A Couple of Bums in the Desert

I had been to Zion once before with my mom and brother many years ago. It was my second trip to Utah’s land of red rock and the start of my appreciation for hiking and the outdoors. I remembered Angels Landing as one of the hardest and scariest hikes I had done, and the Park to simply be big. And far out. We “camped” in an RV campground, slept on air mattresses, bought to-go lunches from local cafes, and ate full meals in the variety of Springdale’s restaurants. We rented dry suits from an outfitter for the Narrows, and had our days and hikes planned down to the hour.

As the end of my junior year crept up, my friend, Summerlyn and I realized that we had a few days to spare and wanted to make a run to the desert, but wanted to go farther than the usual Moab or Green River destinations. We decided Zion on a whim, and the next day were on the road with no plan except for a vague sense of the hiking we wanted to do in the Park. There were no thoughts as to what to pack, where we would be sleeping that night, what we’d eat a few days from then, or what exactly we’d be doing. We simply threw all our stuff in the car and drove off into the desert.

It’s amazing how much you can change in just a few years. This topic of discussion was revisited several times between Summerlyn and I during our trip. We are both entering our last summer, our last year as a college student. And we’re both amazed at how far we’ve come in the past three years. For me, three years ago I was a completely different person. Who knows who I’ll be years from now?

This idea was particularly funny to us as we realized just how low our standards had become for general human comfort and amenities. Almost every night (except for one), we drove around in the dark looking for a campsite based on some GPS coordinates I had found online, which gave us a general sense of direction for where we could camp. During one of these adventures, we felt a little uneasy at a particular spot, saw some animal’s body hanging from a tree at a site, got extremely nervous, and decided to go back to our original plan where we’d instead be camping mere feet away from someone else (we never figured out what exactly the body was, although I believe it was a skin of a mountain lion).

Summerlyn’s car didn’t have a working charger, so one day we spent an hour sitting in the Visitor’s Center so we could charge our phones and thus access Google Maps. We made the best grilled cheeses of our lives on the patio outside of the Visitor’s Center. We sat in the parking lot in broad daylight, with hundreds of people walking or driving by looking for parking spots, as we flossed, brushed our teeth, ate lunch, and had a few beers. We used a little solar panel to charge our speaker during the day, as the radio in the car didn’t work. We found a wide-open parking lot in a tiny town across the street from a large hotel. After a sunrise photo-op, we hung out in this parking lot for several hours—making breakfast, changing clothes, and brushing hair. We wore the same set of clothes for days, despite the stink, stains and dirt caked in. We ate snacks we had scavenged from our nearly-empty pantries, CU’s dining halls, and a quick-run through the grocery store. We made instant Folger’s coffee every morning, which normally would be absolutely terrible, but turned out to be pretty good in an empty parking lot.

At one point it struck us that we were totally bumming it. This didn’t bother us too much. We honestly thought our state of filth and low standards was hilarious. We had each other and an entire National Park to explore. That was enough.

When I visited Zion several years ago, I would never have imagined myself being comfortable (and arguably willing) to “bum it” for a few days.

All that being said, the Park was just as impressive as I remembered it, if not more. Angels Landing was a piece of cake for both of us. Sure, walking across a ridge with two deadly cliffs on either side of you were a little concerning, but not terrifying. We’d seen and done worse. The approach was easy, short, and the ridge was exciting. We explored the cross-beds of ancient sand dunes in the Northeast corner of the park, we awed at the tunnel that winds through the Navajo Sandstone, and we did a few short hikes in the main canyon and in the Kolob Canyons area.

On our first night in the Park, we drove out to photograph an iconic view of The Watchman. We lined up on a bridge over the Virgin River next to dozens of other photographers and watched the show the sunset put on for us. We joked with the other photographers, hung out until dark, and eventually drove off into the darkness in search of a campsite. We might always be changing, but places like Zion will never fail to impress.

A Golden Eden

The scariest thing on my mind lately is that I will be graduating from college in thirteen short months. Between applying for internships, figuring out summer plans, figuring out life in general, and listening to my senior friends worry about their lives as a real-life, fully-functioning adult: I have been a strange combination of stressed, worried, and excited for my future. A week-long escape to the desert was greatly needed to reset.

A few months ago I did some reflecting on all of the incredible places in Utah that I’ve been to so far: Arches, all four districts in Canyonlands, Bears Ears, Zion, Bryce, San Rafael Swell, Goblin Valley. Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument was the last major wilderness area I had yet to visit. I’ve heard countless stories of the magic of Grand Staircase-Escalante, so a few friends and I decided to dedicate our spring break to the Monument.

The week began with the typical group of messy college kids stuffed into a small car, with a trunk packed so full that the rearview mirror was essentially useless. We drove ten hours to camp outside of the small desert town of Escalante, Utah, found our campsite in the dark, and woke up to sand, dry air and junipers. We spent the next few days day hiking and car camping along the Hole in the Rock Road and explored Escalante classics such as the Peekaboo and Spooky slot canyons, and Coyote Gulch. We were so happy to be wearing shorts for the first time in months, and didn’t care at all about our pasty, reflective legs that hadn’t seen the sun since September.

On our third day of adventures, we woke up at the Egypt Trailhead and began our hike to Golden Cathedral. I remember seeing photos of the Cathedral in a Moab hotel room on my first visit to Utah with my mom in 2015. I’ve seen countless photos of it on the internet and on Instagram since then and it’s always been a hike I’ve wanted to do. But the hike and the Cathedral itself were nothing like I expected.

We descended into the main artery cut by the Escalante River that runs through the Monument down to Lake Powell. The rocks were the typical Utah-red, stained by years of magnesium and iron oxides. We met the muddy Escalante at the bottom of the canyon, and waded through its chilly waters until we reached our side canyon on the East side of the river, which we would follow to the Cathedral. Here everything changed.

As we walked up the side canyon, the rush of the Escalante River quickly disappeared and I instantly realized why it was named Neon Canyon. The walls were perfectly orange, and the way the sun reflected light off the canyon floor and onto the walls allowed the canyon to glow. It seemed almost artificial. The canyon grew more and more silent as we hiked up and waded through puddles, which cast unique patterns of water onto the walls and which shifted as we disturbed them. The birds were chirping—the canyon was alive. With each step through Neon Canyon we were more amazed, our voices reverberated throughout the eden we had entered until finally, we rounded a corner and reached the end.

There stood Golden Cathedral, in all its glory. There was a wide hole in the ceiling, but no sign of eroded debris in the pool below—it must have been swept away by flash floods throughout the ages. The sun hadn’t hit the Cathedral yet, so the walls continued to glow their neon orange and ferns grew out of the walls of sandstone, feeding off ancient spring water. It was like nothing I had seen before and I was certainly impressed. We were at peace, inspired by the silence, stillness, and divinity of the Cathedral.

My friends and I spent an hour or so at the Cathedral, watching the sun illuminate its interior, until we left for our walk back out of Neon Canyon to the Escalante River, and eventually back to our car, where a hot dinner and night under the stars was waiting for us.

Waterfalls

I woke up to a bright morning sun and the roar of whitewater in the depths of billions of years of rock, which, if you look closely enough, tells an incredible story about how the Grand Canyon came to look like what it does today. I was a bit more groggy than usual— I was up late the night before, watching the stars dance across the sky to Dark Side of the Moon. But today was going to be an epic day.

