A Snapshot and The Scoop: Sand Sculptures

Wind and water can sculpt some amazing formations, even if they might be small, delicate things that blow away with a breath. Gypsum especially seems to form an array of fragile flakes, built by water and torn by wind. Even in the middle of the dune field at White Sands National Monument, if you pay attention you can find little sculptures left in tribute to the wild, which will vanish with the next storm.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Tuff

In all my years of traveling, all my miles in the car and on foot, I have never been tired of saying "that's something I haven't seen before." The tuff cliffs comprising the Frijoles Canyon of Bandelier National Monument are certainly in this category. Tuff is compressed volcanic ash, deposited in this area by two enormous volcanic eruptions more than a million years ago. Over time erosion carved canyons and mesas into the land, exposing tuff in places like the cliffs picture above. It's density depends on how quickly it cooled, and tuff can range from very hard to incredibly crumbly. The cliffs of Bandelier National Monument err on the side of crumbly, which, in addition to the perennial water source, attracted ancient Pueblo people to populate the arid land. The bigger caves in the cliffs above aren't all natural - most of them have been enlarged by hand to provide living spaces for the ancient dwellers, and most of the post-holes pecked into the walls to provide roofs over the shelters still exist. Look closely at the picture and you can see masonry in the bottom third, leading up the slope to the cliff, as more evidence of ancient civilization. I truly hope I never get tired of seeing new things.

The Other Shoe Drops: The Aftermath

Stunned. Hiking in a brewing sandstorm is not the smartest thing I've ever done, but it was either make a break for the car or try to wait out the storm while injured with a jumpy cat who freaked out every time something brushed his fur. The car was less than a mile away, and though I could see the gusts of wind curling around the glittering, airborne sand, see it whipping even more off the tops of the dunes, I braced myself and forced us to go. Hoodoo found his feet and walked next to me, so close he nearly tripped me up, trying to use my legs as protection against the wind and stinging sand. It was not a good situation. I could hardly see the trail markers, and some of them even appeared to be blown over and broken off, so I had to search for a glimpse of orange among the frenzy of white before I could continue. Sure, I thought I knew the general direction of the parking lot and the park road, but I was not stupid or desperate enough to strike out cross country on a "shortcut" to try to get back faster. Not in a sandstorm, not in a desert.

It was while searching for one of these markers that I saw a dark figure on the top of the next dune, pulling a sled while trying to shield herself from the flying sand. I guessed it was Erika and shouted at her, waving my arms. I saw a trail marker next to her as she shifted to wave back, and made my way over. Once within talking distance I explained what had happened, that I was leaving, and strongly suggested she return to her car and wait out the storm before hiking to the campsite she'd be occupying by herself that night. She agreed and we turned to the trail, moving as quickly as we could across the dunes toward safety. Hoodoo began to stall again, panting hard as the wind became more intense. Erika offered to let him ride on her sled if he'd stay put, and once I'd lifted him on he lay still, trying to use her gear to hide from the wind. It was with no small amount of relief that we finally spotted the parking lot, and nearly ran for our cars. I all but threw Hoodoo into the backseat and slammed the door closed, needing him to begin calming down before I could drive. I was able to breathe again once we were safe, though I had already bled through the bandages on my hand and wrist, not to mention the mess that was my leg. Erika helped me clean up and reapply bandages, and we chatted a bit about the wisdom of camping while the storm was going, worrying about the other couples still out among the dunes, weathering the storm in their tents. She intended to wait out the storm in her car, maybe drive the dune road and sight-see that way.

I was sorely disappointed to cut my weekend short, though I knew beyond a doubt that it was the right thing, the only thing, to do. Once I hit town I called Jared and my family, letting them know I was heading home and explaining what had happened. Hoodoo had bitten my left hand, two puncture wounds on my palm and one on top of my thumb. He'd also bitten my right wrist, with a deep tear on the top of it and a small puncture on the inside. His claws, though I had trimmed them short the day before we left, had done a number on my arms and legs and it was those I had to thank for the long gashes on my leg that left it coated in blood. Less than an hour after the ordeal my right wrist began to swell, becoming progressively more painful until I couldn't use it at all, and I began to suspect an injury beyond the cat bite. The panic and shock were beginning to wear off, adrenaline had run its course, and it was well within the realm of possibilities that I'd sprained or even broken it in the frantic moments when I had been flying through the air. Cat bites can be nasty, more often than not leading to infection, and I already knew I needed antibiotics just to be safe. I've been bitten by cats before, I've had the pain and swelling associated with them, but whatever was going on in my wrist went beyond my experience.

It was with no small amount of relief that I pulled into my own driveway around 1:30 am, cradling my right wrist against my chest. It had not been a fun drive home, with Hoodoo still jumpy and myself in more pain than a couple of ibuprofen could control. I couldn't let him on my lap, though it broke my heart to deny him when he tried to climb onto me for comfort. He jerked around every time something touched him, and I couldn't trust him not to cause a wreck while I was driving. The bites on my hand and wrist didn't stop bleeding for hours, and I had to stop several times to reapply bandages, with one hand barely functional, and I was still flecked and spotted with blood, though I'd cleaned up the best I could. I left everything but my cat in the car and after dropping him just inside the front door headed straight to the bathroom. A thorough one-handed shower got me cleaned up, and I fell into bed, upset and disappointed, ready to forget the whole weekend. I had set out trying to run away from everything, and only ended up with more problems to show for it.

**Notes: I found out the next day they had evacuated the park due to the severity of the sandstorm, so we wouldn't have been able to stay even if we'd wanted to.
*I had my surgery (the thing that started all of this) on the Tuesday following this disaster of a trip, and spent a couple days ignoring my wrist and the fact that I couldn't use it. I finally went to see a doctor four days after the incident, had x-rays taken, and was told it was a sprain and an infected bite. I was sent home with antibiotics for the bites and a splint for the sprain. I had a follow-up  appointment with an orthopedist because I still couldn't move it without excruciating pain that also kept me from sleeping well without the use of medication two weeks after the injury. Turns out it was a little more than a sprain and a cat bite: multiple torn tendons and a possible fracture in the small wrist bones near the base of my thumb, plus the cat bite (which was still open after more than two weeks). I was put in a brace that immobilized my right wrist and thumb and told the only reason I wasn't getting a cast was because of the bite complication, and I had to remove the brace daily to clean the bite and change the bandaging. As of the date this post is published, I'm still in the brace.
*This is the first time I've been seriously injured while on a backpacking trip, in more than five years of travelling. Yes, it sucks. No, I won't stop travelling or backpacking, both with others and by myself.
*Hoodoo calmed down by the following morning and is back to his usual chatty, affectionate self. I still plan on mountain climbing with him and Torrey at the end of August.
*I still haven't pulled out my tent to assess the damage in a less panicked atmosphere (it takes two hands to set up), but I'm willing to bet patching it won't be an option. Guess I'm in the market for a new tent.

