A Whale of a Tale

I woke up in Somerville, MA after a surprisingly good night's sleep on a futon in a room with no A/C. My hosts, Jon and Dan, milled about the kitchen, the former spooning out yogurt for us while the latter blended himself up a killer-looking smoothie. Jon was preparing for a workday, so I ate quickly and got out of their hair to take away that Guest Vibe.

Google Maps led me on a winding path out of the city and I missed a turn or two along the way. While I'd enjoyed my time in the area so far, it is a tight city for CJ to navigate and I was happy to get her back on the highway. Only about an hour later, I pulled into the low-profile, relaxed city of Gloucester. I found the Seven Seas Whale Watch office and parked in a big open lot beside it. The bay peeked through the scattered buildings and played host to actual fishing boats, while a thick, briny smell washed back over the docks and into town. It struck me as a mixture of Cobh and Stone Harbor, especially once I'd collected my ticket and walked further into town to find hobby shops, used bookstores, and a coffee shop called The Lone Gull that the whale watch receptionist had recommended.

It was about 10 am and I had until 1, so I spent a few good hours in the coffee shop reading Jon's book and people-watching.

Finally, the time neared to set off on the expedition. I returned to the lot, doused myself with sunscreen, unpacked and repacked my bag, and joined the growing line of whale watchers at the dock. I kept to myself in line, feeling a simmering glee that I wanted to preserve. When they let us on, however, I grinned at each crew member before bolting to the empty bowsprit. It was about four feet wide, larger than I expected, but even as the line filed into the boat, I had it to myself except for an older photographer.

I missed the opening announcements due to a call from my new healthcare system (Huzzah!) but tapped back in to hear that we'd potentially be going 26 miles out to sea to look for the whales. It dawned on me that I would actually lose sight of the land for the first time ever. Then, a kind older woman on the crew came up and asked me to briefly step back while she cast off the bow. Despite seeming like someone who, if she worked in an office, would have a candy dish on her cube, her smile turned serious and when the call came, she whipped the thick rope off the dock with just a flick of her wrists and then wound it around two posts before I could tell what had happened. She then smiled again and retreated into the cabin to sell snacks. Baller.

The ride out of Gloucester Harbor was bracing, with the water slashed by the bow and the wind picking up. Our guide Jodi pointed out landmarks on the shore, but I had my eyes set beyond the the Dog Bar Breakwater, waiting to get out onto the unbridled sea for the first time.

As we continued, people began meandering forward, unsurprisingly. The attraction of the bow lies in the open ocean before you, the ability to blank out the world behind, and the feeling of being on the sharpest point of this motorized blade cutting through the water. Leo said it best, I'm King of the World. Hear that, five to ten people who quoted that line that day? LEO SAID IT BEST.

After a significant ride out, perhaps 45 minutes, we had our first sightings. Two Minke whales, one on each side, were spotting swimming quite a ways away from our path. Jodi told us we'd continue on, as the Minkes would avoid the ship and didn't really breach or otherwise surface that often. Still, it was an exhilarating sight to catch such a large wild animal making its way along.

We then settled in for a fairly long period of inactivity. A mother and daughter pair who had spotted the Minkes manned the front of the bowsprit while a tall, pudgy teenager and I split either side. There was no discussion of the division of duty, but it arranged itself silently, as though we'd all received our orders when handed our tickets. By this point, we were far out of sight of land, which turned out to be less of an overwhelming feeling than I expected. There was simply ocean in all directions with only the wake of our boat and the specks of others to break up the natural surface of the water.

Jodi pointed out that another whale watch boat in the distance had found a few whales and said we'd follow up with them later if we couldn't find anything else. Shortly after, we happened upon two whales who were drifting on the surface of the water, their backs like black islands bobbing in the waves. Jodi informed us that they were doing what is called "logging," a form of resting where whales rest half of their brains at a time. These two had formed a temporary association for the purpose as, to my surprise, baleen whales do not actually swim in pods.

We watched the whales, identified as Perseid and Storm, bob and spout for a while before they dove and resurfaced on the other side of the boat. We could see their fins underwater, their tails when they dove, and once one stirred enough to tip his lip up into the air beside us, but never a full breach to get a sense of the full length of them. The size was still very impressive, however, easily the largest animals I've ever seen.

