The Trail Less Traveled
“Oh no,” S. remarks when she reads the trail description on her phone as we are shuttled towards the trailhead. “It’s not thirteen miles, but looks like closer to eighteen. Are we all up for this?”
Eighteen? Thirteen was already pushing at my sweet spot of seven to nine miles with a full pack on my back, and seven to eleven with a daypack depending on how grueling the trail ends up being.
“Once we begin, we’re committed. You said most of the West Rim Trail from this end is mostly flat, or downhill?” I ask. She nods yes, based on what she’s been told about the trail.
We’ve packed our daypacks for a long day—plenty of water, food, clothing layers and headlamps in case we finish up the last remnants of trail as it's getting dark. If we pace ourselves, take plenty of breaks, and stay fueled, maybe the eighteen miles won’t be so bad.
“I’m game,” I respond.
Without hesitation, her stepfather J. chimes, “I’m in.”
“Well, that’s it then,” S. says and I dig out my first aid kit for a dose of homeopathic Arnica. One dose now, and one before we start on the trail. Hopefully this will help my muscles stay flexible and not tighten up too quickly.
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S., the youngest of us at 36, sets the pace. J., at 70, prefers the rear, so I space myself somewhere in the middle. I want to keep S. in my sight line, and listen for the falling steps of J.’s boots behind me. Mesa shrub spans out in both directions and the distant hills harbor the hint of the recent snow dusting.
Stopping only to pee and drink, we plod on, not knowing how long these eighteen miles will take us. Having checked his watch at the trailhead, J. becomes our timekeeper. 10:15 a.m. when we set out. We hope to catch the last Zion Park shuttle bus at the Grotto stop in the main canyon sometime by 7 p.m.
“Doable,” we had thought collectively. “But, no time to dally.”
“Whoa!”
“Yeah,” S. says. “This is the view no one sees unless they are hiking this trail. And that’s hardly anyone.”
J. files in. “Oh my. This deserves a photo.” He takes out his phone while S. and I busy ourselves with pictures as well.
Miles of Navajo sandstone cones, red rock canyons, and horizon vistas parallel this section of the trail, and we resist stopping every half mile or so. But this is why we are here—to ogle at the magnificence of why Zion has been protected.
“We get to be doing this today!” I exclaim to the others, and also to no one in particular. The rocks hear me, passing my sentiment from one crag to another.
“It’s not 106 degrees, or raining, or crowded,” I continue. “It’s perfect.”
S. skips ahead, picks our pace up again. I take to the trail and J. lingers for additional photos before stepping back in line.
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Each view reaches higher in standard, offers us more drama. The sun plunges through a spotty cloud cover and the wind finds its way through valleys, then hides behind hills. My fleece hat goes on and comes off as needed. We nosh on energy bars, fruit, and sandwiches, never breaking for long.
We weave around sandstone bends in descent towards the main canyon until we recognize Observation Point overlooking Angel’s Landing.
“We’re almost there,” S. says, and we study the topo map that J. brought along. “Yes, look. We must be right here,” and she points to the canyon lurking ahead in view.
We end up at Scout’s Landing at the base of the Angel’s Landing knife edge ascent via cables. This would be the time to add it in, but since it’s only two miles down to the shuttle now, we can assume we’ve walked about sixteen miles, give or take. One more mile is more than any of us can fathom, so we continue past the grade and start down the paved “Walter’s Wiggles” engineered onto the side of the steep cliff.
As others, young and pumped from the knife edge, jog down the steep pavement, the three of us slowly limp down. My right hip and knee ache as I try to step in a way to protect ligaments, muscles, and tendons. Ahead of me, S. strides pigeon-toed, and I know her toes have been jamming into the tips of her hiking shoes. J. never complains, but when I look behind me, his pace becomes barely more than a crawl. Yeah, he’s hurting too.
We stumble into the Grotto and collapse onto the stone benches at the shuttle stop by 4:30—we actually did this hike in six hours. Unbelievable.
None of us can even speak as we step up onto the bus towards the visitor center, then again onto the downtown shuttle along the Main Street in Springdale.
J. asks, “Can the shuttle drop us at the house?”
“I wish,” I say. We’ll have to walk a couple more blocks from where the shuttle lets us off. We’ve come this far. What’s two more blocks?
“Okay. Next week— the East Rim? That for sure is only thirteen miles,” says S.
“Piece of cake,” I say, “once we recuperate.”
“I’m in,” says. J.
