Utah 2013: Arches National Park, Canyonlands National Park

As I flew to Salt Lake City on a sunny yet cloudy Saturday afternoon in mid-April, I was both excited and nervous — excited because I had a full week of nothing but hiking in front of me. No work. No Facebook. No sports. Nothing else. And that’s why I was nervous, too. Not only was I adventuring to an area of the country that I’d never explored — Arches and Canyonlands national parks in the southeastern quadrant of the state — but I faced the challenge of disconnecting entirely from my normal life and not driving myself crazy.

This wasn’t my first solo hiking trip. In the past couple years, I had spent a few days by myself in Colorado and Maine climbing mountains. But those trips were different in that I had specific goals to achieve — climbing Colorado’s 14ers and Maine’s 4,000-footers. I knew what I needed to do. They were hiking missions. This Utah trip, on the other hand, featured no “mountains,” but rather tons of canyons. There wasn’t much hiking up, but rather hiking down (at least to start).

Other challenges included the isolation (on many hikes, I walked for hours without seeing a soul); the weather (it got down to the mid-20s on some nights and took awhile in the mornings to warm; one day got snow); and keeping my mind occupied during the long days (fortunately, I brought along three books that I finished during the week).

By no means was this an easy, leisurely vacation. Rather, it was an exciting, uplifting challenge that not only presented me the opportunity to explore yet another breathtaking American national park, but gave me hours upon hours to think silly thoughts and deep thoughts — considering where I am in the world and where I want to be.

By the time I boarded a plane back to Washington, DC, eight days after arriving, I had hiked 90.9 miles, spent eight (often restless) nights in my tent, seen dozens of swooping ravens, walked over miles upon miles of slick rock, dry washes, and, yes, snow, and gotten a nice tan.

Here’s my day-by-day summary of the trip:

Saturday, April 13

After getting talked into a Ford Fusion by the rental car lady, stopping at Whole Foods for water and other food items, stopping at REI for gas for my mini stove, and driving four hours, I pulled into the Goose Island campground in Moab around 8:15pm MST. The sky was almost completely dark.

Campgrounds in the area are all first-come, first-served, and this campground on the banks of the Colorado River just outside of the town and a couple miles from Arches National Park looked to be full. But it was dark. It was late. And I was exhausted, despite passing out cold on both of my flights from DC. I knocked awkwardly on the trailer door of the camp host, and he stumbled out.

“Do you have any room?” I lamely asked.

After thinking it over, the older gentleman said he could ask people staying there if I could snag a small portion of their group site. Minutes later, I was attempting to set up my tent in a windstorm. As I got the poles erected, I looked behind me and my sleeping bag had blown 10 feet closer to the Colorado. Luckily, I avoided disaster on my first night and got some rest.

Sunday, April 14

FUN FACTS:

Miles hiked: 13.2

People seen: Hundreds

Weather: Sunny, 60s

I awoke to Dave, the host, outside my tent, saying that an actual campsite had opened up where I could stay Sunday night. Awesome, I thought. I dragged my stuff to site No. 3, paid the $15 (actually, I only had a $20, so Dave got a little tip for his kindness), re-setup my tent, and got my stove out to cook some instant oatmeal. After the water boiled and I dumped it into my small blue cup with the oatmeal, I added raisins and dried cherries and stirred. This would be my breakfast staple all week long. YUM!!

Then, it was time for Arches.

With the weather quickly heating, I made the short drive to the park and continued the 18 miles on the main drive — attempting to stay focused on the road while gazing to my left and right at the beautiful red rock towers — to the trailhead for the Devils Garden Primitive Loop, which starts by the Devils Garden campground where I had been too late to the party to get a campsite reservation for (it’s the lone car campground in the park).

Before leaving Goose Island, I had organized my trip belongings in the Fusion, using the backseat as a dresser for my clothes (shirts on one seat, shorts on another, etc.) and the trunk as my pantry for food items and water. The passenger seat was for my books, maps, hats, handkerchiefs, camera, and any other necessities. This made preparing for each hike rather simple.

Ah, the beauty of traveling alone!

After gathering belongings and stuffing them in my Camelback, I headed out on the 7.2-mile loop trail that visits — if you take all the spur trails — seven arches. The trail was mostly sandy, which I quickly learned because I was wearing my trail running shoes that have breathing holes on the side and on top and picked up sand as I went. Red canyon walls were a constant background on my hikes, and Arches was no different.

There was always something beautiful to look at. Dull moments hiking were few and far between.

It’s hard to describe the arches, but they were all different and offered something new to look at. Some of them, like Landscape Arch, looked made of a thin strip of rock, which, if you sat on it after a heavy lunch, you might break. Others, such as Partition Arch, were more of a round hole in a sturdy rock canyon wall. All the arches offered cool vantage points, which I tried to capture on camera.

In between the arch-gazing, I took the spur for the Dark Angel, a pointy rock spire at the northernmost spot of the trail and observed a few rock climbers attempting to scale the very vertical structure (I still have no interest in trying that!). When I turned around to return to the loop, I was treated to my first view, although distant, of the La Sal Mountains, which would constantly dominate the eastern horizon during my week. The snow-capped peaks are highlighted by Mt. Peale, which rise to 12,726 feet. By contrast, most of my hiking was between 5,000 and 6,000 feet.

As I completed the loop, I was glad I had gotten a relatively early start, as the Sunday tourist crowd was flowing in. Babies, Europeans. Those in jeans. Those in baggy shorts. You name it — Arches was a zoo of activity on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.

But my day was far from over.

My next stop was the Delicate Arch, a 1.5-mile hike to the east of the Primitive Loop. The hike involved scampering up a large, gradually sloping dome of rock. As I caught my breath, I passed dozens of hikers — a teenage school group, families with toddlers, more babies. This seemed to be another popular spot. And rightfully so.

After navigating a narrow, but flat ridge bordered by a rock wall on the right and a little drop-off on the left, I turned a corner and there, at the base of a large, shallow bowl of slick rock, was the arch. It looked to be about 25 feet tall and maybe 8 feet wide, standing elegantly and straight on the slick rock. Behind it, in the distance, was the La Sal range. I attempted, as did the dozens of others with cameras around me, to capture the arch with snow-capped peaks within it. I then walked down into the bowl of rock to the arch for a close-up examination of it. The arch looked pretty sturdy, not brittle, but hey, that’s just my take.

Maybe they named it “Delicate Arch” to keep tourists from banging on it. Just kidding, folks.

As the sun dropped in the sky, I did a couple more short hikes to fill the time — including a hike to an overlook of Delicate Arch from the east, which provided an interesting perspective of it from farther away, and, finally, a 2-mile out-and-back of Park Avenue that clearly resembled the bustling street in New York City minus all the noise. The trail that dropped down between towering walls of red rock provided me my first complete tranquility of the trip, as I was alone in the evening shadows — just the desert and me.

I would experience a lot more of that in the coming days.

Monday, April 15

FUN FACTS:

Miles hiked: 8.7

People seen: 3

Weather: Cloudy, rainy, 50s

I slept well Sunday night at the Goose Island campground, not waking until almost 8am. It was a good thing I pulled myself out of the tent at that point, because a few minutes later it started to lightly rain.

I quickly broke down my tent as much as I had to before stuffing it in the backseat, cooked some oatmeal while I still could, scarfed that down, and hopped into the Fusion. It was time to drive south to the Needles district of Canyonlands.

I made a few stops in Moab on the way south, knowing it would be the last civilization I’d pass through en route to the isolated section of the park. I picked up a pillow that was on sale for $4.99 (I figured it would be a comfortability upgrade from sleeping on my down jacket), I got some hot chocolate from the 7/11 (warm drinks are oh, so good when it’s cold out), and I lucked out when I passed a Wells Fargo that allowed me to get cash needed to pay for camping without paying an ATM fee.

Finally, it was go time.

After driving 50 miles south on 191, I came to the sign for 221 West and Canyonlands National Park. Within the first mile of driving, I passed a sign that read “Open Range.” A minute later I knew the meaning when I came upon a group of cattle right on the side of the road. Don’t see that every day, do ya? Luckily, they let me pass.

As I continued on the 30 miles of driving on the desolate, curving road, I became nervous — and not because of the cattle. I thought I might have made a big mistake by not putting any gas in the car back in Moab. As the needle crept toward the one-fourth-of-a-tank indicator, I wondered if I would be able to get the car to Needles and back to Moab, three days later, without running out of fuel.

I seriously considered turning around, getting gas in Moab, and then heading to Island in the Sky. Maybe I could do Needles later in the week.

Ultimately, though, I’m a risk taker, and I continued on.

I was saved any more anxiety when I came to the outskirts of the park and a sign for Needles Outpost that indicated they had gas. As I drove down the dirt road, I was a little skeptical. And I even wasn’t sure when I pulled up to the pump that looked straight out of the 1950s.

Did this thing really pump unleaded gas?

But the lady inside assured me it did, and I proceeded to pump three gallons of $6.50 gas — and I couldn’t have been happier about it.

