Rust

I wrote a little note to read at the reception of two friends of mine who were married a couple of weeks ago.  This is a pair who I love and who happen to be on a terribly enchanting honeymoon right this minute in the forests and mountains of western Canada, being, as they have always been - both independently and together - adventurous and appreciative of every little small thing.   They are among my host of favorites and have generously given me permission to share this with you.  Thanks, friends. 

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There is a little shop in Moab, Utah that sells crafts and other works made by local artisans.  Each time Craig and I have gone camping in that area, we’ve popped in the store to have a look around.  Invariably – as is true in all parts of the southwest, I think - there are a number of art pieces composed of mixed metals: old bike gears and chains, scraps of galvanized steel and maybe a washer or two thrown in somewhere.  Most parts show definite prior use – the edges of the gears are worn smooth, the chains are clunky, and the washers are pock marked and could never lay straight.  And yet, in each case, the artist has intentionally chosen that specific object as a component in order to create something of new interest and new value.  And even in their altered form, each of those components is still completely identifiable.  Each metal piece remains as it formerly was - rusty and bent and imperfect – and yet the new creation, as a whole, is a marvelous and whimsical thing.

Jennifer and Jacob, welcome to your new adventure.  Welcome to a lifetime of being welded to something broken.  

I say this with a smile, because it’s as true for you as it is for Craig and I as it is for every couple anywhere.  There’s no other way to do marriage, and most often it’s in this brokenness that we get to see the extraordinary nature of love done well.  

In these initial months and years, I challenge you to develop the habit of thinking on your individual brokenness, not in a manner to weigh you down, or discourage you, but in order that you are able to see more fully how good and beautiful it is to be on the receiving end of such love.  Humble people don’t have pride to be hurt or inconsequential arguments to win, and, I’d wager that they experience a deeper sense of joy than the rest of us.  In marriage, winning is never the goal.  Perfection is never the goal.  Showing love... that is always the goal. 

Love might take physical form as a comforting embrace.  Or a hard conversation.  Or laughing so hard that you pee a little.   But like any of its incarnations, genuine love can only emerge from a heart of humility. 

During these initial days, you will hear that marriage is a hard work, that it contains difficult stretches to be endured and will require more restraint and patience than you imagine.  I admit that this can be true.   But if you can practice being clear with your expectations and gentle with your judgment, it can be as whimsical and lighthearted as art made from tea kettles and tire irons.   If you can learn to love each other well in the seemingly small, everyday ways, the big challenges will seem less daunting.   You are broken – both of you, and all of us.  But today marks the beginning of your brokenness taking the shape of something beautiful - and I’m warning you - amidst the work and the patience and your sacrifice, it’s going to be a terrible amount of fun. 

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Also, happy belated anniversary to Craig, my best and most forgiving friend.  Let's do ten more, just to be sure.

The End Is Never Quite Like The Beginning

Into the city we drove, but not without a search for the one stop on this trip that we'd been planning for more than a month in advance: lunch at the dreamy tex-mex fast food joint, Cafe Rio.  This improved love-child of Baja Fresh and Cold Stone Creamery is filled with containers of bright colored treats behind glass and smiling employees shouting urgent commands at you: "Red or Green?!", "Pinto or Black?!", "Indigestion or heartburn?!"  I think they aim to give you an involuntary twitch by the time you reach the register.  They ask.  so.  fast.

After Cafe Rio, we rolled our bodies back to the Caliber and somehow managed to putter our poor, now-vastly-overweight car back to the hotel.  After shimmying up to the desk and checking in, we holed ourselves in the room for the rest of the day, too bloated to go anywhere and too full to want dinner.  But there would always be tomorrow.

Antelope Island had been on my radar for a long time before this trip, years actually.  You see, my family (due to free, magical pass-riding with my dad's airline employer - which seems farther away with each time I hit "checkout" on Expedia) spent a number of February school-vacations skiing Alta and Snowbird in Little Cottonwood Canyon outside of Salt Lake. And there was always that darn island lurking in the distance.  And it was always February.