This is the final of four parts to the story. Queen of Avoidance, the whole reason I went on this trip in the first place, is here. The Calm Before the Storm is here, and The Storm is here.
Fair warning on part one, Queen of Avoidance: It is incredibly personal, and not strictly necessary to get the whole story of my time at White Sands. It's more of an explanation of why I headed to White Sands, and like I said, it gets into my head. Also, warning for talk of birth control, menstruation, and other reproductive-related topics.

The Other Shoe Drops: The Storm

Panicked. I have no idea what time it was when Hoodoo woke me. I had closed the mesh walls of my tent to keep him contained while I slept, and I woke up to him meowing softly while pressing his face to the zippered door. I tried to shush him, coaxing him into the sleeping bag with me, even grabbing my headlamp to see if there was anything on the surrounding dunes that had his attention. Finally, when none of my attempts to quite him worked and he got progressively louder, when I began to worry about him waking our neighbors, I clipped his leash on and slid out of our tent, determined to walk him away from the others before he became a nuisance. We walked a little way under the stars and the light of a half moon, gilding the dunes and scrubs with silver, strong enough to cast shadows as we picked our way across the bowl. Hoodoo did his business while we walked, and spent a few minutes chasing gently bobbing grass heads as we passed. Eventually he quieted and we returned to the tent, but I was wide awake and didn't bother trying to sleep again. I had deliberately left my watch behind and my phone was powered down, so I had no idea what time it was, but knew in the way songbirds know that sunrise was not far off.

I was really there for the sunrise. Sure, sunset is magical and generally dramatic, but sunrise is solitary. It is soft, and quiet, and the world is still mostly asleep, Earth still breathing slowly and deeply in rest. Where sunset is burnt orange, hot pink, and deep blue shadows, sunrise is lavender, and pale yellow, and maybe even a touch of muted green. Sunrise is walking lightly as shadows recede, watching insects begin to stir. I couldn't even be annoyed with Hoodoo for waking me up, not once the sky began to lighten in the east and the stars began to fade.

Once the sun was up properly, though, I didn't linger. I packed up quickly, heading out just as my site mates were stirring. I walked back to the car, Hoodoo trailing behind, in the newly minted day, stopping occasionally for more pictures as we retraced our steps from the previous day. I wanted to spend a second night out there, a second sunset and a second sunrise, which meant hustling to the visitors center and queuing up more than an hour before they opened. I wasn't even the first one there. Two other couples around my age were already waiting on the benches by the front door when I arrived. Another single girl, Erika, joined us, and eventually we all began chatting as you do when you're all waiting for the same thing. Hoodoo was a nice ice breaker, and eventually we learned we'd all traveled from Texas for the long weekend, and none of us were born in the state, but just happened to end up there. Eventually the doors opened and we all got sites near each other, with Erika and I pairing up to share a site. She headed into town to grab some supplies while the rest of us headed out. We walked together, chatting, watching Hoodoo trail alongside us, stopping to get the sleds of their camping supplies up steep dunes, and we peeled off at our designated sites with friendly words about letting each other know if we needed anything throughout the day. I set up slowly at a site different from the one I'd been at the night before. Though we'd set out an hour earlier than I had the previous day it still got hot, and Hoodoo and I retreated into the tent for a nap while we waited for Erika to get back from town. I drifted off with the tent doors open, listening to the canvas doors flapping in the breeze.

I don't entirely know what happened next. I woke up in the air, the tent around me stretched like a sail, the few pieces of gear I'd brought into the tent with us flying around and Hoodoo in an absolute panic. I immediately went to grab his leash, confusion limiting my thoughts, and felt a pressure close over my left thumb. Somehow or another I ended up back on the floor of my tent, on the ground, twisted around myself, my gear, and my thrashing cat. My confusion left me as the gust of wind subsided and my tent collapsed in on us, trapping Hoodoo and I in a tangle of nylon canvas and aluminium poles. He panicked even more, clawing and biting blindly in a desperate attempt to free himself, tearing out of the tent while still wrapped up in his leash and harness and a jacket I tried to throw over him. As he freed himself a second gust caught us, whipping sand into our eyes and inflating the tent again. I was ready for it this time, grabbing my backpack with one hand, still laden with gear, flinging it onto my tent to keep it grounded while I tried to contain Hoodoo. Somehow, perhaps because of the great rents in the fabric or the tangled poles, somehow the tent didn't fully inflate again and lift off the ground, and I was able to get Hoodoo untangled as he took shelter under the frame of my pack, making himself as small as possible. Blood coated his leash and fear leapt into my throat, terrified that he'd been hurt. It took a few seconds for me to realize it was I who was bleeding profusely, droplets from my left hand and right wrist slicking anything I touched and being flung into the howling wind, a stream of it running down my left leg painting the white sand red. It took a few more numb seconds for the gravity of my situation to set it: I was badly hurt, had a ripped, collapsed, bloody tent, and a panicked cat who was in no way going to calm down while a sandstorm blew up around us. I have no idea how long the winds were blowing while I napped, just that I'd woken up to a building sandstorm, a dangerous situation in itself, and I no longer had even a slight shelter to try to ride it out. I needed to leave. Immediately.

Fortunately, one of the couples I'd met that morning were camped nearby, just a single dune separating us. I had to literally drag my poor cat, refusing to walk and panting with fear, too scared to leave him alone but unable to touch him, as I climbed to the top and shouted down for help. They too were sheltering in their tent but came out as I called for them, and when they reached me I was nearly incoherent, trying and failing to contain my own panic and shock as I explained I needed to leave, but needed help packing. I had a jacket wrapped around my hands in an attempt to stem the blood, but left my leg freely dripping, and I'm sure I was quite a sight, holding a bloodstained cloth, a bloodied leg, barely able to speak. I had to force myself to take deep breaths, though that resulted in swallowing the sand still flying through the air. They got the gist, though, and helped me stuff my torn tent and the few items I had pulled out before my nap into my pack, and helped me get it onto my shoulders. I left them with my number to give to Erika, hoping I'd meet my site mate on the way back to the car but still wanting her to be able to contact me if we missed each other. I had the camping permit and we'd agreed to share a few things for dinner, and I needed to get them to her if she planned on camping. The couple pulled out their first aid kit and helped me bandage my hands before I set off, and I thanked them and wished them safety as I headed back to the trail, back to the car, into the storm.