We started off slow by making chocolate chip pancakes on the banks of the Colorado, then packed up our things and headed down river, where we found the narrowest point in the canyon. I recognized it as soon as one of my friends pointed out the organ-shaped rock up on river right. There were even little white rocks strategically placed by some clever river-runner years before, in order to look like keys.

As I was observing this section of the river, I noticed an almost perfectly vertical 20-foot cliff. It was undoubtedly time for some cliff jumping. My friends and I did a few casual “depth-tests” of the river and decided it was safe enough. So we sent it. And it was awesome.

Several hours later, we were cool and refreshed and a little tired after using up most of our adrenaline as we plunged into the chilly Colorado. But we continued up to the Tonto Plateau until we rounded a corner and camp to Deer Creek. We wound down through the narrows and dropped our packs. I had been here before, over two years ago on a hot and sunny summer day with my family.

I rinsed off in some of the waterfalls, just as our river guides showed me before, and eventually we all began walking down to the main event, the highlight, of our trip.

Back out by the river, we descended through the Tapeats and found ourselves standing under a massive 180-foot waterfall, streaming out from the narrows up above where we had just been. Deer Creek Falls. Every river trip stops here. It is one of the main attractions to commercial and private groups, while a few backpackers show up to this spot every couple days. But we had it all to ourselves. Aside from the beautiful sound of rushing water, it was completely silent.

So, what is there to do in a moment like this?

The answer to us was obvious. Strip down to your bare skin and bones of course, and wade into the turquoise blue waters and stand before that behemoth of a waterfall and take it all in. And that’s what we did. It was liberating. The wind and mist were freezing, our legs were warmer beneath the surface in the cold waters of Deer Creek.

We were so free, so joyful and so incredibly pure. I hadn’t felt that way since my last river trip.

A day later, on our last night in the canyon and up above the Redwall, I found a spot to myself to watch the sun set over the western edges of the canyon. I began to think about the what the Grand Canyon does exactly, that keeps calling me back.

Many know that nature has a way of helping you forget all your problems in life. A multi-day backpacking trip in the Grand Tetons, or the Maroon Bells-Snowmass wilderness, or the Maze in Canyonlands will leave you rejuvenated. The Grand Canyon does the same thing, except it happens instantly. Every minor and subtle inconvenience and annoyance that you put up with in your daily life, even the ones that arrive on a backpacking trip, disappear. Climb down below the canyon’s rim— and they’re gone.

You’re left with the purest form of yourself, where an incredible landscape leads you to the truth one day at a time.

I wasn’t sad to say goodbye to the Colorado River and the Grand Canyon this time. I left feeling so alive and so self-aware and so thankful for the perspective the canyon has given me in the last four days. I know I’ll soon be back for more.

Soul Searching

If you’re desperately in need of some soul-searching, I would recommend the Grand Canyon.

My fourth time in this magnificent landscape brought back the purest form of myself. Speaking from experience, you turn into a different person once you walk up to the edge of that big ditch. You always discover things in the deepest corners of who you are. You leave a stronger and more aware version of your previous self. It’s just what the Grand Canyon does to you.

Four friends and I gathered up only our necessary belongings and made the 12-hour pilgrimage from Boulder, Colorado to the North Rim. We walked down to Bright Angel Point just before the suns rays began to paint its incredible shadows along the canyon walls. After an emotional hour at the rim, we drove another forty miles west down a dusty dirt road to park our cars. The road ended there.

Two days later we had descended through the brutal Redwall Limestone and arrived at Thunder River Falls. We stood right at its foot, in the mist and cool breeze and were in awe of the amount of water rushing from a spring buried in the Muav Limestone several hundred feet above us. After a few quick rinses, we followed Thunder down to its confluence with Tapeats Creek, and continued all the way to the mighty Colorado River, deep in the bottom of the grandest canyon on Earth.

I instantly dropped my pack in the sandy camp, said nothing to my friends, switched into my Chacos and headed for the river. I found a big boulder near the shore and climbed on top. A decent-sized rapid lay in front of me, Tapeats Creek Rapid, and it all began flooding back.

The sound of the river, its smell, the glassy surface of the tongue of a rapid, its lines, its features, the adrenaline, the joy, the boatmen who inspire with words like “listen to the river, listen for its voice, listen to what the river is trying to say to you”.

There were so many thoughts and memories and feelings running through my head at the sight of the Colorado, and at the same time—there was nothing. No thoughts, just the river. I walked down river a ways until I found a large beach covered in footprints, undoubtedly a campsite for river runners. I sat down in the sand and began humming “Stairway to Heaven”. I was so present.

The Colorado River has served as my source of inspiration for a few years now, as it all started on my first river trip through the Grand Canyon with my family in the summer of 2016. A year later on the river, I found my motto, “don’t fight the river”, and laying on that beach near Tapeats Creek by myself I found new meaning in that little phrase.

The river is more than just an allegory for life. The river is who I want to be. Always moving, always flowing, independent, strong and consistent. People dam rivers, restrain it and control it. But in the end, the river is bigger than anything humanity can fathom. Its spirit can never be contained.

I stood up, smiled at the reflection of the canyon walls on the river, and walked back to my friends at camp to start dinner. There will be more time for soul-searching tomorrow.

More Alive Than Ever

I turned off the live-view on my camera as I focused on the headlamps of two tiny people standing underneath the dark and ominous figure of Delicate Arch in Arches National Park. There were at least fifteen photographers sitting in the little sandstone bowl that is the home to this iconic arch, and we were all shooting long exposures in attempt to capture the beauty that lay before us.

Camera set for 30 seconds, I pressed the shutter and let it rip. I was still annoyed by the fact that I left my wide-angle lens in the car parked at the trailhead 1.5 miles away so I decided that a portrait-style photo of the arch with my standard lens might just work as a creative bailout. In the final five seconds of the exposure, a bright but small light raced across the sky behind the standing piece of rock. My camera finished processing, the screen lit up, and my heart dropped—in the best of ways.

I ended up with my first ever shot of a shooting star and an image that in my opinion, captures the raw magic of Delicate Arch under a dark night sky. It is rare that I snap a photo that visually explains my feelings in a landscape in a particular moment. They are incredibly special.

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be living, in the truest form of the word, and what it is that inspires me and what exactly makes me feel the most alive.

I’ve known for a while that the wilderness is essential to my mental health and stability. Time spent in the wild resets my mind like a clock. All of life’s little stressors and annoyances seem more and more insignificant. In fact, I’m convinced that there’s a direct relationship between time spent in the wilderness and how much you care about your responsibilities. A slippery slope…

Walking out into the darkness, in the land of solidified ocean sediment that has been preserved for hundreds of millions of years, to find something special to capture, makes me feel alive. Sitting out in the cold under the stars, contemplating what lies beyond our own little world, and realizing these are the darkest night skies you’ve seen in months— is just like coming home. Communicating with surrounding photographers, focusing in on tiny specs of light, the joy that washes over you when your camera screen lights up and you first see what you’ve just created; that is living. Being able to put all of your feelings and connections and energy and emotion that you experience in both the wilderness and everyday life into a single image is damn near impossible. But when it works out, it is truly extraordinary.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the wilderness in the last year or so. I almost always bring a camera, but rarely do I put my heart and soul into the creation of an image. A little night hike with some friends re-sparked my creativity and my passion for photography. It, combined with my story-telling is my method of self-expression. I was reminded of my passion over the span of two days in one of the most inspiring landscapes on Earth. And now sitting at home, I feel almost lost back in civilization after a weekend in the desert, but never before have I felt more alive.

