Not so solo

Bubbling voices and laughter echo down the canyon. I’ve stashed my tent and gear at my designated campsite, and have repacked for an afternoon of dayhiking. Just as I’m about to rejoin the main trail, I hesitate and consider staying out of sight so I don’t have to interact with the two hikers. Then I hear “JOAN!” and I look up and realize they are my friends/ coworkers!  I hadn’t heard where they’d decided to hike when I’d left work the previous day, but turned out we’d all decided on the same area. Perfect timing!

And we even find someone to take our picture all together.

Of course I wanted to tag along with them. Where were they going? Oh the Joint Trail/ Chesler Park loop, that’d be great.

Still laughing.

All that laughter I’d heard when I first encountered them wasn’t just a one time occurrence. Soon I am laughing too. Oh how I love hiking with people who “oh and ah” at everything and stop at every view and say that it’s like we are in a painting!

Painting-like landscapes.

It’s A.’s first time to the Needles and when we reach the 8-mile mark, we celebrate and congratulate her because this is also the longest hike she’s ever done. Way to go!

Arches

Portals

A. and E. start laughing again and they tell me they’d been listening to a podcast on the drive down (This American Life’s RomCom episode) and they can’t stop giggling about it. I check to see if it's one I've downloaded and sure enough it is. So I tuck it away for later. 

Haha snow.

Late in the afternoon, I listen to their laughter fading up the canyon as I head back to my campsite, alone. A. and E. are heading back home to warm beds and hot food. I’ve got my usual peanut butter and tortilla (no stove). Forecast said 18 degrees. The sky gets dark with clouds and the clouds fill my brain with dark thoughts.

I climb above camp. Scrambling up the rocks to watch the sunset normally makes me feel more relaxed. But the higher I climb the colder and more biting the wind is.

Up above camp.

Then higher still.

I get up high enough that I have signal so I check the weather and it says the low tonight will be 9 degrees and 30% chance of snow, which is even worse than I’d thought. My hands go numb from the icy wind that cuts right through me. As I scramble down, I get lightheaded and realize I need to eat more but I don’t have any extra food since I cut it to save weight.

Nothing about this is fun and sheesh how did I get up here?

There is nothing to do but get back to camp and get into the sleeping bag and not get more chilled than I already am. 

I totally miss sunset.

As I wait to see if I will freeze to death or not, I remember the podcast and put in my earbuds and press “play”.

Soon, I am shaking with laughter. Full on belly laughs. Then silent bouncing laughter. And rolling on my side laughter. Maybe it's not all that funny, but I am laughing too at the joy that comes from sharing a day with friends, and for the absurdity of being alone on a cold night and having it be the best and worst experience at the same time. Before I know it, my sleeping bag is toasty warm and the wind dies down and I fall fast asleep. 

When I wake to the sound of graupel hitting the tent, I’m so warm I don’t care and I just roll over and go back to sleep.

Not much graupel. Just loud.

Sunrise the next morning makes up for my lack of a sunset. The canyon wrens sing their song as if it’s spring.
 


Instead of heading back, I decide to check out a few trails I’ve never seen. My legs are more tired than they ought to be, but I’m still only 6 and a half weeks out from the surgery. 

I check out the Devil's Pocket Loop, which is awesome because you walk through a grabens (which is fun to say, and cool geologically too). Also there is a privy at Devil's Pocket campground, so if you time it right, you won't have to use your wagbag. Win!

Then I decide I might as well take the long way back since that’s all I need to complete all the marked trails in the Needles and ISKY. A little goal I’d been working towards. I am also thrilled when I realize I hiked 10 miles the first day and 12 miles the second day. Goals are arbitrary, but still satisfying nonetheless.

Laughter on this trip gave the extra boost that was needed. Life is so much better with chance meetings and silliness.

More information
Backcountry permits are required for camping in Canyonlands National Park. My route the first day in blue and the second day is shown in pink. I camped in EC1, which was not my favorite since it was so exposed but it had a good scramble spot and it was also nice to stroll down Elephant Canyon (north) from camp for a bit.

