Category Archives: Uncategorized

Emotional Health, Hiking and outdoor beauty, Uncategorized

The Hiking Bandito

April 24, 2020 Cherry Leave a comment

She hiked 5.3 miles yesterday. Not that she really intended to go that far, but what is five miles when you have no schedule, no appointments, no reason to be back at a certain time? According to her observations, one felt better when averaging 3 miles per day. Why stop at three miles when five might make you feel glorious? Besides, what is that? Up there. Just around that next bend?

It is becoming habitual; daily pulling on the short wool socks, the hiking sandals, zip off shorts – the sawed off T-shirt and maybe a hoodie depending on the weather. All topped off with a water bottle in a sling stuffed with a rain poncho and cotton handkerchief. The cell phone goes in her pocket – for taking pictures, not messages -keys to the opposing pocket. And lastly, the bandana of the day is tied round the nose and mouth. Ah-the bandana. Aye-yi-yi-yi -she is a bandito, stealing an hour or two of time that in former days had been allocated to economic security.

With bandana securely in place until she reaches a trail with no one in sight, she ventures out on her own feet to engage in forest bathing. Yesterday 5.3 miles. In the days before: 5.6, 4.5, 3.9,1.8 and 4.4. Since anything over three miles is quite possibly indicative of new discovery, it’s been a week of enlightenment. She now knows the trails less traveled, also the delightful little coves for putting in and taking out a kayak and the most likely fishing holes along the river. She figured out early on that the trails laid out for hikers and bicyclists are often labyrinthian, doubling back on themselves endlessly through the trees. But if you were going to cut the corners, take a shortcut, do it the most expedient way; why would you ever leave home in the first place? Route signs carefully coordinated by the City of Durango, BLM, Forest Service, and 2000 Trails are helpful, but not always clear. What does it matter as long as you have a general idea of where you are and no deadline? Explore the trail!

And that’s why, she frequently sets out to hike three miles and ends up hiking five.

Over her hiking years she learned that she can usually gage the distance, without benefit of pedometer, simply by how she feels. Mile one: Ahhhhh, I can breathe again, why didn’t I do this sooner?Mile two, the tension drops away and a new perspective dawns somewhere in the back of her mind. Between mile three and four her appetite for good, healthful food kicks in and she takes another sip from her water bottle. Mile four is for menu planning – usually Chinese. Yesterday was a bit of an aberration. At mile three, deep in a piñon pine forest she said to herself, “When I get home, perhaps I will make some vanilla pudding.” She stopped in her tracks to find the source of this inspiration. There it was. Twelve feet ahead and just to the left of the trail, a ponderosa pine of substantial girth. She sniffed it. She hugged it. She continued happily on down the trail.

Books and other Soul Food, Emotional Health, Uncategorized

Thriving Solo: Read

April 2, 2020 Cherry Leave a comment

I finished a book yesterday, stayed up late reading it actually, but was unsatisfied with the ending. Does a book have to be satisfying to be a good read? To be time well-spent? Can a poorly written book still have a satisfying ending or a great plot?
There is such a wide difference between classics and chic lit; pulp fiction and historical fiction; a gourmet meal and fast food.
So yes, let’s talk about food. What did you have to eat a moment ago? I had two small muffins and a cup of turmeric tea. Earlier, I had oatmeal – my standard, healthy, go-to breakfast for every day of the year. I don’t indulge in muffins very often, but today felt like a great day for baking – you know – cloudy and isolated. Once every few months I have a hotdog, every four or five weeks I may stop for fast food, but generally, I prefer the healthful, hearty and fresh, savory and nutritious.
My eating habits are a pretty good metaphor for my reading habits. A touch of C.S. Lewis; a dollop of Tolkien; an entrée of Jane Austen; a desert of something modern, maybe Gabrielle Zevin, or Doig or Winspear. Once in awhile I’ll snack on short stories. In between, I might pick up an indie book, or simply a cover that appeals to me or a random Christian women’s fiction book. When I find something that satisfies, I’ll look up the author and go back to her or him over and over. Something unsatisfying, on the other hand, begs to be analyzed. Why is it unsatisfying? What might the author have done differently? How would I rewrite the story? Some stories are so downright disappointing they can only serve as encouragement: If they could find a publisher, so can I. Speaking of me; here is my own intensely personal list of books worthy of a reread – over, and over and over.
Pride and Prejudice
Sense and Sensibility
Emma
Persuasion
Any thing else by Jane Austen
The Space Trilogy (Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, That Hideous Strength)
Till We Have Faces
Anything else by C.S. Lewis
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
The Marquis’ Secret, George MacDonald
The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry, Gabrielle Zevin
The Mapping of Love and Death, Jacqueline Winspear
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, Shaffer / Barrows
Cordelia Underwood, Van Reid
The Girl in the Glass, Susan Meissner
Those are just the re-reads, the must-have books that I cart around with me from pillar to post for times of necessity – like quarantine.
There are many, many good books out there – books I have borrowed and returned, books I have checked out from the library and returned, books I have purchased, read and passed on to someone else.
A pandemic has necessitated that we shelter in place – go ahead – indulge – READ!

