The Last Blog

Let me start by saying thank you. Thank you for taking this trip with me, for caring about my life, and for giving me someone to write for other than myself. There are two more untold stories begging to be put on paper. But first, the end of the trip;

The time I spent with Erica and Flavio was significant. Not only did they give me a place to stay while I explored the Gila Forest, but conversing with them reminded me of something: Passion. Erica is extremely passionate about protecting planet earth and all life on it. Hearing her talk about the reasons for her passion was refreshing. It became clear to me that this world is full of people who have different passions that, when put together, fit like puzzle pieces making a beautiful picture. You know if a person is following their life’s passion very soon after meeting him or her. They have a light in their eyes and a tone to their voice that is fueled by regular exposure to what they love. These people fill me with awe and hope. Erica is one of them. She is saving the world and inspiring others to do the same.

The drive home was scary. Nothing had gone wrong on this whole trip, and that made me nervous, like disaster was due. I-10 is populated mostly by semis that could crush my little Camry like one of Erica’s recycled cans. It was a stressful 12 hours of driving, but I finally made it home. The second I pulled into the parking lot and put my car in park, I was overwhelmed with gratitude that I had made it back safely. More tears.

Two more stories of Tour de Polka beg to be told. The first is a detail of the legend of the prodigal moccasin. The night I realized I lost it I was filled with despair and frustration with myself. I told myself that I was foolish and careless. That was the first negative thought I’d had all trip, which was a nice realization. I then changed the thought to, 'Now I know. I'll do better tomorrow'. As I hiked out of the canyon, everyone I passed on the trail from Phantom Ranch asked me whether or not I had found my shoe. For the first two hours, the answer was no. I truly didn’t know if I’d find the shoe or not. But an hour into my hike, I hit a point of peace with the whole situation. Instead of being anxious and worrying, I was truly just interested in whether or not I would find it. I knew it would be a great story either way, and realized that my misfortune was serving a greater purpose of uniting a group of people that might not otherwise come together. It became a hunt, a game that everyone was invested in. I also knew that I’d be able to make the best of any possible outcome. This was not a typical feeling for me, but I can’t tell you how good it felt. I wish I could bottle this feeling like an elixir and take a swig every time I feel anxious about something silly. However, I also realized that this was not a random thought. This is a thought I have been training my mind to produce through meditation. The fact that it’s working in my mind excites me. I need more of this feeling in my life.

The second story/realization happened in the Museum of International Music in Phoenix. All throughout this trip I have received a consistent reaction from people when I divulged that I was traveling the Southwest on a hiking and backpacking adventure.

‘By yourself?!’ they say with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. It would have been nice to have company, but I am very glad I went alone. There is a disease in our society affecting young girls. The parasite gets in the brains of these girls and convinces them that it is necessary to have a man to be whole and balanced. It says that a woman who doesn’t have a man has something wrong with her and she needs to be fixed. These poor girls end up settling with a man who treats them like garbage because they are too afraid of being alone. Personally, I blame Walt Disney. That bastard. I am one of these affected women. It was very uncomfortable for me to be alone on my trip. I loved visiting people and having bouts of company, but the overarching out-of-my-comfort-zone experience was flying solo, without a significant other next to me or even on the other end of the phone. This brings us to the museum. When I was in the museum looking at exhibits from each country of the world, I realized that there are many wonderful (and attractive) men all over this world willing to treat women with proper respect. That was a nice and comforting thing to realize- another elixir for my shelf.

This trip has done so many amazing things for me. All I can hope is that this blog has inspired just a little bit of spark or passion in another heart-or at least that it was entertaining. Thanks again for reading. I love you all.

Darrah

Humility on a Mountaintop; Hilarity in a Hot Spring

Upon leaving Tucson I drove east toward beautiful mountains and away from the desert sunset. The Oregon mountain range was ahead of me, mirroring the colors of the sunset. The mountains took on a deep purple hue. The mesmerizing sky above them faded from pink to yellow to green to blue. Hozhoni.

When I first arrived in Silver City, Erica wasn’t out of auditions yet so I bellied up to a local bar and ordered a delicious amber ale from a local brewery. I was the only customer in the bar other than an older man sucked into the Pro Bowl game on the TV. I soon became fascinated with the bartender, Dustin, asking him tons of obnoxious questions about his music and the time he spent living in a hippie commune. When Erica finished, I tipped Dustin well and said farewell.

Erica is a good friend from home. We played tennis together in high school and we share a love for vegetarianism and movies with sick, dark humor. She is engaged to the love of her life, Flavio, whom she met playing tennis at Western. They are a precious couple. After a late night snack of delicious veggie burgers, we called it a night.