Second chances

The second backpacking trip since my surgery meant I could go a little further but had to be careful not to overdo it.

The perfect time to check out some trails that I’d overlooked because they were previously deemed “too short” in the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park.

To minimize time spent carrying my backpack, I start with an out and back along the Big Springs Trail with only a daypack.  Riparian areas mean good habitat for plants like milkweed.

The iNaturalist community identified this for me as Asclepias tuberosa interior. I love how there are so many people out there who can distinguish the different species of milkweeds and who freely share their knowledge.

By mid-afternoon, I return to my car, drive to another trailhead, and sort my backpacking gear. I’d previously scouted out a patch of slick-rock that showed promise for some exploring and camping about 2 miles in, which is also within the at-large zone camping area my permit is for. Most backcountry camping in Needles is at designated sites, but when I am solo, I really prefer being able to choose my own site away from everyone.

Not as flat as I remembered.

The slick-rock is just as I'd remembered, thankfully. I make my way along it for over a half mile as the crow flies without having to step on any biological soil crust or do any sketchy rock scootching. There is plenty of area to ramble about and peer into canyons and wonder about routes for future trips.

The miles are short, but I try to make up for it by savoring every bit of beauty I encounter.

Much time is spent deciding upon an optimal campsite. Balancing the risks of an exposed site with the rewards of more spacious views. I take a risk and camp in the highest spot around, but make careful note of a sheltered spot nearby.

It's frustrating not being free to hike as far as I'd like, but it is nice having the energy to simply watch. The sky often does interesting things.

Settling in to watch the sky in my warm cocoon.

I figured that the lack of clouds would mean that the sunset wouldn’t be photo-worthy. Silly me.

The orangeness begins to creep across the landscape.

This vivid orange happens for mere moments, and then it is gone.

The stillness of the evening is interrupted by the buzzing of mosquitos. They hover about my face. I half-heartedly swat at them, amused by the novelty of their presence so early in the season.

Soon they are gone and I'm left to watch the stars come out in peace. The sliver of a crescent moon sky is so bright and I savor the 360 views from the warmth of my sleeping bag. Nothing obscuring my view. I don't think I've ever camped anywhere quite this wide-open. The expansiveness is breathtaking.
***
Fierce gusts of wind rattle me awake at 1 AM. I move my stuff down into the sheltered spot and fall back asleep. It was definitely worth it to have those 7 hours in that amazing spot on top of the world. Wind seems a fact of the desert in late winter/ early spring. Even in my sheltered spot, it swirls down to find me. But it doesn't steal too much of my warmth.

The next morning, I am up hiking before dawn, like usual.

Back at the trailhead, I trade out my backpack for a daypack yet again, and head off for yet another short trip. Another trail I've never seen.

First flowers of the season- biscuitroot!

More views of the La Sals in the distance

I don't want to leave so I stop for one last, short walk to Roadside Ruin.

Glad I saved all these trails for now, when I need some short but scenic hikes. So far, everything feels like it's healing OK. Still lumpy with scar-tissue and tight, but if it holds all my insides in place, I'm grateful. Getting my body repaired feels like a second chance. I am so glad I get to keep hiking. My Dad (who had this same surgery) tells me that it'll never feel the same again though. Scars, they stick with you forever.

More information

Backcountry permits are required for all overnight trips in Canyonlands National Park. Please pack out all your trash including your toilet paper and poop. Wag bags are even (sometimes) provided when the visitor center is closed.

Pack out your poop, please.

Baby steps

First backpacking trip after the surgery meant more than the usual amount of pre-trip anxiety. Jan gave me a pep-talk over the phone. Her last words: “Turn around if it doesn’t feel right.”

I almost didn’t go. It rained all morning and I just laid in bed, worrying. I am only four weeks and 3 days post-op. Is backpacking this soon foolish?

Then, something clicked in my brain and I leapt out of bed, grabbed my pack and started driving.

There I was at the empty trailhead, ominous clouds and snow flurries. Weighing my pack one last time (12 lbs total). Starting down the trail. Baby steps.