Minutes later, I was driving within the Needles, heading toward Squaw Flat Campground — an arrangement of car campsites close to all the trailheads in the hiking district. The campsites were all first-come, first-served and pretty popular, so I was also nervous about securing a site.

I got the last one, No. 5, and filled out the slip of paper, indicating I’d be staying for three nights. After slipping the envelope with $45 in the pay slot, I attached the torn off piece of paper with my camping information (nights staying, license place) to the wooden post at the base of my site and went about setting up camp.

A little after 11am, I was settled at my new home and ready to hike! The sky was nebulous and it was chilly outside, so I picked a hike that wasn’t too long — the 10-mile there-and-back to the Peekaboo campsite to the southeast of where I was staying.

The first couple miles of hiking were extremely easy, as I walked along a mostly dirt path through grass and desert fauna. I passed a pair of older hikers stopped for a snack, glad to see other people were on the same trail. Besides seeing them, I felt like I had the wilderness to myself (even though I could see for miles in all directions).

I then reached the slick rock, a combination of grays and reds that I would become very familiar with over the course of the week. I scampered up a steep slope of rock, was hit with stiff winds, and then hiked delicately along the top of a downward sloping wall of rock — the trail marked by small cairns.

After navigating my way down the rock, I reached my first “dry wash,” a sandy, beach-like path that fills up very quickly with water during the rainy, monsoon season. While rain was threatening, I wasn’t too worried about a monsoon. Hiking in the wash was easy — and I enjoyed the random yellow, red and lavender wildflowers along the path — but I did get a lot of sand in my trail running shoes that found its way through the ventilation holes in the tops of the shoes.

After a mile or so, I climbed back up to the slick rock and enjoyed an extended period of horshoeing along the tops of narrow canyons. The scenery was incredible and the footing was great. As long as the rock stayed dry, I wasn’t worry about slipping, even when descending steeply.

But the sky was ominous, and when I passed an unexpected fellow hiker, he responded to my salutation with a grunted “good luck.” Hmm, I thought to myself. Am I doing something stupid here? It still wasn’t raining, so I pressed on, hating the thought of turning back on such a cool hike.

Awhile later though, as I inched my way across a down sloping rock slab — which only had a few feet to spare before a steep drop-off — and felt a few drops of rain, I made the difficult decision. It was time to turn around. Peekaboo campground would have to wait for my visit.

Of course, the rest of the afternoon was beautiful. The few raindrops I felt on the return trip quickly dissipated, and the sun came out. It was disappointing, but I made the most of the remaining daylight hours.

First, I drove to Pothole Point, a short 0.6-mile hike on slick rock where I found a perfect reading spot and sat down in the sun surrounded by incredible beauty and peacefulness. While I’m often the restless type, unable to sit still for long periods of time, I was able to stay in this special place for over an hour, actually dozing off for a couple minutes at one point.

It helped that my book, “Wild” by Cheryl Strayed, was really good, too.

Later in the afternoon, on the ranger’s recommendation, I drove to Cave Spring — another 0.6-mile loop that takes you past caves, up a ladder to an open rock cropping, and then back down through a mini desert swarming with cacti to the parking area.

I only hiked about 8.7 miles Tuesday, but I felt I experienced a bit of everything. At the very least, I had gotten my Needles appetizer — with the main course and dessert in the desert still to come.

I headed back to my campsite, boiled some water for soup and hot chocolate, and then crept into my tent as darkness and the desert chill arrived at once.

Tuesday, April 16

FUN FACTS:

Miles hiked: 16

People seen: about a dozen

Weather: Partly sunny, 60s

I woke up at 6:30 a.m. on Tuesday already a bit cold with the wind howling outside my $69 Eureka one-person tent (one of the best buys I’ve ever made). I forced myself out of the tent, blew on my hands in a futile attempt to warm them, then scrambled up the slick rock behind my campsite for view of the sunrise while attempting to eat breakfast. The wind caused my stove to go out twice, but I finally got it going and hovered over the flame to protect it. I WANTED MY OATMEAL!

The sun rose close to 7 a.m., glowing, but the cold, windy conditions weren’t going anywhere. It was early, but I wasn’t going to warm up sitting around. It was time to make moves.

My hike involved a 15.4-mile loop to the Druid Arch encompassing the Big Spring Canyon Trail, Squaw Canyon Trail, Druid Arch Trail, and Elephant Canyon Trail.

I started out hiking on a packed-down dirt path, wondering if the weather would behave to allow me to finish a hike that would involve a lot of time in the dry wash. The sky was gloomy, and the ranger I’d talked to the previous afternoon had forecasted afternoon rain. With that in mind, I kept up a pretty good pace. After a couple miles, it was time to shed the fleece, hat and pants, as I was warm and about to hike up some slick rock. Quickly gaining elevation, I came to a ladder up a steep rock wall. I couldn’t see anything but blue, cloudy sky about it.

I felt like I was climbing toward some sort of heaven.

In a way, I was. I scrambled down the slick rock on the other side and took a minute to gaze around me. Like the afternoon before, I was in a rock amphitheater, surrounded by towering walls, spires, mounds — you name the shape. When I looked down, there were the pine trees of the dry wash. There was so much to look at!

Upon reaching the junction with Squaw Canyon after 2.1 miles, the remaining 4.6 miles of walking was entirely in the wash — meaning lots of sand. One thing about a trail in the dry wash is, it’s easy to find. Even if you miss a cairn or two, you know where it’s going. Still, I was in an unfamiliar land and the cairns gave me peace of mind. Seeing that next small pile of rocks let me know that I was on the right track and that regardless of how desolate the desert canyon seemed or how alone I appeared to be in such a expansive space, I knew exactly where I was.

After following cairns on the beach for awhile, I reached what appeared to be the rocky ascent to Druid Arch. I passed two women descending and asked if I was close. They replied that I was mere minutes away. They were right.

A couple minutes later, I emerged from the loose rock hillside and gazed at, by far, the coolest structure I’d seen all week (and that’s saying something, considering I had visited Arches).

The Druid Arch, tall and rectangular, featured a vertical opening of light on its left side — from my vantage point — and a sliver of a opening on its right. It was akin to a very oddly, but cool, designed window. I don’t know how else to describe it.

I slung off my Camelback, took out my rice crackers and sunflower seed butter, devoured my lunch, read my book, got some sun, and basked in being in such a cool place.

Of course, the sky back to the north and west still looked gloomy, so I didn’t hang out forever. I still had 7 miles left to hike back to base camp. Others apparently weren’t worried about possible rain, as I passed a couple groups of people heading to the arch as I retraced the 2.5 miles in the dry wash to the trail junction.

Finishing the loop via the Elephant Canyon Trail, I met a camper at my final trail intersection with whom I chatted for a good 10 minutes. He was out for a four-day camping trip and had just driven from hiking in Zion and Bryce national parks (on my agenda for my next Utah trip!). He said snow had dumped on him during his time at the parks in the southwest quadrant of the state, making hiking difficult as the trails weren’t that well marked.

I wondered if I’d see any snow during the upcoming days. The ranger had mentioned the possibility of a white shower for Wednesday. Only time would tell.

I took my time the last couple miles of the hike, as the sky was less threatening and I was walking on beautiful long stretches of open rock. I laid down and read my book, gaining compliments from a pair of older, European ladies taking advantage of the wonderful day to strap on a daypack and hike.

I finished the loop around 3:30pm, giving me plenty of time for afternoon activities. One I was curious to try had nothing to do with hiking. The man I’d chatted to had mentioned a trick he’d learned about getting cellphone service with his Verizon phone. I only wanted to use mine to check in with the Dad and let him know I hadn’t fallen off some cliff, and this trick seemed pretty cool. I decided to give it a try.

I drove back outside the park to the outpost, parked the Fusion at the gas pump, and walked inside. The same woman from the day before met me with a warm smile, and when I mentioned to her why I was back, she smiled and waved for me to follow her back out the door. She instructed me to place my right elbow on top of the bright-yellow gas tank and point my phone to the southeast.

“Dial,” she said.

Sure enough, I had one to two bars of service. The first time, the call didn’t go through. The woman took my shoulders as if teaching me proper golf posture, and told me to try again. Success! She rushed back inside to get out of the howling wind, as I chatted with the parents. It would be my lone phone correspondence from Needles, and a special, memorable one at that.

Tuesday evening, I had the idea of cooking dinner and taking in sunset on top of the rocks on the Cave Spring trail, but the wind had other ideas. I failed miserably to get my stove going. And it wasn’t looking like much of a sunset. I drove back to camp, took my stove under the rock overhang behind my site, and tried the stove again.

I got it going for a minute or so, but then the wind extinguished the flame.

I ate lukewarm black bean soup for dinner. It was still pretty good. Minutes later, I layered up, brushed and flossed, and crawled into my tent for another intermittent night of rest.