Cherry Odelberg, 2015. Photo by Kevin Decker

Emotional Health, Health and Long Life, Travel, Uncategorized

Denim Corsets and Fashion Ennui

March 3, 2020 Cherry Leave a comment

Really, was it any surprise when the chest spasms seized her somewhere on the lonely road between Page and Kaibeto? She straightened her posture, took a few measured breaths, felt no constriction and slackened not her pace.

She had been under a lot of stress for the past few days. Leaving a job. Packing a Subaru to the gills. Traveling 260 miles. Return. Repeat. And then of course, the last straw when the Subaru, fully loaded complete with car top carrier, coughed and died and left her renting a U-haul truck and repacking her final load. Nonetheless, repack she did.

She slept and got a fresh start the next morning; showered, pulled on her skinny Levis and flannel shirt so as to look respectable when returning her condo key; sallied forth in a 15-foot truck.

Again a spasm hit and she reflected for a moment on being 65. She had now out-lived her grandmother by 5 months – the maternal grandmother who succumbed to heart disease at 65. She took stock of her vitals again as she continued to drive. No difficulty breathing. No pain in the left shoulder or arm. Refreshing, deep breaths.

She ate an apple – that will keep the doctor away – and wondered if she should be eating anything at all given the spasms. Should you eat before a massive coronary? If you gotta go, massive and instant would be the way to go.

Six more times a contraction hit, a bit like Braxton Hicks, strong enough to make her involuntarily say, “ouch,” and suck in her breath.

Somewhere outside of Shonto she reached down and flipped the latch on her web belt, released the button on her 711s, and relaxed the zipper by two inches.

She hasn’t had a chest spasm since. Denim corsets, who knew?

Emotional Health, Uncategorized

An Unexpected Valentine

February 9, 2020 Cherry 2 Comments

Have you ever received an unexpected valentine? In her opinion, the unexpected are the best kind. Those early elementary school memories of the excitement leading up to Valentine’s Day are good. First there was the search for just the right packet of heart cards; not too sentimental – one wants to be honest – not infer more than one really means. Then there was the laborious matching of each sentiment to just the right friend or acquaintance. Much angst was added to the labor if valentine cards came in packs of twenty and there were 30 children in the class. Or what about the packs of 24 matching a class of 24 but two of the cards were for teachers? Two! What a waste to the frugal pocketbook. One year a student taped a piece of candy to the back of every card he gave. That was unexpected. Classmates oohed and aahed and whispered in little clusters that he must be rich. Perhaps his father was a doctor? Some years the children were required to bring a card for every student – or none at all. Other years the students could pick and choose; gift a card only to the classmates they actually loved. Those were the years every last valentine in her box was unexpected. Ah, but she loved the crafting of that shoebox into a Valentine’s Day mailbox, even though she knew it was a time and money strain to her parents to help out. The red construction paper, the white doily hearts; She wanted to win, oh how fervently she wanted to win best in the Valentine’s Day box contest. But she was never the cutest, or the most beautiful or even the most unique or creative.

These days, if a valentine card is received it is totally unexpected. Her mother, who used to bake the cookies and write each child’s name on top in frosting; her parents, who once the children were grown and moved away, still insured there was a proper Valentine’s Day card via snail mail; are infirm and immobile.

Now in her mid-sixties, she sat in front of her memory chest – built by her grandfather from pine (not cedar) -and tumbled headlong through the myriad photo shoeboxes right back into 1969. 1969 was a spring of success. Best junior high marching band ever. First junior high concert band to ever be invited to perform before all the music directors in the state of Colorado. The awards, the 1-pluses, the accolades were rolling in.

On the morning of February 14, 1969, she rose, bathed, dressed and along with 69 other symphonic band members, presented herself for breakfast at the Broadmoor Hotel. It was, indeed, a magical Valentine’s Day. At each place waited a red construction paper heart inscribed with a student’s name and a custom chosen sentiment. For instance, the girl who would play the oboe solo later in the day received a card beseeching, “Be there, Beautiful!”