In the morning the guys who work at the Hike and Bike shop got me excited about some great hiking in the area. I chose to go up Gomez Peak just north of town. Halfway up the peak I stopped on a plateau to admire the century plants. They’re actually more like skeletons of century plants this time of year, as they have long since bloomed and released their seeds to the wind. There were dozens of tall plant skeletons reaching up to the heavens. Some stood straight up while others leaned over like masts in a harbor after a hurricane. I continued up the trail toward the peak. The last 30 yards of the trail is a steep natural stone staircase that gives the feel of climbing up the spine of a sleeping dragon. The view from the top was incredible. The perch overlooked the town of Silver City and a distant mountain range to the south. The Gila National Forest spans for hundreds of miles to the north, rounded mountains covered in pinion trees. I caught my breath on a rock wall on the summit of Gomez Peak and tried to take it all in.  The sun was peeking out from behind slow moving clouds that seemed close enough to reach up and touch. I sat on the mountaintop alone and felt the warm sunshine on my cheeks. The chilly breeze blew through my hair, and then I felt hot tears stream down my face. The weight of this trip had caught up to me, and I was humbled. I was humbled by the love I shared with so many amazing people over the past three weeks. I was humbled by their belief in me, their faith in my abilities and the idea that they will always be on my team. In that moment, I knew that I could never settle for a mediocre life. I’ve always known that beauty and connection existed in the world, but I now know that I can go find it and also that I have the ability to create it.  This trip has confirmed my suspicions that human connection makes life matter. I saw some beautiful sights on this trip. But the past 3 weeks would have been nothing without the insightful conversations, the meals shared, the laughter, the love. I was alone for a lot of this trip but not once did I feel lonely. I found that I have friends everywhere, some I just hadn’t met yet. Even when I was by myself, they were all there with me. You were there with me. I let the weight of these realizations wash over me. The beautiful scenery went blurry as I wept.

The next morning I had a big day planned out. I was planning on heading north on highway 15 to hike Signal Peak. From there I would drop in to see the Gila cliff dwellings. On the way back I was going to hit the Gila hot springs. I’ve been trying to incorporate hot springs into this trip ever since Tori and I planned on visiting the Ouray hot springs but got distracted by cold beer in Telluride. Tori and I even stopped at the Rico hot springs, a very secret and remote pool on the Dolores River in Colorado. We hiked through the snow with high expectations only to see a naked hippie inhabiting the pool, guzzling a bottle of schnapps when we got there. We passed up that opportunity, and I’ve been hell bent on finding a hot spring since then. 

I missed the turn to Signal Peak, so I adjusted the plan to hike it on the way back. 30 miles later I saw the sign to the hot springs and adjusted my plan again to see the cliff dwellings after a quick dip in the toasty pool.

5 hours of luxurious soaking later, the cliff dwellings were closed and it was too late to hike. Once I had immersed my body in the steaming spring and couldn’t make myself leave. I spent the entire day soaking in two different pools, doing yoga by the river, reading, meditating, and lying in the sun. It was absolutely wonderful. For the first few hours, I was alone. In the afternoon I was joined by two men from New York, then two more from Boulder. The men from Boulder, Sandy and Ray, were both psychiatrists who do the kind of work I am interested in doing someday. Ray is 84 years old and sharp as a tack. He gave me great advice.

‘Darrah, there are two things that will give you a happy life. The first is to work to keep your memory intact. The second is…..What was the second one again?’ he questioned, turning to Sandy. We laughed and talked for quite some time as these men gave me incredible advice on how to be kind and effective in the field of metal health. We exchanged information before the men left. Two more gentlemen arrived who were on a road trip from Washington. We talked tennis and football until I couldn’t take the sun and heat anymore and decided it was time to head home.

My day at the springs was much needed. Sometimes I find that I get stuck in ‘go’ mode. I feel as if I need to be three places at once and I need to be there by yesterday. As difficult as it was for me to skip a hike and a neat sight, I needed rest. As incredible as this trip has been, it has also been taxing on my mind and body. Thinking about all the places I’ve been, the miles I’ve traveled, and the work I’m going back to makes me tired. It was necessary to take a day to force myself to sit still. Because I did that I met Ray and Sandy, who I will use and abuse as references in my future endeavors. Sometimes it pays just to sit still and enjoy a beautiful day.

 

Drink. Eat. Tennis. Repeat.

As I drove toward Tucson, I started to have doubts about why I was going. I was planning on visiting Joe and Geno, who I met last fall when they spent a weekend as guests on the tennis ranch. I knew I had felt a connection with these guys that weekend, but did I really know them well enough to go to the place where they live, to spend a night with them? Somehow this seemed like more of a risk than couch surfing. To put my anxieties at bay, I found a yoga studio. I did some Internet research and found Tucson Yoga. When I pulled up to the pueblo building near downtown it didn’t look like much. There were bars on the windows and a rough looking man sitting outside talking to himself. There was still some time before the class so I went to get gas and came back. This time the gate was open and there were people with yoga mats on their backs locking their bikes up out front. Much better.