Finding Presentness

As myself and nine other photographers loaded our gear into our cars, our first pilgrimage of the season to the desert began. From Boulder to Moab, the transition of mountains into desert is slow, gradual and always exciting. The snowy peaks reflect golden light, the Western Slope turns pink from the fading sun, and we first see the desert in complete darkness and stillness.

I had a lot on my mind leading up to this trip. I found my old favorite saying buried in a stack of notes and journals as my excitement for the desert grew, “don’t fight the river” and decided that I would be as present as possible while accepting what I can’t control, here, under the stars, in Moab, Utah.

We arrived at camp and the photographing began. Tripods were unburied from trunks, cameras mounted and we all began to click our shutters as we gazed up at the Milky Way, which was more clear in the dark sky than we thought it would be.

I walked a ways off from camp and sat down in the red dust. I started my first exposure and ended up with the chattering headlamps of photographers as they moved around underneath the clouds of the Milky Way. I missed that desert sky. It was just as magical as I left it six months ago on a return from an epic trip to Grand Gulch in Utah and Grand Canyon National Park. It was on that trip where I learned that my emotional connection to the desert is not unheard of.

It is the quiet thinkers who love the desert. Those who are strong-willed and opinionated, those who don’t take life for granted, and those who are always willing to speak up who understand the desert. They appreciate the silence and tranquility. They love the freedom of the open and endless road that winds through time told by ancient rocks. We’re the ones who can hear its voice within its complete silence.

People can sometimes be ridiculous. They get caught up in their daily dramas and to-do lists and forget how important it is to be selfless, honest, and present. I’ll admit, I do this often in my daily life in Boulder. But a little weekend trip to the land of sand and rocks humbles me and reminds me of my values. I watched what the desert did to my nine friends who came along over the weekend; one of my friends and I came to the realization that our “spiritual being lies in the desert”.

We spent the next two days exploring arches and canyons. We took hundreds of photos and laughed and sang “Bohemian Rhapsody” and ate our meals on the ground in paved parking lots. We wandered around on slick-rock in the dark and ate too many Cheetos and admired the stars.

Even when the highway closed from icy roads and inches of snow, we couldn’t stop laughing. There was no worry about missing assignments and classes as we checked into a hotel for an accidental extra night. These were simply problems for our future selves. We enjoyed the time we had left with each other.

It was so refreshing to return to one of my many sources of inspiration. My mind is clear and I am more present than I have been in quite some time.

A Reminder for Gratitude

I’ve been leading trips for the CU Hiking Club for over a year now, and I can say with confidence that it’s not too often that you get a group of hikers who can’t get out of your head after a long weekend.

I’ll admit, I’ve been feeling a little burned out lately with the Hiking Club and with hiking in general. A few days ago I swore that this would be my last big trip until November, and that I would take a break for a few weeks out of spite for the club and for the big, long, and strenuous hikes I’ve been doing every weekend for the last several weeks.

I knew the Four Pass Loop in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness near Aspen would be a beating. I knew I would have to deal with a group of hiking clubbers and I knew that it would be a long weekend. But I had no idea that I would be lying awake Sunday night after an exhausting weekend, reminiscing about the incredible people I met on the trip and the incredible wilderness we just witnessed.

It started with a mishap, where the other trip leader and one of my closest friends had to drop out of our trip after getting a gnarly cold late Friday night. Suddenly, I was on my own.

I wouldn’t have believed it if I knew a year ago that I would be leading Four Pass by myself, one of the club’s biggest traditions and hardest backpacking loop, and one of the most famous loops in Colorado. I gathered my eight other hikers and told them the situation: how we wouldn’t get to the trailhead until 1 am, how we still had to hike 1.5 miles into camp, how we’d only get four hours of sleep that night, and how they were now stuck with me. They were still somehow more stoked than I was.

I’ve never been as impressed with a group of people as I was this weekend. Four Pass Loop is notorious for its elevation gain— over 8000 feet consisting of four 12,000 foot passes with a backpack is no easy feat. Most people finish the loop in three to four days. The hiking club only has a weekend, which means we have to push 14 miles with 2 of those 12,000 foot passes each day.

There was never a moment where the moral dropped. We cheered each other on as we went up and over each pass, we high-fived and smiled on top of each as we drenched ourselves in sweat and were nearly blown away by the wind. We were as stinky and as dirty as ever by the end, but there was just as much stoke once we arrived back at Maroon Lake on Sunday afternoon as there was when we started there at 2 am two nights before. Yes, we were physically and mentally exhausted, but we laughed the whole way home.

As midnight approached on Sunday night, I lay awake in bed, body sore, but mind still reliving Four Pass. Of all the trips I’ve led, I’ve never had such a solid group of hikers. Their patience, determination, trust in me, and passion for the wilderness reminded me why the Hiking Club is so special, and just how lucky we are for the opportunities to experience places like the Maroon Bells Wilderness. I am so grateful.

Longs

A year ago I led my first Hiking Club trip to Chasm Lake. Passing above treeline, I remember looking up and seeing the famous Diamond Face for the first time. I had read John Wesley Powell's diary about his 1869 expedition through the Grand Canyon and a biography about the one-armed Major a few weeks before. I loved the story of the first ascent (at least the first know white man's ascent) up the behemoth of the mountain that is Longs Peak. 

Once at Chasm Lake, the alpine body of water that sits about 1,500 feet below the summit with the Diamond Face providing a perfect backdrop to an already stunning scene, I promised myself that I would stand on top of Longs one day.

It's a famous peak for a reason. As Colorado's northern-most fourteener, it demands attention at 14,259 feet. It's one of the first things you see driving west towards Denver from the eastern plains. Its square top is easily recognizable from every angle and every viewpoint from hundreds of miles away. It took Major Powell and his party several days to even find a possible route to the summit. It has about a 50% summit success rate—simply because most people who attempt to climb it are inexperienced tourists that are lured in to the majesty of the mountain at first glance, or who hear about it from another state. Its often underrated intensity causes several deaths every year. It is many mountaineers' favorite peak for its iconic status and mile-long section of Class 3 scrambling.

All summer I had been threatening to climb it. I'll admit I was nervous, so I kept waiting for a day of perfect weather, with no chance of storms and little wind (almost impossible to find a wind-free day on Longs).

The last week of summer came and a few friends and I found a day in our schedules with no plans. The weather called for a "chance of rain" in the morning and 35 mph winds, but we were so bored sitting in Boulder we decided to send it. I spent the next few hours mentally preparing myself for the challenges of our hike the next day and kept repeating in my head, "I'm going to climb Longs' tomorrow". We dreadfully woke up at 2:30am and drove to the trailhead running on four hours of sleep. It was pouring rain when we started hiking. We passed at least 30 people heading back to their cars and who continued warning us that it was simply too cold, too windy and too wet. We reached treeline and decided that they were all right.