After those two, we switched with the other whale tour and caught up with some much more active whales. Three of them swam through the water, diving deep for fish and returning to the surface. We all ooh'd and aah'd with the spouts and flukes and waited impatiently during each dive until the whales popped up several dozen yards away. It was truly a thrill.

At last, it was time to return, but not before checking one final spot, where we found two more whales. By that point, my brain felt stuffed with the experience and I wanted to be back on shore, so I tucked myself up on a bench on the starboard side, shaded from the now-blaring sun, and read a bit before calling my friend Sophie to finalize plans for the next day's brunch.





Once back in the harbor, we filed off the boat, where I thanked all of the crew for the excellent experience, specifically appreciating the bow crew member who had shown such aplomb in her duties.

The road back to Boston found me a little tired, but I still managed to stop for some dinner at Kelly's Roast Beef, a quick spot with a robust menu. Back in the city, I also grabbed some beers for Jon and I to have that night.

As we had the night before, we spent Tuesday night chatting about life, writing, relationships, and everything else we could think off, this time with cigars and beers in the backyard under a broad-branched tree that protected us from an evening shower.

"I went Skyyyyyydiving"

I decided to include this entry I wrote on a private journal about my first time jumping out of a perfectly good airplane...I was just planning to include it for the experience, but it was fun finding some of the earliest trickles of the raging personal river I find myself on now.

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December 14, 2014

Today I went skydiving.

It was a long drive down to Thomaston, but music took me down the road well. In fact, with my Maui Jim shades on, Scythian on Pandora, and a date with the sky up ahead, it was one of the more restorative drives I’ve had in a while. 

I got to Skydive Atlanta about half an hour early and, after patiently waiting while a new registration girl learned the ropes, I was ushered into the hangar to wait. The building was buzzing with activity: a muscly dude repacked chutes with occasional grunts along a broad mat stretched across the floor; two jumpers lay on little trolleys discussing formation technique; there were even two or three dogs wandering around snuffling at palms and nudging at helmeted heads. The scattered staff appeared to carry the joie de vivre I'd expected, all adrenaline and “dude” and complicated handshakes.

I watched quietly as a young girl and guy get suited up and have an opening shot to the video of their impending jump. Then they and about half the hangar cleared out to the tarmac, where they filled the small but formidable-looking plane just beyond the open hangar doors. 

When the time came for my training, I expected it to be me and a bunch of others, but my tandem instructor, Noah, simply grabbed me into the preparation room and started giving me the basics one-on-one.

I should say that at no point in the process was I ever truly afraid or doubtful. I hope it doesn’t speak to some deep-seated death wish that I didn’t worry at all about the prospect of disaster. On the contrary, I felt like I spent the training trying with every expression to convince Noah I didn’t need him to reassure me. But still, I listened carefully and when Noah told me the few things I’d have to do (kneel at the airplane door, arch my back when we left, hold my hands up as we fell, and lift my knees as we landed), those responsibilities became the only things I actually felt some stress about. Not "would I die?" but "would I get it wrong?" Noah himself was a delightful skydiving elf, about a foot shorter than me with a surfer’s blonde hair and a great attitude. If I HAD been freaked out, I think he’d have dispelled it rather quickly.

Once geared up, I have to say I felt like quite the bad ass. Whether it’s the full-body jumpsuit or the tightened harnesses (no comment), it just feels like some badass shit is going down. Noah checked the chute and then, quick as you please, led me out to be the first to climb into the now returned and empty plane. The rest of our flight filled out behind me, all single jumpers. The ones near me were particularly kind and reassuring about my first trip and matched my enthusiasm when I told them how excited I was. 

Then, in a surprise thrill I hadn’t considered, we took off while facing backwards, only nominally belted to the plane. I watched as the airfield disappeared below and smiled back at Noah whenever he shouted forward facts and encouragement. 

The first of our fellow jumpers got off super early in an effort to qualify for a certain higher level of certification. Noah said he essentially had enough time to right himself and rip. That was a little terrifying to think about, and I was thankful when he soon afterward clipped himself to me and cinched us together. 

We climbed and climbed until, at last, the door opened again. At this moment, I got to be a part of something cool. Each of the jumpers in front of me turned to each other and started giving a quick handshake, a slip and pound, before turning to another person to do the same. And shortly after I realized what was happening, the four jumpers nearest me offered a hand to do the same. I’m sure it’s all commonplace for them, but it felt like a true bonding gesture, whether it’s meant to convey a shared sense of awesomeness or a tacit recognition that, in a rare, rare instance, we could be the last people someone sees. I don’t mean to be a worrier with the latter…I actually find that explanation more comforting. 

