completely sure if he was serious, or just wanted to entertain himself by seeing if we’d do something stupid. “I’m serious, I’ll tell you when to get down there,” he said reading the thoughts in my face’s expression.

On an adjacent boat, another river guide was talking to his passengers, “Ok there has been a recall on these life jackets so we’re going to go up the river a bit and jump in to test them out before we go.” This was Louis’s son Randy. Clearly, he’s learned a lot from his father, even his wit.

The first rapids were just a few yards ahead. “Is that camera waterproof?” Louis asked me. I was even starting to annoy him with my camera. I took one last shot before stowing it in my waterproof case. I volunteered first to kneel down on the blue foam mat. Louis had, what seemed to me to be, an arbitrary system of telling us the speed of the rapids up ahead. He classified them from one to ten. The first rapids were about a three. We’d be going over some sevens later in the morning, he said. The boat started to pick up speed.

I’ve never been on even class I rapids so I was stunned when the frigid 45-degree water crashed over us. No part of me was dry. The cold made it hard to take in a breath so I gasped. The Colorado doesn’t taste too bad. I turned and saw everyone else thrilled and laughing. “Hey, this vapor-wicking shirt isn’t working!” Randy said completely soaked and dripping.

The current took us straight toward a canyon wall. I assumed Louis knew what he was doing and wouldn’t let us actually hit it. I turned back and saw him bent down not paying attention. “Hey!” I yelled out, but he didn’t hear me. Some others on the boat got his attention and he steered us towards the clear.

“I’ve been running this river for 30 years right next to these loud motors so I’m a little deaf. You’ll hafta yell louder.” Louis said. “Sorry ’bout that. The backup motor wasn’t tied down. That was my first priority. We don’t wanna lose that.”

By the time he secured the motor the other boats were ahead of us and out of sight. This was fine with me. This made the trip even better. He didn’t bother so much with catching up, but instead told us stories about both the geology of the canyon and his own life as a river guide.

“My son’s first river trip was when he was four or five.” Louis stood in the back of the raft and spoke loud over the motors, “I couldn’t find a babysitter so he stood right next to me here. He runs his own boat now. His name is Randy. He turned over a boat a couple years ago dumping all the passengers into the river.”

I once heard a river guide say the more rough a trip was, the more people would enjoy it and tell their friends. So, if the river was slow, he would intentionally dump someone in, guaranteeing good reviews. This wasn’t the case with Louis’s son; it was an accident that the other river guides still cracked jokes about. Louis pointed to him on the first boat we eventually approached. “That’s him there. Everyone say hi Randy,” he requested. “Hi Randy,” we said in unison.

Short calm moments on the river were broken up by moments of speed, adrenaline, and being tossed around as if weightless. Each one came right after drying just enough to start warming up, reminding us how cold the water was. Louis cautioned us that the rapids coming up were about a six or seven. Stephen, a Canadian passenger sitting with his girlfriend across from us, decided to be the next to kneel down up front. The approaching rapids were massive.

A raft out in front of us disappeared for a second behind walls of splashing water. Our boat was next. The bow shot up at steep angle and splashed back down. The water crashed on us hard. I gasped for air. More water up my nose and down my throat. We laughed and howled, again stunned from the cold. The river’s power was intimidating. I couldn’t remember a time I’ve had more fun.

Stephen moved back to his seat, battered by the Colorado. Blood smeared across his face and dripped from his nose. “You alright?” Louis asked. “Yeah I’m fine,” he replied. “You got clean blood? If you don’t got clean blood we’re running the next rapids backwards!”

The water calmed for a bit. We stopped for a short hike to a waterfall that flowed out of a cavern in the side of a canyon wall. We used knotted ropes and a wooden rope ladder to climb up to the cave entrance. The view could have been pulled straight from the cover of one of my backpacking magazines. We were the last to return to the raft due to my diligent picture taking.

When we got back on the river, we were hurtled over more rapids. Half way through a swift section, that Louis rated a five, he did a U-turn and slowly pushed upstream to park the boat next to a rocky shore. “I thought we’d stop here for lunch, unless you guys wanna catch up to the others and eat with them.” None of us did. This spot was perfect and he knew we’d love it. He passed out sandwiches and we scattered near the river, sitting on and around large warm boulders like iguanas soaking up the sun.

I couldn’t believe the trip so far. It just kept getting better. Here we were having lunch by the Colorado River, absorbed in the sound of white water with a view deep inside the Grand Canyon, cliffs towering hundreds of feet above our heads. Three days ago, I was in a beige fabric-lined cubicle, sitting at my desk, eating a banana, while my lean cuisine was warming up in the microwave.

The sound of the river blocked out all others. It was incredibly peaceful. We finished our meals and just sat for a while. Randy tapped me on the shoulder, “Look”. He pointed at Louis still in the boat. He was lying relaxed in the back eating a sandwich looking around at the view. Even after 30 years, he was enjoying this moment every bit as much as us, as if he too had spent the previous weekdays wasting life away in an uninteresting, soul-numbing, beige cube.

The final swift section approached. “How fast are these,” someone asked. “Uh about 6 or 7, but I’ll make it a 10,” Louis said with confidence. I took my final opportunity to get in position on the front of the raft. The river tossed me around like a rag doll. My left hand slipped off the edge and my body flew off the blue mat. Only the weakening grip of my right hand on the slippery boat kept me from floating down river. I’ve never held onto anything tighter.