On our way back to Boulder, a friend and I who shared our goal of climbing Longs decided we would summit before the snow came. So once we saw the forecast for Saturday, September 8th 2018 as a "20% chance of precipitation after 2pm with only 15mph winds, we decided to go for it.

I was again nervous when we woke up at 2:30, but the sunrise that day was beautiful. A sheer red light illuminated the Diamond Face and newly fall-colored plants and was arguably one of the most colorful sunrises I had ever seen. There were no clouds in the sky and no wind—it was a seemingly perfect day All signs that we took as good karma, we continued our approach to the boulder field.

The Keyhole came into view at the boulder field, and the square top of Longs seemed bigger than ever before. Stripes of granite and schist became visible on the north side of the mountain and I couldn't help but notice the foliated metamorphic rocks scattered everywhere around us. The Keyhole marks the start of the mile-long section of Class 3 scrambling up to the summit. This is where it gets real. 

We pushed our way through the Ledges, and into the Trough, which is a steep section in a gulley of large boulders that we maneuvered around and led us to the Narrows. Here we followed a line of climbers along a narrow path with significant exposure on one side before we reached the Homestretch, a short but steep final climb to the summit.

I was beyond excited at this point. All my nerves and conceived notions bouncing around in my head about the "seriousness" and "risks" associated with Longs began to fade away. I was no longer afraid. 

At the summit, I texted my dad "WE FREAKING DID IT," and he knew exactly what I was talking about. It was so rewarding to be standing on top of a recognizable mountain with an incredible history. I looked down at Chasm Lake, 1,500 feet below us, and couldn't believe that only a year ago I had looked up and promised that I would stand up there one day.

An Accidental Twenty Miles

A week ago today, my three friends and I had what may have been our best day of hiking ever. Speaking for all four of us, we hike A LOT. Nearly every weekend, you can find us on Mount Sanitas in Boulder, on top of one of the many Colorado high-peaks, or in the desert admiring sandstone formations. But this day of backpacking on August 6th, 2018, and our third day on the Teton Crest Trail, will live on in our memories for quite some time. It may go down in history as our best day ever on the trail.

It all started with an alarm at 5:45am. The four of us rolled over grudgingly in our tent, until we remembered that we didn't have to get out of bed quite yet. We unzipped the rain fly and tent door, and before us the incredible view that we fell asleep next to returned. The morning colors had just arrived, and we had the perfect view of the Grand and Middle Teton through our tent door. We remained in our sleeping bags for a while and eventually got up to make tea and watch the sun peak out between the two peaks.

Fast forward a few hours, we left our campsite atop Hurricane Pass and were making our way down into South Fork Cascade Canyon. The small stream we could hear thundering in the distance from camp grew into a waterfall. The forest was lush, green, and warming up to the morning light. A trail runner passed, and showed us photos of a bear that he had seen minutes before on the side of the trail, we had walked right by him and didn't notice. Our joints ached a bit from the downhill until we reached our next major junction. We turned north and began heading up North Fork Cascade Canyon. 

The Northern side of Cascade Canyon was every bit as stunning as the South. The valley was perfectly u-shaped; it quickly became apparent that massive glaciers had spent quite some time in this area, sculpting the rock to frame the view of the Grand Teton perfectly in the background. 

We passed many, many day hikers. This was obviously the busy section of the park, and after two days of near-solitude, none of us were ready to face the National Park crowds. We kept our heads down and blazed by them. We passed one group who pointed out a moose to us across the valley, minding his own business, but aware of the herds of tourists admiring him. 

Eventually we made it to Lake Solitude. By this point, we had hiked about eight miles and the swarms of day hikers were starting to get on our nerves. The lake was beautiful, but we were determined to find a spot that had precisely what we were looking for— actual solitude. Feet tired and bodies tight, we hiked around the lake to its northern side and suddenly there were no people. We only saw them from across the lake, but they were no matter as the view of the Grand Teton easily distracted us.

We spent the next hour or so wading into the lake's icy waters, sunbathing on rocks, doing a bit of yoga, eating, drinking, popping blisters and mooning tourists across the lake. It was one of those times that simply felt too good to be true. Here we were, at one of the most popular lakes in Grand Teton National Park, lying in our underwear on a rock out in the sun, and the while having a view of these iconic peaks and walls of rock all to ourselves.

Looking up to the Northeast, we could see the remainder of our route for the day. Up and over Paintbrush Divide, and down to the Upper Paintbrush camping area was all we had left. Only four more miles. Two more miles of uphill left for the entire trip. We were on the home stretch of the Teton Crest Trail.

About an hour later, we had said goodbye to the lake and had fought our way up to the top of the Divide. The view of the Grand Teton faded away behind other peaks and Paintbrush Canyon opened up before us. It was beautiful-no doubt, and very different from what we had seen on the trail so far. We began our descent down the loose rock and crossed several snowfields before reaching a junction between Holly Lake and Upper Paintbrush camping zone. We turned towards Holly Lake to fill water for the night.

All four of us exhausted, all that was left was to find and make camp. We hiked on a bit, looking for campsites. And after what seemed to be two miles from Holly Lake, we realized that we had missed our camping zone entirely. Our map was dead wrong, the camping zone was back at the last junction. We still had the Lower Paintbrush camping zone to pass through, but our permit was for the Upper. We had hiked nearly fourteen miles at this point. To ethically camp in the park, we would have to hike back two miles, uphill. And that simply wasn't happening.

We made the decision to feed ourselves before thinking anymore about camping. Continuing down to Lower Paintbrush and looking for a spot to eat, the four of us spread out along the trail. I can't speak for my three friends, but I had had it. Every inch of my body hurt— feet, ankles, knees, hips, shoulders. I was starving and dehydrated and utterly exhausted. Camp had never seemed so far away. Mentally, I was done. I couldn't help but think of the worst— tonight, we were hiking all the way to the car. I did my absolute best to prepare myself for an additional six miles with a worn out body and a worn out mind. 

A massive dinner and some ibuprofen certainly helped. We decided that we couldn't camp in the lower camping zone and potentially take someone else's campsite for ethical reasons. Six more miles didn't seem too far at this point and thus the decision was made to finish out the trail that night!

After our meal, we sat in a circle and laughed at our mistake and how we were about to have an "accidental twenty mile day" and finish the 40-mile Teton Crest Trail in three days instead of four. We joked about our obvious hunger and irritation that clouded our brains for the last two miles and how this would most definitely be our longest day of backpacking ever. And quite possibly our best.

It was nearly dark, so we didn't see much of the last six miles of the Teton Crest Trail. It went by surprisingly fast and we were all more than relieved once we spotted the car in the parking lot at String Lake. We changed into fresh underwear, clean clothes and drove off to camp, where we would fall asleep under the stars and wake up to sunrise over the Tetons once more.

So much had happened in one day, it was eery to remember where we had woke up that morning. We had seen and completed half of the Teton Crest Trail in one day. A day that (at least in my mind) will be remembered as one of the hardest and more incredible days ever spent in the wilderness.

The Power of the Tetons

You've all seen it before. The Grand Teton. Surrounded by infinite snowy peaks, with the iconic T.A. Moulton Barn and a field of wildflowers at sunset. It's a photo we've all seen. That photo is an American West classic. It is Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It is Grand Teton National Park.