Her own card was rather cryptic, “Only 60 calories.”

She still has no idea what it means – but it was unexpected – it made her welcome – an integral part of the group – a piece necessary to a shared Valentine’s Day experience. Collectively, they were the best, the most unique, the most musically talented 14 and 15 year-olds in the nation.

Happy Valentine’s Day – and may you receive something wonderful – and totally unexpected!

co-dependence, Hiking and outdoor beauty, Relationships, Travel, Uncategorized

WANTED: Hiking Buddy

January 19, 2020 Cherry Leave a comment

Wanted: Hiking Buddy
Generally – as is commonly repeated – I savor silence. I embrace solitude. A walk is a meditation. I almost prefer to hike alone.
Generally, I follow the thinking of a young female ranger who once pointed out to me, “Cherry, I have found there are places I will never get to go if I wait until someone can go with me.” And so it happens that I travel alone. I go to movies alone. I take myself out to dinner table for one. I kayak alone. I spontaneously lace on my hiking boots and head out my front door – or I park the Subaru at a likely trailhead and commence exploring. Still, I am a cautious being; and, I like to think, wise. I long to touch the Colorado River – dip my toes in- everywhere I can – all the way from Lulu City Colorado to the backwash of the Salton Sea and the Gulf of California. When I swim in Lake Powell, I think of it as dipping my toes in the Colorado River. Soon after my arrival in Northern Arizona, I learned of Cathedral Wash, a moderate hike of about 4 miles beginning in Glen Canyon National Recreation area and ending on the Colorado River about two and a half river miles downstream from the Paria Riffle. One day I parked my car and headed down the wash. It was a negotiable route until I reached a pour off. The drop was only five feet or so – easy going down, but what of the return trip? I needed a hiking buddy-not a tall one- just someone to lean on-someone to boost – someone to pull. Yesterday I departed from my flat on foot. Half a mile later I was in a gray sandstone slot canyon that stretches from Highway 89 down to Wahweap Bay. Coming from the neighborhood, I accessed the wash at mid-point, hiked toward the bay until I hit a 25-foot drop off. Rather than find a route around, I hiked back toward Highway 89 to ascertain landmarks for the beginning of the route. This route is well known to a group known as The Happy Hikers, and multiple footprints were evident in the bottom of the canyon. As I progressed up the wash, I came to a place where the slot narrowed, where I climbed into a sort of lemon squeezer, no footpath on the bottom so butt scooting became necessary. There was an obstruction. There was light on the other side. Could I cross over? Yes. Should I cross over? Probably not. If only I had a hiking buddy. Unfamiliar with the route, I did not know what came next and I might soon have to reverse the route. Already the rock I had moved to climb into the lemon squeezer had crumbled, being only of mudstone. I had passed multiple small rock falls in the canyon. I backtracked and caught the first available steep climb out of the canyon and followed a coyote trail along the rim, reconnoitering as I went. Yes, the butt scoot would have been possible, but to no avail. Immediately thereafter were two twenty-foot pour offs to circumvent. As it turns out, I made the right decisions. In addition, I have recently discovered a route around the pour off in Cathedral Wash. Maybe I don’t need a hiking buddy after all? But then again, it has been fun going longer distances with the Martys and Lindas and Johannas and Janices in my life. Solitude is fine, but society has its merits. The best things in life are shared. Hiking Buddy wanted!

(Image is at nine o’clock, tools are obstinate)

Uncategorized

Will a waterproofed boot hold water? And other questions you never thought to ask about your gear

December 28, 2019 Cherry Leave a comment

Can you drink from a boot?

Can you freeze a Nalgene water bottle?

Well. You can try.

I hike as often as possible. Sometimes spontaneously. I like to be prepared. I travel a good deal. I live in the desert. I have learned to carry extra water. Two liters stays in the car – especially if I leave a full camelback pack in the back seat for a week or two. There is extra water in each of the conservancy fleet vehicles as well. 64 ounces regularly rolls around in the back recesses of the delivery van, clunking against seat braces at odd times. At work we have found that square, milk jug-type containers sprout leaks so staff prefers a nice sturdy juice bottle rinsed and refilled. Roll on sustaining waters. I solved the loose cannon problem in my Subaru by standing a 32-ounce Nalgene up in one of my hiking boots. The other boot holds an extra pair of wool socks and a bana (buff, neck-gaiter, whatever you choose to call it). The boots lodge perennially in the backseat foot well with toes tucked under the driver seat. I prefer to hike in sandals and wool socks or sneakers with socks but the boots – like the PFD, swim tote, hammock, tent, sleeping bag and hiking poles -are there for both storage and spontaneity. I want to be prepared. To put that another way; I don’t ever want to miss out on an opportunity to do the activities I love.