So this year, I was determined to make the pilgrimage.  It was outstanding, for two central reasons.  First of all, there are 500-700 american bison roaming around, stopping traffic and generally showing visitors their um, best side.

Which is huge, by the way.

Second, there is a beach, which is composed 70/30 or so of the most beautiful white sand (formed like tiny pearls around the fecal matter of brine shrimp) and heaps of molted shells left by brine flies.  If you have a choice, step on the fly shells - they're a lot softer.  The lake is between 4 and 28% salinity depending on the season and rainfall (for reference, the ocean is 3%), so apart from some algae and birds that feed on the previous two species, it's just me, you, and some veeerrry floaty water.  You can even sunbathe in the lake if you like - it's easy as pie.  Which we did.  And it was excellent, but you'll need a shower afterwards - like right now - or you'll stink like an evaporating city pool.

We hiked in the foothills of the Wasatch range, went to the Hogle Zoo, saw the Lion King 3D (I'll tell you about my Lion King life phase some other time... it is way too extensive to slide in here), and went to a Brazilian churrascaria to cap off our western vacation.  There's nothing like 9 types of meat and those little cheesy donuts to really say, "it's time to go back to oatmeal and vegetables".

And that was it.  Just an airport whirlwind and we were home.  Plus a 5.5-hour car ride, then we were really home - just where we started, only a little less pale.  I assume this is Nature's peace offering for the six months of winter she's about to hurl our way.

Thanks, but the gifts better keep coming.

I Allow Myself One Huge Mistake Per Day, At Least

It’s taken me a little while to sum up our events by a daily schedule, so allow me to take this post to catch us up a little.  Where did we leave off?  Oh yeah, showering in the cave.

After Canyonlands, we planned a few days to base our activities out of the town of Moab, a perveyor of outdoor magic and bliss.  Apart from eating at the Moab Diner every morning and getting gelato every night, we explored a bit.  Here are a few things that what we did.

Here I am, weirding out all the German tourists.

Arches: We hiked the slickrock to Delicate Arch (barefoot) and then Landscape Arch from the Devil’s Kitchen area.  Like I said in a previous entry, though beautiful, Arches is a madhouse.  Go in February.

C under Delicate Arch

Hole N'The Rock.  I both highly recommend and adamantly warn you against this excursion.  This day was “M makes all the decisions“ day, which is why our activities were comically strange and anticlimactic.

Hole in the Rock is a 5,000 square foot home that was blasted into the side of a mountain back in the 1960’s.  The couple who owned the property ran a diner out of a portion of their home for a time, which eventually became a gift shop.  The home itself is dark despite the large windows that were erected on the external edge of the cave, er, house.  The husband dabbled in taxidermy, and there is a large mule resting near a window and a mustang in a corner near the bathroom.  You are never alone at Hole in the Rock.

Another reason that you’re never alone is that across the parking lot from the home is a private zoo.  Nestled near the two story outhouse and “sasquatch sighting” sign were a collection of animals: turkeys, peacocks, pygmy goats, a pig, a couple of American bison, 3 alpacas, a family of deer, two terrifying ostriches, and a bactrian camel named Kramer.  We bought a bucket of food that we could feed the animals, which was nice, but the ostriches pounced on the bucket with such terrifying strength that if I had used my hands to hold out the treats, I would have no hands.  Really.

Slickrock Trail: C spent an afternoon mountain biking the famous Slickrock trail on the edge of Moab.  I declined to go because a) I would weigh him down (there was a very high probability that I would either pass out or crash and C would have to carry my body the 5 miles out - I would literally weigh him down), and b) we’d decided to stay at a hotel for a couple nights, and it had an outdoor pool.  From his immediate feedback, I’d say that C loved it and periodically thought he might die, which is our favorite recipe for success.

