When the mountain closes, the seasonal workers of Vail
migrate en mass in a proactive attempt to shake off any haunting bitterness
from spending the past five months holed up in the valley, catering to the
needs of wealthy tourists. The destinations do vary, but from conversations
held on the bus and bar stools, I gather that at least half of the Vail
transient work force heads to Moab, Utah.*
So when Tod invites me on a trip to 'The Maze,'--an area for which the only information I am sure of is that it is located somewhere in the state of Utah, in general proximity to Moab (relatively)--I agree to come along.
The night before we leave, I decide I might as well do some research (mostly so I know what to wear). The first link that pops up after I type 'The Maze' into my search page is a 2008 Backpacker article detailing the 10 most dangerous hikes in America. 'The Maze,' a specific area in Canyonlands National Park, with its difficult scrambles, lack of water, and tricky navigation (perhaps leading to the name), is number one.
So when Tod invites me on a trip to 'The Maze,'--an area for which the only information I am sure of is that it is located somewhere in the state of Utah, in general proximity to Moab (relatively)--I agree to come along.
The night before we leave, I decide I might as well do some research (mostly so I know what to wear). The first link that pops up after I type 'The Maze' into my search page is a 2008 Backpacker article detailing the 10 most dangerous hikes in America. 'The Maze,' a specific area in Canyonlands National Park, with its difficult scrambles, lack of water, and tricky navigation (perhaps leading to the name), is number one.
Awesome.
Look I love nature, I really do, I do quite a lot of hiking
and I have spent quite a few nights in a tent, but I’ve gotta admit: I don't
actually know what I'm doing.
I consider staying in Vail and renting movies, but I know I'll never make it through the summer if I don't at least try to shake off some of the unbearable lightness of ski-town living. I decide to trust that Tod, or rather, his two friends Drew and Mark know what they are doing. On the ride out Mark informs me that he has brought both a compass and a map. These sound like good things to have.
The first day in Canyonlands we park the car by the trail head. The high lookout provides a clear view of at least thirty miles in all directions, filled with pretty much nothing but rocks. Yes, they are pretty cool looking rocks, colors ranging from red to beige to the green of scrubby looking juniper trees that give some scale to the gigantic twists and turns, but rocks none the less. It's hot, and as we descend a path called the 'Golden Stairs' I am already sweating, dreaming about a cold beer while trying desperately not to twist an ankle. Drew and Mark have sturdy hiking boots, and Tod has a solid pair of athletic shoes on, while I, in my infinite wisdom, deemed this trip to be a good place to try out my new Chacos. If Mike Fay could hike across the entire Congo in the same sandals, I figured I could last 4 days in Utah.
So not only am I struggling to keep up with the three dudes (two of whom, BTW, have leg strides that are CONSIDERABLY longer than mine), I'm also trying to keep rocks out from under my heels, and wondering if the sharp pain gathering in my achilles is part of the normal ‘break-in’ process of hiking in sandals.
The main part of the day is spent crossing the main canyon floor, and that’s not so bad, despite the heat, because it’s relatively flat. But, the descent down into ‘The Maze’ itself is sketchy at best, and as I am already tired, I resign myself to a state of denial, refusing to look over the side of the hairline crack in the rock I am stuffing the edge of my feet into as we follow cairn after cairn down the rocky walls.
I consider staying in Vail and renting movies, but I know I'll never make it through the summer if I don't at least try to shake off some of the unbearable lightness of ski-town living. I decide to trust that Tod, or rather, his two friends Drew and Mark know what they are doing. On the ride out Mark informs me that he has brought both a compass and a map. These sound like good things to have.
The first day in Canyonlands we park the car by the trail head. The high lookout provides a clear view of at least thirty miles in all directions, filled with pretty much nothing but rocks. Yes, they are pretty cool looking rocks, colors ranging from red to beige to the green of scrubby looking juniper trees that give some scale to the gigantic twists and turns, but rocks none the less. It's hot, and as we descend a path called the 'Golden Stairs' I am already sweating, dreaming about a cold beer while trying desperately not to twist an ankle. Drew and Mark have sturdy hiking boots, and Tod has a solid pair of athletic shoes on, while I, in my infinite wisdom, deemed this trip to be a good place to try out my new Chacos. If Mike Fay could hike across the entire Congo in the same sandals, I figured I could last 4 days in Utah.
So not only am I struggling to keep up with the three dudes (two of whom, BTW, have leg strides that are CONSIDERABLY longer than mine), I'm also trying to keep rocks out from under my heels, and wondering if the sharp pain gathering in my achilles is part of the normal ‘break-in’ process of hiking in sandals.
The main part of the day is spent crossing the main canyon floor, and that’s not so bad, despite the heat, because it’s relatively flat. But, the descent down into ‘The Maze’ itself is sketchy at best, and as I am already tired, I resign myself to a state of denial, refusing to look over the side of the hairline crack in the rock I am stuffing the edge of my feet into as we follow cairn after cairn down the rocky walls.
At least I’m burning those off-season calories, I tell myself as I crawl into my sleeping bag early that evening.
In the morning, the situation improves a bit. The guys seem to have lost the need to RUN through the desert with heavy packs on their backs, and the fact that they are covered with bug bites, while I am not gives me a secret boost of confidence.
Clearly, nature loves me. And the fact that bugs are not buzzing around MY ears when they are driving my hiking partners insane, is a sign that the desert will NOT send rattle snakes to bite me, scorpions to sting me, nor throw me off high places to tumble to my death.
This realization/some-might-say-delusion, greatly improves my attitude, and when we decide to ditch our packs in the afternoon for some day hiking, it is pure magic. Liberated from the ungainly backpack, I feel like I can fly up the trails. Those twists and turns become geological wonders millions and millions of years in the making and the illusions created by the canyons themselves, the way how sometimes one canyon can't be separated from another is no longer an impediment to survival, but a powerful piece of art, like the drawings on the walls themselves, etched out by humans thousands of years ago.
My Chacos may not be the
best modern footwear, but they are definitely more advanced than what those folks wore.
The more miles we hike, the more worries fall away, as
they tend to do in nature, which is why so many people feel the need to strap 30
lbs of gear on their back and walk along a path into the woods. On the last
night I clamber up a shallow canyon wall and meditate on rocks that now hum in tune with my heart as the sun goes down.
A smile, like a tick, keeps spreading across my face, even as we pack up the truck to leave.
A smile, like a tick, keeps spreading across my face, even as we pack up the truck to leave.
“I have just come alive,” Mark says as we toast a beer, still
cold from the car cooler, “Now I go back to slowly die.”
Until next time, I know he means. But why, when we face those
odds, do we ever go back in the first place?
*this fact is in no way objective whatsoever