I got away for a few days in advance of the holidays, hiking and soaking at high and cold elevations. It was a sultry 34 degrees on my return to Page and may have hit the upper 30s next day as we conducted inventory at one of our visitor centers. Daylight lingered when I entered my car after work. A bit of water was pooling in the trench of the mud mat. And it was coming from my boot. This was not snowmelt coming from the sole of the boot. No, the water was oozing over the brim of the high top. The exterior of the boot was dry. But the padding around the ankle was wet. My 32-ounce Nalgene still wedged comfortably with a frozen core of ice, but the ice was beginning to melt. I tugged at the bottle. The bottom fell out. Water filled the interior of my boot. It held. Water tight as a leather wineskin, that boot. So. In case you were wondering, yes, in a pinch you could drink water from a boot. It will hold. It will haul. But I am fairly disappointed that my Nalgene will not freeze and thaw.

Uncategorized

Nature’s Treadmill

October 6, 2019 Cherry Leave a comment

We get outside for health.
We get outside for confidence – to pit ourselves against nature for a moment, test our skills, return victorious.
We get outside for a change of pace and a change of scenery – literally.
We get outside to escape the office treadmill, to defy the hamster wheel, the monotonous, repetitive activity in which no progress is achieved – the treadmill of people we cannot fix and things we can’t control.

I think the expression, “I wanted to die,” comes from the following sources: embarrassment, rejection, failure, things of the heart and emotion, societal expectations. And those are the precise feelings I am seeking to heal when I venture, nay, when I go boldly, out into Nature.

I have said that I want to die in a beautiful place. I have also said that day is not today. And it is not. In Nature, the old will to live still kicks in. My reflex is to fight for my life. I don’t want to numb that instinctive will. When the day comes that I die in a beautiful place – I hope it will be decisive – a sudden occurrence. No choice of whether to give up or fight. But until that day, I will struggle. There is no, “lay me down and will myself to die.” While I still live, I will fight for my life.

I go out into Nature for the healing, but sometimes what I get is the scalpel. Other times the treadmill. Yesterday a friend and I floated the Colorado River from Fairy Swale (it is actually Ferry Swale, but Fairy has more scope for the imagination) to Lee’s Ferry. The word floated is misleading. True, sometimes we floated. True it was downstream. Words like halcyon, bucolic, tranquil, serene, placid – even chillaxing came to mind. But there is also wind on the river, wind that blows upstream. Wind that makes white caps of the water. Wind that grabs the nose of your kayak and turns you 180 degrees and makes you feel helpless. Wind that once again puts you on a treadmill of life you find yourself expending herculean energy but going nowhere.

The wind is regularly expected for the last mile of the route from Ferry Swale to Lee’s Ferry. Yesterday it happened three times in the last three miles of the journey. It was a three condor, three osprey, three heron, 99-duck, three extended wind-gusts with white caps and reversals up-river sort of day. And yes, the random half miles of calm beautiful floats were very worth it!

I go out into Nature for the healing, but sometimes what I get is the scalpel. Other times the treadmill. But that doesn’t stop me from returning, over and over again for the healing – the healing that comes after the scalpel has done its work.

Uncategorized

Her Colorado River Account

August 19, 2019 Cherry Leave a comment

The truth is, she would have signed up for that kayaking trip whether it was August 4 or not. A friend – a fellow writer – who loved the beauty of the great outdoors the same way she did, had organized the trip. It was at least her eighth time on the water that year, but who’s counting? Besides, it was a kind of opened-ended goal for her to touch the Colorado River in as many places as possible.

A few years before, she had hiked beyond the headwaters of the Colorado River in Grand County Colorado – hiked all the way further in to Rocky Mountain National Park where the headwaters were merely snow that was melting and flowing under the ice beneath her feet. It was cold, very cold that April and the paved road had not yet opened for the season. On another trip, she rolled up her pant legs and waded into the river water at Lake Havasu. She visited the Salton Sea and crunched among the heaps of dead sea shells and fish bones. She hiked riverfront trails wherever she could find them and dipped her toes at Glenwood Springs, Rifle and Debeque Canyon; Palisade, Grand Junction, Fruita – and all the way down Highway 128 into Moab Utah. Her love of the Colorado River and its tributaries grew as friends urged her into a kayak on the Gunnison (Escalante to Bridgeport) and a placid-but still Grand – portion of the Colorado from Palisade to Grand Junction.

