I Have A Confession

Sheepish. That's how I'm feeling right now as I prepare to fess up to one of my guilty pleasures. You see, this wasn't a quick realization on my part; I wasn't even aware that I was getting so much enjoyment out of it until just the other day when I was looking back, thinking about all of the other times I have done this, and it hit me that I might have a problem. Are you ready? Here goes: I absolutely love driving on bad roads.

Schafer Road, Canyonlands National Park

You're probably thinking wtf, that's not a problem right now, so let me explain. I don' t mean roads with pot holes, or roads with little or no evidence of painted lines on them. I don't mean roads that most urban people drive day in and day out on their commutes to work. Those are streets, highways and interstates that transport people from point A to point B. And those are great and all, I wouldn't have been able to access anywhere I've traveled without them. But the roads I really love are the ones that sometimes suck to drive on. I like the little back country roads that are sometimes gravel, sometimes dirt, and sometimes other questionable material.

Indian Cave State Park, Nebraska

I love the rocky, winding, twisted mountain roads that take you in and out of evergreen forests, through alpine meadows and directly through a creek in order to cross it. I adore the sandy roads at the bottom of desert canyons that switchback so tightly that you momentarily question whether or not your vehicle will get stuck. I fawn over the roads that take you so close to the edge of a cliff that if you were to open your door and step out, your first step would be on air. The roads that have no speed limit, but it's impossible to go over 15 miles per hour, the roads with dips and ruts in them so deep they make the potholes in the city look like a dimple on a golf ball, the roads that climb such a steep incline that all you see when you look out the windshield is brilliant blue sky. Those are the roads I live for.

Headed up the La Sal Mountains in Utah

I'm sure a lot of my love for bad roads has to do with the way I was raised and where I learned how to drive. My family always took vacations to the less-visited regions of the country, and we drove to all of them. I remember going up to Merritt Reservoir in Cherry County, Nebraska most summers when I was little camping on the beach in the middle of the sandhills; I first learned how to drive on those sandy hills covered in mixed-grass prairies, with the occasional grasshopper jumping through the open window into the the cab of the truck to hitch a ride. We took four-wheel drive roads all over that area and I fondly recall grinning broadly as I peered over the steering wheel and hood of the truck toward the next big dip in the road, knowing I would feel the swoop in my stomach as we hit the bottom and flew up the next roller coaster set of hills.

Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge, Nebraska

We took vacations over spring break, heading to Big Mac in western Nebraska to see the congregation of Bald Eagles around the open water. With nobody camping on the beach during the middle of a cold Nebraska winter, we had the whole lake to ourselves, which we took advantage of by driving all over the white sand beaches. All of us drove, and through enough mishaps Dad finally learned to carry boards and shovels with us whenever we had plans to go off-roading. Nearly every family vacation we took, for as long as I can remember, found us on a jeep trail or four-wheel drive trail of some sort. Many of our best camping places are located along a road inaccessible to most cars, especially in the Rocky Mountains. How else would we have found "My Spot" or "Dad's Spot," places that have no official name but are marked precisely on our maps and lodged into our brains, places that we continuously return to even if we are headed to somewhere we've never been.

Dad's Spot, Colorado

Grand Wash, Capitol Reef National Park, Utah

I officially learned how to drive in the middle of winter, given that my birthday is in January. I had a lesson in driving on ice from my dad that I will never forget, and to this day am thankful for. Right after a big ice/snow storm one day shortly after I turned 16, Dad took me out to a parking lot on the western edge of town. It was big, empty, and covered in a sheet of ice. We entered from one side, and Dad told me to hit the gas. So I did. Then he pulled the emergency brake on me, and as we went into a spin, sliding across the ice, Dad calmly told me to get myself out of it. It took several tries, but I finally succeeded. After putting me through my paces a few more times, Dad finally let me drive home. Like I said, that lesson has stuck with me ever since.

Just outside of Arches National Park, Utah. No, I didn't tilt the camera.

I currently own a little 2008 Toyota Yaris, a two-wheel drive vehicle that is a great commuting car, gets fantastic gas mileage, handles just fine on flat roads, hills and mountains, and can go long distances without any trouble. Really, other than regular maintenance, some new tires, and one incident with the water pump, my car has had no problems, and I've put 90,000 miles on it. It handles just dandy in the rain and snow, and I've only ever been stuck once (in really deep snow.) My only gripe with it is that I can't take it where I really want to go. I've pushed my car almost to it's limits, asking it to drive up rocky, one lane mountain roads, while people in jeeps and ATVs stared at me, surely wondering what that dumbass taking a Yaris up a mountain thinks she's doing. I've driven my car through the bottoms of canyons and along sandy washes where I know, in the event of rain, we would be trapped. Just the other day after six inches of snow in town I intentionally took an alley way that was snow packed and bumpy, and grinned like an idiot the whole time. But I know my car's limits. I can't tell you how many times I've started out on a beach, or along a jeep trail, and turned back. My car can't handle some of that stuff with it's low clearance and two wheel drive capability. I'll reiterate what I've written before: I absolutely love driving, and my car is easy on the pocket book, but I need a four-wheel drive vehicle to get to the places I long to visit.