Wednesday, April 17

FUN FACTS:

Miles hiked: 13.4

People seen: 2

Weather: Snowy, partly cloudy, 50s (eventually)

All night, it sounded like it was raining on my tent. I would wake up and hear the pattering. I would fall back asleep. This pattern continued for what seemed to be an eternity.

When the outside noise finally ceased, I unzipped the rain fly and a chunk of SNOW fell off it. I looked around and the entire area had been blanketed by an inch of snow. And the white stuff was still falling.

I was in a winter wonderland on April 17!

It was very cold out — shocker! — but so beautiful. I thought for a minute about whether I’d be able to hike in the snow, but I quickly dismissed my concerns. I had to try. What else was I to do? Lay in my tent all day? Forget about it! I searched the Fusion for a window scraper and was surprised to find one. Utah folks know their state! Then I stuffed my most low-maintenance food items (read: can pull out at any time and devour without preparation) in my Camelback, a mix of Larabars, nuts and spicy buffalo Kettle chips, and drove to my trailhead for the day.

My hike was an 11-mile out-and-backer on the Confluence Overlook Trail, with the endpoint a nice viewing area of the spot where the Green River is absorbed by the Colorado River (fifth longest river in the United States; can you name ‘em?). My concern as I began the hike around 9 a.m. was that it might be difficult to follow the path in the snow. That was quickly assuaged by another excellently routed trail marked by cairns. Throughout the week, I was very impressed with how easy trails were to follow in the desert environment.

Snow continued to fall as I began my hike by descending into Elephant Canyon. Less than a mile after going down, I ascended out of the canyon. This would be a theme throughout the hike — a little up, a little down. I took note of the 1-mile mark where I could look back, across the canyon, and see the trail head and even my car featuring a new, thin layer of white.

As I continued on, going up and down, up and down, I was shocked to pass a pair of guys who looked to be carrying just daypacks. They must have started really early, I thought. I surmised I wouldn’t see another sign of human civilization the rest of my hike. I would be right.

I hiked through a large field of sage brush, all the prettier with a coating of white. The sky was white and cloudy, giving off the cool feel of being in the clouds. Through the white, I could see the shrouded tips of spires to the west that are part of the eerily isolated and infamous Maze District of the Canyonlands — the one part of the national park I wasn’t visiting on my trip.

(Note: The Maze is extremely rugged, trails are few and far between, and you have to drive a couple hours on dirt roads — with no gas stations, no nothing — just to reach it. One of these years, I want to visit the Maze. But I want to be with someone, or be mentally tougher than I am today.)

After what seemed like miles upon miles of walking in the winter wonderland that I had all to myself, I reached a sign indicating I had 1.1 miles to the Overlook. This was also where the path intersected with a jeep road, which I took for 0.6 miles to a parking lot with an outhouse that I’d use on the return trip. For now, though, I was excited to be so close to my destination.

The final half mile was a breeze of an ascent, followed by an anticipation-filled walk over rock to the outlook. And then I was there. The guidebook was right when it warned about the sheer drop-off and to keep kids back. I was not a kid doing that. I walked to the edge and sat down, taking in the view of the rivers maybe a thousand feet below me flanked by high canyon walls.

Of all the places I’ve been during my hiking travels and adventures, this one was truly unique. I had never experienced a river confluence before. I took it all in, devoured all my easy-access snacks, and internally berated myself for not, in my hasty preparation, bringing my book. The weather had tamed a bit, I was plenty warm, and I had all day.

I just didn’t have my book.

I stayed at the overlook for about 25 minutes. When I turned around to head back, something miraculous had happened.

The snow — ALL OF IT — was gone. Just like that.

It had been there when I’d arrived, but now, as if removed by the world’s largest vacuum cleaner, it had disappeared.

Not that I was complaining. I kept my layers on for most of the return hike, finally stopping with about 1.5 miles left to strip down to shorts and a T-shirt. When I made the final ascent to the trail head after 4 hours, 59 minutes of hiking, I was welcomed by a handful of tourists enjoying the views from above. An older guy with his wife asked if I’d done the entire trail. When I replied affirmatively, he jokingly asked his wife if she was interested. When she declined, he said, “I need a new wife.”

A minute later, he followed that up with, “It sucks to be old.” He then told me how awesome Island in the Sky — my destination for the next three days — was, especially the Grand View overlook.

In the afternoon, I made sure to pack my book and did the lone short trail I hadn’t visited yet, the 2.2-mile Slickrock Foot Trail. It was one of those trails where I could have stopped every 2 minutes and sat down to enjoy an incredible vista. I was hiking on top of the world, with 360-degree views throughout. The clouds were incredible, the distant canyon walls magnificent, and I could see Island in the Sky to the north, which got me thinking of what I still had to look forward to during what had already seemed a long week.

I finally picked a spot and sat down to continue reading “Wild,” letting myself relax with the knowledge that I had covered a great deal of ground in the park — whether covered by dirt, snow or rock — and experienced a bit of everything.

My final night in Needles, the stove worked and I enjoyed a final dinner at my campsite. Afterward, I drove down to the campfire ring where a ranger told fables about mischievous coyotes and the rich history of the region.

Then I crawled into my tent, read a few more pages, and turned out the light on Part 2 of my Southern Utah Hiking Adventure.

Thursday, April 18

FUN FACTS:

Miles hiked: 9.6

People seen: 1

Weather: Sunny, high 50s

I woke up after another night of fits and starts around 6:50 a.m., got out of the tent with sleep in my eyes, and emerged into freezing cold. The reward? I took in a beautiful sunrise over the buttes and snow-capped La Sal mountains to the east.

Minutes later, I got back on the road, winding down the twisting, empty road as the sky brightened in the early morning hours. I couldn’t help myself from pulling over on the side of 191 North for a picture of the La Sal peaks shrouded in clouds just to the east.

I next made a pit stop at a McDonald’s in Moab (I hadn’t been to a McDonald’s in ages) to charge my camera and, for the first time in three days, do a quick check of email. I spent most of the week distancing myself from my day-to-day life. Even if I had service in the Island in the Sky district of the park, I told myself, this would be the last time I’d immerse myself in that world.

The Island in the Sky is located north of Needles, and I entered the park that sits up in the sky — the name is perfect — right around 10am, which was perfect because that was checkout time for the Willow Flat campground that was first-come, first serve. Just like three days earlier, I found the last available spot in the scenic campground. I pitched my tent under a leafless tree that was very picturesque and perfectly framed the tent.

Then it was time to begin hiking. My Day 1 plan was to begin with the Gooseberry trail, a 1,400-descent from the sky down to White Rim Road — the famous mountain biking trek that covers 100 miles within the park’s basins. The guidebook had described the beginning of the hike as a bit intimidating, as from the top of the trail the view was straight down. I felt like I was at the Grand Canyon as I began navigating the expertly routed switchbacks, some of which had snow that I assumed was leftover from Wednesday’s shower.

The first mile and a half was steep, but the trail wasn’t difficult to descend because it was so well-routed. When I reached the dry wash, it was an easy, pleasant mile and a half on the canyon floor to the trail’s terminus and White Rim Road. As I walked up to the dirt road, I saw mountain bikers for the first time riding the narrow, bumpy trek. Mountain biking could be fun, but when hiking is an option as well, I have no desire to go through the trouble of acquiring the equipment for a ride. When hiking, all I need are my amazingly durable feet!

I spent an hour basking in the mid-afternoon sun and reading on the edge of deep Gooseberry canyon, a lower canyon than the one I was in. Then I turned around. When I reached the end of the wash and passed the only person I would see (a guy in a 49ers jersey), the temperature was maybe in the mid-50s but I knew I would expand plenty of energy on the 1,400-foot ascent. I stripped down to my polypro short sleeve and shorts and started climbing. I sweated through my shirt on the ascent, not stopping (but admiring the impressive views at each switchback) until I reached a rock outcropping just below the rim. I decided to stop there for a few minutes for some reading. (Note: While I enjoyed being by myself, I would have loved to have company during my hikes, especially a great photographer like my Dad, considering how many ledges there were where I could have added to my “sitting above a 1,000-foot drop” Facebook album.)

I returned to the trailhead, and the cold at the higher elevation, after 3 hours and 41 minutes on the trail. I still had a full afternoon of hiking possibilities in front of me.

After dropping off some of my Camelback supplies, I returned to the same trailhead and took the right fork this time, walking an easy, flat 0.8 miles to White Rim Overlook — and what an overlook it was. I started singing “Paradise” as I walked out on the flat rock to an outcropping with awesome views of the La Sal Range to the east and the plethora of canyons and White Rim Road below. I took it all in, read a few more chapters of my book, wondered how such an amazing spot could be so empty (I was all alone) and then turned around for my next destination.

I drove about a mile farther down the road to the most popular Grand View overlook/trail, which the couple had told me about after my hike the previous day. The parking lot was pretty full, and it didn’t take me long to figure out why. A beautiful afternoon. An easy walk with incredible views. This was a tourist’s paradise, minus the ice cream cone stand.