When you get the chance to paddle, you do. But the fact that it was August 4, made it oh so serendipitous. The part of her that loved history, indeed, the part of her that loved core knowledge and interdisciplinary learning and the way every piece of knowledge connects with another; the interpretive part that is fascinated by reenactments and tribute bands and trips down memory lane; that part of her savored the fact that it was August 4, 2019, exactly 150 years after John Wesley Powell and his expedition crew made their way down this very stretch of river.

On the night of August 3, 1869, Powell and his men camped somewhere near the Crossing of the Fathers (Dominguez and Escalante) on the Grand River. They rose the morning of August 4 and rowed the stretch of river ending at the juncture with the Paria River in Marble Canyon.

On the night of August 3, 2019, she slept in her own bed in Greenehaven, AZ, some 10 miles from the narrow gorge that is the Colorado River in Page, AZ. She rose the morning of August 4, 2019 and drove the 45 miles from Page AZ to what is now Lee’s Ferry just north of Marble Canyon. At Lee’s Ferry, the group caught a backhaul that transferred participants and kayaks just about as far up river as you can go given the presence of Glen Canyon Dam. Once dropped off, some paddled upriver a bit until they could see the power lines and the tunnel where commercial rafts put in just below the dam. When the entire group of eight had gathered on the beach at Fairy Swale, they were underway. Weather wise, it could not have been a more perfect day. The group paddled leisurely down a lazy river, beaching for short hikes to explore petroglyphs; pitied the hoards gathered at the top of Horseshoe bend while the river runners had the river nearly to themselves; caught a current here and there and lounged in kayaks letting the river do the work. The rain clouds rolled in, made the light picture-perfect, but did not rain enough to chill or drench. A pontoon boat passed and then anchored in a cove up ahead and a local musician provided an impromptu concert on the river. Thus, this became Music Canyon, despite being several miles further downriver than the one so named by Powell. The group of eight persons and seven kayaks continued on, exchanging positions, engaging in conversations with different members of the diverse group, getting to know biographies.

With such halcyon circumstances, she forgot all about the stories of paddling against the wind – until it happened. About two miles out from Lee’s Ferry, the wind kicked up. Strong. Blowing up river. Around that same time, she was shunted off to the right by a little eddy, while other members of the group caught a stronger current to the left. Try as she might, she could not catch up. A women more than 5 years her senior outstripped her by 500 meters and disappeared around the bend. This was not her first experience paddling against the wind. Knowing she was in better condition than on any previous trip, she straightened her back, braced her legs, shoved her butt into the seat and began to power paddle – – without effect. Gradually the river carried her downstream. Eventually, she straggled in at Lee’s Ferry, the last of the group to arrive and not the first to exclaim, “Wow! What a trip! What a perfect day!”

She smiled broadly. There was a bit of a lilt, if not a swagger, to her step. She had just added another 15 miles to her Colorado River account.

Uncategorized

It is hard to miss; Part 2: Willis Creek

August 10, 2019 Cherry 2 Comments

Willis Creek

She stood in the shade by a small desert creek to refresh herself and prepare her mind for a return hike of the 10 miles she had just completed. Again, she checked the vehicle for signs the guys had been there. Vacant. She left signs of her own presence. A bandana tied to the luggage rack – in case they were also looking for her.

She knew exactly where she and her hiking partner had overshot the return trail. What she could not figure out was where they had bypassed the guys. If they were not waiting at the vehicle, they should have intersected two miles ago. Her hiking partner was convinced the guys were out looking for them.

In her mind she reviewed the information gained from the internet previous to setting out on the trip: Nice family hike. Under six miles. Hard to miss because the trail goes straight down a slot canyon. Five miles round-trip to the end and back. Approximate travel time: 2.5 hours. It had been four hours.

