Reflections of a Fragile Desert

I was miles into the backcountry when I first heard about the fragility of the desert. I was on a backpacking trip through Canyonlands National Park when my friend Hilary pointed out the cryptobiotic soil nestled under a shrub, and told me that it would take years -- sometimes more than a hundred years, for it to grow back.

The impact of that timeline shook me. For the first time, I acutely realized that something I did in the environment could have ripples that lasted for such a long time.

(REI Co-op Trailsmith Pants)

I try to follow Leave No Trace ethics, and I believe that with careful considerations, we can successfully manage the amount of traffic that our National Parks are getting. I also believe in the benefit of being outside and going to see our parks and public land. As a resource, I feel that land is one of the most valuable pieces when we treat it well. But when the government shut down this past winter and Joshua Tree took serious environmental hits, I, among many others, was devastated.

Some people entering the park drove off road over cryptobiotic soil and fragile ecosystems, dogs were let off leashes or were allowed off concrete paths, bathrooms were overflowing and people were climbing or breaking Joshua Trees. And on the other hand, for as many people as did damage to the park, there were an equal, if not larger number of people who helped try to slow the effects. Many, many people donated toilet paper and helped clean up trash and did their best to volunteer their efforts or money.

But according to the park’s former superintendent, the events that happened during the shutdown could have repercussions for hundreds of years.

When I think about that time scale, I think about all the decisions we can make in a matter of moments that extend far beyond ourselves and our images on social media.

As for how the park is recovering, from a quick look, you can’t tell anything was ruined in the park. The Joshua Tree’s still look like something out of a Dr. Suess book, and rangers are back at work.

But I believe the shutdown was a lesson for all of us on the impact our lives can have on the environment. Everyone deserves a place to walk or hike or run on public land, but we can’t love it to death.

There are so many ways to contribute to the protection of places we explore, and it doesn’t have to be huge. You can volunteer in your community or a local park, but it can also be small. I always bring a small bag to pack out trash I find. It doesn’t matter what it is, I pick it up and pack it out.

Our actions on the environment will always have ripple effects, but we have the opportunity to make it good ones.

(REI Co-op 45 Flashpack)

(This blogpost was in partnership with REI. REI does a lot of work to help the environment and public land. You can find out more about what they do here.)

it's not an adventure until something goes wrong.

I sat on the cliff and watched the fog roll in towards me. You weren't even able to see the horizon line, the mist was so thick. It was turning pink and purple with sunrise and for a moment, I imagined that the sea ended right there--a perfect crease; a folded corner in a paper earth.

Veda stretched out her legs and pressed closer into my side. I thought she was dying the other day and the world became a lot scarier and darker. I had held her in my arms, buried my face into her chest and sobbed as we sank deeper into the back of my car, parked somewhere in a neighborhood I didn't recognize. She's my partner, my sidekick, and more than I could ever explain to you, she is what I love most in the world. It was the loneliest night I've ever had.

The fun of traveling, at that point, had ended. I had left Southern California to escape to the wilderness of Big Sur when Veda got incredibly sick. And after a hellish couple days of vets and plans of emergency surgery and medication, everything became balanced and we made our way to collapse on the coastline.

My hair started to turn to wispy, sea-air infused curls when I was sitting in the grass and drinking the last grittiness of my black coffee. I picked out the things I loved most about being on my own and about being on the road. I love the sound of the camp stove flame roaring, screaming my favorite songs at the top of my lungs with my arm out the window, how my cold hands fumble in the morning through the moves of getting the coffee started. Right at that moment,  I loved how scared I was of the sea beneath me, looking black and swallowing the rocks I had sat on the afternoon prior. But as much as I loved those things, nothing seemed to compare to the idea of home in those moments. I missed the creaking of the floorboards and the woodstove in the living room. I wanted to see the sun creep it's orange rays through the window in the morning and throw my fly line into the Yellowstone River. As most people know, I love the road. I find answers there, and have, most of the time, felt the most like my own self while travelling. But my heartstings ached for home and the comfort of the familiar. I felt like I had been stripped of everything- down to my barest of bones this time around and I was ready to be back.