Jetboat Ride to Remember:  For the second real gem of “M Day”, I booked us a dutch oven dinner followed by a jetboat ride up the Colorado River featuring a light show.  I work for an outdoor outfitter.  I have no excuse for neglecting to ask the right questions.  The first would be, “I’m looking for something fun and exciting – is this the right booking for me”, and the second would be, “Can you describe the light show”.  This would have avoided a lot of nervous hand-fiddling at dinner and juvenile giggling on the boat ride.  C and I arrived at the base and immediately knew that I had made [yet another] mistake.  We were surrounded by a sea of white.  I have no problem sharing activities with my elders, so I don’t want to come across like an entitled little brute, but I think I expected that our ride might have some element of speed and vigor, and that…. Well, I guess I just expected a more diverse crowd, all around.  There were exactly zero families with children.  We were one of three, yes three couples that were under 40.   Out of 100 or so people.   We made friends with two young newlyweds from California that sat across from us at dinner and adjacent to us on the boat ride.  The other young couple was on their own somewhere.  The food was a real high point of the night – a variety of slow cooked meats, scooped pound by beautiful pound onto your metal plate (didn't they used to use metal plates in prison?).  After dinner, we ambled out of the dining hall and made our way to our assigned seats on the jetboat.

This is Dee, our riverboat guide.

The ride itself was nice, but instead of learning about geological formations, we spent our upstream ride looking for the face of Winnie the Pooh in the canyon wall, and our downstream ride listening to a pre-recorded tape of cowboy stories and natural history (with some strong LDS undertones).  The “light show” was actually a truck that drove along the river’s edge with a spotlight in its bed.  As we floated downstream, a staff person shone it’s beam on one side of the canyon, then the other, but the truck kept plugging up traffic, and C and I had a hard time muffling our laughter when 8 or 9 cars kept coming to a crawling halt behind the truck, getting the same light show we were.  My bet is that they also were wishing for something with a little more speed and vigor.  Somehow, this still turned out to be a Moab highlight.  Or a lowlight, depending on how you look at it.

We did a lot of walking around in Moab, which is really a great little town, though I’m sure it’s becoming more touristy with each passing year.  Then one morning, we packed up our gear, threw it all in the Caliber, went to Denny’s, then headed northwest, back to the city, dust flying in our wake.

I Still Think Disney Filmed The Lion King Here

Needles District, Hike #1: Confluence Overlook via Elephant Hill, 11 miles

I'm sure you agree.

What a smashing day. We learned our lesson from the disaster of Murphy Loop and brought ample water, good eats, sunscreen and our A-game to this new landscape.  I wish I could fully describe how otherworldly the terrain is in the Needles district of Canyonlands.  We were in the southeastern slice of the park, and our hike led us to the Confluence, where the Green and Colorado Rivers meet and run on together through Cataract Canyon toward Arizona and the Grand Canyon itself.  I know some folks who have a permit to raft the Colorado in January of next year, and all I can say is buckle up kids, because this terrain is knock-your-socks-off, slap-your-grandma spectacular. 

The three districts of Canyonlands are geographically divided by water, but could also be identified through their gradual inaccessibility.  Island in the Sky is nearest to Arches National Park and the bustling town of Moab, where everyone in their right mind stocks up on water (no potable water is available in Arches, Island in the Sky or the Maze) and all other necessary munitions and luxuries (Ice!  Lattes!).  I’ll talk a bit about Arches later, but HOLY COW there are a lot of people running around that place, and each of them must drive at least three cars simultaneously.  I swear.  Needless to say, we didn’t spend much time hanging out with the masses there.

As I was saying earlier, Island in the Sky is nearest to outfitters, amenities and supplies, and therefore seems to be the most populated of the Canyonlands districts (which means that it is still “cricket…cricket” quiet compared to Arches).  The Needles is next in line with a far less dense group of visitors.  The Maze, an area that we unfortunately didn’t get to (it takes about 4 more hours to reach) is unmanned by the Parks Service and has been deemed “primitive”, which probably means “totally awesome and you should have come here”.