Read part one, Queen of Avoidance, here
Part two, The Calm Before the Storm, is here
And check back next Sunday for The Aftermath
Fair warning on part one, Queen of Avoidance: It is incredibly personal, and not strictly necessary to get the whole story of my time at White Sands. It's more of an explanation of why I headed to White Sands, and like I said, it gets into my head. Also, warning for talk of birth control, menstruation, and other reproductive-related topics.

The Other Shoe Drops: The Calm Before the Storm

Appetent. White Sands was not what I expected. Well, some of it was, like the crystalline white dunes stretching into the horizon, and the coolness of the sand kissing my bare feet as I wiggled my toes under the surface, and the excitement I felt in my bones at being back out in my element. But I was definitely not expecting the trouble I went through to get a campsite, nor the double line of people trying to get into the park. I had arrived right as the visitor center opened the Saturday of Memorial Weekend, which, apparently, was not early enough. Just as I walked in to the building to get a backpacking permit one of the employees announced they'd filled the allotted permit sites for the day, and both my face and my stomach dropped. Then the employee suggested grouping up, no more than six people in a group, if any of the permit holders were willing to share their sites so others might be able to camp. My hopes soared, and I took a chance, calling to the room at large that I was alone, just a single camper, if anyone was willing to share. I figured I had a better shot at getting someone to share with me than a group of campers, or even a pair. I was thrilled when an older couple waved me over to them. We introduced ourselves, and I let them know I had Hoodoo with me, which began a round of exclamations and questions from those in the vicinity. The next thing I knew, the three of us were headed into the park to begin our stay.

I headed out along the campsite loop before my site mates. I was practically ready to go as soon as we hit the parking lot, but took my time gathering the little things, eating a pb&j, and generally not being in a rush. I'd accomplished the goal of securing a site, now I just needed to set up before it became unbearably hot. I'm not sure what the pair were doing, it looked like packing and gathering, but I let them know I was headed out and I'd see them when they got there. The camping at White Sands is in no way developed, but it's also not exactly backpacking either. There are ten sites available, all walk-in only, anywhere from a quarter mile to a full mile away from the designated parking lot. The sites are entirely primitive, with only a couple orange marker posts in the ground letting you know you're standing where you're supposed to be.  Hoodoo and I followed the orange markers along the loop, trailing behind another group of campers hauling sleds stacked with camping supplies for their night on the dunes. I had my backpack cinched over my shoulder and around my waist, with Hoodoo attached to a leash looped around my wrist. He rode on top of my pack at first, then trotted alongside me, stopping every now and then to roll in the sand. It didn't take long to reach our allotted site, but both Hoodoo and I were panting by the time we did. I had vastly underestimated how early it got hot out on the dunes, with no shade to speak of, and hurried to set up my tent in an effort to provide a hiding place from the sun.

That afternoon was spent napping and sunbathing. When I set out for the weekend I had no intention of doing anything more strenuous than walking to my campsite, and I was making good on my promise to myself. My site mates arrived after some time had passed and set up their tent far enough away from mine that we might as well have not been sharing a site, which was absolutely fine with me. It was hot, but a slight breeze blew through the dunes, ruffling the tied-back doors of my tent as Hoodoo and I stretched out under the shade of my rain fly. I like to write when I'm camping (part of last Sunday's post was written while surrounded by white sand) and I had my notebook propped on my knees as I let my thoughts flow. I was rudely cut off, though, by my pen running out of ink. And, go figure, I'd forgotten to pack a spare. I always pack a spare pen! I resorted to reading instead, stroking a napping Hoodoo, and staring off into the limited distance I could, surrounded on all sides by high white walls of sand. When the sun finally dropped behind the closest dune, casting our site in glorious shade, I began dinner preparations and got out my camera. I've written about it before (here) but sunset on the dunes is as close to a magical experience as you're likely to get in this world, and I was anticipating it with something like butterflies in my stomach. Before long dinner was finished and I had slung Hoodoo over my shoulders to head out and find the perfect spot for watching the sun leave the sky.

Of course, everyone else camping on the dunes had the same intentions, and I watched as dark shapes emerged from the bowls of dunes all over the place as we all climbed to a vantage point. There were plenty to go around, and I wasn't bothered as I walked toward the dropping sun, keen to make sure nobody could get in front of me as I staked out a place. Eventually I settled on the western slope of a dune as it dropped into a scrubby bowl, shrugging off Hoodoo and fiddling with my camera. Hoodoo played with his leash as I turned my lens to the sun, every now and then moving to photograph my ridiculously adorable cat as well, blazing an even deeper orange as the sun died. Sunset did not disappoint, and I walked slowly back to my tent after almost an hour and a half with a memory card full of pictures and the last glow of day silhouetting the western mountains. Leaving the tent doors open, I settled back in the soft light of desert stars and drifted off to sleep.

Read the first part of this story here, and check back on Sundays for the next two parts!
Fair warning on part one, Queen of Avoidance: It is incredibly personal, and not strictly necessary to get the whole story of my time at White Sands. It's more of an explanation of why I headed to White Sands, and like I said, it gets into my head. Also, warning for talk of birth control, menstruation, and other reproductive-related topics.

Queen of Avoidance

I was running away.
I knew, in the darkest recesses of my mind, right where I shove everything else I don't want to deal with, that I was running. I had a veritable list of Things going on in my life, and plenty of reasons why I should have stayed home that particular weekend, but I'd had enough. I was sure that staying home would have been the worst course of action I could follow. Some of the Things I was running from were good - we had (still have) a baby lemur we're hand-rearing. We just acquired a new kitten (one who literally came running up to us and our four dogs right through our fenced-in backyard). I have a vegetable garden that needs attention, not to mention all my other pets. And, of course, Jared. But there are bad Things too, and it was those I fled from.

I ran from midnight feedings for both the lemur and the kitten (who was way too young to wean). I ran a little into my husband's second week of venomous snake bite recovery, where he didn't quite have full use of both hands. At the end of April, right when I was poised for a visit home and some much-needed family time, one of our cats died from a disease she should not have had. Heartbroken and in no state to drive, I stayed home. Then had to deal with the terror of the disease affecting our other cats, and I ran from that too. Mostly, though, I was running from myself. I have not been in a very good mental state for the past few months. I've been moody, anxious, high strung, and generally on-edge waiting for the other shoe (how many more can there be??) to drop.