The trail was a mile long, and the first 0.7 miles crept along flat rock ledges that offered expansive views to the east. I could have stopped at each outcropping, plopped down and read my book. There were almost too many amazing spots to choose from. For the first time all trip, I actually found someone to take my picture (maybe a blessing in disguise!). The mostly flat trail became even cooler when, over the last 0.3 miles, it made a turn to the southwest and ended up at a ledge offering views in those directions.

So, yes, to summarize: A 1-mile trail on top of the world offered amazing views in every direction and dozens of ledges perfect for sitting down, reading a book, and basking in utopia. Not bad.

I could have — and maybe should have — stayed at the spot for sunset, but I was hungry for dinner (food after a day of hiking tastes so, so good!), so I walked back to the parking lot and drove the 6 miles or so to the campsite, where I gorged myself on ramen AND oatmeal. It was a large dinner, and it also left me without much time to enjoy the sunset. I hopped back in the car and drove south on the road I had taken earlier, but the sun was dropping quickly in the sky. I pulled over at a spot where I could park and ran down to a rock outcropping where I could sit and watch the light disappear in the sky. A perfect sunset it was not. But I wasn’t complaining.

I still had two full days in this incredible place.

Friday, April 19

FUN FACTS:

Miles hiked: 16.9 (highest mileage day)

People seen: About a dozen

Weather: Cold in morning, sunny and hottest day in afternoon

I woke up Friday morning at 6:30 a.m., crawled out of my tent, and quickly got in the car, which told me it was 28 degrees outside. It felt colder! The reason I got up so early was to see the sun rise over the La Sal range — an image in my head I couldn’t stop thinking about. I’ve been on many great hiking trips, but I haven’t often had the chance to watch a sunrise over snow-capped, 12,000-foot mountains.  

I drove to the overlook, grabbed my breakfast materials from the trunk (stove, gas, pot, mug, oatmeal, raisins, cherries, spoon, water, hot chocolate packet) and walked out to the spot. My hands were freezing as I operated the stove, getting the water boiling. As it boiled, I paced around and snapped a few pictures as the sun rose over the distant range. It wasn’t quite as amazing as I’d anticipated, but I was also very cold. The stove fizzled out after a couple minutes, and I was left with lukewarm oatmeal and hot chocolate, which was still better than nothing. I gulped it down, trying to un-numb my fingers. I performed some jumping jacks to stay warm, then packed up my stuff and decided to start my hiking day. The plan was to hike the Syncline Loop, which was 7.9 miles and included a 1.4-mile spur to the Upheaval Dome crater.

I was on the trail at 8:17 a.m. wearing all my layers (polypro T-shirt, polypro long sleeve, fleece, down coat, rain jacket outer layer, hat and gloves). The first 1 to 2 miles was descending — you sense the theme here? — down to the wash, where I finally stopped to shed layers. From there, I followed the easy, flat path, which was relatively unspectacular compared to a lot of the other hiking I’d done, to the trail junction with the Upheaval Dome spur trail.

I didn’t know what to expect on the spur trail, but I certainly didn’t anticipate seeing another person, which is exactly what happened when I came upon a man, probably in his 60s, who told me, upon exchanging salutations, “If you’re not good today, you’ll never be good.” Amen, I thought. We chatted for a few minutes (my second longest conversation of the trip, coming in behind the one on the Druid Arch hike) and then I continued on, following the wide dry wash. The day was quickly heating up and I was hiking on sand, so I might as well have been on a beach — just a beach with large rock walls on either side of me instead of water (which was nowhere to be found). Finally I came to the crater or dome, which was unimpressive from the trail. The best way to describe it would be to say that there were several rock mounds that were a distinct Spearmint color, making them stand out from the otherwise red and gray rock dominating the canyon. I’ll leave the geology to someone who understands it much better than me (I don’t remember too much from my freshman year of college course), but apparently there is great debate as to how the dome ended up in the middle of the canyon. More on this later.

After retracing my steps, I came to my favorite part of the otherwise unspectacular hike — a very rocky section that reminded me of New Hampshire’s Presidential range. I did some boulder hopping then came to a spot where an arrow drilled into the rock indicated that the trail squeezed through a rather small opening up to my right in between giant rocks.

Coolest part of the trail, hands down.

The tail then descended into a flat, lush area where I was shocked to find, yes, running water. It was only a trickle, but the stream to my left did have some water. I hadn’t carried my water purifier all week — there was no need, considering my Camelback could carry all I’d need; also, there wasn’t any water! — and this was the first time I could have used it.

The last couple miles of the hike, I kept waiting to leave the wash. I knew from the map that I would veer off to the right before returning to the parking lot, so I knew I needed to separate from the wash eventually. But several times the trail meandered away from the wash, only to return to the sandy base of the canyon. Finally, though, it headed up and to the right for the final time, and minutes later I returned to the sunbaked parking lot — 5 hours, 58 minutes and 10.7 miles after starting — where tourists had arrived in droves to “hike” the 0.3 or 0.8 miles to the Upheaval Dome overlook.

After unloading most of my Camelback supplies, I returned to the trail to join up with the hordes of folks in jeans, sandals, and other casual wear. As I made the easy ascent to the first lookout, I thought about how much of an instant gratification society we’ve become. People don’t want to put in the work for the great view. They’d rather take a stroll of 0.3 miles, without sweating, and get it. In places like Island in the Sky, those opportunities are readily available. I passed by the first outlook, continuing down a large, expansive section of slick rock, then up, then back down to the quieter second outlook.

Shockingly (or maybe not), I had the outlook to myself — see my “instant gratification” point above — and it gave me a much greater vantage point of the dome than when I had been below it a couple hours earlier. The pointy mini mountains stood out because of their Spearmint pigmentation cast against the backdrop of the red-clay canyon walls. It was one of those things in nature you know you’ll likely never see again. I took it in, I relaxed under the bright sun, I read my new book about minor league pitcher Dirk Hayhurst, and I enjoyed the tranquility despite the troves of tourists less than half a mile above me.

When I returned to the Fusion, it told me the temperature was 67 degrees outside. The sun might have influenced the thermometer, but it was definitely the warmest weather I’d experienced since Arches. I continued my hiking tour by driving to Whale Rock, where I ascended an easy 0.5 miles to a large, flat rock with 360-degree views. Incredibly, I had it all to myself. I looked east to the snow-capped peaks. I looked south toward the Needles. I looked north toward where I’d just hiked. I could have stayed on that rock all afternoon and been perfectly content, but I had places to be.

I drove a couple miles down the road to the trailhead for Aztec Butte (pronounced “bute,” by the way, not “butt”), and strolled 0.6 miles (including a nice, steep ascent on slick rock) up the butte to the flat, round top — which, I figured, is what distinguishes a butte from just a rock; when you’re on top, you’re on a table that’s perfectly flat. I walked the circular trail on top, stopping at the spot closest to the La Sal range and taking in the incredible views.

I didn’t stay for long atop the butte, though, because I wanted to get back to my Grand View spot for sunset. After returning to the Fusion, I quickly packed up the Camelback with all the necessary dinner items, put on my long johns and other nighttime apparel, then drove the 8 miles back to one of my favorite spots. As the sun dropped in the sky, it cast awesome shadows to the east that provided me with great photo opportunities as I walked along those outcroppings the first 0.7 miles of the trail.

Then I veered to the southwest, reached my ledge around 7:30 p.m., got the stove cooking before devouring a split pea soup/pecan shortbread cookie/hot chocolate dinner/dessert, and enjoyed an incredibly peaceful, beautiful sunset in an amazing spot that I somehow, again, had to myself.

I walked back to the car in the dark, not needing my headlight because of the sky lit up with stars. I couldn’t have felt more relaxed, more at ease in a place gigantic in size yet as comforting as my childhood house’s living room. Finally, I convinced myself to drive back to the campsite and call it a night. It was close to 9:30 p.m.

One. More. Day.

Saturday, April 20

FUN FACTS:

Miles hiked: 15.1

People seen: 1 (not including mountain bikers)

Despite my long day of hiking Friday, I didn’t sleep well yet again during the night. This was the only theme of the week I wasn’t happy about. I slept in a bit — in fits and starts — because of the sound of unexpected rain pattering on my tent’s rain fly. When the noise ceased, I stepped outside just before 8 a.m. I was in no rush to break camp, as I had just one hike planned for the day that I knew wouldn’t take too long. I sat at the picnic table under the canopy, read my third book of the week, and enjoyed a final oatmeal with raisins and dried cherries breakfast. It’s amazing how good food tastes when you’re outside.

I got going a bit after 9 a.m., driving down the familiar road and pulling into the parking lot for the Murphy trail. My hiking plan was to do the 10.5-mile loop, which involved a diverse set of paths.

The wind was whipping as I set out with all six of my layers on, knowing from experience that I’d be stripping them off within an hour. The first half mile was a breeze of a walk on a dirt path. Then I reached the fork, where I turned left for the loop. Later Saturday evening, I would turn right to hike to Murphy Point for sunset. But more on that later.