At the house, I take more Arnica, but besides sore legs, knee and hip, my feet are in tact. S. removes her boots to relieve the pressure on her toes. J., happy no blood has pooled into his white socks, reveals two large red and peeling blisters on his heels.
“Was it worth it?” S.’s mom asks.
“You bet!” We all say as we limp off in different directions. No dinner tonight. All we can fathom is being horizontal on our respective beds—for the duration. Tomorrow is another day, and it will be a miracle if any of us can walk much.
But I wonder, really, how many miles we just did. All three of us google the mileage separately and compare notes: depending on starting and ending points, somewhere between fourteen and fifteen miles seems to be the consensus. Not eighteen. Still….one long hike.
It’s the familiar that sometimes opens doors enough to squeeze through. But, as usual, do we want that? If we’ve paid attention, walked from our hearts and guts, we know what’s behind the door.
The bowl’s ring softens the room’s edges. But we all are already sitting in silence. This is why we are here—to go inside ourselves, to listen to what gets drowned out by the world around us, to remember, to sense.
Each Sunday morning from Fall through Spring, S. leads a mediation Sangha in the town of Virgin west of Springdale. We've already set up an small altar with a Buddha statue, and where we all can place a small item of reverence and honoring. I've placed a rose quartz necklace next to the Buddha. Others have added vases of flowers, and crystals.
A half hour quickens around us, and once it fills to its brim, we put on shoes, walk slowly and mindfully outside. This is part of this morning's mindfulness practice—to feel the foot roll across heel and arch and sole—to become aware, again, of how a leg functions, and how the breath blends into the hint of the breeze.
Because we are not done. The mindfulness of silence shifts into listening—intently—to the words of others rather than our own. But our own will come soon enough. S. chooses a weekly dharma lecture that she plays through a speaker in the middle of our circle. As we let pineapple juice slither over our tongue, or feel our teeth break through a square of dark cacao or an almond, we chew on concepts and changes in perspective.
“Isn’t is amazing!” The lecturer says through the wireless connection. “This is where we are right now.”
“Every word,“ he says, “can reveal, or conceal.” Every object, experience, or even person, I would think. Each can squeeze open a door, and if we are moved to go in, we’ll find both great revelations, and the release of what we have been hanging onto too long—patterns, tears, laughter, wounds.
I don’t know where others’ thoughts go, but mine dig in to the continuation of what travel asks of me—finding my own voice among the cacophony.
S. and I often remind each other that the challenge is often to be in the middle of doing and not-doing. Not easy. Why is it so hard to just be a human be-ing?
To just feel the chocolate dissolve in the mouth, or feel the warmth of a sip of tea slide down the throat.To feel the heel roll onto the toes. To acknowledge what it feels like to have the sun warm the front of the body as the shade cools the back. To just be with all of it. To just be.
Holiday Frenzy
When there is a seven year old in the household, holidays take on another dimension. I'm here to visit with my friends and I enter their lives wherever they happen to be in the moment. Of course, we head to a local pumpkin carving event nearby.
I don't carve, but I snap photos and sit in the sidelines watching. I've already met some of the community's youngsters, and several show up to join the hosting adults.
Knives and markers come out and pumpkins transform into eerie, otherworldly creatures. Some not so scary........and some not even pumpkins. Squashes, gourds, and zucchini make their way onto the table for surgery.
And on the actual holiday, S.'s mom takes on the challenge of laying out costumes and wigs, masks and hats.
I take out my dancing boots and western skirt. No Harry Potter characters for me. Our resident seven year old chooses Luna Lovegood, with her black sweater and skirt, bought glasses and wand and tie. Grandpa transforms into Dumbledore, and Grandma into a Deatheater. I get my "cowgrrrl" mojo on, and S. dons herself in goddess garb. Because....off we go to the Rockville Halloween extravaganza, where we buy a fundraising dinner, and I "witch-walk" in a circle with a bunch of youngsters to try to win a tray of cupcakes. But, alas, I don't, and I beg to buy one from a boy dressed as Dracula.
All in good fun, we join the after-party "trick-or-treaters" going door to door along the Main street of Rockville. Only a handful of residents welcome the costumed, and those in the young group usually only allowed organic treats, race their way to gather up candy not usually allowed in their diets.
"One piece of candy per day for five days," S. reminds her daughter, "then you have to sell the rest to me." It's the annual rule.
As the candy gets dumped into a bowl at home, our "Luna" facsimile offers me anything I want out of the bowl, being clear on which items are her favorites.
"Thanks," I respond and pick out some Hershey's kisses wrapped in holiday foil wrappers.