The river had finally calmed down for good and the final one and a half hours of the trip was with the less violent side of the Colorado’s split personality. Many layers of rock formations surrounded us at imposing heights, as much as a half-mile above our heads. Each layer at different distances slowly slid past us like stone curtains; an enchanting effect that no still photo could ever capture.

Everyone relaxed. A cool mist blew over us from the front of the boat, cancelling the sun’s heat, now high in the cloudless sky. The rays reflected off immense canyon walls in many shades of brown and red. Our familiar world didn’t enter our minds down here. I can honestly say I didn’t think about my regular days or work much at all on this trip. That world existed somewhere over that rim and miles away.

“This is my office,” Louis said. Four simple words that could make anyone question the course of their own life. I suspect he doesn’t care that radiologists make more money.

Louis zigzagged across the river to show us a variety of interesting geological features. He pulled up close to a dark section of canyon wall smoothed to a shiny glaze by millennia of swirling water. “The river flows past the rock, spinning back on itself like small whirlpools, creating tall patterns of curled rock. Reach out, touch it, and feel how smooth it is. You’re touching one of the oldest rocks in the canyon, 1.3 billion years old. We call that sculpture rock.”

He pointed out areas where workers came to survey and mine in the canyon. We got out of the boat to hike up on a hill where evidence of their time here still existed. “Run up there and take a look. Watch where you step, there are snakes up there,” Louis said, always seeming to make things more exciting or dangerous than what they were. Maybe all river guides knew about increasing the sense of danger to ensure we’d have more fun and more stories to tell others.

I hiked up and saw an old gas stove and other pieces of rusted metal that I couldn’t identify. I hiked a little further up to check out the view. I made my way down when I noticed I was one of the few not back at the boats. My picture taking almost caused another delay.

“Around this corner is the surprise spot. That’s what we called it,” Louis pointed up ahead. “Surprise, surprise, surprise,” he said like Gomer Pyle. To our right we saw a narrow canyon a few yards wide. “When I was in high school we’d come down here to party.”

This river wasn’t just a job for him; this was his home, his backyard, where he grew up, and where he raised his son. It was his life. I hope he never wakes in the morning without realizing he’s the luckiest man alive. I should send him a photo of me in my cubicle just in case he doesn’t. He could look at it every morning and start his day instantly happy to be Louis the Hualapai River Guide.

When I say, “This is my office,” the effect isn’t quite the same. The response would be more like, “This is great, Ryan, but all this depressing beige is making me constipated where can I get some coffee?”

Our 8-hour journey was ending. The final attraction that he brought to our attention was the canyon where Robbie Knievel made his famous motorcycle jump. Soon we could see helicopters as we neared the Hualapai’s airport. Another half-mile or so down river some waited for us on landing pads to take us out of the canyon. We have seen the canyon from the rim, from deep inside the gorge on the Colorado River, and we’ll finish our visit seeing it from the sky. Few days in my life have been so remarkable.

Even though I didn’t envision doing this on a motorized raft, as day-long paddling trips are not offered anywhere on the Colorado at the Grand Canyon, I’m satisfied enough to cross number 47, “Raft on the Colorado River”, off the list.

A short flight later, we landed at the airport and boarded another school bus heading back to Peach Springs. We bounced around in the seats from another bumpy dirt road, through two hours of the Dr. Seuss-like panorama of hundreds of Joshua Trees. The bus occasionally filled with clouds of dirt. Randy tried to catch up on much needed sleep. I should have, but used the time mostly for writing in my journal and trying unsuccessfully to get good photos of Joshua Trees, while holding my camera out the window. My arm was never severed from my body (Stupid bus drivers and their lies!).

< Part Three | Part Five >

The Grand Staircase, Part Three - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Sunday
Click Here for Part One

My alarm went off just after sunrise; my goal of seeing the sun rise over the canyon ruined by not adjusting for the different time zone. We got up anyway, unpacked our food onto the picnic table, and made breakfast burritos over camp stoves.

“I think seeing the Grand Canyon is kind of like seeing a famous actress, who you’ve only seen on screen, and realizing they are much better looking in person,” I said. “I saw that old white haired dude from Jurassic Park in person,” Randy replied. “Was he hotter in perso…?” “No.” he said straight-faced and without hesitation.

We finished our breakfast and hiked a half mile down the Bright Angel Trail. I badly wanted to continue hiking until reaching the inner gorge but didn’t prepare for that, it’s a two day trip. We only had the day, so we only planned to hike the South Rim Trail. The mostly paved trail was hardly demanding but the constant view made up for it. For the rest of the day, no matter where we were on the south rim, I could still see the bright angel trail below, far from noisy tourists, calling me. I later added ‘Hike the Bright Angel trail to Phantom Ranch’ to my life list, number 151.

We passed a priest giving a sermon in front of the Grand Canyon backdrop. I couldn’t help but think that in the presence of such a view, a preacher shouldn’t need to tell a religious person about God. It seems you‘re looking too hard, or in the wrong place. In my opinion, the priest would have done them a greater service by silently handing them each a pair of hiking boots.

