I wanted to feel the desert

“The beauty of the desert is found in its cruelty.”

We popped open a couple just as we hit the dirt road. The Subaru was moving as we sped toward a place that was to be our jumping-off point for the next couple of days. In the back, we had the two lightest packs we had carried in months. With only two nights planned and our mantra of no boats and no ropes, things were light. Even with our biggest shelter, we were both well below 20 pounds.

I was ecstatic. Not only would we be wandering down a canyon that had snagged my attention many years earlier, but we would be doing it at an easy pace with nothing other than walking, looking and pondering on the itinerary. My personal goal was to just be in the desert, to feel the heat on my back, the sand between my toes, the kinda cold water wash over my body and the sun parching my lips.

We parked the Mooseknuckler Adventuremobile next to a dilapidated corral and started walking down a slight grade into the mouth of another sandstone canyon. Seeing that the Planner was not with us, I was tasked with identifying the geological layers as our guide for this trip was detailed by their changes as the canyon cut through them. Luckily, I had paid just enough attention to Shelby’s ramblings to see the changes and it was surprisingly exciting to witness and observe them as we walked.

As I had hoped, the sun was high (we started walking a little after noon). The radiation warmed my back and soon I was sweating in my sun shirt and could feel my calves beginning to tan. I took a swig of water which made me remember that we weren’t sure when we would hit the next water exactly. I had plenty to get me all the way to the river, the closest spot to a guaranteed water source, but our guide mentioned several springs that sprouted up and eventually created a small stream that would lead us to the confluence. Even with what I assumed would be plenty of water, when in the desert and not at water, you just naturally conserve.

Everyone claims to love the desert.

Or at least that’s the way it feels. Ever since the advent of air conditioning, the hordes have made their way into the arid climes. The heat and dryness that define the desert used to be an effective filter for keeping people away from these places. Living without AC in the desert usually becomes an unbearable burden as soon as the temps tip above 100 which happens to coincide with the point where swamp coolers tend to stop being effective at cooling residential buildings.

Now that people can stay inside and control the temperatures they feel, everyone LOVES the desert. Never mind that they don’t actually spend any time experiencing it. No, they go from 72-degree homes into four-wheeled death machines that keep them cool until they can get to wherever they are going and then almost die walking through wasted land set aside for them to park. The only time they feel the desert is that short time as they cross the parking lot.

All these people move in hopes of experiencing the red rocks, the mild winters and delightful springs and autumns. Instead, they end up burrowed in cubicles waiting for the temperatures to be good. Summer is too hot. The winter is just too cold and sometimes there’s even rain and snow. They only emerge for about two weeks each spring and autumn delighted to have 72-degree temperatures outside. The delight quickly ends as soon as the mercury spikes and us desert rats are the only ones still outside.

Nah, I wanted to feel the desert.

Editor’s note: This is being written outside in July and August.

After countless hours of research (read, countless hours spent rambling around in the desert), I have found that there are two opposing methods for spending time in the desert. The first, and most common, is to prepare to defend oneself against nature and all of her possible negative outcomes. This usually involves carrying a lot of stuff and wearing a lot of clothes.

The other side of this paradigm, the flip side to the coin, is to enter the desert expecting to commune with it. Instead of trying to defend oneself from the desert, one is trying to experience it, see it, pass through it, and yes, feel it, without leaving even the slightest indication that you were there. As you may have already guessed, this method involves less. Less clothes, less gear, less shoes, but it usually entails more time and doing more. That is due to the fact that spending more time and doing more often require one to learn what is truly necessary and to leave everything else out of your pack.

Small pools of water start to appear and then become frequent and then become a small, barely running stream of water. Even though we knew we had plenty of water to make it to the river, there was, as there always is, an internal sigh of relief when it first appears.

The sun is high and it’s hot. The radiation is baking my back, my calves, the little bit of my hands that are sticking out of my sun shirt. I smile. Yea, you could say that it is uncomfortable, but that is what I came for. And with that smirk that passes for my smile involuntarily appearing on my face, it becomes comfortable. I’m fine. Even though the temperature isn’t what we would have picked on a thermostat, we are in no danger. Our bodies are doing what humans do, dissipate heat and as we spend more time in the heat, it just becomes what we are doing, background noise at the most.

The river corridor appears and the tiny stream we are following down canyon empties into a slightly bigger current. Our plan was to camp here. Water is secure and there are plenty of cottonwoods to shade us throughout the afternoon. There is a nice flat spot under some trees that has clearly been used by many as a home for a night. We drop our packs, strip our clothes off and dip into the deeper pools of the river. The water feels cold after being in the heat for several hours. As it washes over us, it rinses the heat from our bodies.