Within minutes, I entered Murphy Basin and began descending down a switchback trail similar, if a little less steep, to the Gooseberry Trail from two days prior. The views stretched for miles to the west, as I took in the lower basins that dominated the landscape all the way to the Colorado River (which I couldn’t see). Sage brush was the prominent feature of the basins.

As I descended, I felt a bit lethargic and even shaky on my feet. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe the previous day’s load was wearing on me? I took an unusual break within the first mile and a half to sit down, inhale a Larabar, and attempt to rid myself of that feeling. I made it to the canyon floor, where I reached another fork and decided to turn left and get the 2.7 miles of dry wash tramping out of the way. On the way back, I would be rewarded with 2.8 miles on the beautiful, scenic Hogback trail. Work before play, folks.

After another uneventful dry wash hike, I took a right on White Rim Road for my first experience walking the 100-mile mountain biker’s paradise. From the start of my 1-mile stint on the narrow, winding dirt trek, I was going up. As I walked up a seemingly never-ending section, getting a serious workout, I came upon a biker who had stopped for lunch. He told me he was doing all 100 miles and had started at 6 a.m. He had done 55.4 miles by noon. He mentioned that there were some spots where he had to walk his 27-gear bike, including the incredibly, steep long hill we were standing on. Still, I was pretty impressed. Maybe one of these years I’ll try the century biking challenge.

I continued up the hill, which finally reached a flat spot at a car campground (note: only four-wheel drive vehicles such as jeeps can navigate the road’s potholes, dips, boulders and other obstacles) and I took a break on a rock that provided an expansive view to the west. My final lunch break (sigh...). Then I continued on the final stretch of road and quickly reached the 2.8-mile Hogback section of the loop, a flat packed-down dirt path meandering through sage brush.

I could have hiked on the Hogback for dozens of miles, it was so easy and pleasant.

For the umpteenth time of the week, I felt like I was in the middle of a giant stadium with towering, majestic walls all around me. As I neared the end of the loop section of the hike, I gazed up at the sky-high wall of red rock above me and the Hummer-sized boulders below it and wondered, How the hell did they end up there? I had no answers and didn’t care. They made my surroundings that much more enjoyable. That was all that mattered to me.

On the ascent out of Murphy Basin, I stopped at the same rock face that I had sat on during my wobbly descent and realized, sadly, that my bandana/handkerchief that I’d looped through a Camelback strap had fallen out. It was the first, and last, item I lost all week. Otherwise, all my gear returned home with me.

In the late afternoon, I drove east toward the visitor center and stopped at the Shafer Canyon lookout — one of the few “tourist” spots I hadn’t visited yet. I walked a few hundred feet down to a ledge with awesome views to the east. The foreground was framed by the canyon rims on each side, with White Rim Road winding down below me. Mountain bikers looked like ants from where I stood. And beyond the canyon and the not-visible Colorado River, made all the more picturesque by white, puffy clouds, stood the ever-impressive La Sal mountains — a range I could never grow tired of admiring. I sat on the ledge, let my feet dangle over the few-hundred feet drop, and tried to take it all in.

How could it get much better than this?

Finally, my last evening arrived, and I packed up my dinner items, my book, and my warm clothes and headed back to the Murphy trailhead for the 1.5-mile jaunt out to Murphy Point. As I walked the southwest path, the waning sun’s reflections on the canyon rims, buttes, and snow-capped peaks made for beautiful scenery.

When I reached the point, I was hungry and I still had some time until the 8 p.m. sunset, so I got out my box of mac and cheese and my stove and gas canister. The problem: I was dealing with Mt. Washington winds! I wasn’t giving up, though. I deserved food! I found a spot under a rock overhang shielded from the gale forces and was able to get the stove going. It took awhile, but 20 minutes later I had my pot of delicious gluten-free mac and cheese. I devoured it, then crammed my mouth with my last two pecan shortbread cookies.

Now, for that view!

One thing that I learned throughout the week, and that my expert photographer Dad reinforced when I talked to him afterward, is that pictures of the sun as it sets are not as good as pictures of the reflections cast by the setting sun to the east and other horizons. So as the light in the sky faded, I gazed at the glow cast on my Grand View spot of a day ago to the south. I was too far down to have a view back to the east, but I enjoyed looking below me and identifying the trail I’d traversed earlier in the day. And then, just like that, the sun was gone and darkness began to envelope the gaping desert.

As I walked back, I thought about my week. I thought about the dozens of ravens swooping through the canyons. I thought about the perfectly routed trails and the tiny cairns that somehow withstood whatever Mother Nature threw at them. I thought about the snow. I thought about all the tiny lizards I’d seen, too fast to stop for a photo. I thought about the food and how good even the most simplistic snacks tasted in the Great Outdoors. I thought about being alone for such a long time, and about the tranquility I experienced distancing myself from the distractions of daily life. I thought about the books I’d read, about Cheryl Strayed and her incredible solo journey on the Pacific Crest Trail — a story that gave me strength on my not-so-difficult, much shorter journey. I thought about how hiking had healed her, how something so simple yet so powerful as walking mile after mile outdoors can be so cathartic.

And then, as the sky became pitch black and the stars came out, I reached the parking lot — my final full day of hiking complete. When I returned to my campsite, I knew I needed to sleep so I could wake up early and drive over four hours the next day. But the sky was plastered with millions of stars and the temperature was mild. It was a perfect night. I sat on a rock by my tent and took it all in one last time.  

Sunday, April 21

I woke up a bit after 6 a.m. on my own Sunday, packed up all my things efficiently, removed the slip of paper from the clip indicating I was staying at the campsite, and drove to the crowded Mesa Arch parking lot. When I had asked the ranger on Friday about the best sunrise spot in the park, she hadn’t hesitated in telling me, “Mesa Arch.” Minutes later, after a short walk, I knew why when I came upon dozens of photographers with their tripods out.

In front of them, the bright, early morning sun shone through a small, rather horizontal arch. It was the perfect lens through which to capture the sunrise, but I was still impressed by the number of people up early on another cold Utah morning to take in the scene. I was no professional, but I wiggled my way between a couple of the tripods to snap a few shots with my handheld camera, gazed at the sun reflecting on the incredible rock structure one last time, then headed back to the trail to complete the 0.5-mile loop.

Minutes later, I was on my way back to Salt Lake City.

Eight days.

90.9 miles hiked.

Countless incredible views.

Dozens of soaring ravens.

And hours upon hours of tranquility in an incredible place.

Southeast Utah, a gem of a place I’ll never forget.

Experience it for yourself!

12.21-23, 2012 — Allegheny Front Trail, 42 miles

Written by Michael Martin
Organizer of DC UL Backpacking

We have encountered winter; we engaged it; and we prevailed.

I'm sure many of you are curious to learn that Brian, Doug W, Jen, Jake, and I made it around the Allegheny Front Trail over the weekend, despite the storm. 41 miles in about 51 hours. A low in the high teens, winds between 10-20 mph, with the occasional gust up to 40mph ... and 3-5 inches of fresh snow on the ground.

I won't say it was easy, but we did it. I'll post pictures and a more detailed description later.

***

So here's how it went down.

Despite the iffy weather report, we five met up at Grosvenor Metro Friday morning and drove out to Philipsburg, PA, and the trailhead where Six Mile Run crosses 504. Yours truly is fine hiking and backpacking in winter weather, but a bit of a wimp when it comes to driving in winter weather, so I was glad to see that there were only a few flurries on the road. There was lots of conversation about whether we'd use trail runners or boots, but when we reached the trailhead there was only a little accumulation--Jen and Brian went with trail shoes, the rest went with boots. 

As we knew from October's trip, the first few miles of the AFT are gentle enough. We took our time, and covered the 10-ish miles from Six Mile Run to Brenner Run in the few hours before sunset. Red Moshannon Creek was especially red against the snowy backdrop. When we reached Brenner Run, I learned that Laura Guay and I had camped only perhaps a quarter of a mile from where the group had camped--yes, we were that close.

We camped at the little campsite on the near side of the bridge over Brenner Creek. It was snowing steadily by that point, and though we managed a convivial camp, we were in bed quite quickly. No one was inclined to gather firewood and start a fire.

Saturday--virtually the shortest day of the year--I made the mistake of not starting us off till just after 8am. We had planned to walk a 20 mile day, but the fresh snow made that quite difficult. Very gentle slopes, things we wouldn't really have noticed in any other season, felt like terrible slogs. By mid-day, the wind was blowing hard. We crossed the Allegheny front, a walk along a moderately exposed views--it was chilly. I told everyone that we weren't going fast enough to make 20 that day, and that to finish the trail, we'd have to walk more on Sunday. Morale was at a low ebb. Jen and I both commented that we needed to get off that ridge. Brian looked at us like, "Why?" He is obviously better adapted to the cold than most of us. Ask him how cold he pushed his bag, and marvel ... He suggested that I needed to eat more food, and he was right.