If I'm being honest with myself, I've been feeling off since the autumn. It started with mood swings and headaches, then abdominal pain like I haven't felt since I was a teenager, before I was put on birth control. Then came the bleeding. And I, like everything else I don't want to deal with, ignored it. For weeks. Until it was to the point where I was coming home from barely getting anything done at work to crawl right into bed without dinner, trying to sleep it off. I was terrified, and kept my fears to myself until I couldn't anymore and confessed to my husband that I was scared I was sick, or maybe even pregnant or miscarrying, despite having an IUD. Pregnancy is not for me, and has never been on the table of circumstances I'd be happy with. I don't want a baby, I don't want to be responsible for someone else's life, and I never have. Thankfully, Jared is on the same page as I am, and we had a discussion regarding what we'd do if my terrors came true. But we couldn't do anything without knowing for sure. Finally, I made an appointment.

Turns out I was not pregnant or having a miscarriage, but I was having trouble with my birth control. I've had an IUD for years, and apparently after so long in rare cases some women react to them. Want to guess who one of those rare women might be? I was dealing with a hormone imbalance, which caused my mood swings, headaches, severe cramping, and near-constant bleeding. So I was given a course of hormone therapy and told to come back in three months if no change. I was back in three months. My dose was adjusted, and I was told to come back in a couple months. So I went back.

I'd like to point out it was now spring, six months after I first started having problems. While the medications stopped the cramping and the headaches, they did nothing for the mood swings or the bleeding. When I became resigned to the fact that the meds were doing nothing else, I turned to healthier eating and daily exercise to try to at least get my mood under control. And wouldn't ya know, it actually helped. I felt marginally better, and even lost some weight while I was at it, though that wasn't my main goal. But nothing helped the bleeding. So when I finally went back in to see my doctor, we discussed alternate forms of birth control. I basically wasn't a candidate for any of them, for various reasons, except perhaps permanent sterilization. And then, to my immense surprise, I was told we could do that. I've been asking my doctors for years (for real, for at least the last eight or so years) about sterilization, and have always been told I'm too young, I'll regret it, I'll change my mind, what if I meet the right guy and he wants to have kids (that last one stopped when I married Jared). I've heard it all, and switched doctors more than once because of it. Apparently it takes a medical issue and for me to bleed for six months straight before someone was willing to consider it for me, but hey, I'll take what I can get.

Another month's worth of appointments, meetings with the surgeon, and tests to make sure I was a candidate for both a tubal ligation and ablation (sterilization and a procedure to make it so I won't bleed any more), and suddenly everything fell into place. I was having surgery on the last Tuesday of May to make all my problems with birth control go away. And you know what? I was running away from that, too.

Not the surgery itself. I was dead set on that happening no matter what. No, I was running away from the anxiety of never having had surgery before, of not knowing exactly what to expect, of the surrendering of control that would be required for me to get it done. I left, the weekend before my surgery, to go to a happy place both physically and in my own head. Of course, things didn't go quite as planned while backpacking in the gypsum dunes of White Sands National Monument in New Mexico, but that's a story for another post. At the beginning of my trip, it was enough to be running away.

There are three more parts to this story, so check back every Sunday for each installment!

When Time Hangs Suspended

Pensive. I hadn't meant to rush things so much. I was on my last day of winter travelling before I had to head home, and I woke up near Tucson, AZ surrounded by saguaro cacti. I left the area around noon and made my way east, vaguely thinking I might stop at White Sands National Monument in south-central New Mexico to catch the sunset, maybe find a place to stay overnight. If I'd been thinking while I packed for the trip I would have brought my backpacking gear with me and stayed in the park, but I hadn't thought I'd need it. I can't say I'm a huge fan of winter camping anyway. I drove pretty much without stop to get to White Sands before the park closed to incoming traffic, though the gate would allow visitors to leave after sunset.

I barely made it, but I got there ten minutes before the entrance gates closed. I briefly chatted with a ranger about maybe camping on the dunes anyway, but I didn't feel like carrying most of my stuff in my arms, plus keep track of Hoodoo, at sunset through the dunes. In the end, I made my way with a crowd of other visitors along the park road, intent on getting to the end and claiming a spot to watch the sun sink beyond the distant mountains.

On a whim I stopped at a gathering place for a ranger-led sunset hike, thinking I might go with the group and watch the sun set from wherever the ranger took us. Everyone was, of course, smitten with my little orange adventure kitten, and he got plenty of pets and ear scratches as the group swelled. The ranger started the hike, with me tailing behind to keep anyone from stepping on my cat, and we began our walk up the nearest dune. It was around that time Hoodoo decided he wasn't interested in going with the group and put the brakes on, forcing me to wait for him while he sniffed around and made it pretty clear he didn't want to go in the direction of the group. It only took me a few minutes to give up and give in to him, abandoning the group hike, scooping him up, and loading him into the car.

I was still determined to see the sunset over the pure white sands of the dunes, though, so I drove to the end of the park road and parked next to the sea of white sand, slinging the cat over my shoulders (his favorite place to chill) and grabbing my camera before starting to climb. I'd forgotten how much walking on loose sand sucks! One step forward, half a step back, every single foot a fight to gain. Eventually we made it to the top of the closest dune and I was surprised and distressed to see how far the sun had already sank towards the horizon, so I flat out broke into a run, trying to get away from other visitors crowding the dunes closest to the parking lot.

Eventually I stopped, having gone far enough to satisfy myself, setting Hoodoo down on the sand while I fiddled with my camera settings, looking for photo opportunities. If you ever get the chance or desire to see the gypsum sands of White Sands National Monument, I highly recommend you do so, making sure to stick around for sunset. Even better, stay overnight in the park (backpacking only, no established campgrounds) and catch the sunrise as well. I have yet to stay overnight, but I tentatively have a plan to do so this year. The sunsets there, though, rival any I've seen. The sinking sun dyes the white sands shades of gold, and if you're lucky enough to have a few clouds in the sky their orange glow reflects onto the deep shadows cast by the dunes, bathing everything in light. And when the sun finally sets behind the mountains, when time hangs suspended in the desert air, and the light in the sky begins to dim, more shades of blue than you can possibly name play across the sand. 