Of course, my pulse did climb as the others started dropping out and Noah pushed us closer to the open door. After everyone else had left, I knelt with him behind me, my knees at the lip of the opening, with only open air beneath us. Then, as he told me he would, Noah rocked me back, forward, back, and then out. I arched back as instructed, while my brain tried to take in the fact that we were flipping through the air at 14,000 feet and looking up at the plane we’d just left. 

The free fall once we righted was thrilling, but also a little intense. It's nothing that would deter me from doing it again, but I definitely felt the air ripping past my neck. All the more reason to shed some pounds perhaps. 

Soon, though, Noah pulled our chute and we came to a slow glide above the world. It was gorgeous beneath us, all green fields and water, blue sky and sun. It was a strange delight to be drifting so high above the world and to be having a conversation with another person.

Noah spun us a few times around, then circled us over the airstrip. My friend Amber had told me to prepare for some deep thinking, and sure enough, I thought, "If I'm not scared of jumping out of a plane, then why the hell should I be afraid of any of the other choices I want to make in life?" I will figure everything out in time. If anything, the drive today made me think about spending my sabbatical out on the road, traveling the highways for days at a time, staying with friends, just making my way through this country. I’m thrilled to try it. 

We came in for an exciting landing back at the airfield, drifting over the plane that had taken us up. As we were climbing, Noah and the others had discussed the fact that I could no longer say I landed in every airplane I ever took off in. That thought charmed me and I almost wanted to stick my tongue out at it as it taxied in…as though it hadn’t intended to release me out the side. 

A few clips and de-gearing later and Noah presented me with my jump certificate…even now I have no idea where it is. I didn’t get a video either. I just waved at him as I left the hangar and got in my car. The purpose of jumping today wasn’t to document it, to prove it to anyone, or to do something with friends. The point was for me to go out into my world and experience it myself. To show myself I could do something. If I learned anything today, it’s that I don’t have a lot of fear in my heart. And that is truly something interesting to find out.

Thanks to Noah Slagle and everyone at Skydive Atlanta!

A Familiar Road

A week and a day after leaving my job of eight years, I pointed my packed up Hyundai Azera (named CJ) northward to make my way to Havre de Grace, where my mother has lived for nearly ten years.

I've been driving between the Mid-Atlantic and Atlanta for a decade, since I spent my sophomore year Spring Break carving a long arc through my friends' schools in the Southeast. That trip was broken up into six hour chunks, so nothing too heinous to do in a day, but it was then that I began to notice my indifference to long car rides. I think I spend enough time mulling things over in my head that having uninterrupted miles before me is like designating the time for thinking, all the while closing the distance between me and people I love.

As I tested my love of the road, those six-hour chunks became a two-day drive to Atlanta after graduation, which then became a one-day drive with my roommate Tom to keep me company, until ultimately I was getting up in Washington and going to bed in Atlanta all by myself. In fact, I even added two extra hours to some trips by cruising out I-66 in the dark hours of the morning to drive along Skyline Drive at sunrise. In summer and in winter, that tradition made for some stunning experiences.

This time, Tuesday, July 14, I got a later start than I have in the past, thanks to some last-minute packing to fill out every inch of the interior besides my seat. The sun was up, if a little shy, and I hit a decent chunk of traffic making my way around Atlanta to I-85N. Soon, though, I was coasting along towards South Carolina with podcasts, my Loaded Questions cards, and a barrage of Diplomacy-related e-mails to keep me company.

As before, the thrumming of the road beneath me sparked my thoughts and, for the first time since I'd left work, I was able to contemplate the notion of being done with a job I'd had for nearly eight years. The vacant space in my mind yawned and echoed; what would I put in the place of daily task lists and interest rate movement? Would I be stress-free or would the open-ended plan of mine keep me up at night?

Thankfully, the blue sky and cottony clouds pulled me back into the present and I took in the trees whipping by with a contented sigh. Regardless of what comes next, I am done with that stage of my life for now and the scenery that had often soothed me from the troubles of work now created a Zen-like calm. 