We reached Smay's Run--15 miles for the day. A good solid backpacking day, especially given the circumstances, but I was worried that we might have to resign ourselves to not finishing the trip. I really did not want to have to revisit the AFT again this year! Saturday night was cold ... The wind was considerable. We all pitched shelters, ate, and basically climbed in our bags to wait for dawn. Of the 51 hours we spent on the trail, about half that was in the shelters!

(For me, I had a few moments when I was reminded of how different winter is than the other seasons. Everything froze. Zippers failed to work. We contended with epic levels of condensation in the shelters. My 3-season gear is really dialed in at this point, but the winter stuff could use some refinement.) 

Everyone woke up at 6am Sunday. The thermometer read just about 19 degrees. Not the coldest for most of us, but a brisk morning, especially if you factored in the wind chill. Thankfully, though, the wind had stopped by that point.

Sunday was the sort of winter backpacking day you dream about. The sun slanting in from the southern skies, a bluebird sky through the afternoon, the snow usually crusted rather hard and good for walking. Despite some navigational issues (the AFT really needs its blazes standardized), we made great time, and ticked off the miles. By 2pm or so, we had walked 15 miles. We knew the trail was more or less done, and we were dreaming of pub grub in State College.

But the AFT had one last surprise for us. After a circuitous early afternoon in its SW quadrant, we reached Six Mile Run. The sign said just 2 miles to 504, which is where the cars were. We walked through a majestic alley of pines, frosted in snow, feeling rather good about ourselves. But then came "Rhododendron rage." The trail detoured from the direct path, following an icy side-hill. Then, the path, narrowly surrounded by rhododendron, became a perverse backpacking obstacle course. We literally had to crawl on our hands and knees under the ice-bent plants. Shouts of "Damn you, rhododendron!" could be heard. I expected to round a corner and see Doug or Jake clutched by fronds. We endured an absurdly difficult last mile of trail to reach the car.

We salved our wounds at Otto's brewery in State College (good beer, cheap pizza), and then headed home. Our final splits, according to GPS, were 10-15-17.

I would like to thank everyone for sticking this out with me, through some rather tough conditions. I would especially like to shout out to Jake. For a new guy to come out and do this trip as his first with the group is really quite remarkable--a real trial by ice! Brian broke more trail than anyone--I don't think we would have made it without his recollections of the trail. Jen and Doug were excellent, strong, backpacking companions. All in all, it was a perfect group.

11.9-11, 2012 — Jerome, AZ

I spent my final couple days in Arizona in a much different climate from the sun-baked, 90 degree temperatures of Tucson and Sierra Vista. After a relaxing Thursday at Greg and Sara’s — I was dropped off in the morning by Dad and spent the day by myself, working and buying Greg a bike lock; in the evening, I joined Greg and some of his coworkers at Four Peaks Brewery — it was time to head north to Jerome, which is about 20 miles southwest of Sedona and about an hour away from Flagstaff and the state’s highest, snow-capped peaks.

Greg and I got on the road after an oil change that took too long, hitting the road a bit before noon. The drive was about two hours and was beautiful as we drove up and over hills and between mountain ranges. We stopped in Cottonwood, a town just southeast of Jerome, to play a round of disc golf. Greg was very good. I was very bad. Still, it was a lot of fun; we enjoyed the cool weather that reminded us of Michigan; and the clouds over the nearby mountain ranges made for scenic surroundings. We then stopped in Clarkdale at Concho’s mexican restaurant for some nachos and followed that up by crossing the street to the Hippie Emporium (I kid you not!), which featured everything from pipes, to incense, to a foot-massaging room, to a corner filled with old vinyl records. That was cool, but we were ready for Jerome, which sits a mile high up on a hill below Mingus Mountain.

Jerome, according to a website, is “America’s Most Vertical City” and the “Largest Ghost Town in America.” I wouldn’t be surprised if other towns lay claim to these titles, but Jerome is certainly in the conversation. Jerome is a historic copper town which peaked in population at 15,000 in the 1920s. Nowadays, it’s home to about 400 full-time residents, another few hundred part-year residents, and plenty of tourists. Its vertical, winding streets house dozens of art galleries, restaurants and houses such as the one owned by the Reeds, good friends of Greg and Sara whom we stayed with. Their three-level home sat above the lowest horizontal road in town, providing, from its front porch, a perfect view to the north of the red-rock canyons and Flagstaff’s higher peaks. I spent at least an hour on that porch throughout the weekend admiring the spectacle.

We spent Friday late afternoon at the house, hanging out with the crew — Jeff, his wife Kathy; their son Colin; Jeff’s parents Jim and Brenda, who originally bought the house 27 years earlier, they said; and Sazi (sp?), a friend of the family. Everyone was extremely nice and laid back. Their motto was, Serve yourself, Help yourself. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be going hungry in Jerome. Speaking of food, we went out to dinner at Grape’s restaurant Friday night, before returning to the house for more drinks and board games. It reminded me a bit of the Red House in New Hampshire except folks were a little bit more rowdy and there was a TV.

Saturday morning, it was time to get outside. Greg, Sara, Colin and I piled into Jeff’s white pickup truck and headed east on AZ-260, not sure of our destination. After more than half an hour of driving, Jeff pulled a U-turn and parked the truck in a patch of grass to the side of the road. A minute later, I was on my stomach, crawling below a fence. A minute later, we were hiking through a field of wild grass, dirt and stones — en route to a rocky ridge maybe 300 feet above us filled with holes in its protruding face. Jeff had told us they were Indian ruins, but it was difficult to get an idea of what exactly they looked like or their size from afar. As we climbed up the steep slope, we reached the ridge made up of sharp, jagged rock — I think a lot of it was sandstone — and were immediately awed. In front of us sat wide, expansive caves in which Indian tribes had lived hundreds of years ago. There was room in many of the caves for probably 10 people, although tall folk like Greg and I had to kneel over. Still, they were very impressive. We snapped some photos and then walked west along a ridge past more caves, through a three-foot crevice, and eventually up to a little mound of a summit where we found large man-made circles of rocks that we surmised were remnants of a civilization that used to make home in the area. We all agreed that it probably made sense as a place of residence because those who lived there had unobstructed sightlines into the lowlands around them. They could protect themselves.

We ate a snack and then made our way down from the ruins, careful on the loose scree before we returned to the fence. The temperature was maybe 50 degrees, but the sun shone down on us despite a sky littered with really neat clouds. The landscape was made even more beautiful by a colony of yellow and orange cottonwood trees on the other side of the highway framed by a mountain range in the distance.

Our hike in the books, we returned to Jerome, ate lunch and then gathered on the porch for some chilling time. As we were sitting and talking, admiring the view, the dark, nebulous crowds strengthened and — next thing I knew! — we were getting snowed on. Yes, snow! The day before, I had been in 80-degree Phoenix (after experiencing 90-degree heat in Tucson the day before that). Now, I was in a snowstorm just two hours away. How surreal! We bundled up in our best faux winter gear (for me, two fleeces and a raincoat; I did, also, have a hat and gloves) and walked around Jerome, stopping in a few art galleries (including one named “Raku,” the name of our childhood cat) and at one of the town’s handful of wineries for a glass while watching the storm.

After heading back to the house, Jeff was motivated to drive us boys to the top of Mingus Mountain (7,815 feet), the highest point above Jerome. We drove up the winding road, light snowfall still falling, until we reached the summit, where Jeff showed us a concrete launching pad for hang gliders. Earlier, he had told us about the most popular hang gliding spot in the U.S., where hundreds of thrill-seeking individuals gathered every year to sail off the ledge and travel for hundreds of miles over the diverse Arizona landscape. It’s incredible just to imagine.

It was cold — as in 21 degrees on top! We got back in the truck and drove back to the house for its warmth and a filling dinner. There were more drinks, pumpkin pie and games Saturday evening. It was a great way to end an incredible week of adventure and company. We rose at 5:30am Sunday morning, stepped into the frigid weather, and then into Greg’s Mercury Mountaineer for the drive to the airport.

What a week. What a state.

11.4-7, 2012 — Arizona hiking with Dad and Uncle Buz

TEMPE, Az. — I spent the last four days hiking with my Dad and Uncle Buz on trails I was unfamiliar with. Not only that, but I had never spent that much time continuously with the pairing of brothers before. Would there be plenty of brotherly love?

As I sit here outside a Starbucks in Tempe — enjoying the mild day in the low 80s — I can only smile when thinking back on the last four days. It was an incredible hiking extravaganza in the desert.

Here's a day-by-day summary.

Sunday, Nov. 4 — Finger Point Canyon, Tucson
Dad picked me up from my friend Greg's amazing, pond-overlooking apartment here in Tempe Sunday morning. He did so after dropping off Mom and a couple of Ann Arbor friends at the airport. On the two-hour drive to Phoenix, Dad told me all about their eye-opening week at the Grand Canyon and hiking down to Havasu Falls and Supai Village — the most isolated, difficult-to-get-to town in the contiguous United States. Dad regaled me with stories of the highly entertaining, big-government despising cowboy (woman) who had spoken to his touring group. He talked about the general despair felt in the Native American town of Supai, where obesity is a big problem (literally) and crime among the youngest generation is also an issue. And he talked about the town's dogs, who would accompany hiking tourists on 8-mile hikes before heading back to town.