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Bandelier

More dwelling ruins! This time around Alisha and I were wrapping up our Mountains to Desert adventures with a stop at Bandelier National Monument in New Mexico. Etched into volcanic cliffs are dozens of roughly rectangular rooms, fronted by even more adobe and stone ruins. The cliffs are made of stone called tuff, and is very soft and chalky, which apparently made it easy for the ancestors to carve their homes. You can even see the post holes picked into the rock, outlining each cubby! The cliffs are also prone to small natural caves which were also inhabited, and a few of them even had the soot stains from cooking fires along the ceilings. The dwellings line a canyon carved by the baby Rio Grande, which at that point is a permanent water source in the surrounding desert. Talk about a neat place to live!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Four Corners

Have you ever been in four states at once? The only place this is possible is on the border of Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico, and Alisha and I made sure our roads just so happened to take us past this particular area during our travels in July. We couldn't pass up the opportunity to stand in the all states that hold so many awesome adventures for us! The Four Corners park itself sits on tribal lands, governed by the Navajo Nation in conjunction with other tribes that call the area home. The offical corners border is marked by the token above set in concrete and stone, and is surrounded in a wide circle by stalls selling souvenirs, shirts, magnets, patches, and handcrafted art. We didn't hang around too long, just enough to get a magnet and chat with a few locals selling their goods, but hey, we got to stand in all four states!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Gila Cliff Dwellings

I will never, ever get tired of visiting cliff dwellings. Ancient Native American dwellings like those in Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument located in southwestern New Mexico dot the desert southwest, and though they share many similarities, each holds stories and a history unique to themselves. Most are built within sandstone alcoves, usually with a tiny little seep spring at the back that provides life-giving water, or else on a shelf above seasonal creeks that flood less often than they're dry. Occasionally though a series of alcoves and shelves are jammed full of stone and mud dwellings above a perennial stream, and it is there that you know the ancestors truly flourished. Time has erased their little farming plots, where they grew corn, squash, and beans, leaving only the grind stones and broken pottery behind to mark the passing of the years. The drier the area, the better preserved the ruins, and sometimes even the original timber support poles remain in place, though the roofs they supported are long gone. If you ever get the chance to check out cliff dwellings, don't pass up the opportunity!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Gila Fires

Look closely at the picture above and you can see the smoke plume from one of the wildlfires raging in the Gila Wilderness at the end of May this year. Fires are a force of nature that are always a concern of mine when I decide to travel, but there isn't a whole lot I can do about them other than rearrange my travel plans and hope for the best. This fire in particular was many miles away and headed the opposite direction from where I was going to hike, but a careless match, an unattended campfire, or a lightning strike (as was the case with this one) can spark a massive wildfire that puts people and animals in harms way. Fires are no joke, but they are a natural and important part of any wilderness area, and often are left to burn themselves out as long as they don't threaten habitated areas. Fires happen every summer, especially in the dry western US, and being this close to one, even from a very far and safe distance, was enough for me!

The Gila Mishap: Saving Myself

Self-Reliant. I would be lying if I said I woke up refreshed. Every inch of  my body hurt, from my blistered toes to the top of my head, which I had apparently bumped at some point the day before judging from the egg-sized lump on the side of my head. Neither Callie nor Ghost so much as lifted their head as I struggled out of my sleeping bag, reluctant to start the day. I still hadn't made up my mind whether I was going to head upstream or climb out of the canyon, and pondered the decision as I went about breakfast and breaking camp. I had half a mind to stay with the stream, terrified to leave the promise of water, though I had pretty much given up hope that the trail I was looking for was just around the next corner. I turned to my map and puzzled over it, trying and failing to pinpoint where I was. I knew that the second stream should be anywhere from two to four miles straight east of me, and with any luck I should be able to reach it and find a way down into it's canyon by the end of the day. With that goal in mind, I made my decision: I would abandon this stream, climb out and strike east across country until I hit the next stream, where I would climb into the canyon and stay there for the night. Short, little steps, breaking down my ultimate goal of getting to the Gila River and the road into managable, attainable goals. Assuming I didn't get cliffed out or forced to circumvent hazards. Hopefully.

I loaded my pack, filtered water until every bottle was brimming, drank as much as I could, encouraged the dogs to do so as well, then tackled our first hurdle: climbing out. I'd chosen a camp site that I thought would offer a somewhat easy way to get out of the canyon in the case of a flash flood, and it was up a short gully that I now had to climb. Callie, of course, went easily, though I had to lift her in places where she was too small and the ledge too narrow for her to make the jump safely. Ghost, of course, was a problem. I all but carried his seventy-five pound butt up the gully while huffing and puffing myself, with my ribs protesting on every gasped breath. He was all stiff legs and scrambling paws, fighting me with every step. I was more than frustrated with him by the time we reached the top where Callie waited patiently for us, and I dumped him on the ground and growled at both of them to stay put as I went back to the bottom for my pack. I climbed that thing three times, and I have no desire to ever see it again. Eventually though, we were all out, and made our way to the top of the closest ridge to try to get a couple landmarks to navigate by. It was there that my heart leapt into my throat. A building! Far away, on the other side of multiple canyons and hills, but unmistakably a building. I let the relief flow through me, until I tempered it with the acknowledgement that I likely wasn't going to reach it that day. No, I knew better than to think I could make it across the canyons and hills in one day, even if I was at full health and had unlimited water. Distances in the desert are deceptive, and I knew enough to stick to my original goal of making it to the next creek. I still headed towards the building, because there was definite proof of civilization, people, a road, and everything else that would keep me from dying in the desert, but the building just so happened to be in the general direction I needed to go to hit the creek anyway, and that way was as good as any other. I stayed as high as I could, keeping to ridges and hill tops whenever possible. There were many times where I would come across something my brain tried to tell me was a trail, though it always ended up being a game trail or a small wash or just a patch of bare earth. I avoided going into the ravines that popped up on either side of me, wanting to keep the building and other landmarks in sight, but this approach presented a problem: cliffing out. At some point or another, there was every chance that I would come to a place where I could go no farther forward and would be forced down into a ravine, where if I was unlucky I would have to climb down a cliff. If I were really unlucky I would make a climb, find out I couldn't go any farther down, yet be unable to go back up. There has been more than one case of someone dying from thirst within sight of water, but being unable to reach it because they were stuck on a cliff. I was determined to not let that happen to me, so resolved to stay as high as I could for as long as possible, and if climbing down became necessary I wouldn't take a step bigger than a foot or two, theoretically ensuring I could climb back up.