We emerge shivering and soaking wet. Instead of using our towels to dry off, we lay them out on the rocks and sit on them letting the sun renew its warmth and dry our skin. It is one of the deepest human things I think one can do, sit naked in the sun and let it dry and warm you. If you haven’t had the opportunity, it should become a priority.

It’s mid-afternoon. The sun is high and hot and we haven’t eaten. Once we are dry and feeling warm again, we prepare lunch. Our conversation revolves around our intentions for the rest of the day. As I mentioned, we had planned to camp here, but neither of us are tired and there is a lot of daylight left. I’m not good at many things, but I’m really not good at sitting in camp for hours on end. I prefer to move. I’d much rather be walking all day than get to camp and spend all day trying to find things to do. It’s only another 6ish miles to our next camp and we decide to move on.

We gather up our things and keep walking.

The Paradox of Comfort

Humans seek comfort. It’s one of our hallmark accomplishments to say that we are comfortable. In many ways, modern humanity defines success by how comfortable one is. Money buys a bigger cave, cooler air to be pumped through it, a bigger cold box to fit our food we didn’t grow or forage, the ability to move all over the place without expending any of the excess calories we now have the luxury of consuming. Our comfort has become our state of norm and it is excessive.

The funny thing about comfort is that it isn’t a set state. There isn’t a point we reach and suddenly we are comfortable. No, there is a spectrum to it. While most of us agree that 72 degrees is comfortable, we’ve also experienced when 55 is a delight or when 80 feels nice. Both of those temperatures easily fall outside of our comfort rating in differing circumstances. Like when humidity is involved or when 55 is the high and you are coming out of a cold, wet night. Personally, I’ve found that most temperatures we experience can be delightful if you put in the time to experience them.

Comfort is an experience and is highly subjective. Continuing with our temperature example, in the desert, if you live, work and play in 72 degrees during the summer, essentially existing as a mole inside a cool den, it is almost impossible to enjoy being outside in the 100+ or even 110+ degrees. Our comfort makes it impossible for us to be comfortable outside of our norm.

And that’s the paradox of comfort.

The more we achieve comfort and allow it to be our norm, the harder it is to be comfortable in situations that are outside that norm. We all know the ones we call crazy. You know, the guy who heads out on a 100-mile bike ride in 100+ degree temps and then says it wasn’t that bad. That’s because it wasn’t. Or the person who can ride through a early fall snow flurry in Chacos and not even recognize that their feet are supposed to be cold. That’s because they aren’t. Instead of honing in on the most comfortable states, they have made the outliers, the states that most consider uncomfortable, part of their norm. And by doing so, are able to be comfortable in situations that many consider extreme.

The next 6ish miles to Camp 2 which is now Camp 1 follows the river. The canyon is choked with Russian Olives and Cottonwoods. Both provide shade but also become an impediment to forward progress. Our pace is slower than we would have expected and the journey takes us almost 3 hours.

With my intention to feel the desert, I chose to wear my most minimal footwear, Bedrock Sandals. With a pack on and walking for hours, I know that I can do about 10 miles without any trouble. My feet are used to being outside and deflecting all sorts of trail hazards, but after 10 things can get a bit uncomfortable. We hit that point about halfway to our next campsite. The balls of my feet start to ache and I can feel the constant lifting over downed trees and undergrowth growing in my calves.

The canyon we plan to exit, comes into view which is to say I can recognize the drainage but it is still a few twists of the river away. If we could go straight, well, we can’t so that doesn’t matter. We finally hit the 2nd confluence and begin searching for a place to crash for the night. There has been plenty of sign of humans, we expected that, but we haven’t seen anyone up to this point. We drop our packs at an obvious site but one that is not up to Mama Bear’s expectations. We both fan out in differing directions hoping to find something better hollering across the vegetation. I see a flat sandy spot a little up canyon and head that way. Just about the moment I get there, I notice there are about 7 or 8 people sitting in the shade just beyond my flat spot. I stop dead in my tracks a bit surprised to see them and also recognizing that our search for a site just got a little more urgent and might need to have some buffer space. The intruders seem to recognize the same thing and are soon on their feet and headed to the confluence. I backtrack and find Mama Bear to inform her of the situation.

We grab our packs and head toward the sandy spot. The group was clearly not impressed with my spot as they walked right past it. I stay put and MB thinks she might see something better up against the cliff. She has. We soon find ourselves tucked up against red sandstone on an almost perfectly flat spot under some Cottonwoods. Once our spot is secured, we go about getting things set up and fetch water. We find that the sandstone is a great place to lean against functioning as our living room recliners. It takes us a few, but we notice some Moqui steps going up the side of the cliff.