Was it still feeling right? No pain like I’d been fearing, but instead the solid, familiar feeling of my backpack against my back. Comforting. Like all is right with the world and nothing bad could ever happen.

Thank goodness the trail really was flat like I remembered.

Up ahead, blue sky. Maybe things would work out as predicted. (The forecast had said 0% chance of rain. Wind 10 mph becoming calm. Lows in the upper teens.)

I set up my tent in the lee of a rock outcrop, between massive, gnarled pinyons. A bit of a walk from the sunset view but more sheltered.

Without my pack, I skip along the slickrock, watching the sky, comparing the views from different angles. What did the doctor say about rock scrambling again? What about leaping from boulder to boulder?

I loose myself in the sky, become one with the rocks. Forget to be nervous.

Ravens swooping, dancing in the wind.

 I don’t know if its because I’m giddy from the excitement of finally being able to backpack after feeling so awful. Or because there is some magic happening with the snow-clouds and the light. But this is the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen.

(Even though you all know I say that about every sunset.)
 
 It is incredible to be out here, feeling like there is no where in the entire world I’d rather be. Knowing that I can’t ever, will never take this for granted. The ability to strap on my pack and feel it pressing against my back with everything I need.
Peaceful and expansive. I ignore the biting wind that starts to pick up as the sun dips below the horizon.

By the time the colors fade to deep blue, the wind is battering me about. I make my way back to my camp, leaning into the wind to steady myself. My tent is topsy-turvy, in the arms of the tree.

I struggle to upright my tent, pound stakes into shallow sand, re-wrap guy-lines around larger rocks, pile more rocks on tent stakes, and roll more rocks down the hill to attach to more guy-lines. All with fingers frozen from the cold. All while fighting to keep the tent from blowing away. Then I panic and realize that I’m not suppose to lift stuff, then remember, no as of three days ago, I can lift stuff but what about big boulders? I palpate my groin to see if my intestines are all in place or if they have planned another escape.

Next, I dive into the tent, throw the sleeping bag over me. The roar of the wind shakes the tent violently and I wait to see if my rocks and rope will hold. Until I feel heat getting trapped by the bag, and the panic subsides, and I laugh at the absurdity of the situation. This is NOT the easy, gentle trip I’d envisioned. So much for baby-steps. But at least it’s not raining, I think. Yep, it could always be worse.

Spoonfuls of peanutbutter are my “hiker-midnight” snack. (i.e. 9 PM) Hopefully that’ll jumpstart my metabolism to keep me warm through the night. I’ve got my down booties, 10-degree WM bag, down coat and down hat. Should be OK.

A sound. Not wind. Not animal. Headlampt on, I unzip the tent. SNOW. How can it be sticking to the tent with all this wind? But there it is. So much for 0% chance percip. WHAT THE HECK AM I DOING OUT HERE! I could be at home in a warm bed, but instead, I don’t know what will happen, if I will be OK. If the forecast is that wrong, how much snow will we get? Will I be stuck?

I consider packing up and hiking the 2-miles out to my car but then I remember I don’t have a raincoat or even my ten essentials (except headlamp). That all got ditched to reduce my pack weight. Because my biggest fear is re-injury. I figured my emergency gear being in my car, two-miles away, was close enough. This is what’s called going “stupid-light.”

(Not to mention I'm scared of driving in the snow. Not to mention that I haven't walked 4 miles with a pack since the surgery and that would definitely not be considered baby-steps).

I lay in my bag listening to the wind and the snow. Thinking all the thoughts that one does. Popping my head out of the tent to see the clouds parting to reveal a starry sky. Flooded with relief that it’s not a blizzard, just passing flurries. More wind drives the snow off my tent and away. The sky is awash with stars and the air smells sharp and delicious.

I am so utterly happy.

More information

Backcountry camping permits are required for Island in the Sky in Canyonlands National Park. Pack out all your trash, toilet paper, and use a wag-bag for your poop. Walk and camp on slickrock or in washes, avoiding fragile biological soil crust.

Always check the weather forecast (but never trust it) and always carry the 10 essentials (don't be stupid).