The priest wasn’t the only person to stand out among the tourists. When we weren’t constantly looking toward the canyon and exploring various pillars and ledges, there were plenty of people around to steal our attention. A middle-aged woman dressed in a tight leopard print leotard twisted her body into a Cique De Solei shape as a tall eccentric gray-haired man took her picture.

The reptilian part of my brain reacted quick and instinctually saying, “Oh my God Ryan, you gotta get a picture of… whatever the hell is going on here!” My hand went for my camera. Then, the more evolved reasoning part of my brain thought it would be weird and convinced me not to. I didn’t get my picture, but God knows the mental images will forever remain intact.

We hiked an easy 10 miles. The crowds were only in areas within a short distance to a parking lot, moving no more than from their car to the rim and back to their car. The further we hiked from parking spots, the fewer people we saw. One man stopped us, pointed to my hiking pole, and asked what it was. I don’t relate to or understand most people.

That night, to save time, we loaded anything we didn’t need into the car. We’d be leaving very early for a trip to the Colorado River.

< Part Two | Part Four >

The Grand Staircase, Part Two - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Saturday
Click Here for Part One

We rushed through the morning on almost no sleep, but got on the road feeling excited and fully conscious. Randy grabbed his MP3 player with tangled cables out of the console and began to hook it up to his car stereo.

The scenery was never dull on the drive south through Utah. I’m from Northern Indiana. I rarely see mountains. Even a decent sized hill or abandoned rock quarry passes as a good view back home. One way I convince myself living in Indiana is ok, is that when I visit other states I can enjoy them that much more, like how winter makes me appreciate spring. I know this because bored-faced people were on their repetitive commute without cameras hanging out their windows, as mine always seemed to be.

It felt good to be on the highway, heading toward our long-anticipated adventure, at 70 miles per hour. I was glad Randy didn’t mind driving. Not having to watch the road ahead gave me plenty of time to admire the constantly changing view.

“Man, I have not looked at the road in a while,” Randy said, finally getting the MP3 player untangled and playing, after who knows how long.

“Let’s pull over so I can get a picture.” I said probably too often. We also stopped a few times for food and things we realized we should have packed. We had lunch somewhere near Glen Canyon and Lake Powell, both worthy of the trip themselves. As we neared our destination, small canyons with reddish hued cliff walls and dry desert fauna, emblematic of photos I’ve seen of the southwest, came into view.

As we got closer, signs began to display the mileage between us and the Grand Canyon. “Is that it?” There was a comical giddiness to Randy’s voice as he pointed towards a canyon beginning to open up the otherwise flat ground. It wasn’t it, but on any other day, it would be worthy of a photo op. We were too close to make another stop.

At last, our gate approached. We pulled into the first overlook, the Watch Tower, parked the car, and grabbed our cameras. Suspense built in the minute long hike to the canyon. When we neared the edge, we spoke at first in only Ws and vowels. “Aww, wow.” “Woah.” We stood there for a few minutes, then split up, took photos, sat on the ground, but rarely said a word.

“I love this silence,” Randy noted. There were several people nearby but the canyon seemed to absorb the sound. It was a silence of reverence. Any noise would have been an insult, like a loud boisterous laugh at a funeral.

I’ve seen dozens of photos, but everyone says pictures don’t do it justice, so I didn’t know what to expect. They are right. I've heard countless times that there are no adjectives in the English language to describe it, but we've been using the only appropriate one all along, Grand.

On the drive down, Randy and I talked about something we learned in a recent Phil Plait article. When you see the Earth from space, it looks like a sphere as smooth as a blue cue ball, but if you shrunk it down to the size of a cue ball, it would actually be smoother. I couldn’t help but think of this when standing at the edge. I felt insignificant (which I maintain is a good feeling). It’s a massive canyon, eons deep, but only a scratch in the cue ball’s surface, and us, only amoebas standing at the edge looking down.

A passing ranger gathered people together to tell stories about early expeditions to the canyon. We joined the group, hiked a bit to a secluded spot under a tree, and scattered on the shaded ground. The ranger stood between the canyon and us. They were interesting stories of survival, frustrating expeditions and the American expansion into the West, but I found it hard to sit there and pay attention. I wanted to be hiking.

After lots of gazing and photographing at the canyon’s edge, we found a place to setup camp in the Grand Canyon’s primitive campground. We each picked clear flat spots and assembled our tents. We went back to the south rim to hike a couple miles and witness the sun setting over the canyon.

Two billion years for the Grand Canyon had passed. It began its formation around the time complex cells began to form. Every single event, in that incredibly long planetary history, had come together and settled on this exceedingly complicated, yet deceptively simple moment. Those complex cells had at last caught up to finally appreciate and admire a most spectacular event. If the only meaning to life’s four billion year history is that, then in my opinion, it’s all been worth it.

For me personally, it meant number 27, “See the Grand Canyon”, was off my list.

The air was taking on an evening chill. We hiked back to the campsite and started a fire. I couldn’t wait for the following days and wondered how they would measure up to the first. Once the fire was steady, Randy opened hot dogs and we searched the area for sticks to use as skewers. We found nothing, not a single stick. We resorted to using tent stakes instead. We learned something else of great significance that night that I’d like to pass on to you: Tent stakes short, fire hot.

< Part 1 | Part 3 >

The Grand Staircase, Part One - Numbers 27, 47, 93, 111, 130, and 131 on my life list.