The instructor was a bubbly woman with a small frame and half sleeves of tattoos on each arm. Ashanti is her name. She greeted me and I laid out my mat next to two girls engaged in intense conversation about a boyfriend crisis. I kept to myself and focused on my own scattered energy. She started the class with the story of a boy and his brother who were to race around the world. As the legend goes, the boys’ parents posed this challenge, offering a hefty prize to the winner of the race. When the race began, the young man's brother took off in a sprint. But the young man walked in a circle around his family claiming they were his ‘world’. He won the prize. Ashanti encouraged us to identify our own virtues that we would name our ‘world’-what our lives revolve around. Human connection is my world. My life is nothing without it. This class was a physical test. I have never dripped sweat during yoga before. Everyone in the room was struggling and sweating, praying for her to end each pose five seconds sooner than we knew she would. I was in a silent one-sided love/hate relationship with Ashanti. Every time she told us to hold a pose just a little longer I hated her with wrath. Every time she released us or told us to focus on positive energy, I loved her. Near the end of the class we all sat cross-legged and were instructed to let out 3 ‘Ohms’ as we exhaled deeply. She said to put our virtue into these ohms, offering it to everyone in the room. As 26 people breathed their virtues into the atmosphere, the room was flooded with a deep, harmonious ringing chant. Suddenly I was sitting on holy ground. I got chills down my spine and the hair on my arms stood straight up. The energy of the room was magnificent. It was everything I could do to contribute my own virtuous sound instead of simply sitting in wonder at the phenomenon happening around me. It was impossible not to be mindful in that moment.

I thanked Ashanti and left the studio with tired muscles but a refreshed mind.  The clock told me I was running late for dinner with Geno and Nancy. I changed a different article of clothing at each red light I came to. I know what you’re thinking; yes, I am quite talented. I found Geno’s house with ease because he wrote me a novel of directions in a text message. I made a mental note to introduce him to GPS technology. He greeted me warmly and introduced me to his girlfriend Nancy (the nicest woman in the world). The three of us went to dinner at Café Poca Cosa, Geno’s father’s favorite place to eat in Tucson. Geno’s father had good taste. Joe was supposed to meet us, but he sadly informed us that clown school was running late and he’d have to cancel. Joe and Geno are legends back at the ranch. They come play tennis with us for a weekend every October. And by ‘play tennis’ I mean they sit on their balcony arguing about who makes better margaritas and heckling people who are actually trying to improve their tennis game. I think I might have seen Joe pick up his racquet once that weekend to swat a bug away from their precious pitcher of margs. Nancy, Geno and I caught up over cocktails until our table was ready. When we were finally seated, Geno got down to business.

‘Darrah, this blog. I love it. You can never, never, never stop writing. Ever.’ We filled Nancy in on my stories on Tour de Polkahontas so far and she told me her own stories of her journey to the game of tennis and about her sweet daughter. Dinner was gourmet, beautiful, and absolutely delicious (almost as satisfying as those instant mashed potatoes on the rim of the Grand Canyon). We talked about writing, life, and my trip until we were the only table left in the restaurant and the staff started giving us those polite hints that are code for ‘We want to go home. Please leave’. We walked downtown to the Dillinger Days festival celebrating Tucson’s famous outlaw, John Dillinger, where we listened to music and watched intoxicated college kids try to walk in a straight line to no avail. It was a very pleasant evening.

The next morning we watched some of the women’s Australian Open final on TV, then went to watch the University of Arizona women’s tennis team play on campus. Even on my sabbatical I can’t get away from the game of tennis, and for that I am thankful. Joe joined us at the match and afterwards we had lunch with the coach and her family (I swear these guys are best friends with everybody). After a much needed siesta, we went out for dinner and drinks. Nancy, Geno, Joe and I talked about tennis and the men told war stories about long nights they’ve had on the ranch with Sal, a pro who they claim was a bad influence on them in tennis and in life. If you were listening to this conversation from the next table, you might think that they hate Sal and each other. But from where I was sitting I saw how much these guys care about each other and the game of tennis. It was very refreshing to feel love like that in the air. After dinner I said goodbye to Joe and that I might see him in October.

I noticed a routine developing as I stayed with Nancy and Geno. It went like this: Coffee, tennis, food, drinks, tennis, food, drinks, repeat. We watched the men’s Aussie Open final over coffee. The energy of the living room buzzed as we anticipated the outcome of the match between Rafa Nadal and Stanimal Wawrinka. Geno made hilarious comparisons between himself and Nadal as Nancy went into detail how much she loves Rafa. When the match was done Nancy and I said our goodbyes as she rushed off to tennis practice. Geno treated me to one last meal together at an all-vegetarian restaurant; he is a man after my own heart. Over vegan burgers we talked about love. He relayed to me the magic of finding someone who is true to him or herself, as he has found in Nancy. He urged me to have confidence in my own truth, my writing, and myself. There, in a booth at Lovin’ Spoonfuls, I fell in love with Geno’s soul. Nancy is a lucky lady. Geno and I put our sunglasses on to hide a tearful goodbye. He pointed me in the right direction (in more ways than one) and I set off once again into the unknown. As I drove away I laughed at the doubts I'd had two days prior about stopping in Tucson to see Joe and Geno. Tucson was a great stop on Tour de Polkahontas. 