It was slow going, with desert scrub catching at my legs and pack with every step and the sun beginning its merciless scorching of anything living or dead. Soon I was bleeding again, blood dripping down my legs and soaking into my socks, and my ribs throbbed with every breath and step. Ghost and Callie were both limping and trying their best to stay in any shady patches they could find. Often times I would look around and realize they weren't with me, but had stopped on their own some ways back in the shade of a juniper or pinyon, panting and trying to cool down. I was careful with the water, more careful than I was on the first day, but we all stopped and drank sips of water often. I wanted to make it to the creek before midday, but I didn't want us to go down with heat exhaustion on the way there. Plus, I figured we had all day, and even if it took us six hours to make it to the creek we'd be ok at the end. As I walked, I realized I was being funneled between two deepening ravines, and my options for climbing safely down into one of them were narrowing. I could always backtrack and get into one where it was more shallow, following the creek bed like I had the day before and hoping there wasn't a dryfall that would make my life (more) difficult, but I took my chances and kept going forward. If there was a way down into the ravines from the tip of the ridge I was on, I was going to try that way. Once at the edge I looked down. The climb down to bottom where the two ravines merged together was steep, but it was less a cliff and more of a slope, and I considered it managable. Then I looked out and for the second time that day my heart leapt: green! I was completely correct in my distance estimate, there was a stream within eyesight! I just had to get down to it. As I stared at the green strip indicating water, I heard a sound I honestly couldn't identify. Then, as I watched in astonishment, a car drove between the mouth of the ravine and the green strip of land I was staring at. 

The sight of the car, and I presumed the road it was driving on though I couldn't see the concrete, completely threw me. If the road was there, then the green strip sheltered the Gila River, and if that was the river and not the creek I thought I had been aiming for, then I was so far off on where I had guessed I was located that I may as well not have even been in the same state. To be honest, right then and there I didn't give a shit about how wrong I was regarding where I was, I just wanted to get off the damn ridge and onto that road. I didn't completely lose my head though, because cliffing out was still a real possiblility and I needed to get to the bottom of the ravine before anything else could happen. I went slow, picking a meandering, angling path down the slope, holding on to tree roots and branches as I eased myself, gear, and dogs downwards to safety. The last six or so feet were the hardest, with me unable to find a way down that didn't involve a drop of three or four feet. Even that little distance, in our state, could have ended in a broken bone and while I knew with the road so close that it wouldn't kill us, I still wanted to avoid it. I lowered Callie down first, holding on to her front legs while her back legs kicked until they made contact. I dropped my pack after her, no longer caring about being gentle with it now that I didn't have to rely on it to survive. Ghost came more willingly than before, though he put on the brakes when it came to actually dropping the last few feet. Eventually I kicked his back legs out from under him and he dropped, though he stopped flailing when he realized there was flat, solid ground under his feet. I came last, sliding down on my ass in an undignified heap. I didn't care. A few more feet, and our shoes and paws touched concrete.

I wanted to sit down and cry, but we weren't done yet. I had no idea where on the road we were, but the road dead ended at Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument, and I had parked about five miles from the visitor center. I picked the direction I hoped my car was in, and began walking. No cars passed me in either direction, and the sun was sweltering at midday, but there was plenty of shade along the road and we took it easy. I knew the pavement was burning the dog's paws so wrapped them as best I could, but I had to keep them moving. One way or another we were reaching my car that day. A couple of miles of road walking later, we limped onto the driveway of a small convenience store and sat in a heap on their porch. I poured the dogs a bowl of water and sat against a pole in the shade, thankful for a break. After a rest, I tied the dogs to the pole and headed inside, determined to get a cold bottle of water and figure out where I was. I ended up talking to the owner, and once he got a good look at me and asked why I looked so rough he offered a ride to my car. I was thrilled! He helped me get my pack and dogs into his truck and drove me the rest of the way (only another two miles) to my car, where we had to lift and carry both dogs from his back seat to my back seat as they both refused to leave his air conditioned cab. I thanked him profusely for his help, and he waved me off as I settled into the driver's seat, air conditioner blasting. I took a few minutes to decompress and allowed the realization that it was over to wash over me. I was safe, my dogs were safe, I was back among civilization, and I had never been so glad to see my vehicle. I still had to drive two hours through canyons, mountains, and forests before I could get enough cell service to call Jared, but just the thought of being able to hear his voice again made me start to cry. It was only three day since I had started out on my trip, but I had had more than enough. I wanted to go home.

Read about how I got lost at The Gila Mishap: Losing the Trail, and the decisions I made that led me to water at The Gila Mishap: Difficult Decisions.

Note: It took weeks for my bruised ribs to heal, and I still have the scars on my arms and legs from bushwacking sixteen miles through the desert. Ghost and Callie were placed on pain medications, and Ghost was put on antibiotics to combat infection in all four of his paws. We wrapped his paws for a week, and it took him as long as it took me to bounce back to normal. This whole situation shook my confidence quite a bit, and I lay on my couch, hiding in my house for days before feeling like facing anybody but Jared again. Callie still got excited when I pulled my gear out to pack for my latest trip, but I very much doubt Ghost will ever want to come with me again. I'm pretty sure I learned more from this trip than any other over the last four years, and they are lessons I'm unlikely to forget. I've never been so happy to be home.

The Gila Mishap: Difficult Decisions

Dismayed. Our second day in the Gila Wilderness started off optimistic. I was sure we'd hit the stock tank within an hour or two, before it got too hot, and once at the tank we would find the trail. We were off just after dawn, bushwacking our way through the desert scrub and scattered ponderosa pines while trying to stick to the top of ridges and high points for better vantage points. I thought for sure I had found the trail when we came across a compact track along the edge of a ridge, but my hopes were dashed as we reached the top of a small mountain and the track fizzled into scrub bush and prickly pear cacti. It was there, on the top of the mountain where there should have been the trail, that I finally had to admit to myself that I was lost. And our situation was borderline desperate. Although I had been careful, we were down to a couple of mouthfuls of water and the desert was quickly heating up, though it wasn't yet mid-morning. I thought I knew which way we had come from, but I began second-guessing myself and pretty soon I wasn't sure at all. I found myself a seat along a charred log, remnant of some long-dead fire, and took stock. We were alone, I couldn't see a trail or any movement beyond the flapping wings of birds, the day was promising to be brutally hot, and we were out of water. We were sitting on the top of a tall hill/small mountain, I thought the trail I needed should be just to the north of my current position, which meant we had come from the south, but I wasn't even sure of that. And we were out of water. Wandering around the desert in the direction I thought the trail might be, or going back in the direction the river we'd left behind the day before might be in, both options with no water, did not sound smart to me, though I knew I couldn't stay on the top of the hill forever. We'd die of thirst within three days if nobody came to look for us. No, staying put was not an option, going north toward the possibiltiy of a trail was stupid, and going back toward the river that was a minimum of eight miles south of us (possibly) would have left one or all of us with heat stroke. The way I saw it, we had one choice: down.