I had planned to camp overnight shortly after crossing into Virginia to break up the ride into its former six-hour chunks, but reaching that area at 1:30 in the afternoon, I still felt invincible and so decided to soldier on to make it all in one go. I-81 through Virginia can be a bit of a gauntlet, but the weather was gorgeous and one would have to be pretty hardened not to enjoy the farmland and hillsides backed by the strains of Carbon Leaf (which I always load up for these drives).

The last few hours between DC and Havre de Grace proved the toughest, but thankfully the Nerdist podcast got me through, so at about 8pm, I backed up my mother's driveway and pushed down the parking break. I smiled as her garage door opened for her to come out and greet me. On the verge of this big American adventure, it's nice to know that I can still crush 734 miles in a day and add six hours on a whim. This is going to be a fun few months. 

Zion, Day Four: How Zion Broke Vegas

My phone woke us in the darkness of our last morning in Zion, causing us to mutter obscenities as we dressed for our planned sunrise viewing. To save water, we had decided to simply return to the place we'd sat the day before instead of taking the trails to an overlook. The choice did not disappoint. The same undulating ridges that had captured our imagination in the midday sun now made up one uneven line between darkness and a deep, but brightening blue.

Before the light began to show its hand, we each picked a spot on the sharply drawn horizon where we thought the sun would show. Dan called the rightmost summit of the ridge and was soon proven correct. The sun crested the mountain and drew with its light the slopes and broken trees of the landscape while, behind us, bushes bloomed out from the darkness in gold and green. As had often been the case, Moff and I gazed and took pictures, while Dan seemed satisfied with the experience alone. 

We turned back towards camp and, like that, it was a bright morning. Where we had stumbled in the halo of headlamps on our way out, now we moved swiftly, rolling up sleeping pads and bags for the last time and breaking our trusty tent down once more. I happily rigged up the safety sac as my primary water supply for the walk and took my first pull. The night had chilled the water, but more refreshingly, it did not have the yellow tinge that the iodine had given the treated water. The safety sac had been untouched since Vegas; never has casino bathroom sink water tasted so good. 

Once we were packed up, we looked around one final time, agreeing once more that that final spot had been the finest on the trip. We then back down the ridge to the trail, through the low brush of the trail back to Stave Spring, up the hill past our first night's campsite, through the high Ponderosa pines atop the mesa, then at last down the southeastern side. There was some light chatter on the trail and stops to share water as the other two main bladders went dry. I remember very little of the conversation, though, and more recall the lengths of time I spent moving forward while my brain kept me occupied with thoughts of prior trips to Vegas, of the changes of the past year, of the intricacies of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. 

Once we got back out to the southern canyon, we began crossing paths with day hikers. A sight we must have looked, trudging along, probably not looking as thankful as we were that the packs were lighter for all the food and water consumed. At one point, we even ran into a couple with overnight packs heading up the trail. We stopped to chat with them, asking where they were headed. This was one of my first experiences with someone outside of the three of us remarking on our trip in such a way that I realized it was remarkable. 

Us: How many nights are you staying in?

Them: One night, you guys?

Us: Just finished three.

Them: Nice, wow, how was the weather?

Us: Got better as it went. First night it snowed on us at night. 

Them: No way. And did you bring all your water?

Us: Well, we refilled once, but the spring's dry, so we hiked 11 miles on Saturday down to Weeping Rock and back. 

Them: Oh, jeez.

Us: Yeah...it was...kind of a lot actually. Anyway, have a nice time!

That four-hour hike out was definitely one of the hottest and most exposed and we embraced every shady spots, especially whenever the path swung upward and we had to resort to our previous stopping and starting. We had all the time in the world to get back out, so there was no need to push. The southeastern canyon was green and beautiful as it had been the first afternoon and became more lovely under a clear day, but it felt as though we were wading out of the park, the mesas growing smaller like waves breaking and running out up a shoreline. We hollered down Jolly Gulch, traversed familiar switchbacks, and celebrated our return to the canyon floor from which we'd begun. 

Finally, we reached the blank face of the sign that welcomed the other side of the path to the Zion Wilderness, just in time as the safety sac was nearly done for. A few minutes later, we reached the car, attacking the trunk for whatever we each needed most. For me, it was sweet amnesty for my aching feet. My Achilles tendons had gone from a dull ache to occasional sharper pains, but all pain subsided as I slipped off my hiking shoes and slipped on my yoga mat flip flops. After the packs were loaded into the car and we set off down the road, I cooed at the delightfully soft soles and the freedom of my heels while Dan cranked the A/C and we yelled that now we could control the temperature, making us not unlike gods. 