Love All

Driving to Flagstaff from the Grand Canyon is a gorgeous trip. The terrain varies from desert speckled in pinion trees to mountains thick with Ponderosa Pines. I stopped at Target in Flagstaff to buy a new phone to get directions to Natalie’s house, my next stop.  After hiking out of the canyon that morning and then traveling in a car for two hours, I limped to the electronics section at the back of the store. My calves felt as if someone tied them in a knot. There was a young man standing in front of the phones weighing his options. I joined him, cautiously posing the question, ‘So what happened to your phone?’

‘Lost it on the ski hill.’ he replied. ‘You?’

‘The Grand Canyon ate it.’

He nodded, knowingly, as if this was everyday news to him. God, I love Flagstaff. I purchased a Red Bull and a new POS phone, immediately sticking my SIM card in it to call Natalie. 

When I got to Phoenix I took the longest, hottest shower in the history of showers. I stood under the scalding hot water and washed the last of the canyon dirt off of my scorching skin. When I was clean and refreshed, I joined the family in the living room. Natalie’s home feels very familiar to me even though I’ve never before been there. Nat and I lived together for two years in college. She was the best roommate ever because we took care of each other. She is one of the few people in this world that I feel comfortable complaining to. She is very caring and hospitable, but has also mastered the art of tough love. One time in college I fell into a documentary coma. I was heartbroken over some Colorado boy who wasn’t worth my time, and I hadn’t moved from the couch to shower, do homework, or exercise in days. I just sat in our living room and watched Hulu documentaries on 9/11 conspiracies, ghosts in old mental hospitals, and how food will be the downfall of our country. When Natalie had enough of my moping, she mothered me off of the couch.

‘Darrah, get up! Shower. We’re going shopping. Retail therapy.’

Natalie always knows what to say. Her famous line to me came when I was lying on the floor in her bedroom one night, obsessing over whether or not to go on a date with a guy who had asked me out. After hearing enough back and forth she finally said,

‘Darrah, just go- a girl’s gotta eat’. Well put. I love her for her nonchalant attitude.

Natalie’s family instantly took me in as one of their own. Her mom is one of those people you can’t get anything by. She has x-ray vision for souls. Natalie’s dad is a quiet but proud man with a deep love for his family. Though, when he does say something, it’s usually hilarious. He likes to pretend he doesn’t hear when the women are talking about him in the next room. Family is very important to them. They all mostly live in the same town, just up the road from each other. They’re like the Navajo Kardashians. They meddle because they care about and love each other deeply. In the mornings we drank tea and talked about Navajo traditions. In the evenings we would sit by the fire and watch the desert sun go down as coyotes howled in the distance.

One day we went hiking among the saguaros. These cacti enticed me. Some of them are hundreds of years old, whiskered grandfathers of the desert. They are huge and beautiful. Each one is a little different, adding its own flair and personality to the sandy wilderness. To me, they looked like different yoga poses. I mimicked them with my arms as we hiked around and talked. Natalie is wonderful to talk to because she understands that I function on a wavelength not typical of people my age. She always tells me to calm down and be 22 for a change. It’s fantastic advice that I generally ignore.

After watching the Secret Life of Walter Mitty (phenomenal movie) Natalie and I were discussing what to do next. We decided to visit her longtime friend, Javie. Javie is a tattoo artist who looks the part. He is a tall American Indian man with a long braided ponytail and tattoos on almost every inch of visible skin. He has a split tongue like a snake, and is missing part of his left ear. When we walked into the parlor he was finishing ink on a girl‘s stomach that read ‘This too shall pass’. We made small talk while he finished her art. It looked painful. We listened as he told us about his love for golfing and his sons. Regardless of his hard exterior, Javie is a big softie. Now, the following chain of events is hazy to me, but the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the table with Javie coming at my ankle holding a buzzing tattoo gun loaded with red ink. Then, pain. If my mom asks, Natalie and Javie talked me into it. But I’d actually been thinking about inking for a while. I now have a red thread of fate running around my ankle. An old Chinese tale says that the gods tie a red thread around each person’s ankle before birth. The thread is connected to every important person we will ever meet in our lives. The thread may tangle and stretch, but it will never break. It only made sense to get this tattoo on my tour because this legend is what Tour de Polkahontas is all about. I have had the pleasure of spending time with some of the most hospitable, kind, generous, and loving human beings on planet earth. I love them all dearly and people I’ve met have had incredible purpose in my life, and vice versa (hopefully). On the inside of my ankle, the thread is tied in a bow. On the outside it loops into the words ‘love all’, words to live by, and a nudge to the joy and purpose tennis has served in my life thus far. I find it ironic; in the game of tennis, love means you have nothing. But in the game of life it means you have everything. The tattoo is simple and meaningful; it also hurt like a motherfucker. Don’t get a tattoo on your Achilles tendon. Just don’t do it.