After dinner, I have to explore. I easily go up the first set to a sloping ledge. At the top of which is another set of steps I climb. These top out at another sloping ledge which I can follow farther up to yet another set of steps. I’m getting high enough that getting back down is certainly a concern but the draw of where these go keeps me moving. The next section of rock is just feet below the soil that sits on top of the sandstone. I’m now on top of the cliffs that border the river corridor and our side canyon. The corridor is choked with vegetation and looks like a ribbon of green sandwiched between the red rocks. Being able to look in all directions and see where I am at and what is around is a treat. I snap some photos and retrace my steps back down to the canyon floor.

Day 2

Morning breaks and I find myself struggling to want to get out of bed. The sun is blocked by both the canyon walls and the Cottonwoods. I pull my quilt over my head and pass back out. Eventually Mama Bear wakes me up and I am forced to drag myself out of bed. The extra miles and minimal footwear have made it extra difficult. My first attempt to stand almost ends in me falling over. My calves are so tight that my legs just don’t want to work. I can feel the miles, sun and heat throughout my body, but particularly in my calves. The shade we are in is cool and it feels good to just drink coffee and chill.

We break camp and begin our journey out.

For all the years I spent pondering and trying to get down the canyon from the previous day, it was a letdown. Not that it was a bad canyon perse, but more my expectations far exceeded what it was.

It only took about 30 minutes for that memory to fade and for my eyes to be wide, my smile big and my feet moving quickly to see what was around the next turn of our exit canyon. It slotted up quickly to the point that you could touch both sides at the same time. The towering red sandstone walls were bathed in the morning light and we were giddy just walking through slots, finding artifacts and other dead stuff. All the excitement pushed the thoughts of water toward the back of our minds and we just reveled in the beauty of the desert.

Emerging from the skinny path we have been following, the noon sun hits us. The temperatures begin to spike and there is no water running anywhere. We both have plenty, but as mentioned, when in the desert… The sandstone walls begin to recede and we are taken through the time capsule of geology exactly in reverse from the day before. As the rock walls shrink, the canyon grows in width cutting through clay instead of sandstone. Huge drainages emerge where the water that has formed our canyon has dug ditched that all converge into the wash we are walking through.

A few small springs dot the landscape as we continue outward. We also notice some clouds building in the east. Our planned exit is marked by the change between geological layers and is said to be an old mining road. We find the change but there is no road to be found only small game trails heading in every direction. We know there is a road that will eventually head off the drainage we are walking through and with no mining road, we decide to head out that way. We make our way to the top of a big drop and find the one break in the cliff and follow a small trail off the ridge. It would appear we aren’t the first people to have done this, but it’s still a bit sketchy. We hit the road and keep walking.

The clouds have begun to bellow over the horizon and darken giving us respite from the sun. A breeze that has been blowing is picking up and rain slowly starts seeming evident.

By dropping all the way down the drainage, we have added some mileage to our trip. At this point, my feet are ready to kill me. Two days of long walks with sand grinding and zero padding to cushion the weight of my pack and they are protesting. Nothing that would stop forward progress but certainly what I had set out to find. I could feel the desert in my feet. My calves were tight and sunburned. The constant sand flicked up hitting them has faded to the point I don’t even recognize it happening. For what had been planned as an easy adventure into some sandstone canyons, this has turned into a bit of a death march. Doing two days in the first and then extending our mileage for the last, the desert was making it plenty clear that we were not in charge and that humility is a needed attribute in this harsh environment.

The cruelty of the desert was felt and it was beautiful.

And then the Monster Car appears around the bend still perched next to the dilapidated corral.

My feet praise Jah and want nothing more than to finish this slog. I slow my pace doing my best to enjoy the remaining moments. I came to feel the desert. I didn’t know what that would mean on this excursion. I expected it to be mostly sunburned skin and sand-worn feet like it has for so many other outings. The desert had other plans and instead, it meant cool water on bare skin and feet that wanted to do anything but keep moving. It had those other things too, they just resided deeper in the context.

I drop my pack next to the rear wheel of the Subaru relieved and at the same time a little sad it’s over. Even with my pack off my shoulders, I can feel the desert in my bones. We pop the back and immediately grab a recovery drink, but the desert isn’t done with us yet. A loud crack of thunder swells out of the dark clouds overhead and we are now concerned (one of us more than the other) about the clay road and countless drainage crossings we had navigated to get here. Our celebration is cut short and we are soon rushing out.

Seated in the car with the windows down and the cool air pouring over my body, I can still feel the past two days of walking in the desert. I’m pretty comfortable as a smile spread across my face knowing the desert gave me exactly what I needed.

Embrace chaos. Seek Discomfort.