Friday

I don’t love flying, not that I would call it a phobia. I’m not like B.A. Barrakas from the A-Team or anything, but if there was a scale from one to ten (one being as fearless of flying as a duck, and ten being, the only way you’re getting on a plane is if Murdoch distracts you while Hannibal injects a sedative into your bloodstream), I’m at about seven.

I sat at the Indianapolis airport stuffing airport cuisine into my mouth, hand cupped under my chin to keep a messy sandwich off the floor. I waited for my flight to Salt Lake City to meet up with Randy, a friend of about 18 years.

“Grand Canyon, September?” This instant message from Randy popped up on my computer screen July of 2008. A couple months passed since my last trip, but I was already itching for the next one. I knew I wanted to go west, just not sure where. This would definitely work.

“Sure,” I replied. That was that, the planning began.

Over the next few weeks, we brainstormed and settled on a tour of the Grand Staircase: the Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, and Bryce Canyon with a stop in Las Vegas. The name "Grand Staircase" comes from the topography of the region. The rim at the Grand Canyon is at the height of the canyon floor at Zion, the rim above Zion is at the height of the floor of Bryce Canyon, sort of creating stair steps. If all went as planned, I would cross off six items from my list.

I flipped through the latest Backpacker magazine with my backpack on the floor between my feet. “We are now boarding flight 1023 to Minneapolis…,” said a voice over the intercom. That was me. I slid the magazine into the backpack and grabbed my ticket.

Soon speeding down the runway, I stared out the window as the land shrank below me and disappeared under a blanket of clouds. I turned off my overhead light as the sun began to set. Above the clouds, the sky was the deep blue you see in that narrow window between sunset and the black of night. A clearing opened in the middle of the white fluffy terrain revealing a fiery red sky below. When squinting I could imagine it to be a sweltering lake of fire and lava. A vision perhaps skewed by a tinge of irrational fear.

I pulled a book from my pack and tried reading. My mind wandered over the same page over and over. I tried sleeping, but couldn’t. I scribbled a few things in my journal and put it away. I leaned my temple next to the window and surveyed the sky, as I approached my layover at the St. Paul/Minneapolis airport.

The fasten seatbelts sign lit up and we began our decent. City lights came into view. Vehicle taillights flowed like red blood cells through veins of street light. Moonlight reflected off dozens of Minnesota lakes with a silvery glow. In general, the world hustles and bustles, but from up here, it seems to creep along like a slug. Tiny cars and ant-sized people inch forward deliberately, peaceful and affable. My view on humanity evidently improves, relative to my distance from it. Even a big-box store with glowing skylights fascinates me from this height. If I ever get to go into outer space (number 106 on my life list) my joyful brain will explode.

The plane landed with a soft jolt and screech. Feeling hungry again already, I moved toward the food court. All of my diet and nutrition rules go out the window when I’m on a backpacking trip. Calories are your friend when toting around thirty pounds of gear over hills and through valleys several miles every day. It is one of the many reasons I love doing it, but this trip wouldn’t involve calorie-demanding backpacking. “I’ll have a number two,” I said to the cashier at the airport McDonald’s. I gave in anyway.

I don’t mind layovers. It’s nearly impossible to not eavesdrop on the people coming and going: an elderly saleswoman endorsing a super antioxidant snake oil to a young college student, whose face snarled when the woman said the words “Big Pharma”, a confident looking young woman with long red hair and formal black and white dress traveling alone. An African-American man in desert-brown camo saying, “Yeah, I’m on the ground now baby, I’ll be home soon”, into a cell phone. There is a story everywhere you look.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” a man asked a boy of about ten, pausing a moment from flirting with the boy’s mother. “Well, I’ve been thinking lately that I’d really like to become an astronomer,” he said more intelligently than his age. “Since when?” his mother asked. “You’re going to be a radiologist, remember? There’s a lot more money in that.” Carl Sagan sighed and turned in his grave, I know it.

I wanted to tell him how fortunate and rare it was to know what you want to do with your life at such a young age, or any age for that matter. I wanted to tell him to ignore those that cloud decisions with thoughts of money and that astronomers rarely starve from the lack of it. I knew deep down I should be saying that to myself as well.

They began boarding passengers for my flight to Salt Lake. Minutes later, we were back in the sky. I buried my face in a book and tried to appear as if I wasn’t hearing the conversation beside me. I couldn’t help it. I tried to determine if the guy worked at a mental hospital, or was temporarily out on leave. I really couldn’t tell. I only got about three pages into the book in about an hour of pretend reading when he said, “You know, I think Sarah Palin is the most qualified person to be president, I really do.” I had my answer.

Randy picked me up at the SLC airport. Number 93, “Visit Randy in Utah”, could officially be scratched from my list. We made a midnight grocery store run and filled the cart with easy camping meals, along with an impulse-buy deck of cards at the checkout counter. We unloaded everything back at his house. Brand new gear and food filled the room: backpacks, tents, sleeping bags, hiking shoes, hydration packs, enough food for three, and vapor-wicking clothing.

Sweaty clothing and cool temperatures don’t mix. Randy learned the importance of vapor-wicking non-cotton clothing the previous year when hiking in cold temperatures. He didn’t have much gear so had to purchase it all for this trip. It can be expensive, but the memories that will come from using it will be priceless. I absolutely guarantee it. Even if I had to repurchase it every year, it would still be worth it.