The next morning I packed my belongings as Natalie’s mom packed my cooler and prepped my Kinaalda cake and packaged it for the road(did you know you can wash a cake?). 

I had lunch with Kendra and Bre before I left town. Kendra and I graduated from high school together five years ago. We gossiped about people from our past and talked about relationships over lunch and wine. It was girl talk at its finest.  Catching up with Kendra was wonderful because she is doing wonderful things with her life and I’m excited to see where she’ll go next. We have a lot in common these days, and it was fun to share stories.

After lunch I struggled to navigate out of Phoenix and pointed my car south. Phoenix was good to me, and it was time to move on to the next adventure. 

Polkahontas in the GC: Part 2- The Prodigal Moccasin

Dinner at Phantom Ranch seems extravagant. A salad full of fresh greens, turnips, beets, and other fresh vegetables is not what one might expect to find at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. As I feasted on salad, vegetarian chili, corn bread, and chocolate cake, I got to know the people at my table. There was a family to my left from Arizona and another family on my right from Colorado. The two women in front of me also had bunks next to me in the dorm, Amy and Lois. Amy lives in Santa Fe, so we were instantly bonded as fellow New Mexicans. They grilled me about life as a tennis pro, and asked if I ever get tired of being around so many men. They were great company.

After the meal, I hobbled out of the dining room due to my tight muscles (whoever designed stairs leading to the canteen is a sadist). I stopped at the dorm to grab my journal and yoga mat and walked over to the bank of Bright Angel Creek. The sun had set on the canyon, taking with it the comfortable heat I had felt on my hike in. I sat on a familiar rock that I have sat on to write every time I’ve been at Phantom. A lot of thinking has been done on that rock, a lot of stargazing and daydreaming. When it got too dark to write I fit in a short yoga session as my traumatized muscles protested.

When the canteen opened later that night, I drank wine with an older couple from Prescott, Nick and Laurel. Laurel and I graduated from the same college, though she beat me by 35 years. After a while, I hopped a table over to see what the commotion was. The Colorado crew was in an intense game of poker, playing with matchsticks instead of chips. They poured me a tall glass of wine and playfully shamed me for not knowing how to play poker. One more table over sat Christian from Ecuador and a crew from California playing Left Right Center. I played a few rounds with them as we talked about tennis, mental hospitals, and hiking. Next I wandered over to the table of Phantom Ranch workers and played a few rounds of Apples to Apples with them. Each table I socialized with heard my sad moccasin story as I pleaded them to keep an eye out for it.

‘If you see a lone moccasin on your hike out tomorrow, let it know I’m looking for it!’ The Coloradans kept filling my wine glass. I left the canteen with a slight weave to my hobble. I sway-limped back to the creek and spent the next thirty minutes lying on the bank with my face to the stars. There was no moon visible in the perimeter of the canyon walls, leaving the sky very dark. Since there is virtually no light pollution in the canyon, the stars are brilliant. I saw hundreds and hundreds of bright stars in the night sky, framed by the dark silhouette of the canyon walls. The Milky Way was faintly visible, a faded avenue of radiance in the sky. I gave Orion a nod and headed off to bed.

The next morning I had breakfast and said goodbye to my new friends. Everyone started hiking out around 6, but I went back to bed. After a short nap I shoved my sore feet into my boots and put on my hiking shirt, a worn out t-shirt with an adorable pig on it saying, 'please don't eat me, I love you'. A friend gave me the shirt in high school and I've worn it every time I've hiked out of the Grand Canyon because it has good juju. I set off toward the river where I stopped to do yoga. As I stretched my complaining muscles on the riverbank, the first rays of sun broke into the canyon. Another beautiful sunrise was captured on Tour de Polkahontas. After yoga I secured my pack and started toward the silver bridge, hurrying to beat the mules, to avoid the extra obstacle of dancing around their fresh ‘gifts’ on the trail. Crossing the suspension bridge is something I’ve never been comfortable with. The bridge is made of metal, with open metal grates between your feet and the chilly river water rushing 60 feet below. To avoid looking down, I looked up in envy at the warm, sunny canyon walls. At the end of the bridge, I had a decision to make. I could go left to the South Kaibab trail, or right up the Bright Angel trail. I had originally planned on going out the South Kaibab trail, as it is 3 miles shorter than Bright Angel and would take me about an hour less. But since my moccasin was lost on the Bright Angel Trail, I took a deep breath and a right. I had a long hike ahead of me.

