“It is easy to overestimate how much you can accomplish today. In time, if unchecked, this belief can lead to frustration, doubt, and shame that stifles future risk, and may tempt you to throw away what could have been yours. Do not fear. Reflect. When you look closely, you’re apt to discover how far you’ve come over longer horizons, and how much further you can go still. For even if your steps are small — taken deliberately, humbly, and over many days, they can still take you to faraway lands.”
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In my last post I wrote that I put my journey “on pause” to come home to Minnesota.
That has turned out to be not entirely true. Being here has reminded me that this journey has always been equal parts physical and spiritual. These past three months my explorations inward have been as intense, if not more so, than the hardest trails. And so, I’m realizing that even while I’m here, temporarily off the road, the journey is hardly on hold.
I’ve felt this most acutely in my time reflecting. After all, the scope of what I’ve experienced in the last in 3 months has been immense. A truth that I often forgot while I was traveling and thinking about the place I was, or deciding where to go next.
In total, I hiked in over 30 national parks, monuments, and forests, in addition to driving through or briefly stopping at countless others. These hikes totaled somewhere ~500 trail miles.
These vistas have opened up so much for me - some of which I’ve written about in this blog, but more of which I’m still grappling to understand. And in reflecting back on it all, I’m realizing that so often my internal journey has been inextricably bound to the physical land I’ve walked and the people unexpectedly who’ve shared my path.
As a tool for reflecting on these moments (and also as I search for deeper patterns that transcend the anecdotes that have filled these posts to date) I’ve begun to revisit the images I’ve taken in chronological order. And in so doing, I thought it might be helpful for me, and simultaneously interesting to you, if I shared 1 image from each wild place I’ve been, so you can get a sense of the physical arc of my journey to date. Though I love many of these images, I’m not selecting them to show you my “best” photos. Similarly, I haven’t selected them to show you the most commonly captured vistas (though sometimes they do as well). Instead, each image captures a moment that was imbued with deep meaning for me. A place and time where the inward and outward journey came together and opened up possibilities for me in both realms.
Below, I’ve begun that project with pictures from the first three parks I visited. I will share the rest with you in several separate (and much shorter) picture filled posts.
As I do, I’d love to hear how these images speak to you, and what, if any truths they bring into your mind.
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(1) Grand Canyon National Park (South Rim, Arizona)
This was the first hike I completed alone (the day prior I hiked parts of Sedona with friends from my Baptiste training). To get here required trekking over a mile in a foot of snow. So, as a consequence, I had the point entirely to myself for hours. While I had many moments of profound connection with others on my journey, my time in the west also gave me a new appreciation for the transformative power of extended silence.
This image also shows my first attempt to create a composition using myself as a model for scale. To do this, I had to use a tripod and a delay timer (something that added significant weight to my pack for all of my hikes). Moreover, I chuckle in looking at this now looking at my back. Until the last week of the trip, I didn’t feel comfortable taking photographs of my face. So, now I have shots of my backside all throughout the west.
(2) Glen Canyon National Monument (Arizona)
In the first mile of this hike I was walking while simultaneously playing with my camera. In so doing I tripped, fell into a deep puddle, went flying forward, and had to use my camera to brace my fall. I still got soaked. As I pulled myself together I discovered that not only was my camera fried, but my phone was acting strangely too. (It didn’t stop me from taking a few photos like this one).
With fear in my heart, and no technology to distract me, I gave up my need to be alone. Instead, when I was peering over a ledge I knew I’d need to boulder down, and was thinking about turning around, I struck up a conversation with this couple. Together we created a plan for getting down. We were soon fast friends, and together we navigated the unmarked terrain of the canyon for hours.
This experience opened up so much for me - teaching me (1) always stay alert. This isn’t a play ground. You can die in the west, even far away from cliff ledges and grizzly bears; and (2) contrary to my fear that traveling alone meant I’d always be alone — nearly everyday I met and connected with at least one new person in a meaningful way. This never happened in my old life. And in so doing, I discovered that life can be so much richer - full of unexpected possibilities, joy, and beauty — when I treated the people I’d just met like my oldest friends.
(3) Antelope Canyon (Page, Arizona)
To visit Antelope Canyon you must have a guide. When the other couple who was supposed to be on my tour didn’t show up, it turned into my private tour. Fantastic - now I could experience the canyon anyway I liked, right? Not exactly. In the first minute of the tour, I could sense my guide wanted to us to move fast. I preferred to linger. But I felt uncomfortable saying that. Instead, afraid of confronting him or hurting his feelings, I changed my walk to match his pace. I had a wonderful time, but in retrospect, I missed countless opportunities to take the pictures I wanted, and experience the rocks in a way that would have been most meaningful to me.
Now months into the journey, I recognize this wasn’t an isolated occurrence (on the road or in my life). Many times after meeting someone (a guide, a stranger, or an old friend) I decided not to speak my truth when I feared doing so might cause some unpleasantness. The costs of this were varied, but large. It not only included me missing on seeing “cool places.” It also led me to carry unnecessary mental anguish, and prevented me from having the kind of authentic relationships I want.
Though it took me a long time to see this pattern, I’m thankful that experiences like my time in Antelope Canyon so vividly brought the problem to fore for me. And as a consequence of that growing recognition, in the final weeks of the trip I was able to give voice to my discomforts directly with several people in ways that brought me greater peace of mind, and also helped us move toward healthier and happier friendships.