After taking the time to set aside all the things we didn’t really need to take, we packed it all into the car anyway. Randy handed me some blankets and showed me where I could sleep. In two hours, we would be heading to the Grand Canyon.

Part Two >

Isle Royale and My Pilgrimage to See a Moose, Part Six - Numbers 75 and 42 on my life list.

Part Six: Final Day in Paradise
Click Here for Part 1

I woke up early the next morning to watch the sunrise for one last time over Lake Superior. I went back to the deck. I expected to see others enjoying the view, but I again had the deck to myself. Only this time, I sat on the east-facing bench. I didn’t leave until the sky passed its peak of red and orange.

A couple of hours later, I was renting a kayak for one final adventure before boarding the Isle Royale Queen IV once again. I spent four hours circling Tobin Harbor hoping to catch another glimpse of moose. I didn’t see any but I did see two loons. I tried closing in on them to take a picture, but as I approached they would dive underwater for a minute or so and pop back up in another location, like real life whack-a-moles. They made me look like a fool as I paddled back and forth helplessly.

I passed several small islands, some inhabited by people staying in cabins. I tried to paddle closer to two ducks, standing on a log floating in the lake. I hoped to snap a quick picture, but before I could get close enough their fight or flight instinct kicked in and they flew away. Just once, I want a duck to choose fight. That should keep things interesting. If nothing else I’d find out what I’m truly made of.

I took the kayak back to the beach and returned my paddle and life jacket. I still had over two hours left on the island and decided to go on the harbor walk with a small group lead by Ranger Marcia. I learned about useful and edible plants that I wish I had known about before the hike. Most notably a small feathery plant that is said to relieve the itch of mosquito bites if rubbed on the skin.

When we returned from the informative walk, they were loading gear and kayaks onto the boat. A long row of passengers lined up along its side. I wasn’t anywhere close to being ready to leave but I didn’t really have a choice. I sat again in the stern of the ship and watched as Isle Royale faded away, a depressing sight.

When we docked at Copper Harbor, I got back into my car and drove straight through for thirteen hours. I was surprisingly wide-awake for almost the entire time. Although when driving past Fort Wayne, less than 40 miles from my house, sleep deprivation finally started to set in. I started to hallucinate, more than normal, or maybe I was asleep for seconds and dreaming. I occasionally imagined that something was running out in front of me. One looked like an 18” tall Sasquatch, although I’m fairly certain it wasn’t. With only 15 miles to go, the road appeared to drop off on the left side until my lane looked like a plateau on a ridge overlooking a shear drop off.

I couldn’t take it anymore. This was not good. I stopped at a gas station and slept for an hour. I woke up suddenly, feeling like I had just fallen asleep for a moment, and finished the last 15 minutes of driving.

It didn’t take long to find myself back into my routine, but Isle Royale will forever be a special place to me, a significant part of my timeline. I already want to plan a second trip but I have too many other things on my list to do. It’s not a Yahtzee; you don’t get bonus points for doing it more than once. Nevertheless, there is something unique about this place. It’s the most revisited national park in the country and now I know why. I think I’m going to add, ‘Circumnavigate Isle Royale in a kayak’ to my life list. It would still be a new experience and an excuse to return.

All life is, is the present moment and a collection of memories from past moments. If I fill too much of my past with those repetitive, ignored memories and am not living in the here-and-now, then it’s no mystery why time is flying by. I used to spend my vacations at home, or close to it, thinking I couldn’t afford to do the things I wanted to do. I was wrong. (This trip was just over $300, including gas.) I have no good excuse for staying home. Life is too short and too important. These six days will never be forgotten, blocked out or ignored as insignificant. Every detail will be with me forever.

< Part Five

Isle Royale and My Pilgrimage to See a Moose, Part Five - Numbers 75 and 42 on my life list.

Part Five: Naturalist's High
Click Here for Part 1

The morning was chilly but no jacket needed. I ate breakfast, read, and again listened to the loons and other birds. I packed up camp slowly, paying attention to the quality of my actions. I cleaned every piece of gear unhurriedly before carefully packing it away. I accomplished another one of my intended goals. Life was moving at a snail’s pace.

I decided to go back to Rock Harbor, where my trip started, for my final night. This would put me just a couple hundred yards from where I could rent a kayak for Monday morning. Heading out of Lane Cove, back over balance beams and through clouds of bees, I hiked along with my head down staring at the trail in front of me. 

I stopped suddenly when I saw two enormous moose in front of me grazing. I don’t know what a safe distance is to be away from a moose, but I was certain this wasn’t it. I, of course, grabbed my camera and snapped about a dozen pictures of the closer and slightly smaller moose to my left. It crossed the trail a few yards in front of me. I could see sores on its hind legs that looked like bite wounds, fresh bite wounds. Did he escape from certain death nearby? Where wolves still close? I really didn’t think about that much. I was too excited about the photos I was getting and mesmerized by its size and closeness.

I moved towards the larger moose further up the trail. He wasn’t facing me and didn’t know I was there. I creeped forward but still spooked him when he heard something behind him. He darted about 10 feet then must have realized I wasn’t a threat and went back to eating. The commotion however startled the first moose, which had now turned to face me and seemed to move slightly forward. This may have just been my imagination. His faced seemed to have a concerned fearful look. Fear can lead to anger, anger can lead to violence. The kind of violence that makes you just want to headbutt an idiot with a camera. I backed away slowly but continued taking photos like those tourists in Godzilla movies moments before their death.