The first two hours of the hike were uneventful. I kept expecting to turn a corner and see my moc on the trail, patiently awaiting my arrival. But I didn’t. I started passing fellow Phantom Ranch guests who would eagerly ask me if I’d found my shoe. No luck. One of these was Christian from Ecuador. He and I continued on together. Halfway up at Tonto Point, we ran into a couple from Utah I’d had breakfast with, Dave and Cheryl.

‘Did you find it?’ asked Dave.

‘Nope. Nada’ I replied.

‘Bummer. Well, I did.’ Out of his pack he pulled my dirty clay colored moccasin. I shouted in joy and over-dramatically held the moccasin to my chest, thanking the heavens. I thanked the couple profusely. Just up the trail was the rest of the Phantom Ranch crew. As I approached them I triumphantly held my prodigal moccasin in the air as they cheered and threw their hands in the air for the full effect. It was a silly but epic moment that made me laugh out loud. I tied my moc to my pack (double knotted) and continued on after Christian.

Christian is a kind soul with a deep appreciation of people. He works in finance and relocated from Ecuador to D.C. where he loves living. We set a good pace for each other. We figured we had about two more hours of hiking before we reached the rim. The ‘easy’ part of the hike was over, meaning we only had steep switchbacks ahead of us. As we hiked we talked. We talked about our families, marriage, tennis, travel, careers, money, food (I felt like Bubba from Forrest Gump talking about green chile-‘Yeah, you can make green chile gravy, green chile enchiladas, green chile rellanos, green chile hummus, green chile stew…’), and people. I asked him if he’d ever met any interesting people on the road, to which he replied, ‘Well, you now’.  I smiled.

The conversation quieted as we reached higher elevation; the air got thinner and the trail steeper. We were sweating, though the sun wasn’t on us. The chill of the canyon shade plagued us for hours. After a while we started passing more fresh-looking tourists with tote bags and big cameras, a sure sign that the top was approaching. I was tired. My heart pounded, my head throbbed, but most of all, I was HUNGRY. Cold sweat drenched my clothes under my pack. About ¾ mile from the top I thought about stopping to sit. I didn’t know if I could finish strong. Then we came around corner to see sunshine about a quarter mile away. I needed to feel the sunshine on my face. Then Christian piped up from behind me.

‘Beer is good after a hike. Let’s go for beer after this’ he said in his thick, Ecuadorian accent. It was the best thing I’ve heard come out of anyone’s mouth, ever. I kept moving, pounding my feet against the trail.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Sunshine. Beer. Sunshine. Beer. Sunshine.

When we finally made it to sun I basked in it. It felt amazing on my face and skin. But after that short window of sunshine we were back in the shade, motivating us to finish strong. We passed the spot where I stopped to gather myself on the way down. Getting closer. Sunshine. Beer. We passed the spot where I had taken a picture for an elderly couple the day before. Getting close. Sunshine. Beer. Sunshine Beer. We passed the spot where I slipped and broke my phone. Sunshine. Beer. Beer! BEER!. We reached the trailhead, felt the sun on our faces, threw off our packs and collapsed. After four hours, 10 miles, and 4,500 vertical feet, we were done. 

After due time spent not moving, my needs came into play. I needed to change out of wet clothes. I needed food. I promised to meet Christian at the bar after cleaning up and eating.  I limped to my car and took off my boots. I made a sandwich, which I ate in about three bites. As I ate I sat on the trunk of my car in the sun overlooking the Grand Canyon. I was still hungry but I didn’t want to move. Rather, I didn’t think I was capable of movement. Then, suddenly, a thought entered my mind. It was the only thought in the world capable of making me move; mashed potatoes.

I feverishly pulled my Jetboil out of my pack and searched like a mad woman for a match, finally finding a book in a crevice in my car. I cranked the gas to high and added the dehydrated cheesy potatoes the second the water boiled. With vigorous stirring, the concoction soon turned into buttery, creamy pillows of deliciousness. I took one bite and harshly burnt my tongue. I immediately took another bite. It was the most delicious thing I have ever eaten in my whole life. I wish I could say that I took a break from stuffing my face to clean up and look presentable. I wish I could say that I ate a few bites and got full….or at least that I ate this pile of mashers daintily like a lady. I wish I could tell you that I didn’t eat the whole thing all by myself. But I can’t. Because that wouldn’t be a good story, now would it? In reality, I sat on my car in my sweaty clothes and disheveled hair and shoveled heaps of the buttery, cheesy gold into my mouth as fast as I could. Tourists walked by and looked at me like I was mad. I might have been. When the last bite was devoured, I put on my moccasins, took a ‘Yankee shower’ (as my friend Josh would say) with deodorant and perfume, and hobbled to the bar to meet Christian. We enjoyed our hard-earned beer and rested. He sent me my picture that he had taken for me on the hike; the only picture I have to commemorate this trip to the canyon. Christian and I exchanged information and promised to call if we’re in each other’s area. With much difficulty, I walked along the rim toward my car. There were tourists everywhere, taking pictures and gasping at the beauty of the canyon. Out of the 5 million people who visit the canyon each year, only 1% go below the rim. I felt bad for the visitors on the rim. They were happy snapping a picture and saying they’d been there, but I felt like I had a secret. I’d had an affair with the canyon. We had a story together, an intimate relationship- a story of appreciation, pain, struggle, friendship, determination, love, disappointment, triumph, accomplishment and beauty. They would never know the canyon like I did. I took one last look at the majestic hole in the earth, groaned as I stretched, then painfully climbed into my car and zoomed away. Macklemore was still playing on my radio.