For us to reach the Needles, we journeyed an hour or so south from Moab, then turned east and slithered into the park near the small, sleepy town of Monticello where I purchased one of the most disgustingly sweet root beer slushies I’ve ever had.  Once you pass through the park gate, you still have another 22 painfully gorgeous miles to drive before you reach the Squaw Flat campground.  Even though we had left Moab fairly early, we were still pretty nervous that we’d get all the way in and find no available sites, only to have to drive all the way back to the Needles Outpost, a privately owned campground near the park entrance.  Anywhere else this might have been our fate, but not there, not then –the place was only half occupied, and we still got to choose – choose, I tell you!! – our sleeping quarters.  The sites were nestled in amongst gargantuan (read: McDonald’s-sized) boulders that were perfect for scrambling onto in the evenings to watch the sunset burn down into the horizon. 

The other glory of the Needles is that they somehow manage to pipe potable water in to the Visitor’s Center as well as the campground, which felt like a real lucky streak for dirty, thirsty visitors like us.  It would have been unfortunate to have to cart in a trunk-full of water without having to leave our clothes behind in town.  Exhibitionism in the desert is not highly recommended, unless you’re ready to paint your body in what C refers to as "sunscream", Australian zinc oxide sunscreen, which I’m not.  

The hike was meandering and the terrain diverse, with great “needles” or pillars rising above us in one moment, then a great savannah surrounding our tiny footsteps at the next, and we were constantly aware of the real possibility of catching a glimpse of a mountain lion or stepping on a diamondback rattlesnake.  By the time we returned back to the campsite and caught a Ranger talk on Ancient Puebloans, we were ready to cram some dehydrated Kung Pao chicken and rice down our gabbers (not so good if you’re curious) and slip into our two person Big Agnes sack (wicked good if you’re curious) for some sweet dreams, because let’s face it, the scenery was nice, and neither of us smelled like dead fish yet.

Why Can't We Live Somewhere Warm?: We're Back

Three things I learned during our first active day in Canyonlands National Park:

1. I am NOT 18 anymore.  
2. When hiking in the desert, bring water.
3. Sunscreen is not just for your mom.

We arrived in Moab, Utah to blue skies and the nice 90-degree heat of early afternoon.  Canyonlands is a park that is naturally divided into three districts, each carved out by the Green or Colorado River: Island in the Sky, The Needles, and The Maze.  We started our trip in the Island in the Sky district, which only has one small campground (Willow Flat) of 12 sites.  This was full when we arrived, so we drove our hot little Dodge Caliber over to the Horsethief Campground, which is operated by the Bureau of Land Management.  Mercifully, the BLM runs a slew of campgrounds surrounding Canyonlands and Arches National Park, all for 10 to 15 bucks a night, which in my book, is as close to free as you can get.    And I’m all about that, because as we know, less money spent on lodging means that the dinner budget can expand a little.  And I like to eat, so this is good.

Day One: Murphy Loop, 8.5 miles.   Mother Nature is an evil mistress.  

For a day hike, 8.5 miles really isn’t bad.  Sure, this was one of the longer trails in the district, but still, it should have been very doable.  This is where I experienced realization #1: I am not 18.  I can’t suddenly expect my body to be able to descend then ascend 1000 or so feet in 75 yards without doing so much as a few sit-ups in preparation.  Well, I can’t expect to enjoy it anyway.  This was compounded by truth #2: When hiking in the desert, bring water.  The National Parks Service recommends carrying/drinking at least a gallon of water per person, per day.  At least.  So I guess carrying a Nalgene for each of us and a 16 oz. Dasani to share was a serious misstep.  I can’t believe how rookie this makes us seem.  The truth hurts. 

Sunscreen is also an important friend in the desert.  It’s particularly true when you are from the Arctic Circle and your skin tone resembles the bottom side of a paper plate.  Well, friends, it doesn’t anymore.  No sir.

Somehow I survived the first day, probably due only to the gentle prodding of my husband (read: I was allowed a break after every ten steps or so) and the depressing thought of black widow spiders and vultures picking away at my dehydrated body lying in some dried up river wash somewhere.  Also, I never, ever want to have to drink my own urine.   For these reasons, I managed to trudge my way up the cliff face back to the car… slower than a slug on a lamppost.