The Grand Teton National Park that everybody sees (2.75 million visitors per year, to be exact) sits on the Eastern side of the Teton range and covers 310,000 acres. Nearly everyone who enters the park simply drives through and stops at various lookouts and viewpoints to photograph the iconic Grand Teton (13,775 feet) and Mount Moran (12,605 feet)—undoubtedly with either Jenny Lake or the Snake River in the foreground. Occasionally, and perhaps more often than other highly-visited National Parks such as Grand Canyon or Rocky Mountain, tourists will leave the confines of their cars and venture into the "wilderness" on a simple day-hike up Cascade Canyon or even up to Lake Solitude if they're feeling rather adventurous. 

The simple tourist driving through and gazing off at the iconic range that is Grand Teton National Park doesn't even begin to experience the absolute magic that is Grand Teton National Park; instead they snap selfies of their family with a selfie-stick and pick an Instagram filter on their iPhone. As I read in Desert Solitaire, "so long as they [the motorized tourists] are unwilling to crawl out of their cars they will not discover the national parks and they will never escape the turmoil of the urban-suburban complexes which they had hoped, presumably, to leave behind for a while". 

It was after an easy three-day backpacking adventure last fall where a few friends and I completed the Death Canyon-Alaska Basin loop in the park, that I heard of the Teton Crest Trail. A lesser-known, whispered, but nonetheless iconic trail to backpackers, the Teton Crest Trail was the epitome of hiking in Grand Teton National Park. And I was determined to make it happen.

A few friends and I finally embarked on this adventure last Friday, where we, per usual, arrived at our camp outside the Park around 1:30am. We woke early the next day to get permits and began our hike up Granite Canyon, where we would start our 40-mile trek on the Teton Crest Trail. 

We camped on Fox Creek Pass for our first night, and continued on to the Death Canyon Shelf and Alaska Basin region, a friendly reminder of the hidden gems of the Park that we had seen the year before. Our plan was to continue on to Hurricane Pass (10,338 feet), where we would camp for the night. 

The four of us swam in the alpine lakes in Alaska Basin, reminisced of our trip a year ago, and continued up Hurricane Pass. I was breathing hard. I hadn't hiked at this elevation with a pack in a long time. We came to a stop less than a quarter-mile from the top of the pass, so we could stop and rethink our strategy for the night. One of us, Jason, was feeling courageous, so he dropped his pack and hiked up to the top to scout campsites for us. He chuckled when he returned and said, "you're gonna cry when you see the view up there". We all grinned.

A quarter mile more. And after that final step to the top of the pass, the four of us were speechless. We thought nothing. 

The Teton Range opened up before us. The Grand and Middle Tetons rose 3,000 feet above us, with the peaks of Cascade Canyon and Paintbrush Canyon close behind to the left. It was nothing like we were expecting. It was nothing like what the majority of the 2.75 million tourists see every year. 

Power. The only word I could muse up. The absolute power of the Teton Range stood before, a moment frozen in time. All we heard were the occasional gusts of wind and roaring waterfalls off in the canyon below. 

We continued to set up camp and cook dinner at awe in the presence of our view. We watched the sun cast a golden light over the peaks, before setting behind a wall of smoke from wildfires nearby. We waited patiently for the stars to come out, only to be surprised by a blanket of clouds blocking our view. We instead were intrigued by occasional headlamp glows from the middle of the Grand Teton (surely climbers who were bound to summit the next morning), and the phasal red glow of the fire off in the eery distance. We fell asleep with an expectation for our sunrise view, and were happily surprised when our expectations were blown away by the colors and rays cast by the rising sun.

It was nothing like we had ever seen before.

New Decade, Same River

Yesterday marked the beginning of a new decade. The first sentence of a new chapter. And I started it by standing in a river, the same river I have been standing in for twelve years.

Basalt, the Frying Pan River, and the Roaring Fork Valley in Colorado have always held a special place in my heart. The bright maroon rocks and rich green lush covers the rolling hills, to where they hit the Elk Mountains, Sawatch Range and Glenwood Canyon. The Crystal, Roaring Fork and Frying Pan Rivers flow tirelessly across colorful river stones, containing a diverse riparian system that are filled with mayflies and trout. My parents found this area by closing their eyes and pointing to a place on a Colorado map. We precisely drove to that point, camped, and fell in love. 

Even though my family’s camping days are long gone, my dad and I have been returning to Basalt for our annual fishing trip at least once every summer. Recently, we’ve been able to make time for two or three trips… allowing our fishing obsession to grow and grow. 

It’s that time of year too, where loose cotton drifts through the trees, the sun burns down hot on the Western slope, and the mayflies begin to hatch. And they hatch like crazy. 

Blue winged olives, pink pale morning duns, and the famous green drakes line the river for months in anticipation of this grand event. They rise to the surface, one species after another and the trout go nuts. The famous trout in the Frying Pan are no stranger to tricky fisherman—they can easily tell an imitation fly from the real deal by just an ever so slightly off-putting drift. But on the Pan, a hooked fish every few hundred casts or so is worth it. 

So even at the end of a hard day fishing, when there are no bugs, no birds, and no netted fish, standing in the river and waving a stick under the Seven Castles is pretty magical. This is why we keep coming back.

We had one of these hard days yesterday. A few fish were caught so we didn’t go hungry, but it wasn’t the epic day we were looking for by any means. After several hours with no sign of a late afternoon hatch, my dad and I loaded up the truck and began our drive back into town. We were a little tired, a little annoyed, but overall incredibly happy.

“Don’t fight the river, dad,” I said out of nowhere. 

He smiled and further demanded an explanation.

“My favorite saying, if I got a tattoo, I would get that sentence written somewhere on my body. My old mentor first said it to me, but since my obsession with rivers began, it stuck more and more. Rivers are an allegory for life. Most of the time, it’s peaceful, easy flowing. Flat water. Most of the time, life is good and easy, and everything seems to be like how it’s supposed to. But every now and then, the river becomes turbulent. Boulders, holes, rapids, waterfalls. When you’re on a boat approaching these obstacles, a way through often seems impossible at first. It is only after more time, thought and consideration that a route shows itself. And a route through always shows itself. These turbulent times just so happen to be when the river is able to change its surrounding landscape the most. In life, these turbulent times are when we are able to grow the most as human beings. And, the river always reaches the sea.”

“I like it, don’t fight the river, you can’t fight the river,” my dad repeated.

We drove on back to Basalt, where I thought a bit more about what the next ten years of my life should look like. I will definitely keep returning for the summer hatches on the Frying Pan, and I will (hopefully) catch more beautiful browns in deep holes on a fat dry fly. But if I just remember that wherever life takes me and as long as I don’t fight the river, everything will turn out alright.

Top of Colorado

In the last month since I've finished my sophomore year at CU Boulder, I've averaged well over forty hours per week at my old seasonal job as a raft-photographer on Clear Creek in Idaho Springs, CO. And during those many hours on the riverside, waiting for rafts to come by, I've successfully entertained myself between 14ers.com and NOAA's hourly weather forecast. 