Polkahontas in the Grand Canyon: Part 1- Mindlessness

The Grand Canyon is fucking huge. That’s not where this story begins, but I just needed to let you know…….it’s really big.

The tale actually begins in a Safeway parking lot in Flagstaff, Arizona. After Jo’s Kinaalda I drove to Flagstaff, pulling into the first parking lot I saw and passing out in the backseat of my car. I slept for hours, until the sun turned my car into a convection oven. That night I was planning to use Couchsurfers as a means of finding a place to stay. I was staying with a man named Mark, who seemed very nice on the phone. This was definitely pushing my comfort zone, but I figured it would be an adventure, a test of my people-reading skills and intuition. Though, at this point I was so tired, I probably would have slept on Jeffrey Dahmer’s couch, as long as he had wifi.

Mark and I talked about weather and watched football over dinner at the Beaver Street Brewery near downtown Flagstaff. He had kind eyes and a quiet sense of humor. Our ‘weather’ conversation wasn’t so much small talk, as Mark is a meteorologist. He works for the state to help put out wildfires. He's a real life superhero. Back at his house I played with his adorable dog and we studied maps of the Grand Canyon, swapping stories of trails we’ve hiked and plans for future backcountry adventures. As we talked, another Couchsurfer arrived. Nettie was a very sweet woman heading west for a new job. I tried to convince them to eat some of my corn cake that I received from the Kinaalda (traditionally, you’re not allowed to waste any of it-it has to be eaten or given away). We put in a movie, which I promptly fell asleep to.

I woke up two hours later than I had set my alarm for. Apparently, when it went off I didn’t even flinch. I had really needed sleep. I glanced at myself in the bathroom mirror, noticing that I looked rested for the first time in a while. I thanked Mark for the hospitality and headed toward the canyon.

As I got closer to the Grand Canyon, I started to wake up and get very excited. My heart started pumping when I entered the park and saw signs for Bright Angel Lodge. I caught my first glimpse of the canyon as I looked for a place to park, indulging in the over-stimulation as adrenaline and dopamine fired into my brain. Macklemore’s ‘Can’t Hold Us’ blasted through my radio, a song notorious for pumping me up ever since my friend Katesia and I somehow ended up backstage at his concert last fall. My mind was going a zillion miles an hour. I stood at the rim and my stomach dropped.

‘The Grand Canyon is fucking huge’ I said to no one in particular. I checked in at the lodge and started packing my backpack, mindlessly shoving things in that I thought I might need. My heart was racing, my palms were sweaty, and I needed to get in that canyon like I needed air. Zipping up my pack, I started toward the Bright Angel trailhead.

Before I started hiking I snapped a picture on my phone. As I did that I remembered that I should probably text my mom to let her know I was hiking in and I’d call her tomorrow. I texted as I walked ‘Mom, I’m hiking in. It’s beautiful. Love ya. I’ll call ya tomor-‘ SLAM! I was flat on my back and my phone had gone flying out of my hands. While looking down at my phone, I had failed to see a big patch of ice in the shade on the trail. I dusted myself off and reached for my phone, which had hit a rock, giving it an intricate spider web of cracks across the screen as a result. It still worked. Yes! Finishing my text to Cork, I reached to put my phone back on my pack and knocked my sunglasses off. They were almost lost to the canyon, but a bush narrowly saved them from a catastrophic fall. A little ways later, I almost slipped on ice again. I felt my chest pounding and my mind racing. I heard Mitch’s (the ‘you’re rushing your stroke, Sweetheart’ pro’s) voice in my head saying ‘Slow down, Darrah’, as he has so many times before while watching me run around the ranch like a crazy woman to get something done.

Slow down, Darrah.

I sat. Rather, I forced myself to sit. On a rock about half a mile down the trail, I sat to calm my body and mind. I knew I could seriously hurt myself if I didn’t calm down. After a minute of sitting, a profound thought entered my head.

Shoes.  

I realized that I had forgotten to pack shoes to wear at the bottom of the canyon. I weighed how important shoes were, and then remembered the incredible feeling of taking hiking boots off and putting comfortable shoes on at the end of a long hike. I started up the canyon back toward my car.

At my car I dropped my pack and sat in front of it. Mindfulness. I set my cracked phone for ten minutes, sat up straight and closed my eyes. I could feel the heat from my still-warm engine on my back and the sun on my face. I heard myriad languages blend together from various tourists on the rim: Chinese, English, Spanish, and German. A crow caw-ed. Mindfulness.