Though our hike was over, we were no less enamored with the sights of the park and I hung out over the dashboard.I took a lot of pictures, since the day was much brighter than our first, giving us the great contrast of the orange rocks and the blue sky. 

The beautiful day had the park bustling and by the time we reached the Visitor Center, it was so packed we had to have Dan circle the lot while Moff got water and I shopped for gifts. I had nabbed a pin on the way in Friday, but after the experience, I wanted something a little more meaningful. I settled on a pack of playing cards with Zion images and a bandanna that depicted the park map, getting an extra two of each for the guys. Outside, Moff handed me a newly filled water bottle and I drank deeply as Dan walked up from parking the car. As they drank and hit the restrooms, I called Mom to let her know we made it and wish her Happy Mother's Day a day late. I found out my cousins had told her about the snowfall and made a mental note to give them grief about providing information to make her nervous when I was completely out of pocket. It was strange to be so quickly reconnected with the world and when we drove out of the park, I tried to keep my cell phone use limited to my next job as navigator...

...finding the nearest Mexican place.

And so, maybe a half an hour later, the three of us sat in a cushy booth in the long, narrow dining room of Lupitas Mexican Food in Hurricane, feasting on tortilla chips and annihilating our glasses of water. It was still far, far too early to be messing with alcohol, but we risked coffee and devoured combo plates of various stripes. It was an excellent victory lap.

Dan handled the long drive back to Vegas like a champ. We discussed trips we'd taken as kids, including my trips with Dad in Arizona and New Mexico. I was very thankful to have someone as experienced as Dan on the trip and even more appreciative of the time spent with him and Moffet over the prior two months. While both our run in Milwaukee and the Zion campaign have shown me some of my body's limitations, they nonetheless represented far more time than I'd spent with them in years and little will bond you like packing in for warmth in a snowbound tent.

At some point, Vegas erupted from the desert horizon and we rolled into the city beneath a broad blue sky and a fighter jet executing maneuvers high above us. We went straight to the Luxor and stepped out of the car into an oppressive heat that quickly made us miss the mesa. We shouldered our packs again along with our other luggage, then tramped from the parking deck into the blasting A/C and flashing madness of the Luxor's casino. Thankfully, our room was ready and, against the laws of God and engineering alike, took the diagonal elevator up the side of the giant pyramid to our room. No doubt our fellow riders were happy to see us depart the elevator; our freshly cleaned room was in for a rude awakening.



We dumped our packs and began making piles to make sure everyone took home what was theirs. I pulled first shower and experienced the bliss of warm water and the horror that was my matted, crispy hair. I emerged a new man as I had that morning from the park itself and put on my beloved "Prose Before Hos" shirt and some shorts. Being Action Variant Ian had been fun, but it felt good to don the cowl once again. Dan showered next while I completely repacked, then he and I left Moffet to follow suit while we returned the rental to an Enterprise dealership off the strip.

While that big glitzy roadside sign is nice, nothing quite says Welcome to Vegas like passing a guy in the walkway out of the Luxor, then hearing a sickening noise and turning to see that he has veered to the side of a pillar and yakked his brains out. We quickened our pace.

Dan: You know what's really messed up?
Ian: What?
Dan: He was coming from SELF parking.

Yeesh.

After dropping off the car just off the east side of the strip, Dan and I texted Moff to meet us and crossed over to the Bellagio. We decided to grab our first beers, so we walked into the lobby beneath that beautiful Chihuly ceiling. I looked down through to the atrium where I'd stood in line for a buffet brunch with Shire and others on my first trip to Vegas, light beer in hand. Beyond was the hallway to the back tower where Ali and I had stayed a night and almost two more before we decided that our $500+ winnings were best spent elsewhere, including poolside at the Tropicana. It was nice reminiscing, but it still felt terrifically odd to be in such an opulent place after waking up that morning on the ground.

Dan and I walked up to the first bar we could find where a delightful English bartender saw my shirt and said "Alright, let's have a quote then." If only the Henry V lines could have covered the drinks as well. We returned to the front lagoon where Moffet joined us in time for the fountains. There we stood, three men who had walked 11 miles round trip for water two days earlier, watching it swirl, dance, and fly through the air.