With three fourteeners and one thirteener in the books, I'd like to say that I'm beginning to understand what is known as the "peak addiction". I may be freshly naming this addiction myself, but it is not an unknown problem amongst mountain-lovers. Lately, it's something I've noticed among my friends and the thousands of people that obsessively check the 14ers.com website and Facebook page. But I've got a long ways to go. 55 to be exact (or debatable, depending on whether you count Cameron, South Elbert, North Snowmass, etc). 

Yesterday, June 10th, Katherine Feldmann (or just "Feldmann" to avoid Katherine-confusion), a friend from Boulder, and I had a plan to complete Mount Elbert (14,433 feet) which is the tallest peak in Colorado and the second tallest in the continental United States. She picked me up from work in Idaho Springs late Saturday night, and we drove out to Leadville to camp and rise early the next morning. 

I was, as usual, in awe falling asleep under a clear Milky Way and was stoked the next morning as we packed up camp and made our way to the mountains. But I was in for a surprise. We weren't doing the standard route up Mount Elbert that I had researched online, we were doing a much less-travelled route to the summit— the Southeast Ridge, Class 2. I was instantly more excited when on the way to the trailhead during the sunrise, Feldmann said, "anything but the standard route". This would make our day much more interesting.

We started up through the trees, crossed a stream a few times, and eventually came to a break in the trees in a valley. Dozens of peaks came into view behind us, we kept stopping to admire the view and were bothered by no other hikers. We continued up the steep slope above tree-line and finally made it to the beginning of our ridge that we would follow to the summit. From here, the trail faded in and out between the tundra and loose rock but we quickly made it to South Elbert peak, 14,134 feet, a point along Elbert's Southeast Ridge, but not considered an actual fourteener since it lacks 300 feet of vertical prominence. Still pretty cool by my standards.

On the final stretch along the ridge between South Elbert and Elbert, the wind was torturous. Every two minutes or so, a 40 mph gust would throw us sideways and distort our balance as we maneuvered over the talus-covered ridge. Luckily, the ridge was wide enough that we weren't too close to a dropoff, but we still hid behind small piles of rocks every few minutes to let the gusts pass. 

And finally, we summited. It's hard to beat the feeling of standing on top of a mountain. After likely enduring several hours of physical labor and mental endurance, standing on top of a mountain is one hell of a reward. And extremely addicting. 

With views of the Sawatch and Elk ranges all around us and a few dozen people who all came up the standard route, we felt a little extra-special for making our way to the top of Colorado in a non-traditional format. I know Feldmann already contains this peak addiction, I hope she's ready for my company for the summer, because this is only the beginning.

Eleven People

There were eleven of us on this grand adventure. The plan was to spend five days backpacking in Grand Gulch and then drive to the Grand Canyon for an epic hike to the Colorado River. I'll admit I was a little nervous for this trip. Eight days with eleven people— that was a big crowd for me. But I somehow knew that once we were far off the grid and deep in canyon country, I would be just fine.

The desert has become comforting, like an old friend who you can spend months apart from, but once you're together again it's like you never left each other. Its beauty doesn't necessarily surprise me anymore, but I refuse to take it for granted. 

I knew after day one that our group of eleven was something special. We were all here for something more than an adventure. We were here to learn about ourselves and to connect with one another. There were countless conversations at night, under the stars, where we'd let each other in to our thoughts and opinions on life. There were spiritual conversations, talks about our greatest fears, and stories about where we found love.

I told our group that I was incredibly thankful for their presence on our trip. It was so refreshing to hear that other people cared about the same things I do. In college, it's hard to weed out the genuine, they get lost in the masses of the selfish, the morally blind and the corrupt. In a way, these eleven people renewed my faith in humanity.

On our first night in Grand Gulch, everyone except for four of us went to bed relatively early. We decided to adventure in the dark and climbed up on top of an overhanging cliff above our campsite. We sat down for a bit of extra stargazing. The moon was almost full, so the stars were minimal, but the shadows on the canyon walls were exceptional. We used our limited astronomy knowledge to pick out a few constellations and eventually resorted to making up our own. If the Greeks could do it, why couldn't we?

Eventually we returned to our sleeping bags laid out on the slick-rock and fell asleep. There would be no tent for us this week, I forgot it at home in the midst of the pre-spring break chaos. But our packs were lighter, it was relatively warm, and the night sky was beautiful.

These late stargazing sessions became a nightly event, complete with scrambling in the dark, chacos and socks, and made-up constellations. Once, one of us hauled his sleeping bag and pad up to a lookout, as he thought we were sleeping up there. We weren't, but out of laziness, he decided to build a "retaining wall" out of a few rocks and spent the night alone, on the edge of a cliff. Once, our late-night destination was right next to a site of Native American ruins, their ancient bedrooms, and we accidentally stayed up past midnight. 

I'll never forget the magic of our five days in Grand Gulch, our night-hikes, and our desire for more than just an adventure.

It Never Gets Old

It can be so easy to feel alone. 

When you're stuck in the grind, working day after day, and following the same routine, it's easy to feel like it's you versus the world. Even if you would term yourself to be "happy", the grind and the routines can make you feel stuck. You lose sight of yourself. Your boredom intensifies. Your happiness dwindles. It's easy to feel like you're the only one who thinks and the only one who cares.

Honestly, this is how I've felt for the last few months. Not necessarily lost, or unhappy, just alone. 

Last week, myself and ten others pulled up to Desert View in the Grand Canyon after five days of backpacking. Five of them had never seen the big ditch before, so they paired up with each other, covered their eyes, and walked blindly to the edge. I led the way, unpaired, and emotions started to flood my thoughts. I was back, less than a year later, to my center of the universe. 

Once at the viewpoint, I positioned everyone on the railing, and told them to open their eyes. I'll never forget those five faces. They were in shock, stunned, mesmerized by the canyon. Just like I always am. I told them that it never gets old.

We walked down below the viewpoint a little ways to the edge of a cliff, which we probably shouldn't have done, but none of us were mentally capable of handling the National Park crowds after being in the Utah backcountry for several days. Time slowed down, the sun drifted below the rim while we all watched and shivered in the coming cold.

I set up my tripod and photographed the light on the canyon walls as the colors shifted from gold to pink. But once the pink began to fade and the blue hour began to rise, I just watched. I hadn't been that happy in a long time.

That was the real me. Standing there on the edge of the grandest place on Earth, camera in hand, surrounded by those who also think, and who also care. We were all so present in that moment, there were no distractions and no extraneous thoughts. The light, the canyon, the wind, the silence. That's all that really mattered.

So whenever you start to feel alone, find those who love to truly live, drive away to somewhere grand, and watch what the world really has to offer.

Desert Addiction

We were just walking through the desert, led by cairns, inspired by the landscape and each other's company.

Last weekend, when a group of CU Hiking Clubbers and I stumbled upon the same view where a few new friends and I agreed to sit in silence for several minutes and stare out at the land of the Needles under a purple sky, I smiled. I remembered that view, the feeling, and the magic.

A year ago, my trip to the Needles District in Canyonlands National Park in Utah was where the seed of desert addiction was planted within me. I was simply inspired by its raw beauty and one of our trip leaders, who understands the Southwest in the same way that I do now. Since then, the desert has continually called. From the Grand Canyon to the San Rafael Swell, from the Maze to Colorado National Monument, the desert has always been on my mind. 

But what really is the desert addiction?