In the beginning, the girls had no intention of splitting off from the guys. Five people, journalists of varying degrees, began the hike together that day. They met a couple hours after dawn, packed into a Jeep like sardines, and jostled two hours up a dirt road to the trailhead, stopping to search out geological features along the way. Arriving at Willis Creek Trailhead, they began the hike in leisurely fashion, taking time to savor the illumination of morning sun on sandstone and to luxuriate in reflections of shadowed pools. Two of the guys were photojournalists. They carried the gear necessary to their art and wielded it for photo ops both posed and candid. A mile and a half into the hike, the girls – both avid hikers – began to move ahead by increasing distances. Hunger sat in. They found an inviting log at a place where the canyon widened. They sat for several minutes killing time in conversation and nourishment. Still no guys. They looked and listened up the canyon. Still no sign of the guys. Her hiking partner helloed and yahooed up the canyon. No response but an echo. So the girls pressed ahead through the ever-widening canyon, walking mostly on soft sand of a creek bed. After a mile of wide creek bed and still no sign of the guys catching up, the girls reversed their route and headed back. They followed the creek. They met no one. They noticed a picturesque tree fallen across the creek. Was that there before? Perhaps we walked under it without noticing. They found fresh desert bighorn tracks in the mud. Very fresh. We did not see those on the way. Soon she said to her hiking partner, “We should be in the slot by now.”

“Did we take a wrong canyon?”

“How is that possible? We have followed the creek all the way back. Let’s just go around this next bend and see what we find.” They did. They found a fence.

“I am sure,” she said, “we could follow this canyon on the left and end up just above the parking lot. But we don’t know the condition of this canyon, there may a dry fall too deep to scale, and we don’t want to miss the guys.”

“Do you think they are searching for us by now?”

Accordingly, they made a 180 and retraced their steps. Looking, always looking to the right for the turn they somehow missed. Presently, the telltale signs of plodding hardship began.

Her: I didn’t bring matches.

She: I have matches.

A quarter mile further.

Her: I don’t want to spend the night in a canyon.

She: The sun is still high.

Another quarter mile.

Her: I didn’t pack that blanket.

She: I have a space blanket (and a headlamp, and paracord, and a whistle, and a windbreaker, and snacks and tissues and two bandanas and a tiny first aid kit. I think I packed too much).

Another mile, another biographical conversation. The girls were getting to know each other better.

Her: Look! There’s the log where we ate lunch.

She: Good grief, how could I have missed it? I didn’t realize we took a sharp turn into Sheep Creek just as we stopped to eat lunch!

No time to lose now. Surely the guys must be up ahead, waiting impatiently. The girls hurried to catch them.

The girls arrived at the Jeep. No guys. No evidence the guys had even been there. Exhausted, the girls propped hiking poles against the door of the Jeep and found a shady place to rest just over a small hill.

Twenty minutes later, while she was still debating going after them, the guys strolled into the parking lot.

“Where were you?” They asked. “How did you make it back before we did? We followed footprints about a mile down Sheep Creek until they ended and then we turned back. How did we not see you?”

The guys had made a leisurely time of it, poking up side canyons to find just the right photo angle, dawdling in the dappled light of photogenic vegetation to catch close-ups. All the while expecting to meet up with the girls at any moment.

She pulled out a phone and checked her mileage: Ten miles.

He checked his: Six miles.

The girls had out-stripped the guys by four miles simply by missing a turn into Willis Creek. Instead, they headed on up Sheep Creek. 10 miles! Not bad, not bad at all for two girls in their 60s.

Yes, it’s hard to miss, but you can do it!

Uncategorized

It is hard to miss; Part 1: Chaco Canyon

August 10, 2019 Cherry Leave a comment

Chaco Canyon

She stopped at the visitor center, and talked with the National Park Service Ranger.

“I’ve got four hours to spend. I am an avid hiker, but I don’t like to get hot or feel overheated.” Together they looked at the map. “In this heat, I wouldn’t go to those other backcountry sites beyond the end of the loop,” he advised. She nodded. “What is the travel time to Pueblo Alto?” “Estimated three to four hours.” “And the distance?” She verbalized her informed plan. “I’ll go to Pueblo Bonito, see Kin Kletso, hike to Pueblo Alto and overlook Pueblo Bonito and then stop at one more site at the side of the road on my way out.”

He affirmed, “The Pueblo Alto Trail is hard to miss. You can take the stairway right after Kin Kletso.”

He was right. It was hard to miss. It was hot and exhausting and very hard to have missed it.

She hiked far beyond Kin Kletso, in the heat, toward the backcountry, all the while keeping a sharp lookout for a stairway. Turns out the “stairway” was right behind Kin Kletso. Had she lingered, had she taken time to explore Kin Kletso thoroughly rather than doggedly hurrying onward, she would have found the trail sign. It was hard to miss.

Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!