In late April, I traveled to Arches National Park as part of a three-week solo road trip to mark the one-year anniversary of my retirement.
Over the years, I have found that travel allows me to discover personal priorities that are discernible only when the chatter of daily living melts away. And with this discovery, I can recalibrate the basics of life; this is especially true when the travel is in nature.
Years before, the cliff dwellings in Mesa Verde National Park had a profound impact on my sense of being human. I was ready to experience ancient rocks again, this time in the form of sandstone arches. In preparation, I read and reread Edward Abbey's classic "Desert Solitaire." Abbey worked as a seasonal park ranger in Arches and described one of the job's fringe benefits as "a sense of time to let thought and feeling range from here to the end of the world and back; the discovery of something intimate — though impossible to name — in the remote."
I stayed at a hotel in Moab, Utah. My first morning there, I was joined at breakfast by a man who knew the park well. His advice was to start sightseeing and hiking at the farthest point I wanted to go, then work my way back to the entrance. That was good advice, as there are fewer people at the more distant parts of the park in the morning.
The morning was cool and rainy. As I drove to my destination in the northwest corner of the park, the rain stopped and opaque light began appearing through the clouds, reflecting off the vertical Great Wall to my left and sparkling off small pools of water collected in indentations in the ground rock to my right.
Arriving at the Devil's Garden trailhead, the 1.6 miles to Landscape Arch was labeled "easy." Because the trail was not crowded, I was able to relax into the cool, clear air and appreciate the contrast of the tiny and ephemeral yellow spring blossoms of Mormon Tea against the substantive and centuries-old red rock.
Landscape Arch was visible from a few different points on the trail; its fragility was truly remarkable. The man at breakfast said that continuing on from Landscape to Double O Arch is difficult, but achievable. "Trust your hiking shoes and look straight ahead," he said.
The hiking surface was ground rock; that was OK. Then I encountered vertical slabs. The adolescent boys who passed me didn't have any trouble negotiating around and over them. I compared my body with theirs and thought about my osteoporosis. What a problem I would create if I broke my ankle. I turned around. Part of getting older is realizing one's limitations, I rationalized. My disappointment dissipated as I hiked the trails to Skyline Arch, Broken Arch and Sand Dune Arch. My soul was fed.
The next morning was cool but sunny. Again, I went directly to my priority destination for the day: Delicate Arch, the park's most famous arch. I went to the lower and upper viewpoints first, both of them being short, easy hikes. At 8:10 in the morning, I had the upper viewpoint to myself.
After experiencing this view from multiple perspectives, I made the decision to try the difficult 1.5-mile hike to the arch itself. After traversing gravel trails, small rocks and sloping rock surfaces, I reached the point where I could touch the rock formations near the arch. I hesitated when I saw the 200-yard rock ledge that led to the top.
Maybe this was the place to stop. I voiced my hesitation to a hiker who was taking a water break. The hiker's wife overheard me and said, "But honey, you are almost there."
A young man on his way to the top had overheard the interaction. As I lowered myself back on the trail from the rock where I was sitting, the young man cheerfully asked, "Are you taking a shortcut?" He followed me along the ledge, encouraging me with occasional advice. "Lean toward the rock wall."
Rounding the corner at the end of the ledge and viewing Delicate Arch from the top was exhilarating. This was an experience I would never have had without the encouragement of my fellow Americans.
With their assistance, I had stretched my limits. And my thoughts and feelings were already ranging in a new arc.
Katherine Hanson lives in St. Paul.