The hill we were sitting on was cut by a shallow ravine that snaked its way east, toward a couple of creeks that I knew from the map cut across the wilderness and emptied into the Gila River. I reasoned that if I could reach a creek, I could figure out where I was. And, most importantly, get water. Once I made my decision, I willingly gave up on my desire to find the trail at that moment and focused on the only thing that mattered: getting into the ravine. I led Ghost and Callie out from their shady spot under a juniper tree and headed down the steep slope of the hill, cutting at an angle that would take me down the gully while dropping in elevation. There was always a chance of finding water high up in the gully, but I wasn't that optimistic; I knew we'd have to follow it down until it reached the perennial creek before we were going to be able to get a drink. By my map, I guessed that we'd have about four or so miles to hike down the ravine before we hit the creek, and I estimated that it would take us a whole four hours to do so. Hiking off trail is not easy, and you're lucky if you can go as fast as a mile an hour. Creek beds, even dry creek beds like the one at the bottom of the ravine, are usually choked full of vegetation, flood debris, and are pitted with waterfalls (dryfalls when no water is present), boulders, and sink holes. Our approach dropped us into the ravine gradually, and it was as we were skirting around a boulder near the bottom that I noticed the track worn into the sandy soil. I'd been watching my feet instead of my surroundings, so got quite the suprise when I looked up and found us facing what was clearly a den. There were canine tracks all around the pile of dirt dug up from under an overhanging boulder, complete with the scattered bones of past meals, and a clear track that led downstream from the den site. I wasn't very keen on trying to stop a fight between my dogs and wild canines of some kind (whether coyote or the endangered Mexican Grey Wolf, I have no idea) so we hightailed it downstream and put as much distance as possible between us and the den. It hadn't looked like anybody was home, but May is smack dab in the middle of denning season, when the pups are just coming out to explore the world, and mothers are known to be fiercely protective. The canine track was clear, and followed the path of least resistance downstream, so Ghost, Callie, and I stuck to it. Not only was it the easiest path, but there was no way a den would be located too far away from a water source, and following the canine's trail would be the quickest way to find it. The only thing that could've been better would have been a man-made trail with a sign saying "water this way", but I took what I could get. It still wasn't an easy hike. The canines are shorter than humans, and I found myself crawling under or over downed logs or swatting aside branches more often than not, while Ghost and Callie breezed through like it was nothing. We moved along quickly at first, though after a time the ravine deepened into a canyon and narrowed, creating debris dams across the creek bed, and we began to come across more and more dry falls. The first few were easy, a step or two down a rock and we could move on, but it wasn't long before we had to stop and search for a way around or down the dryfall. The canine trail we were following always dispersed and disappeared in these areas, and it seemed as if each individual member of the pack found their own way downstream until they reconverged further on. We had down-climbed several shorter dry falls with relative ease, but I stopped short at the tallest one yet. The creek bed dropped away from under our feet for what may as well have been a mile, and it was around this time that I found out Ghost is afraid of heights.

While I searched for a somewhat safe down-climb that wouldn't leave me in a pile of broken bones at the bottom, Ghost absolutely refused to come within ten feet of the edge, insead retreating to a safe distance and laying on his belly while a low whine rumbled from his throat. I ignored him while I searched and eventually found a way I thought we could climb down, though there was no way I could do it while wearing my backpack. I always carry a length of rope with me (because I'm a good boyscout), but was concerned about it breaking under the weight of my pack. Instead, I tied the two dog leashes together and looped one end around my pack, then lay on my stomach right at the edge to slowly lower my gear over the falls. Both leashes are six feet long, and when my pack finally touched the creek bed below my arm was fully extended over the edge and barely holding on to my end of the leashes, but my gear was down without incident. Then it was our turn. I went first, coaxing Callie and Ghost along with me. Callie followed willingly enough, though she was cautious. I'd like to think the years of hiking with me has instilled some trust into her, to know that I'll always catch her, and that trust showed when she jumped to me over a particularly scary spot on our descent. Her and I reached the bottom with no issues, and she promptly lay down in the shade to rest. Ghost, on the other hand, was a problem. He had followed Callie to the edge, but stopped short when we went over it and stood back, crying in a way that I've never heard before. He was terrified, and I was leaving him behind. I scrambled back up the was I'd come after getting Callie safely down, and did everything in my power to calm Ghost down. I'd snagged one of the dog leashes on my way back up, and it was only by slipping it over his head and forcing him to follow me that I even got him to begin the descent. Then, halfway down, the idiot dog decided he wanted to be on flat ground that instant and before I could do anything, he jumped. And of course, landed poorly. I slid the rest of the way down to where he was crying again, frantic and terrified he'd broken a leg. He was shaking and crying, and practically flung himself at me for comfort as I skidded to a stop next to him. The three of us sat there for a long while, resting and recovering from our climb, but eventually I coaxed the dogs up again. Ghost didn't want to put any weight on his back right leg, but he would use it carefully once we got going. It wasn't broken, but it definitely didn't feel good either. I watched him carefully after that, especially as we climbed down a few more dryfalls, though nothing as bad as the twelve foot one.

It was at the base of the last dry fall that we finally found what we'd been looking for: water! A tiny seep spring oozed out from under a small rock, just enough to wet the ground under a bed of last winter's leaves. I dug with my hands until enough water filled the small bowl for the dogs to get a drink, though there wasn't enough for me. I didn't mind, because a spring there meant we weren't far from a real creek, and it wasn't long before the rushing sound of water over rocks reached our ears. Soon I could see sunlight reflected off a small creek, and once we stumbled out of the canyon we'd been trapped in for six hours it was all I could do to shed my pack, grab my filter, and throw myself into the water. Callie and Ghost hopped right in after me, and we all drank our fill as we lay in the clear, cool water. We stayed put for over an hour, resting, drinking, and filling up the bottles. I pulled my map out and identified where I thought we were, and guessed that we were a half-mile to a mile downstream from the trail I had meant to be on. I considered following the creek downstream, to the Gila River and the road that parallels it (the only road for miles in any direction) but the topographic map indicated a steep drop in the creek bed further down from where I was, and I wasn't dumb enough to think we could survive down-climbing an active waterfall, especially not with my pack, Ghost's injury, and a lack of climbing equipment. We'd gotten lucky already that Ghost hadn't broken anything, and I wasn't about to push that luck further than needed. So, we headed upstream.