On that cliff, I made a list of things I wanted to do in the next year and a list of things I wanted to do in my lifetime. I made a list of things I wanted to get better at, and things I'd like to improve in myself. It's been awhile since I've re-assessed my goals and dreams, or at least written them down. Sadness has a way of wiping the slate clean, like starting over. I wrote "Day 1" on the top of the page of my notebook above the list.

Only days after I sat on the beach, my car died. It was a mountain burial, and she decided she was done when we were in the middle of the National Forest. For all the places for her to die, I'll take that place. For the most part, she was great. She had character right up until the end.

I'm sitting in Montana now, 29 days after I left to California. The feeling of restlessness that I've felt for the past 8 months has subsided into a dull whisper. I feel different now, and like I needed a trip like the one I just had to remind me that traveling isn't always the answer.

For now, building on what I have here is more important than seeing something new every day.

I've always been good at travelling and leaving, but on the top of my notebook list of things I'd like to improve in myself was this: to grow where I'm planted.

The anatomy of happiness

Golden light poured through my windshield. The frost covers the windows and turns the light into sparkling fractions, pressed up against the box of the car we were sleeping in.

I thought a lot about the anatomy of happiness in those moments of sleepy, drifting ideas you get when you are first waking up. I thought about falling asleep in my sleeping bag with the cold air surrounding me, and the quiet mornings of pink, burning skies. I thought about watching fires turn to embers and the warmth of whiskey felt in my face.

The mornings of coffee in the backcountry will, for me, be the best ones and I am coming to love the desperate situations that turn to the best stories later on. I love the tired muscles when I've walked for miles, and the alpine lakes that are so cold that they take away my breath when I'm brave enough to dive under. I love the turning of another day in a different place, makeshift dinners made in parking lots, and late night talks that turn into early morning conversations. 

The past month and a half, I've done almost nothing but travel wherever I choose. It's been a luxury and I'm so grateful, knowing that I have had both the time and the funds to do this- the rare occasion that both fall into place.

We went to the Salton Sea, Zion National Park, the Grand Canyon, Denver, Jackson, Bozeman, Glacier National Park, Yellowstone and then finished the grand road trip by shooting a wedding outside of the Tetons.

I think when I dissect the happiness into pieces, these moments are the ones that help me lift my head through the heaviness. When I think of what I'm thankful for in this life season, I think of the screaming laughter- tears pouring from the corners of my eyes driven from smiles. There's been a lot of those lately, and the freedom of the road brings out that happiness in me. It allows me to let go, to observe, to think a day at a time, to seize opportunity and chance and keep a cup of coffee as my only routine. It allows me space to create and think about the person I want to become.

Because how can you not fall in love with the world like this?

Home on the Road

I thought a lot about the word "home" as the Sierra's slid by out the window. The morning light was turning them pink and I saw a sleepy reflection of myself in the side view mirror, having woken up at 4:15 to get an early start driving.

I stumble into a really long answer when people ask me where I'm from because home has a different meaning to me. Do you mean where my storage unit currently is, or where I grew up, or where I've spent most of my adult life? Or do you mean where do I sleep? That last answer varies on the season, weekend and month.

I feel at home when there's a long stretch of highway in front of me, the sound of an oar digging into the water, the way the wind tangles my hair around my face and drinking a beer when I feel like I've earned it. Home is the stack of duffle bags I've been living out of, the bangles of plane tickets around their handles and opening my eyes to see the sky lit up with the milky way. It's the coffee mug I never wash, the conversations of desperate adventures told around a fire, and the beaming grin I always have when I reach the summit.

I guess home for me, in the broader sense, has never been a place. It's been found in souls that I've met and laughing until my stomach hurts. It's been found in kitchens, kindness of strangers, couches donated to my vagabonding and embracing hugs of old friends. I love having a place to base out of, but I've always loved the freedom and the inspiration I get from being on the move.

This past trip to Yosemite was one of the best trips I've had. I love the burning of my calves up the hillside, the scabs on my hands from climbing, the blood donated to the wall with the cause of reaching the top. I love watching the headlamps from the climbers on El Cap, laying in the meadow, eating pizza at the end of a long day spent running around. I love the sound of cams hula-hooped on a harness and the dinners made in the dark.

Those things are the things my heart returns to and my soul aches to be a part of again and again.

I'll keep traveling  for another bit of time, bringing this season to a close. It's been a season for the books, and I can tell you that I've never been happier than I am these days.