I think that comparison broke Vegas for me. Just three hours away was some of the most arresting scenery I'd ever seen, and while the three of us had a fun night drinking, walking the Strip, eating at the Carnegie Deli, and playing lots of losing blackjack, I was having more fun with Chris and Dan than I was having with Vegas herself. Perhaps it was just too much input so soon after the wilderness. I'm sure I'll go back soon; after all, my previous visits had been more about the company, too. I just couldn't shake the weariness with it all, though. By the time we returned to the Luxor to play a few more hands of blackjack, I was just ready to sleep.

Man, did that bed feel nice, though.

We all caught a cab together the next morning and said our goodbyes after sitting a while at a Starbucks in the ticketing area. I thanked Dan and Moff again for inviting me and they thanked me again for coming. I also told them that syncing my FitBit from the hikes had vaulted me to the top ten in my office Steps Challenge, a victory we could claim as one.

(The "Today" count screenshot was taken when we left the park and didn't include our surprisingly long walk around Vegas that evening...I have been calling it a 50 mile trip)

After I went through security in another terminal, I realized I hadn't been on my own for longer than a bathroom break for almost 40 hours straight. I'd slept less than a foot from another person for the last five nights. Even during my silent stretches over the last two days of the hike, the guys were there. It was a strange feeling of isolation to have in a busy airport.

I found a seat at Ruby's Diner and ordered a hot breakfast and a glass of water. When the water came, I took the little paper cap off the straw and drank it staring out at the mountains outside of town. The glass was empty in less than a minute.

Zion, Day Three: A Real Cool Hand

We awoke on the side of our hill after a fitful sleep. The ground had been raked more than we realized and we each woke up several times throughout the night to push back up the slope in our sleeping bags. We enjoyed some more oatmeal, then broke camp, shaking the dew off of the rainfly and slinging our packs up once again. Despite the sleeping issues, it had been a nice campsite, and definitely sentimental due to the effort it took to find.

The plan for the day was to head back towards the fork near Stave Spring, then make camp and try to get Deertrap Mountain trail in as a day hike with a possible Cable Mountain hike for either sunset or the last day's sunrise.



We slowly tramped back down to the trail alongside Echo Canyon and turned south, eventually winding up in the same open field where we'd met the family the prior morning. It was strange to even think of that encounter as the day before. The variety and length of Saturday had played hell with our sense of time; we couldn't have possibly gotten it all done between two evenings.

Dan noticed a cave in the ridges off to our left, so he slipped off his pack and started heading towards it. Feeling a curiosity that may well get me killed by a cat, I joined him, giant knife at hand, as we climbed up towards the mouth of the cave and stepped in. The opening was probably eight feet tall and wide enough for a man to walk into, while the space within disappeared around a corner only a few feet inside. Dan followed the curve around and called out that it just ended in a small hole near the ground. We switched places and I saw the small hole, maybe a foot across, along the floor of the cave. Then, as I turned to leave, I saw Dan looking up along the walls just inside the mouth of the cave. "We probably should have been more worried about that," he said. I followed his gaze up a trail of wet rocks to a ledge that neither of us had seen. The cave continued out of view above the ledge and, feeling distinctly creeped out, we both shuffled back down the hillside to meet Moffet at the bags.

It was a quick hike back to the fork north of the Spring, but there I learned we were actually planning to camp near the next fork, where the trail split between Cable and Deertrap Mountains, a distance of perhaps another mile we'd have to cover again the next morning on the way out. This far into the trip, one mile's difference was a temporarily crippling thing to find out and I stayed quiet for a bit of the trail, feeling grumpy. In fact, when Dan and Moff decided to drop packs and step off the trail to enjoy some scenery, I told them I'd wait until they came back, just wanting the hike with the big packs to be over. As I waited, though, I began to feel ridiculous. I was mad over a small difference in hiking, a misunderstanding, really, and considering where we were, any decision to unplug from the group meant isolation with the aches and pains and strain that hid beneath the magic of the trip. Acknowledging the silliness, I dropped my pack beside the others and joined them in their appreciation. From where we stood, I looked back towards the trail and could only just make out our packs. There was everything we needed to drink, to eat, to sleep, all in a tiny splash of color amid the browns and greens.

The path rose slowly as we neared the area we'd chosen to camp, so slowly in fact that I remember Moffet finishing a story he'd tried to tell at the end of the previous day before the steep trails stole the breath from the telling. Now, it was an easier morning and we were all thankful to be able to swap stories again.