Since I had designed our trip itinerary, I fell asleep that night knowing that this was the shortest hike I had planned, and that the sunburn I had acquired would only feel worse after another day in the scathing heat.  But despite all this, if you had asked me if this was the best vacation ever, I’m pretty sure I would have said yes. 

I love this sort of thing.

Who Brought The Snacks?

Well, we flew into Salt Lake yesterday, and after a brief trip to REI for supplies and dinner/drinks at Squatter's downtown (and some gummy raspberries in honor of my sister), we've piled into our [awesome] burnt orange rental car, and are headed off into the dusty hills. Have I ever mentioned the love affair C and I have for burnt orange? Well, we do. If I can talk him into it, we'll take a picture of us with all of our burnt orange apparel and gear, leaning against our burnt orange Dodge Caliber. You'll like it, and it will affirm the idea that we're as un-trendy as two people could possibly be. This traveling roadshow likes us some burnt orange as well as some deep, satisfying 1991-era teal green. Yeah, we aren't just out of style, we're out of touch.

Seven Plus Five

In exactly twelve days, I will be on a plane, headed west.  I cannot adequately phrase how overwhelmed I am by childlike anticipation for this trip.  Believe it or not, I may be more excited for this 10-day stretch than I was for our honeymoon.  All we had to do on that jaunt was decide if so much guacamole could be considered unhealthy, and whether we should deposit our bits and pieces by the interconnected pool or on the secluded beach (as well as where to stash the bacon we lifted from the breakfast buffet).

C and I are soon headed to what is becoming one of our favorite places on earth: Utah.  Before your mind starts swimming in thoughts of the two of us on some compound in the hills, me barefoot and struggling to hold one screaming infant in each arm, C walking a plow behind a mule, and our 15 other sister-wives inside the pueblo peeling potatoes and making baskets to sell to the tourists, hold up.  Last fall, we decided to celebrate our 5^th anniversary with a crazy camping vacation to the southwest.  See, both of us have been fortunate enough to, during our respective childhoods, travel overseas a little bit, and I for one, have found in my relative adulthood that I have a feverish desire to see America. 

Our 2010 plans took us to Zion Canyon, in southwest Utah, where we found ourselves completely dwarfed by the orange stripes of Navajo sandstone and pale gold limestone rising half a mile above us.  Zion is what Shangri-La must look like after a day crisping in the sun.  It is simultaneously arid and cool, lofty and shallow, extremely sparse and astoundingly fertile.  I have never found myself in a place so very welcoming while also so unapologetically austere.  It’s hard to describe, but as we prepare to return to the area (this time to the southeast of the state), I randomly find myself fantasizing of my first moments in that bright, sandy landscape.  All I want is to lay my body down on the hot rusty stone and stare into the bright turquoise expanse of sky – to feel the beating rays of the sun on my face and the radiant heat of the earth on my back.  I want to taste the dust in my mouth and feel the swirling aroma of pine and juniper overwhelm my senses.

The north end of Zion Canyon narrows to a small chute at a point named the Temple of Sinawava (Sinawava was the Coyote god of the Paiutes).  It seems obvious that people would come to a place like this and expect to offer some form of worship.  There are geographic landmarks with names like Angel’s Landing, Court of the Patriarchs, and The Great White Throne which all allude to the canyon's role in various spiritual traditions.  I do acknowledge that many of the titles administered to Zion’s landscape can be attributed to the influence of Mormon settlers in the mid-nineteenth century, and that some may find the imagery of The Altar of Sacrifice a teensy bit sinister.  I have to admit that likewise, I don’t really want to hike up and check for bloodstains. However, the canyon’s vast panoramic nature does demand a certain humility and submission from it’s patrons, not unlike the spiritual kind.  It’s like the earth speaks and insists that you think of more than yourself for a little while.  It practically begs it of you.

If you shut your eyes and inhale deeply, I swear you can almost feel the warm, dusty breeze.

Twelve days