It starts with an underestimation— there's nothing in the desert. The Southwest is a wasteland. It's hot and dry and things don't really live there. 

It grows with an appreciation— a classic first trip to Utah shows you the delicacy of Arches National Park, the grandeur of Canyonlands, and the vastness of the Grand Canyon. A realization is born that the desert does indeed have things, but things that cannot be comprehended until witnessed firsthand. The desert silence stuns you, the desert night skies blow your mind, the desert canyons humble you.

It then nests within you into an understanding— it becomes a part of your deepest self. The desert is not a wasteland, it is a perfect balance of too much and too little, where any elemental addition throws the entire ecosystem off neutrality. The desert says nothing, in it is only interpretation. Its sandstone layers and twisted junipers lead you to the heart of the desert.

This is what I've learned in the last year. I doubt that I understand the desert in the same way as some Southwestern fanatics, such as Edward Abbey and a few of my friends, but it has been slowly coming to me.

A similar trip to the Needles a year later gave me the chance to lead others to this desert addiction. As I pointed out some of the major landmarks and biological features, I think I hooked a few of them. I can only hope that they have the chances to experience the Southwest deserts in the same way that I did, so they can overcome their underestimation, begin to appreciate and eventually understand just why the desert continually calls us.

Labyrinths

I first read Edward Abbey's chapter about the Maze "Terra Incognita" from Desert Solitaire almost a year ago. At that point in my life, the desert was growing on me. I wrote about its silence, peacefulness and delicacy. Reading Abbey's classic was only the beginning of my love affair with the American Southwest. 

On our third night in the Maze, my friends and I were in our sleeping bags by 7:30. Typical for the backcountry, once it gets dark, its time for bed, even if that means you may be laying horizontally for twelve-ish hours until sunrise. This always throws off my sleep schedule once I return to civilization, because I find myself longing for bed at an ungodly early hour and then being ready to start my day at yet another ungodly hour... I digress.

At 7:30 we all snuggled in our sleeping bags and gazed up into the night sky. The milky way was in full bloom, there was no moon, it was perfectly dark. I love that desert sky. No critters rustled in their homes, no wind shook the leaves, nothing made a sound. I love that desert silence. 

I've become almost too comfortable with the night sky in the desert, every time I return I feel as if I need to remind myself that you don't get to see this everyday, these dark skies are a luxury. A simple camping trip on the west side of the divide in Colorado doesn't seem to cut it anymore. If you've never experienced a dark night in the desert, move it up a few places on your bucket list. The stars are incredibly clear, it never seems to be totally real.

And unless you find yourself to be moving towards hypothermia, sleep outside. Tents are overrated.

My friend pulled out her copy of Desert Solitaire and began reading "Terra Incognita" outloud. I loved listening to Abbey's account of the remoteness of the Maze and difficulty of getting here now having experienced the extensive journey that it takes just to get to the edge of the area. I was reminded of why I loved that book— for Abbey's sarcasm, witty criticisms of humanity and his awareness of his own hypocritical nature. Yes, us environmentalists hate cars for their pollution and encouragement of development... yet we all drive them.

He described the Maze as a "labyrinth with the roof removed". That's exactly what it is. The Maze is a series of canyons that are seemingly endlessly winding through time. And gazing upon the Maze from above at the Overlook lead me to the exact thought that it lead Abbey to some fifty years ago— a labyrinth with the roof removed.

"For Abbey's sake, leave this country alone! -God"

We finished the chapter, all laughed at the relatability of Abbey's words, were amazed by our lack of knowledge on which constellations are which, and commenced to an uninterrupted twelve hours of sleep under the desert sky.

First Looks

I spent winter break working on myself. Yes, I was happy with who I was and where I was going, but there's always room for improvement. Change is a good thing.

To start with, I spent ten days in a classroom working on getting my WFR certification, or Wilderness First Responder. A NOLS program, I learned more than how to splint an arm, treat a puncture wound, and administer various medications. I learned the importance of good leadership and the importance of selflessness. The instructors from the course taught me that intellectual humbleness and humility goes a long ways with people. So, my journey of forever-learning began.

To complete my month vacation from school, I headed to the Maze District in Canyonlands with a few friends. The most remote and wild district, the Maze is admired by desert enthusiasts for its loneliness and serenity. I was stoked. My friends at CU that have been to the Maze always seemed to have more desert knowledge than the rest, and more appreciation for the depths of Utah. I couldn't wait to understand their devotion to this district in the national park!

We began our adventure Thursday evening and left Boulder for canyon country. We arrived at the highway turnoff onto the 40-mile dirt road that leads to the Hans Flat Ranger Station (i.e. the only building/somewhat source of civilization in this area) around 12:30am. We camped on the side of the road, BLM land, and woke early the next morning to excessive condensation and early desert light. We drove to the ranger station, chatted with the rangers, distributed our group gear between packs, and headed out for the Maze.

Our first day would be roughly 13 miles, which consisted of a descent through a canyon onto a plateau and an old four-wheeling dirt road which would lead us to the Maze Overlook. I had no idea what to expect once we reached the Overlook. I had heard of the Maze as a complex canyon system, I had googled photos of the area, but the images you find online fail to create a sense of expectation. There's simply not enough photos of the Maze in the immensity of the world-wide web to explain just what the Maze actually is. Not enough cameras get to see it.

But the hike did include the classic National Park "we're-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-how-on-earth-is-anything-cool-here" right up to the last second before we were stunned. The last bit of walking was slightly uphill, with the Overlook on the top of a ridge, so we couldn't see anything until we got there.

And once we did, we couldn't peel our eyes away. Below us, a canyon system more complex than anything you could imagine opened up, revealing the inner workings of water, dust, rock and wind. They twisted, turned, and wound through the basin, with different shades of khaki, orange, and pink. I was speechless. We all walked to the rim of the Overlook, found a spot to ourselves, sat down, and stared off in wonderment.

It's the kind of scene that makes you believe in God.

I'll admit, the Grand Canyon has spoiled me. I've spent time in many awe-inspiring areas in the American Southwest, but none of them had rivaled the greatness of the Grand Canyon—until this moment. The Maze is different. And confusing. My first look at this section of Canyonlands left me with eagerness to learn more, experience more, and be more. 

More than Public Lands

Since I've been back from my week-long trip in Capitol Reef National Park, there has been a lot in the news about President Trump's plan to shrink two monuments in Utah. Bears Ears and Grand Staircase Escalante— both in the same region as Capitol Reef, and both filled with beauty and history. 

I've never really liked getting political, but I wanted to offer something to any of those who happen to stumble upon this tiny blog in the massive universe of the Internet... places like Capitol Reef, Bears Ears and Escalante are national treasures. Yes, they hold an unmeasurable intrinsic value to American citizens. And yes, they are filled with historical and sacred sites for Native Americans who have called them home for thousands of years. These public lands can offer even more, that is, if we choose to infiltrate the back of our minds during our everyday lives... 

An opportunity for personal reflection. 

In the last few years I've spent lots of time deep in the deserts of Utah, finding its hidden arches, exploring its slot canyons, and making new friends along the way. Each trip has offered me a chance to think about who I am, what I have to offer, and where my place is in this world. 