That gratitude only increased when we found the fork in the trail, backtracked slightly, and climbed a ridge to what would be our third and best campsite of the trip. The ground was mercifully flat and already quite clear between each tree and the next. Three overturned trunks formed a broken circle, a perfect place to eat, and all around us, the trees offered shade from the bright sun and sky while breezes swept over the hilltop. As we'd noticed the day before, the area showed signs of some previous fire that left a lot of ground clear and a lot of trees blackened. The latest fire I can find with a quick Google is a controlled fire in 2005. That seems way too far back, but then again, I have no idea how these things look after certain lengths of time.

Having such a light day planned and still feeling accomplished from the day before, we didn't need to rush to make camp, so we dropped our packs and hung up the tent to dry. Then, we walked around the area, stopping where the bushes grew thick to reorient ourselves in relation to our campsite. Finally, we found a spot just before the ground dropped and rolled into a plain. The trees were thin enough that we could see out to several mountain ridges in the distance, some white with snow at their peaks. The view was breathtaking and so we sat a while, alternating contented silence with whatever musings tumbled out.

One such musing went as follows:

Ian: I can't believe this is my first camping trip.
Dan: Wait, what?
Moff: Are you serious?
Ian: Yeah, I've never been camping before.
Dan: Oh my god...
Moff: (laughing) Well, you kind of...jumped into the deep end.
Dan: Yeah, this isn't exactly beginner camping...wow...I'm not saying we wouldn't have invited you if I'd known that, but I definitely would have been more concerned.

This isn't entirely included for humblebrag purposes; if anything, I think it's the best indication of how distant my personal experience to date was from what we were doing. I didn't even know the level of the undertaking, hadn't thought about it when agreeing to come along, and had readied a pack and supplies without considering the implications of each completely new item. And I hadn't even thought to mention my inexperience. After their shock wore off (though the topic came up on the trail that day and the next), Dan and Moff said some very kind words about how I'd not slowed them down or blinked at any aspect of the trip so far. It was especially reassuring to hear after the previous day's hike and their support of my physical workarounds.

After a sufficient time with the view, we scrambled up and down hills back down our campsite and decided to set up camp. After the tent was up, we had some time before the hike, so I introduced the guys to Coup and we played a few rounds with the tent flaps down and a lovely breeze.

Finally, it was time to tackle the trail to Deertrap Mountain, which meant initially traversing ground similar to the prior morning's hike, only with considerably clearer views.

Just as we had traded in fleeces and rain jackets for short sleeves and ball caps, the flora and fauna on either side of the trail showed a new side just a day after snow cover, with flowers blooming and ants teeming over frighteningly large anthills.



After spending the better part of an hour walking, we found the first overlook of the trail and what I think might be my favorite view of the entire trip (and currently the backdrop of this blog).

Some of the later overlooks were incredible as well, but something about the towering white mesa and the endless landscape beyond sucked the air from my lungs. It was the view I didn't know I'd made the entire trip to see.

Still, there was plenty of trail left and we'd catch it again on the way back, so we soldiered on. The next stretch of trail rolled away from the overlook and down into a sprawling field of low trees before heading up into another tree-topped mesa.

Unlike Cable Mountain, we could tell as the path continued that we were in for a helluva view. The ragged canyon edges peeked around the nearest cliffs and trees as we followed the path over the mesa and down a tricky patch of loose rocks. Finally, there was one last low field between us and the canyon rim.

The landscape grew more and more colorful as we continued, the hues leaching from one level to the next over unobservable millennia. To our left was the wild, broken country with toothy crags and vast spaces hidden between one ridge and the next; to the right, the canyon proper gaped beneath us, with the opposite walls standing tall and bare.

The path finally reached the rim and though we knew our ultimate destination would be the outermost pinnacle, we could not help but stop every hundred feet and marvel at the space carved out just beside our path and the small shimmer of a river below that had done all of the work.

Finally, our small eastward track brought us out above the convergence of several canyons and gulches, with our own spit of land transforming from passable ground into a wild crag that continued out before us. Not eager to go clambering over doubtlessly loose rocks hundreds of feet above the hard canyon walls, we stopped where the path did, sat down, and exchanged incredulous observations over Powerbars and dried fruit. If the previous day's arduous hike had been the pleasure of the journey, this was the pleasure of the destination. It felt like the heart of the park and while I know things like Angel's Landing and the Narrows get a lot more press, a beautiful view becomes positively triumphant when your own feet carried you there.