The stream and surrounding canyon were vibrant and gorgeous, shaded and cool and a perfect mix of pale, rusty rocks with bright green vegetation. Springs seeped down rocky walls and hanging gardens crowded the damp ledges, while little fish flitted around our feet as we walked through the knee-deep water. At every curve in the creek I looked for a way in or out of the canyon, keeping a sharp eye out for something that looked like a trail. In places the clear creek was wide and shallow, no deeper than my ankles or knees, while in some places the canyon walls closed in and the water deepened to a dark, clear green with murky depths. In most places where this happened the water level rose to my waist and I had to hoist my pack higher to keep my gear dry. It was there that Callie transformed into her graceful, lithe, water-loving self and swam circles around me as I slogged through the sandy creek bed. Ghost, on the other hand, would stand where the water could touch his chest and whine until he realized I wasn't coming back for him, at which point he would launch himself as far as he could towards me then attempt to walk on top of the water, splashing and carrying on until all three of us were drenched. It was only by walking backwards, facing Ghost, that I kept my gear dry; wet clothes and sleeping bag would spell hypothermia within hours at night, and I really, really didn't want to have to deal with that on top of everything else. Our biggest challenge of the day, even bigger than bushwacking without water and down-climbing dryfalls, came when I tried to cross another pool that turned out to be deeper than I anticipated. Fortunately I was going slow so when the bottom dropped out from under one foot I was able to back up quickly enough to keep my pack dry. I backed up to a sand bar and dropped my pack, going forward alone to find a way across the pool. As I went, the water only got deeper until it was up to my shoulders, though that was as deep as it got. At the far side was a ledge at chest height where the pool ended, and a dry place I could put my pack once I got it across. I headed back to the sand bar and the dogs, who had been watching me with various degrees of anxiety (none, in Callie's case, overwhelming, in Ghost's), and grabbed my pack. With some effort I hoisted it over my head and held it up, feeling with my feet as I crossed the pool. Once I secured my pack above the water on the other side, I kicked off the rock and swam back, gliding on my back while letting the sun warm my face. The water felt marvelously cool, and for a moment I pretended that I was just taking a break before continuing on a long trail, that I wasn't lost, alone, in the desert, and that I would be able to call Jared and tell him about the amazing swimming hole I had found. The spell ended when I straightened up and walked the rest of the way back to the dogs. Callie was ready to follow me, but once again I had to leash Ghost and force him to get in the water. He tried to cling to me as we went across the pool, and if I hadn't already been completely soaked from my swim I would have been from Ghost's splashing. I lifted Callie out of the water and onto the rock ledge next to my pack, and it was as I was trying to shove Ghost out of the water that it happened: a rock I'd been standing on shifted and I slipped, coming down hard on my right arm and ribs, knocking the wind out of me. The next thing I knew I had slipped under, and it was a reflexive kick that jerked me back to the surface before I could open my mouth and inhale a lungful of water. I scrambled onto the dry ledge as best I could, gasping and coughing and just trying to breathe. My ribs screamed in agony and I was staining my clothes red from the blood on my elbow, but I didn't move as I tried to breathe again. I have no idea how long passed, thirty seconds or thirty minutes, before I finally gathered myself and sat up. Every movement sent a stab of pain through my right side, and I knew then and there that I wasn't going much farther that day. I had already fallen into the trap of thinking the trail had to be right around the next corner, it was right around the next curve, it had to be. I was fooling myself. The trail wasn't there, I wasn't where I thought I was, the day was growing old, I was soaking wet, I was now injured, and I was facing another night lost in the desert. At least this time I had water. It was torture to put my pack on again, but there was nowhere big enough for me to pitch my tent where we were at, and I knew we had to go on a little bit more. We went a whole lot more slowly, little steps with frequent rests from then on, stopping whenever it hurt too much to breathe. I was bleeding all over my clothes and pack, but I hardly cared. All I wanted was to find a place to stop for the night, change into dry clothes, and sleep away the horrible second day.

I finally found a place above the creek on a sand bar just big enough to squeeze my tent, and set about making camp. Thankfully all of my gear was dry, and I spread my wet clothes out to dry overnight as I worked on set up. I tended to the gash on my arm and the various cuts and scrapes on my legs, then worked on the dogs. Callie was limping slightly, and her paws were a little rough but she wasn't bleeding and seemed like she was just sore. Ghost was worse off, with his paw pads raw and his own cuts and scrapes up his legs and onto his underside. I field dressed his and my injuries as best I could with my little first aid kit, and set a makeshift splint on his right leg as a percaution and for support. Neither he nor Callie moved much from where they laid down when I set up my tent, and I brought their dinner to them as I prepared my own. Evening settled around us slowly, and now I wish I had taken pictures of where we camped that night. It was beautiful, surrounded by bright red wildflowers that attracted hummingbirds, the creek a short distance from the tent flap, bubbling away. At the time I wasn't thinking about pictures, instead worrying about how the hell we would get out of the canyon if a thunderstorm were to pop up. I know better than to camp next to a stream, especially in a canyon, but our injuries, the encroaching evening, and my fear of leaving the water kept us in place. I planned a way we could climb above a flash flood if we had to, but I didn't need to worry. That night the sky was clear and the full moon was so bright I could see inside my tent without the use of a flashlight. It was that night, though, that was the worst of the trip. I broke down and allowed myself to think horrible things, things that I'd been battling since the night before when I'd still had hope of finding the trail. I had failed to find the trail, I was alone, and I began to wonder if I would ever see Jared or my family again. I defaulted to planning, my defense against unpleasant thoughts, and began to figure out how to survive for seven days. Nobody knew I was lost, it was the second day of a seven day trip, and nobody would know something was wrong until I didn't make contact on the following Sunday when I should have been on my way home. Strangely enough, it was realizing that I still had six days to get myself out of the desert that gave me comfort. Sure, I wasn't quite sure where I was, and yes, I had begun to question which direction north was even though I was looking right at a compass that clearly pointed north (which tells you my state of mind right there, because I never lose my sense of direction), but I could do this. I had decisions to make in the morning, needing to decide whether I would stay with the creek and continue following it upstream, hoping to stumble across a trail, or if I would climb out of the canyon and strike out across the desert, heading east to the second of two streams that should cut north-south across the Gila Wilderness. I stopped at those options, telling myself to sleep on it and make my decision in the morning. Ghost and Callie had long since passed out, huddled close (Callie in the bag with me, Ghost practically on top of me), and as I settled back I focused on the sounds of the creek to help me drift off to sleep. I could handle everything else in the light of a new day.

How did I end up lost in the Gila Wilderness? Read The Gila Mishap: Losing the Trail to find out.