Awesome dogs. I can't wait to see the pictures I'm sure Mom — who ADORES dogs — made Dad take.

Dad's stories just about took us all the way to Tucson, where we arrived at the house where Buz was staying with his music friend Jim. As we arrived in town, I noticed how sprawling it was. Jim would later tell me that the population had grown tremendously since he moved to the "little town" in 1992. A big reason for this? It's a hot spot for retirees.

After meeting up with Buz and getting our day packs ready, we got back in Dad's rented Kia Sorento and headed to the Catalina foothills northeast of the city. Our goal was to hike up the Finger Point Canyon trail as far as we could, while allowing enough time to return to the trailhead by dusk.

The ambitious goal was the summit of Mt. Kimball, which stood at 7,255 feet and was 5 miles from the trailhead. We didn't begin hiking until about 1pm. The sky was completely clear. The temperature was in the low 80s. The autumn sun — not too strong, but plenty bright — sprayed down on us.

As we began on the fairly level trail a bit above 3,000 feet, there was disagreement over when the sun would set. Dad said about 6:15pm. Buz thought it would stay light until around 7pm. I was more in line with Dad's thinking, but curious to see how things would play out in the desert.

The first mile and a half, or so, was flat as the path weaved in between towering saguaro cacti. Then the dirt-and-rock trail began winding its way upward. The salient Finger Point rocks towered above us to the northeast. Just to the east of them stood what we figured was the summit of Kimball. But it didn't seem to be getting any closer as we hiked.

A big topic of conversation early was rattlesnakes. We knew the danger they posed, and after discussing, we agreed that the best way to treat a bite would be to get down the trail as quickly as possible and to a hospital. In other words — don't take things into our own hands. In the meantime, we reminded ourselves to look before placing hands on rocks; to not step over rocks where we couldn't see our foot's destination (I had to constantly remind myself of this since it's not an issue in my typical hiking spots in the Northeast).

By about 3:30pm, Kimball wasn't getting any closer and we arrived at a slope of flat rocks which was a perfect resting/turnaround spot. The light was also getting good, so Dad did a little exploring with his camera while Buz laid down for a nap — this would be a theme of our four days together. While it was a bummer not to gain Kimball's summit, I didn't feel like I was leaving an attainable goal in front of me. We still seemed a couple miles from what we assumed was its summit. It was time to turn around.

And good thing we did, because Dad was right. By 5:40pm, the sun was down over Tucson and we had to watch the trail closely. Buz was ahead of us by about 50 feet when it looked like he fell on the right side of the trail. A moment later, he yelled out "Rattlesnake!" Oh, boy! As Dad and I slowly approached the spot, Buz pointed to a large, bushy cactus to the left of the trail a few feet. Then we heard the loud rattling. Yep, a rattlesnake. Dad and I didn't waste anytime in hustling past the spot. No wonder Buz had fallen. That snake would have scared the shit outta me too!

We then hiked for another hour in the dark, needing our headlamps for the final 45 minutes in the desert. It was a pretty cool experience, everything so peaceful and stars above. And we didn't see (or hear) anymore snakes.

We arrived back at the car around 7pm, tired, hungry and satisfied with an awesome, action-packed, full-of-surprises hike.

Miles hiked: Approximately 6.5

Monday, Nov. 5 — Joe's Canyon, Sierra Vista
After an excellent sushi dinner in Tucson, Dad and I spent Sunday night at the house of Buz's other friend Bob, who had a million interesting stories from a life full of adventures around the world. We could have listened to Bob talk for hours, but on Monday morning we had a car ride to make — we picked up Buz and headed southeast toward Sierra Vista and the Mexican border. Dad and Buz had done a fair amount of hiking in the Huachuca (pronounced Wa-choo-ka) mountains just north of the border. They started visiting the area almost annually a decade ago to visit my great aunt Janet, who passed away just a couple years ago at the age of 95. They fell in love with the mountains and the area, so why not continue to come back?

For this occasion, Dad had booked a night at the Rail Oaks Ranch bed and breakfast south of Sierra Vista and just north of our hiking destinations. We arrived mid-morning, pulling up to a gorgeous main house where we met Donna, our host. Upon entering the house, the smell of baking brownies immediately caught my nose. Not only that, but Donna — slim, with white hair, semi-retired and probably in her late 60s — said they were gluten-free and for us. Heavenly!

There were four cottages on the property, which was right up against the Huachucas, and our residence was the Busler House. Donna showed us the cozy cottage, which was painted pink on the outside and inside featured an open kitchen, a living room with two beds and a large master bedroom. I was in love, but again — we had hiking to do!

The plan for the day was the Joe's Canyon Trail, which Dad and Buz had done a few times. It was a mellow, 3.4-mile hike just north of the Mexican border to Coronado Peak (6,864 feet). It was also extremely scenic. We got on the trail around the same time as the day before, leaving from the Coronado Visitor Center at the base of the road that winds its way up Coronado Peak. We did plenty of winding on our feet, as we hiked the gradual switchbacks up the mountain.

As we hiked, we looked for signs of the June 2011 forest fire we had heard about hitting the region. We noticed some trees that were scarred and some cacti that had been affected, but not total devastation. We also passed the time talking about various topics, many of them political. After all, the rest of the world was tuned into election coverage. I found it very refreshing to be disconnected from that world, my phone off, just my next step on the trail (and snakes) to worry about.

After roughly a mile and a half, we reached the ridge and were rewarded with expansive views to the south, the west, and the peak to the northwest. I immediately looked for the Mexican border (fun fact: I've never actually been in Mexico, although I've now been very close twice). It took me a couple minutes because the hills and peaks made it difficult, but then I identified the line below us — it was less than a mile away! As we climbed the easy, gradual ridge to the north, views opened up to the east that showed off a much larger, flatter, easier-to-identify section of the border. It didn't exactly look like a wall, but it wasn't fitting into the landscape either.

We curved around the base the Coronado Peak to the north and then pulled a U-turn to make the final, 0.3-mile ascent up the mountain. We could have continued on one tenth of a mile to the parking lot at the top of the road. Buz made a pit stop there, where he chatted with border control agents stationed with their high-tech surveillance equipment (a few years ago, Dad and Buz had been just feet from where illegal immigrants who had crossed the border were chased by agents; about half of them escaped — we wouldn't encounter such excitement this time).

We reached the flat, peaceful summit around 4pm and were treated with 360-degree views, including of the peaks to the north and northeast: Montezuma (7,600 ft), Bob Thompson (7,333) and, farther north, 9,466-foot Miller Peak — our destination for the next day. Buz was interested in his nap, but Dad and I were anxious to get back to the ridge for the perfect late-afternoon photography setting. Buz decided to walk down the road after his nap, with the plan for him to meet us at the parking lot. If he wasn't back yet, we would drive up the road and scoop him up.

This four days of hiking taught me one thing — when it comes to taking the best pictures in nature, late afternoon/early evening is the best time. As the sun started descending on the horizon, Dad's and my pace slowed. The sun burned a bright orange/red over the distant mountains, casting shadows of light on the surrounding hills covered with cacti. Before we could take any pictures, though, we encountered a tarantula in the middle of the trail. A tarantula! — my first.

The only thing that would have made the evening more perfect, more picturesque, would have been clouds. A great sunset is always more interesting when clouds are present. But we weren't complaining. Dad worked on framing a cactus in front of the distant, blood-orange peaks. I'm curious to see how his photos come out. Once the sun had dipped below the horizon just before 5:30pm, we started down the switchbacks, hiking in the dark for the final half hour as we discussed how to best compose a photo and how the world's best photographers take days to set up one shot. We didn't have days at our disposal, but it's not difficult to take an awe-inspiring photograph in such a place.

It's also not hard to enjoy hiking in the desert dusk. I was getting used to it and loving it (as long as the snakes stayed away).

Buz was waiting for us at the parking lot. The timing had been perfect. We drove the few miles back to the Ranch, cooked up some frozen pizzas and paired them with spinach salad, and enjoyed our night at the Busler House. Our biggest hiking day loomed.

Miles hiked: 6.8


Tuesday, Nov. 6 — Crest Tail, Miller Peak (9,466 feet)
Tuesday morning, we had to leave the Rail Oaks Ranch. That was sad. I woke up early, full of energy, and peered out the window. There, not 15 feet from our cottage, stood a deer. I barefooted it outside and snapped a few photos of the statuesque animal (no, it wasn't a statue). Minutes later, Dad was up and we took a walk around the property, admiring the views of the peaks just to its west and noticing the dozens of sandbags along a creek bed that suggested flooding from August's Arizona monsoon season.