We were eager to relax and maybe play some cards, but exposed to the wind as we were, even our hats were at risk, so we stood and returned up the ruddy trail. It wasn't long before we found a sheltering tree with a perfect log and a still spectacular view, so we parked it once more and pulled out the cards for a poker game at the edge of the world.

After a nice long break, we set off again. I have only a few pictures or memories from the way back, which I attribute to a few things. One, my camera began to die. Two, my knee and my ankles had not appreciated the trail out to the point, especially the rocky descents which were now to be rocky ascents. But most importantly, the trail back to camp on Sunday was the point when I began to worry about water again. It's hard to imagine, given that we'd pushed ourselves to the limit the previous day to do a complete refill, but I was already reaching the end of my personal 3L bladder. I'm sure I hit the pack a little too hard once we got the all clear on the prior day's return and Sunday was no doubt the hottest full day we had to contend with, with the sun beating down throughout and me sweating even in the shade. In any case, I was nearly tapped and, though I was embarrassed to admit it, I had to tell the guys; my water was their water too.

As with the limitations of my knee, Moff and Dan took the information in stride and once again adjusted. We discussed what we had left across all of our supplies. Most of the water bottles were already gone from the night before, the morning recamp, and the hike to Deertrap, but because of that, Moff and Dan had the better part of their bladders. And there was still the safety sac, another 1.5L. We wouldn't have trouble making it out of the park, thankfully, as we could easily assign a liter for each of us, below which the guys saw as the red zone. We could have dinner and breakfast without boiling water, if needed, so we would only need to think about our rehydration needs. There were, however, additional hikes to think of. Moffet had already questioned the wisdom of a sunset hike back to Cable Mountain, citing the difficulty of making the few miles back to camp in the dark. Sunrise, however, was still in play, and we agreed to see where we were at the end of the day with our water supply before tossing that idea out in order to make it back to the car.

As a result of those three issues, I felt a little miserable on the return hike. A few short hours before, I'd felt like the accomplished rookie, but now I felt a small amount of shame about having blown through my own stores so quickly and no small amount of concern about how to balance the desire to conserve and not make the problem worse against the reality of needing water...a basic human requirement I had never had to consider so directly. I stayed quiet most of the way back, retreating into my head and my thoughts so as to distance myself from the situation and pay as little attention as possible to the seemingly endless steps between us and our goal. I knew we'd get there eventually.

My spirits returned when we reached the fork of Deertrap and Cable and while I couldn't match the previous days sense of victory, I nonetheless trudged into camp deeply satisfied. I could finally rest, expend less energy, drink less water. The afternoon sun fought through the trees above us, but there was enough shade on the three circled logs for us to sit and relax. I stared out at the far-off mountain ranges and drank slowly from an extra filter bag Moff had generously passed to me after my bladder finally ran dry.

I believe we all passed out for a nap in the tent again, unless I'm thinking of one we took before the hike, but in any case, we killed a few hours and then decided on a water-less dinner of whatever was at hand, which meant peanut butter for Moffet and canned tuna for Dan and me. While it was probably not totally necessary and was definitely a bit gross, I made sure to consume both the tuna and the water in the can.

The sun began to set and we all sat on our logs watching it. It was our last sunset in the park and, in some ways, our first. Friday had been overcast and Saturday, while clearer, ended with our attention focused on getting back to camp with our water. It was nice to have something to appreciate and the ability to appreciate it at the same time.

I also appreciated Moff's thinking on the sunset hike, as it was nice to be able to enjoy the view and then simply retire to the tent without a long, dark walk back. We still wanted to catch some stars on our first clear night, so we played a few dozen games of Coup by headlamps, stopping frequently to check if the night had grown dark enough. Once it finally had, we emerged and returned to our log circle. As in any place removed from light pollution, the stars were legion, with familiar constellations blurring into a hazy glow from the hundreds of smaller stars in between. We did our best to call out recognizable shapes, but as with the drive out to the park, the hike down to water on Saturday, and the afternoon's time on the canyon ridge, we were mostly left with stunned exclamations, our meager contribution to the very lively chorus in the trees around us.

And as with those previous sights, I felt extremely but pleasantly small.