My first desert trip was almost three years ago and was the standard first time in Moab, UT; Arches and Canyonlands with my mom. That's where my passion for hiking began, and I realized it was a great combination for my photography.

A year later, I returned to Moab, but went to Zion and Bryce National Parks as well. I was with my mom and my brother, and that was when I realized how the outdoors can bring people together. 

After I graduated high school, I spent eight days in the Grand Canyon, rafting down the Colorado River. I absolutely fell in love. That's when I began to understand the importance of rivers and forever changed my mindset when I learned to take life one day at a time.

Then in college, I went on a great trip with the CU Hiking Club to the Needles District in Canyonlands NP, where I made life-long friends and began to appreciate the desert for its silence, serenity and tranquility— which was a wonderful escape from the hustle of my everyday life.

Last summer, I spent another twelve days in the Grand Canyon on another rafting trip. That was when my interest began for what makes an ecosystem an ecosystem, and the hard science behind beautiful places. I also learned that being yourself is one of the most important things a person can do, and we shouldn't take others' negative actions towards us as a personal insult. You can't fight the river.

About a month ago, I led a Hiking Club trip to the San Rafael Swell in central Utah, where I improved my leadership skills and managed to keep a group together, even when I was tired and frustrated. 

And last week,  after we had returned from our four-day backpack through its extensive network of canyons, I admired the night sky with my camera and tripod, and felt so small and so insignificant. I slept under the stars for several nights, each night almost struggling to fall asleep because I didn't want to close my eyes. 

That may have been the brightest and most impressive Milky Way I had ever seen. 

My week in Capitol Reef's backcountry cleared my mind. In tough times, these public lands offer a sense of relief and a place to briefly escape. If you spend enough time there, the desert starts to get to you. It keeps you coming back, again and again. 

We can't afford to lose places like these in our country. It's so easy to overcrowd your mind with daily to-dos, drama and wasteful thinking. In times of doubt, public lands can remind you who you truly are. 

It would be a tragedy for our government and President Trump to change the status of Bears Ears and Escalante, opening them up to civilization . We, as a country, need them and a little reflection now more than ever.

Narrows Never Seen

Capitol Reef is the underrated National Park of Utah. Spanning almost 400 square miles, it receives only about one million visitors per year. It's counterparts— Arches National Park, is visited by over 1.5 million visitors per year and is about a third of the size. Zion is seen by over 4 million people yearly. 

Part of the "Big Five" of the National Parks in Utah, Capitol Reef is often overlooked. It contains plenty of arches, slot canyons and desert vistas, isn't too far off the interstate and is part of the International Dark Sky Association. 

I had never been there before until a week ago, and now I'm proud to say it's one of my favorite National Parks in Utah.

A group of six other CU Hiking Club members and I embarked on a journey to Capitol Reef for our Thanksgiving Break. We were originally planning on spending the week in the Grand Canyon, but decided against the obscene price tags that came with the backcountry permits and decided on the Reef instead. They love backpackers at Capitol Reef. Campgrounds and permits are free, with almost no limitations, and the rangers are abnormally friendly in the tiny Visitor's Center. 

We decided to spend time in the lower third of the park, or the Waterpocket Fold District that was named by my hero— John Wesley Powell. Our route would consist of a shuttle, and a somewhat out-and-back and somewhat loop, that wound through slot canyons, went by a 1.5 mile side trip to a hidden sandstone bridge and left us perfect views of the night sky. We didn't see another soul for five days. 

My favorite part of our big adventure was the Halls Creek Narrows at the most southern part of our route. We were only about 15 miles north of Lake Powell, but were deep in canyon country. It is hardly seen by anyone. This section of the park was carved out by a small stream and is filled with towering sandstone walls and lush springs. 

We travelled through the Narrows in our water shoes for about three miles and stood in awe at the canyon after each bend in the stream. The water was freezing! My feet were sore after several days of backpacking, but the ice water didn't seem to help too much. After a while, my toes were completley numb, I felt like I was walking with ice blocks for feet. There was one point where our trail went through a very narrow section the canyon, probably only six feet across, and the stream rose to my upper thighs.

We waded through the river, laughing at each other as we slipped in the mud, and sat amazed at the high canyon walls and the shadows that the sinking sun cast. Eventually, we reached the end of the canyon and made camp on a rock ledge, leaving us a perfect view for sunset, the Milky Way, and the sunrise. 

Life Crossings

In the last few weeks, I've had so many people ask me, "how do you have time for all of these adventures?"

I just got back from my third weekend in a row of camping, where I skipped class on Friday and Monday (sorry Mom and Dad), put about 1,000 miles on my car, and many miles on my feet. I came home to two papers that needed to be written, and frantically begin studying for my midterm exams in the coming weeks.

I'll admit it's starting to catch up to me a little bit. 

Leaving Boulder every weekend, and thus temporarily escaping my academic responsibilities, has kept me sane this semester. But it does make for some busy weekdays. 

Last weekend, I led a Hiking Club trip to the San Rafael Swell in the middle of Utah. Our first desert trip of the semester, we were stoked to be in warmer weather with blue skies and lots of cool rocks. 

On Saturday we hiked a still-debated number of miles through the Little Grand Canyon in the Swell, which took us about ten hours. We descended into the canyon around noon, where to me the fact that we would be ending our hike in the dark quickly became obvious. I made sure to pack my headlamp.

We crossed the San Rafael River twelve or thirteen times. We hiked up to one side canyon, took lots of photos, and admired the light shining down through the top of the canyon and onto the glowing red sandstone. We came across a herd of cattle. We were shook by one of the cows—whose body was black, and face was white, and stared us down for several minutes while we were deciding the best possible route around the herd. We bushwhacked our way through sections with no trail and slipped on steep riverbanks of mud.

The sun sank over the canyon walls around 6:00. We still had at two river crossings, and at least five miles left before we reached our camp at the end of the canyon.

At this point, I was becoming frustrated. I wasn't feeling the hike in the dark, where we had to find appropriate points to cross the river and search for the trail. I was hungry, and getting tired. Not everyone had a headlamp. I'm sure my frustration was obvious to some, but I did my best to keep my cool. 

Of course, we made it across the river the last time, and finished our last few miles in the dark. The moon cast fantastic shadows on the canyon walls, we'd stop every few miles to turn off our lights and admire the serenity and silence of the desert night.

After leading several club trips this semester, I've begun to understand what my love for the Hiking Club really means. I remember that as an ordinary member, the club was a way for me to simply push my boundaries and step out of my comfort zone. I remember my first accidental hike in the dark. It was also deep in the Utah desert, with one of the same officers, with an unknown number of miles left to go. I remember how accomplished I felt once we made it back to camp.

Selfishly as an officer, I can now say that my favorite part of the CU Hiking Club is watching other people do the same. Pushing comfort zones is what makes us grow as human beings. Those times of exceeding our own preconceived limits not only makes for great stories, but also for perfect times to connect to other humans. The desert is an especially good place for that. I loved watching my new friends struggle and succeed through river crossings, hike more miles than they ever have before, and become speechless by the natural wonders that the desert has to offer. I definitely had moments of uncertainty, but reminded myself that these are the moments where we can fundamentally change.

I'm incredibly thankful to be a part of such an amazing group, to be able to spend a weekend in the desert, and to be able to learn from my constant adventures.