We retreated to the house, where we enjoyed a delectable and satiating vegetable souffle and fruit salad Donna had prepared for us. With plenty of food fuel, we packed up the Sorento, bid adios to the ranch, and drove up the same road we had taken the day before. Except this time we kept going past the visitor center and up another 3 miles to the parking lot 0.3 miles from Coronado Peak.

It was Miller Time.

A few special notes about the hike we planned to do:

• Miller Peak (9,466 feet) is the highest southern-most peak in the United States.
• Miller Peak is also the 57th highest peak in the U.S. if you're measuring the distance between the low-lying area around it and the summit (for example, many Colorado peaks are 14,000 feet, but  the towns around them are 11,000 feet; Sierra Vista, on the other hand, is 4,633 feet, making Miller nearly 5,000 feet taller).
• "Rodriguez," the border patrol officer on duty, told Buz that the most likely place in the Huachucas to see illegal immigrants would be by Miller.
• We were hiking on the day of the Presidential Election, which many were predicting would be the closest EVER.
• It was also my sister Rose's birthday!

Got all that?

The plan was to hike the Crest trail — up and down the ridge — 4.5 miles to the summit spur, which is half a mile. And then retreat. So 10 miles and over 3,000 feet elevation gain total. A pretty decent jaunt.

We were blessed with another perfect weather day. Low 80s. Clear. Still, I brought my customary longsleeve AMC shirt and fleece, because you never know what a windswept summit might feel like. I've learned my lesson many times.

The first 2 miles climbed up and around a ridge at a steady but not steep grade. Buz was in the political mindset from the get-go, repeating every 5 minutes, "O-BAM-A/Yes. We. Can!" Normally, I despise phone calls on mountains, but Dad convinced me it would be OK to call Rose from the summit since we'd not only be wishing her a happy 23rd but also making sure she had voted. Dad said she was the only person he knew from Michigan who might not have voted yet. As we trekked, along, I mentioned how great it felt to be on a hiking trail and not glued to a TV or computer or iPad or phone on election day.

Dad agreed. "It's all guessing," he said.

It was great to be disconnected.

As we gained elevation, we passed a couple caves with rusted bars over them that appeared to be old mining shafts. As I walked off the trail to get a closer look at one of them, I noticed a medium-sized lizard on a rock. It sat there for a good 5 minutes, allowing Dad and I to conduct a photo shoot. It was one of the coolest, least scary — not to mention poisonous — critters we encountered during our four days.

The Crest Trail was really neat because of its changing ecosystems and environments. After being out in the desert sun for two miles, we entered a short portion of trail shaded by trees — cottonwoods, I believe. We took the respite of the sun as a sign to eat our leftover Donna brownies, which hit the spot.

We then emerged from the woods and hiked out in the open on the east side of the ridge, which provided excellent views of Montezuma, Bob Thompson and a large, alluring, pointy peak in Mexico that we never identified (but were completely fine not knowing). There was also a cool view of the border as it disappeared to the far east.

Then we took three switchbacks and emerged on top of the ridge before descending just a little to its western side, where we had wide-ranging views of mountain ranges to the west and north and a peak of what was ahead of us. We also encountered a large forest of trees that had been burned by the June 2011 fire on the hillside below us. Many trees, we noticed, had been charred black and then lost that outer layer, leaving their skinny trunks a marshmallow white.

I could tell Dad and Buz were a little fatigued at this point, but I could smell the summit and the sense of accomplishment that would come with gaining it. The brothers realized this and agreed to carry on — a really nice sacrifice on their part. For awhile, we had been able to see parts of Miller's higher reaches, but the Crest Trail skirted around its western side, which made the approach seem pretty long. We ascended a handful of switchbacks up large, New Hampshire-like granite igneous rocks. Dad and Buz survived a scare from a swarm of bees that suddenly buzzed out from under a rock. Thankfully, they weren't interested in human flesh.

Then we reached the intersection for the spur, turned right — to the northeast — and ascended through ash trees to the summit. Upon emerging on top a little after 2pm — less than 4 hours after our starting time — we high-fived each other, looked around, took in the wide-ranging views in all directions and smiled. We then allowed ourselves to sit on the few flats rocks, eat our sunbutter and almond butter sandwiches and grapes, and called Rose. She didn't answer, but we sang happy birthday to her voicemail.

"O-BAM-A!"

As we began our descent a little after 3pm, I thought to myself: How could Mitt Romney — how could anyone? — want to drill for oil on incredible public lands like the trails we were traversing.

"O-BAM-A!"

We moved quickly on the decent, with the goal of reaching the final 2 miles of ridgeline when the light for taking pictures was at its best. On the way up, I had carried Dad's tripod and we had stored it in a yucca bush above one of the old mines along the trail. He wanted it on the decent to use for low-light photos where he could utilize the low-shutter speed the stabilization provided.

Upon emerging from the forest section of the Crest Trail around 5pm, we began to wind our way around the ridge — on the home stretch of the hike. The late-afternoon sunlight cascaded over the ridge, illuminating the shoulder of Montezuma. Behind it, in the distance, stood — magnificently, I should say — the mysterious Mexican mountain with its numerous hills and shoulders leading up to its pencil-point top. It made for an incredible photo.

But, wait, there were more. Many more.

The sun was blocked from us by the western ridge looming above us, but then, around 5:30pm, we rounded a corner and there, framed in front of us by a photogenic tree branch, was that blood-orange horizon ... again. It hadn't gotten old. It was just as incredible as the day before. Dad was behind Buz and me, hurriedly setting up his tripod at different spots along the trail. I called out to him, using his nickname — "Bust, great photo spot!!" A minute later, he joined me and we admired, in union, the view and photo opportunity.

Well, you know how it went from there. Lots of photos. And a final decent in the dark. I almost didn't want it to end, it was so spectacular, yet so simple. We knew what awaited us next — a car ride back to Tucson and election news. Lots of it. It was exciting, but also exhausting, also worrisome. The hiking wasn't. The mountains weren't.

But every amazing hike does end.

Thankfully, Obama's presidency didn't end Tuesday night. I'd like to say our — err, mostly Buz's — chants as we ascended Miller Peak caught a wind gust and motivated the voters in border states Nevada and Colorado (although there was hardly a lick of wind).

Whatever the case, Miller Peak didn't disappoint. Not that I ever thought that possible.

Miles hiked: 10.0

Wednesday, Nov. 7 — Bear Canyon, AZ
Tuesday was a long day. Between the 10-mile hike, the 90-minute drive afterward, and the exhausting election coverage, we were all pretty pooped by the time Dad and I left Jim's for the night. As we left it, we and Buz were on the same page about our last day together — we would hike, but it wouldn't be overly ambitious. We wouldn't be setting alarm clocks, either.

Dad said he felt good Wednesday morning, but then he walked up and down Bob's stairs a couple times and said he definitely felt like he had hiked 10 miles the previous day. That sounded about right. After meeting up with Buz, we decided to hike in Bear Canyon, which is adjacent to the extremely popular Sabino Canyon in the Catalina foothills. After some navigating, we found the trailhead and got out of the car around 11:45am.

It was HOT! We were just a couple thousand feet above sea level, so the temperature that felt around 90 wasn't surprising. As we started into the desert canyon, we passed a trio of people finishing their hike who couldn't believe we were heading out in the middle of the hot day.

I guess we were the unknowledgeable, out-of-towners! The fools who didn't know when to explore the canyon!

A little bit later, we passed a group of women, who laughed at us when we mentioned hiking to Seven Falls, the prime attraction of the trail (not that it wasn't otherwise pretty). "Come back in April," they chortled. We took it all in stride, knowing they were right. The hike was relatively flat, as we walked alongside the dry creek bed. The sun was as bright as it'd been all four days, although we would later notice some clouds in the sky that made for an incredible post-hike sunset. Canyon walls rose up on both sides of us and Gibbon Mountain created the backdrop to the hike. The scenery was nice, but we also imagined how pretty it must be when the stream is raging during August's monsoon season (or even April).

We stopped for lunch after a few hours, not sure whether we had reached the talked-about Falls. Either way, from talking to people, we were pretty sure it would be dried up. So we were content when we found a huge boulder that provide shaded slabs of rock that we could lie down on and relax. We deserved it. This was our "easy hike" day. We talked politics (again) and even sports. Dad did a little searching for photos. Then we turned around. On the way back, I climbed atop one of the many gigantic boulders along the trail, providing one of the best photo opportunities of the day.

We arrived back at the Sorento earlier than we had either of the three previous days — by design. Dad and Buz had scheduled a music-playing session with Bob for the evening. The only bummer about the hike was that the sky, shrouded with thin, wispy clouds, was ablaze with the most incredible sunset. Unfortunately, the view from the parking lot was obstructed. We did, however, set up the tripod for a group photo.

Wednesday's hike in itself wasn't spectacular, but if you add it to the previous three days, it helped create an incredible, exciting and unforgettable hiking trip with two great people who enjoy being out in the wilderness as much as I do and are fun to be around.

We'll be back.

Miles hiked: About 5.0

Total miles hiked: About 28.3