I learned later that moose can be more problematic than bears, and very aggressive during mating season, but that doesn’t start until late September. This was early September so clearly nothing to worry about. Again, my naivety will one day be the death of me.

With such a wonderful night and being right in the middle of the moose’s world I was on a naturalist’s high. I don’t even know what that means. I just know it doesn’t get any better than this, at least not so far.

Since I was in a hurry the day before, I walked back up to Mt. Franklin to sit and enjoy the view from 1,080 feet, without feeling rushed. Several people came to check out the view, take a photo, and left quickly. I remained. I knew once I headed back down it might be the last I’d get to see it. As a result, it was hard to leave.

At Rock Harbor campground, I expected to see it crowded and full of activity, especially since it was Labor Day weekend. Other than the side with the restaurant and lodge, it was the opposite. I pretty much had the pick of whichever site I wanted. I choose to stay in one of the shelters. An empty 10 x 15 foot space, with one wall made entirely of screen, facing the forest and a picnic table out front.

Writings and drawings covered the walls and ceiling inside. There were signatures, poems, short reports about experiences, testimonies, and commentary. One thing was clear, even those who wrote about bad experiences from weather or failed gear, they all enjoyed their stay and wanted to come back.

I left my gear behind and went to check out the slightly more civilized part of the island. I felt out of place. I was a guy from the woods who has been drinking water from the lake and lying on the ground. They were drinking wine on a patio. It’s a very small section but where most people congregate. I thought about getting a meal at the restaurant but turned down the $35 cost. Instead, I walked down a trail and discovered a deck with benches angled towards both the sunrise and sunset. I hung out for at least a couple of hours. A few other people where there too, but all had left before the sun completely set. I stayed, happy to be alone.

Daylight faded like a retractable roof revealing the cosmos. The smell of campfires started to waft over in the breeze. The first point of light to emerge was Jupiter, then Vega, the Big Dipper constellation, the Northern Cross, Cassiopeia, and a small handful of other stars light years away. Soon thousands of others followed. The sky was full of them and yet I can still only see a fraction of all that exist with the naked eye. 

There are hundreds of billions in our galaxy alone, which is one of hundreds of billions of galaxies. There are more stars in our universe than grains of sand on all the beaches on earth. Nobody ever believes me when I say this but it is true; ask any astronomer or statistician (if you can find one). I cannot help but wonder how many of those stars hold planets in their gravitational grasp. How many of those planets support life? What color are the plants where their entomological dramas unfold?

Light emitted from these stars takes years to reach my eyes. In fact, the stream of light from each star left at different times, so every twinkle that I see represents a different moment in history. The light from Vega, which I can see now, left its source in about 1983. That’s before the Cosby Show and the creation of Alf. Think about it.

The ancient light from Mu Cephei started its voyage towards earth while humans were entering the Bronze Age, fighting wars with copper and bronze weapons, constructing Stonehenge, and for the first time using ploughs, pottery wheels, and interestingly astronomy itself. It is a journey so long that when it finally passes by, I am not using copper for weapons anymore, but in the circuitry making it possible for me to later Google this information about the 4th century B.C.E.

The Andromeda galaxy is just a pale white point of light to the naked eye. That beam’s voyage is so old that pre-human hominids were tramping over the same planet, which I now lay, with the first primitive stone tools ever created. Now here it is colliding with my retinas and registering in my brain not as just another pale light from far away, but conjuring up feelings about my life of both insignificance and precious rarity. Whenever I am taking my life too seriously and need brought back down to earth, I once again, simply have to look up.

I wish I could hold onto these moments always. Permanently slow things down. A rushed life finally unhurried. Regrettably, I know it will not last forever; but thanks to a love of the natural world, I will forever know that at any time I can get it back. Even in the realm of the known, without making up fantastical and magical stories, the world can be seen as fascinating, miraculous, and enchanting; and should above all, never be seen as repetitive and boring.

I had to put on my headlamp to see the trail for my hike back. When I was near the resort’s lights, I temporarily turned the lamp off and strolled with my head still pointed towards the sky, which caused me to veer off the trail and nearly trip. I just couldn’t keep my eyes off it. This was my last night; I had to take it all in.

< Part Four | Part Six >

Isle Royale and My Pilgrimage to See a Moose, Part Four - Numbers 75 and 42 on my life list.

Part Four: Greenstone Ridge Trail
Click Here for Part One

At first light, my stealthy moose search began. (I’m excited to be able to say that.) I crossed over moose-created paths and over puddles from moose-created footprints. It was chilly, about 47 degrees. A thick fog was drifting across the lake reflecting a peach sky. A river otter was enjoying an early morning cold swim.  I stood patiently by the lake with my camera, but there were no moose to be seen.

I went back to camp and lounged in my hammock listening to the early birds. Their songs are a little different this far north. “Burlap, burlap.” “Tweep, tweep,” some birds said, with crazy northerner accents. I moved back to my cozy tent and sleeping bag to warm up. Apparently too cozy, I slept for an additional four hours. The day started late. I didn’t get on the trail until 1:30 and I had over thirteen miles to travel. I intended to start at a decent time, so much for that.

