Never had I been forced to consider the worth of my life before my last solo-hike. I am hiking a trail called Upper Layout, a modest hike not exceeding two miles out and back. Today, I am venturing beyond the end of the trail, and ascending the steep canyon walls to the jagged rocky mountains that tower over the trail.
Upper Layout is a gorgeous trail that has two waterfalls. I have hiked it twice, and each time I am rejuvenated by the icy cold water that trickles through softy mossy patches, tumbling down onto glistening rocks. The vibrant greenery in this higher elevation sharply contrasts the dry, often extraterrestrial feeling of the harsh desert landscape below. Climbing the trail that follows the steady flow of water up the canyon, I can't help but look up with wonder and awe of the rocky buttes that jut out of the top of the canyon's sides. The idea of seeing the canyon from such great heights, and in a way that few people get to see it, tantalized me, and I knew that I had to find a way to get up there.
I pack light. A water bottle, phone, bear spray, knife, apple, and a light windbreaker is all I bring today. There is no service so the phone is rendered useless, besides its ability to snap a few pictures. The pictures are more so I can take pictures of the route I take, so I can find my way back if all the trees and rocks start looking the same. The first part of the off-trail hike is climbing up the waterfall. Small patches of moss offer great footing, but I feel guilty squashing them with my boots, so I try and step in the flowing water where I can. The real challenge is in finding a route to scale the canyon's walls. I take a long time making my way through the devilish pricker bushes that form a wall between the waterfall and the rocky walls. I've said many times and I'll say it again - I'd rather have my hand be sliced open by a rock than be impaled by a collection of small near invisible prickers. I still have a few in one of my fingers from a hike weeks ago. I gingerly step through them, my long pants and
windbreaker providing some relief from the sharp needles dragging across my skin. I finally reach the rocky cliff walls, and I scale the boulders, using tree branches as added support, sometimes relying entirely on them to hoist myself up. Don't look down, I catch myself saying out loud in a particularly sketchy section. Then, I stop myself. No, look down, acknowledge the risk, evaluate, move with intention. I force myself to glance down at the drop off below me. Panic shoots through me for barely a second, then I take a deep breath, and evaluate what I need to do to continue moving forward. It is so imperative to remain calm and be logical, while also allowing yourself to realize that you are in a precarious situation, but it does not have to be careless or even risky if done with caution and premeditative action. I pull myself up over the edge of the canyon walls, and I am smiling ear to ear. Nothing beats this high, nothing.
The ascent up to the highest plateau with the buttes is easy compared to scaling the canyon walls. At this point I feel like I am floating on a cloud, invincible - But I know better. It is in these moments where mistakes are made, your guard is let down. My eyes continuously scan the landscape for bear activity, and my ears are attentively waiting for the dreaded sound I have never heard before in person; the sound of a rattlesnake. Surprisingly enough, I don't see many animals at all in this high ground. Not even a little marmot peeking over a rock. Only a vibrant yellow butterfly rides the air currents besides me, keeping me company, its graceful movements breaking the stillness surrounding me.
The first butte I see rises out of the earth like a throne, a throne not meant to be sat on, but rather a cradle for the sky, or as some might say, the heavens. I do not wish to scramble to the top of such a structure, but I want to press my hand to it as a kind of private homage. So that is exactly what I do. As soon as I reach the lower rocks surrounding the butte, a wind with a breathtaking force surrounds me, taking my hat along with it. My hat flies a few yards through the air, right through this stone arch that I hadn't seen before, and down about 15 feet onto a platform of rock, sort of like a small ravine or cave with its front side open to a sheer cliff that drops about 30 feet. Now, this is my favorite hat. I wear this hat like armor, either when I want to hide from the sun, or the world. I lurch forward towards the edge of the drop into the ravine, and see my hat laying peacefully below. I immediately start to try and figure out a way down. The 15 feet down is made up of large boulders and sediment, and appears to be an easy climb. I rest a foot on a boulder, and it instantly dislodges from the rock wall and tumbles down to where my hat lays below. This would not be an easy descent. Tapping at the rocks, I realize that this whole structure is held loosely together by sediment that may or may not hold my weight. I backtrack and climb down around the outside of the butte to under the 30 foot cliff, hoping to climb up into the cave-like spot, but I find out that the cliff walls are extremely sheer with no holdings. I make my way back up the butte, and crouch over the opening, my mind going back and forth over what to do. I very slowly lower myself into the opening, easing my weight into the rocks. A few smaller rocks dislodge and fall below. I close my eyes as I picture a rock falling on my head, breaking it open like a watermelon and painting the rocks red with my life, or death. I am only a few feet into the ravine. It's not too late to turn back, I say to myself. This is the point of no return, any farther and the risk will have been taken and I must continue down. But would it be cowardly to return? Thoughts race through my head as my hands tightly grasp loose rock on either side, and I stare down at my hat that lies just out of reach. It looks so close, but a lot of things could happen in that short distance.
More sediment crumbles away beneath my fingers, and panic starts to rise within me. I need to decide, and I need to do it now. I decide to turn back. Slowly, I start to climb back up and out of the ravine. I pull myself up and over the edge. Pressing my forehead to the rocky sides of the butte, I let out a forceful breath, and tears well up in my eyes, but don't actually fall. It wasn't the fear that caused this rush of emotions, even though fear was present. It was the idea that I actually weighed my life's worth with a $20 hat. What was my life worth to me? More than $20, I had apparently decided. There was a moment where I had considered descending into the ravine, and into an unnecessary risk. The whole experience made me re-evaluate how I take "risks." Lately I have been testing myself a lot, and seeing my capabilities. However, I discovered that there is a limit to how far I will go. I will never give up solo-hiking and I realize that there is a risk in that, but I can do my very best and prepare for anything that might go wrong. However, there are certain dangers, like rescuing hats, that can take it a step too far. My life is worth much more than that.
I returned that night from my hike with a rejuvenated sense of respect for nature. I had no regrets in my hike that day, just thankfulness that I humbled myself to the wild. Respect for nature is what is at the forefront of my mind in my adventures. Throw yourself into the wild, but don't underestimate the dangers in doing so. Respect for the land and animals is key. Humans are not, and will never be, more powerful than the wild. We can try to subdue the earth by putting in dams to quiet raging rivers, shooting down grizzlies that get a little too close, or even wearing sunscreen to ward off the sun's powerful rays... But in the end, nature always wins. A bolt of lightening will strike you down all the same. Acknowledging this is not a show of weakness, but rather great strength. It takes a lot to humble oneself to others, and to the world.
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