Pointing out Schafer Road on my most recent visit to Canyonlands National Park, Utah

Schafer Road, Canyonlands National Park, Utah

My next car will have to be something that can handle getting to the places I want go. I'm totally open to suggestions, so if you have a favorite vehicle that lets you get around snow, ice, sand, mountains and deserts, let me know!

Road from Grand View Point, Canyonlands National Park, Utah

What I'm listening to: Whispers (I Hear You) By: All That Remains

Going the Extra Few Miles

Carefree. I started my hike in the early afternoon, with intentions to only go a couple of miles to a waterfall and back. Rocky Mountain National Park in early summer is awesome: not too hot, not too cold, and still not a whole lot of people on the trails. Unfortunately, the trail to Alberta Falls from Bear Lake was a short, easy walk only about 3 miles round trip, with the energetic white waterfalls as the destination, which meant that the trail actually did have quite a bit of traffic on it, more than I was used to. Even after my potentially disastrous summit of Flattop Mountain the day before, I was eager to be on the trails again, even if it meant I had to give up my solitude and be around people.

Don't you just love Aspens?

I got to the falls, and had to fight my way closer to the edge of the creek just to look at the water, though I could hear it from a ways off. I always love waterfalls, but I do not love the crowds of people they seem to attract. I snapped a few pictures, scrambling around the bare rocks to get a picture that didn't include ten other people in it, then gave up. I turned to head back to my car and call it an early day, then noticed the sign pointing up the trail farther, to Mills Lake, and beyond. It looked inviting, diving straight back into the evergreens and up, out of sight. Best of all, none of the 30 or so people at the falls seemed to be giving this part of the trail a second glance. Sure, what the hell. I had nothing else to do. It took all of five minutes, and I was alone. I couldn't hear any evidence of the crowd at the falls, no footsteps coming toward me or following me. My type of trail. I followed the meandering trail as it took me through the sub alpine forests, to trickles of water with log bridges flung across them, past groves of aspens that had just leafed again, until it delved once again into the evergreens. Once in a while the trail would open up onto flat outcroppings of rock, providing views of the mountains that I'm sure a majority of the people who visit the park never experience.

Alberta Falls

Once or twice a hiking pair came down the trail towards me, and we exchanged the pleasantries of the trail. That was it. I strolled on, in no hurry to get anywhere, not even sure how far it was to Mills Lake, and I wasn't bothered. I would get there if I got there, and would turn around if I wanted. Once I was passed by a couple of Rangers, both of whom stopped and warned me of a rain (or possibly snow) shower that was on it's way down the valley from the top of the glacier. After they made sure I was prepared for both rain and snow (I was), they suggested I not go to Andrew's Glacier because of the distance, especially because I wasn't planning on spending a night out there, but just about everywhere else was within my reach. I thanked them for the weather report and advice, and continued on, rounding a bend and almost literally stumbling on to what became my favorite part of the whole hike: a few hundred feet where the trail followed a bare patch of scree, the evidence of past rock slides down the massive mountain side. It's exposed, and a slip at the wrong time would likely leave you with a sprained ankle and three plus miles to hike back out. Of course, this was the only time on the entire trip that I thought about the possibility of bears, and how much it would suck to walk into one on the single part of the trail where I would have no where to go. However, I must confess that I really, really wanted to see one. While hiking. Out in the back country of the mountains.

Next to Mills Lake

With no one else around. Alas, no such luck. But the views! Over the treetops the path of the valley became clear, winding back and away with the head of the valley and the glacier still miles away. And I still didn't know how far it was to the lake. Sure, there were trail markers telling the distances, but I didn't care how far it was. I was just walking because I could. It was with a bit of surprise, then, that I came around yet another bend in the trail and found the creek I was following widening into a lake tucked against the sheer side of the mountain opposite me. I could see ribbons of silver water glinting in the sun as they fell from snow fields higher up to feed the lake at my feet. I moved along the shore up the lake, stopping occasionally to take in the views and the quiet and the solitude. There weren't many others at the lake, and those that were there started to pack up and move down the trail once the clouds moved in and threatened rain. I kept going, curiosity driving me upstream, wanting to know what lay beyond. I made it to the next lake, Jewel Lake, a smaller lake on the chain of lakes threaded by the stream that runs through them all, before the clouds convinced me that my curiosity would have to wait until another day. After a brief pause for a snack, I headed back, still taking my time but stopping less often. The wind came up behind me and hurried me along, making me very glad I had my wind resistant jacket with me. I passed only a couple of people going towards the lakes, each of them muttering about the weather and hoping the rain would hold off just a bit longer.

Mills Lake

I reached the falls faster than I expected to, and from there made short work of the trail to Bear Lake. I stopped at the ranger station, curious to know how far I had gone on my casual hike. Imagine my surprise when the ranger told me I had just decided to hike 7.6 miles on a whim. Well, whaddya know? As I drove the (fantastic) road down the mountain towards camp I looked back, then quickly pulled over and got out, camera in hand. The mountains and valley I had just hiked out of were in the grips of a snow storm, and I had somehow managed to beat it. Sometimes, lack of proper planning works out, though I don't think I'll be going for a long hike on a whim again. At least, not without a weather report.

Jewel Lake

What I'm listening to: We Swarm by The Glitch Mob