My next target was Lane Cove via the Greenstone Ridge Trail. It was rougher and didn’t look as manicured as the previous trails, but the views were amazing. As I got to the top of the first overlook, I was stunned. My tense body slumped as I exhaled a “wow”. I had no idea there would be such views or that the ridge would be over 1,000 feet high. There is something to be said for under planning and letting yourself be surprised. (Pictures can’t do it justice.)

I could see many small islands out in the lake and a hazy Canadian shore. I joined a fellow hiker and sat on the edge of exposed bedrock with my feet hanging over the side. He was on day 2 of 16. We talked for a few minutes. He wasn’t carrying a lot of food but would instead go fishing each night to catch dinner. He gave me some information about the trip to Lane Cove and continued on his way. I stayed there for a little while longer to take it all in. I knew I didn’t have a lot of daylight left, but to hell with deadlines, I have a headlamp.

This was not the only excellent lookout from Greenstone Ridge. Much of the 10 miles I spent on it today were in view of the Lake nearly a thousand feet below. I climbed the fire tower on Mount Ojibwa, trying to get as high as possible, and took a few photos. I could see the Rock Harbor lighthouse over a mile away. I was beginning to fall in love with this place. A couple of generations ago many people fought long and hard to turn this into a national park, to protect it from overfishing, logging, the building of resorts, and other financial exploitations. I now sensed a connection with those people. I understood. I would have been fighting alongside them.

More trails of that seemingly landscaped splendor was back on my decent to Lane Cove. I was exhausted, however, and the mosquitoes were bad so I was beginning to get a bit frustrated and ready to be finished for the day.

Everything was moist and covered in a thick green moss. Sage green lichens draped Birch trees. Long foot-wide planks occasionally raised you up off the wet ground to both keep you out of mud and to protect the land below.

A particularly long thirty yard stretch of these boards was about two feet off the ground. A heavy pack can pull you down if you lean to one side too much. That combined with a nervousness of falling and the constant swatting of mosquitoes, I felt like I was on one of those Japanese game show obstacle courses. I could hear the announcer in my head as I walked across. “Alright and he’s off, over the balance beam, crossing the stagnant water pit of snakes, uh oh he’s crouching down to take a picture of a pretty S-shaped snake laying in the water, a potentially devastating choice as this could compromise his stability, there’s a massive hit on his right by the mosquito swarm, that frantic swatting is going to cost him his sense of balance, but wait a minute, he’s back up and he finishes in record time! Stay tuned for more Super Happy Joy Fun Show!”

The mosquitoes were so annoying, that I began referring to them as skeeters, which is the derogatory slur to use when wanting to intentionally show them disrespect. I was constantly smacking and swatting at them. I really don’t like killing anything. I don’t even kill insects in my house. Some I give sanctuary, others I carefully pick up and set them outside in the safety of a bush.  Nonetheless, with mosquitoes, I got a definite sense of satisfaction when killing one. Sorry skeeters, but nobody likes you. 

By the time I arrived at Lane Cove, the mosquitoes were mostly gone. The frustration instantly eroded and I was thrilled that I chose to hike the extra two and a half extra miles to get here. The site bordered the cove and the view pointed towards the opening into Lake Superior. The water was shallow for several feet so provided plenty of room for wading and rinsing off. I set my gear down, put on my water shoes, and headed into the lake.

The water was very cold. Superior is always cold. The average yearly temperature is in the 40s or 50s. It was a bit warmer now however, but probably only in the low-60s. I walked out until I was thigh deep and started to shiver, but it felt great. I hesitated due to the cold but I wanted to be submerged. Before I could think about it too much, I held my breath and went under. It was exhilarating at first. I became acclimated just enough to tolerate it but never fully. I swam further out. My head popped above the surface while treading. I breathed air into my tightened lungs with short, almost hyperventilating breaths. Obviously, I’m not use to this.

I went back under and moved to shallower water so I could stand. I took a few more breaths, went under again, and swam towards the shore until my hands and knees were grazing large fist sized rocks on the bottom. It felt incredible. A cold swim after a few days of backpacking under a layer of sweat and grim is one of life’s most invigorating moments. I rolled onto my back then to a sitting position for a couple minutes before I would go dry in the sun.

There wasn’t much daylight left, so I started to prepare camp. Periodically I’d stop to admire the sunset. After finally making myself at home, I laid on my back on a bench made of a large log planed down so it was flat. My head rested on my hands with fingers intertwined. I realize that the rush of the day is not for me. I wish I had gotten here earlier. My previous treks have been too hurried, this day included. That is not why I hike, not why nature draws me in. This was it, this simplicity, this kind of moment. (Am I paying attention to it?)

When I look up at the sky, I'm reminded that in over four billion years it has never looked exactly the same way. The clouds arranged in this particular combination of shapes and colors, moving in this particular way, will only exist at this moment and never again. I wish I could always remember that when I need to slow things down, live in the present and see something new, I simply have to look up.

I roll over onto my side, hand now propping up my head, occasionally scribbling in my journal. I concentrate on the feeling of tall grasses touching my skin, the smell of dirt, and start to see just how much is going on all around me. Paying attention to the little things I normally block out is another way to slow things down and to live in the moment.

Over green chlorophyll and soil, an insect is living out his days with a struggle, drama, and determination that I cannot even imagine. It’s common to see the plants, not as living things, but as lifeless as gravel or mud, even though we share DNA. If they moved at a faster time-lapse pace that I could easily see, turning their leaves quickly towards the sun and roots slithering under our feet, how different would they seem? Would I give them personality? Would I talk to them and give them names? Would I think twice before picking a flower?

The diversity and cooperation between plants on the island is also admirable. There are species that wouldn’t ordinarily be able to survive on Isle Royale due to its poor soil quality with low levels of nitrogen. Some species of plants however, convert the nitrogen in the air, and put some back into the soil in forms other plants can use to survive. Below me, even though I can’t see it, I know this overlooked world exists buried under several tons of dirt, roots, stones, bedrock, and water, churning away unknowing and selflessly keeping everything alive and growing here on the surface.

Just as important is the microscopic life, which is so abundant that if everything we can observe with the naked eye were to disappear, we would still see ghostly outlines of it constructed out of trillions of bacteria and nematodes.

The lichens covering the trees and rocks look like a single organism, but are actually comprised of fungus with algae or cyanobacteria, or both. The fungus provides structure and nitrogen allowing the algae or cyanobacteria to photosynthesize and provide food for the fungi. One would not survive in this beautiful form without the other. Lichens are fungi that discovered agriculture, as one lichenologist put it. This delicate cooperation illustrates both the strength and endurance of the island but also the fragility and teamwork required to maintain it.

So much of this activity is going on continuously, and yet, I typically fail to pay attention to it. It’s a magnificent world and largely ignored in the course of the average day. An essentially useless dollar bill unclaimed blows across a parking lot, and most of us will go out of our way to chase it down. At the same time fail to see the priceless things always around us, each one blocked out as repetitive and insignificant.

The sun was now set, the clear sky still a bright but now darkening blue. The absence of moon and city light made every possible star visible. Periodic breezes hissed through the pines and water gurgled against the rocks on the shore. This is the time of my life.

SMACK, the sound of another dying mosquito. “Thought you were going to bite me, huh? Skeeta please.”

I moved to my tent to be away from them, so they wouldn’t take away from this moment. I sat up late reading and writing. Occasionally I’d lie on my back to gaze up at the unusual amount of stars that I normally can’t see at home. Complete darkness is something I forgot how to appreciate.

< Part Three | Part Five >

Isle Royale and My Pilgrimage to See a Moose, Part Three - Numbers 75 and 42 on my life list.

Part Three: Life List Item Forty-Two
Click Here for Part 1

The night was in the upper forties and remained chilly the next morning as I repacked my gear. McCargoe Cove, 10 miles away, was today’s planned destination. I walked along a twelve-inch plank raised above the ground, with beautiful wild flowers on both sides. I didn’t hear the buzzing until I was right in the middle of it. Bees surrounded me. It was like being in an apiary without the benefits of a beekeeper outfit. I didn’t think they would sting me. I just kept walking through it. My naivety will one day be the death of me.

So far, my pilgrimage to see a moose was unsuccessful. I worried that not seeing any was a possibility. Then somewhere between Lake Richie and Chickenbone Lake, just a few yards on my right, I hear a loud exhaling grunt that could have only come from one of the half-ton lumbering beasts.

I was temporarily startled but drew the camera from my side pocket like Wyatt Earp. I walked along fallen trees to get closer, balancing myself by reaching for nearby trunks and branches. He was grazing, preparing for winter, so says Ranger Marcia. His massive size and huge rack made me feel very trivial and fragile. His movements were unhurried, living in the moment. He grabbed branches between his teeth then slid up stripping it of leaves. It was fascinating to watch. With great satisfaction, I mentally cross off #42.

I picked a site at Chickenbone Lake to stay for the night. I didn’t get to McCargoe Cove, three more miles away. I was ready to rest and after seeing the moose, I wanted to stay in the area to increase my chances of seeing more. Moose don’t like hot weather. They don’t get cold until about minus-25 degrees Fahrenheit, so I figured they would frequent the lake to cool themselves. After surveying the site, I found a few moose tracks and many paths leading toward the water. I was certain I’d be successful. I set my alarm for 6:00 am. I’d hunt early, camera in hand.

Logs and rocks surrounded a large boulder near the center of the campsite, which I used as a table and chairs to prepare dinner. While I ate, and for the rest of the evening, the periodic cry of the loon and the equally long echo, lifted my spirits. Shortly after, it started to rain. I quickly grabbed everything and put it in the tent and under the rain fly. It cleared up as quickly as it started but would return a little while later.

I moved to another large boulder that was a couple of feet out into the lake. I sat watching droplets from the slight drizzle collided with the still water. The light reflecting off the ripples looked like thousands of fireflies swarming on the surface.

Another reason I stopped three miles before reaching McCargoe was that I didn’t want this trip to be about completing as many miles as possible. I wanted time to relax by the lake, sway in my hammock, and read my book. Aside from the few intermittent showers, it was a perfect night to do so. The storm clouds moving in reflected many warm hues from the setting sun, creating a dramatic and menacing sky.

I am a hammock-based sloth with nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to answer to. Finally, I’m beginning to have the frame of mind to answer some, often ignored, but important questions. That is, questions that keep me in the here and now: what is going on around me, what sounds have just entered my ears that I am ignoring, what is my skin feeling, am I paying attention.

< Part Two | Part Four >