Konga, you crazy bitch. I need you here. I don’t have the energy to fight you AND hike this canyon. You saw how fucking huge it is. I need you on board. I’m begging you.

I started down the trail again, this time feeling much more centered and calm. As my friend Nick would say, I had my 'poop in a group'. As I descended, the canyon walls enveloped me, growing hundreds more feet above me each time I looked up. Before long, I was at halfway point, Tonto Ridge. Hiking out to the point, I caught my first glimpse of the Colorado River, which was still thousands of feet below. I rolled out my yoga mat on the ledge overlooking the river. Let me tell you, nothing encourages good form on balance poses better than the possibility of plummeting thousands of feet to your death. At this point, I really let myself take in the beauty of the canyon. If Antelope Canyon is beautiful for its contours and lighting, the Grand Canyon is beautiful for its vastness and mystery. Other hikers watched me and took pictures as I stretched my shaking muscles on the rock ledge.

About a mile from Phantom Ranch I reached for my water on my pack. I had been hiking for five hours. I noticed that my hands were swollen from a lack of circulation. I held them above my heart as I flexed and fisted my fingers to get the blood flowing. When I put my water back I felt that my pack’s zipper was down and it was partially open. Dropping my pack, I did a quick inventory check and looked up the trail behind me to see if I had dropped anything. Clear. I got out my phone to take a picture, but dropped it due to my sausage fingers. The screen completely shattered this time. RIP, little LG.

I checked in at Phantom Ranch and found my bunk in a barrack full of women relaxing in their bunk beds. I greeted them briefly and collapsed on my bed. It had taken me 5 and a half hours to hike from the top. I had hiked 13 miles with an elevation change of 4,500 feet. To say I was tired was an understatement. Just before dinner was served, I gingerly lowered my sore frame down from the top bunk and opened my pack to grab my mocs. I pulled one out and looked for the other. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. The moccasin I hiked an extra mile for; the moccasin I fantasized about putting my tired feet in to relieve pain and agony; the moccasin my parents gave me as a graduation present, was gone. When my pack was open it must have fallen out. I let out a few obscenities. Reluctantly, I loosened the laces of my hiking boots, shoved my aching feet back in them, and headed out to dinner. 

Chasing the Holy Girl

Driving through the reservation at night is not one of my favorite activities. I’m not superstitious, but I’ve heard enough creepy stories to make the drive from Page to Tuba City uncomfortable. I set my shoulders back and put on an air of confidence, just in case. If dark energy exists, so does light. Johnny Cash serenaded me across the desert. The waning moon lit up rock formations from behind; turning them into shadows against the starlit sky, gentle giants that marked the way.

The ceremony started at 11 pm. Around 10 I met Natalie, my roommate from college at the Sonic in Tuba City, a small town kept alive by tourists that pass through on various adventures. We bought coffee and made our way out of town to her relatives’ house.

A Kinaalda is a Navajo puberty ceremony for young women. It is a rite of passage that traditionally lasts four days. I was invited to sit in on the last night of the ceremony. This is the night where a medicine man sings blessings called Hozhoni’go. The songs last all night until sunrise, when the girl (now woman) runs to meet the gods and returns holy. This is the gist of the ceremony, but it gets much more intricate. I know as I describe this I will be butchering words and making mistakes left and right. But this is the most accurate portrayal of my experience that I possess.

We sat in a Hogan waiting for the medicine man to wake up. He was in one of the eight corners of the room, snoring loudly. The girl of honor who we’ll call ‘Jo’ was also asleep. They had both been up very early doing other parts of the ceremony all day. Natalie and I were sitting on a couch in the Hogan, armed for the long night ahead with Red Bull and coffee. The room had mattresses and cushions lining the eight walls. There was a wood stove in the middle of the dirt floor that people had to walk clockwise around before taking their seat. There was also a large mat in the middle of the room where attendants of the ceremony could place an item to be blessed by the medicine man. The pile consisted of bags, purses, shoes, a horse saddle, and a Prince Shark tennis racquet with fresh red strings and a pretty pink grip. The medicine man eyed the racquet and looked at me quizzically.

‘I should have gone with shoes’ I thought. The room filled with mostly women and Jo’s father. The medicine man passed around corn pollen for us to bless ourselves with. I followed Natalie’s lead as she took a pinch of pollen and put it to her mouth, then her head, then sprinkled a path to the east, an offering to Diyin, the gods.

The songs began. Somber, rhythmic corn songs came from man’s the deep, relaxing voice. His first songs told a story. ‘She came from the east, she came from the west. She is beginning her journey. She will go to meet the gods’.

The lights were turned out in the Hogan. A small lantern lit the room, casting charismatic shadows on the walls. As the medicine man sang he rocked back and forth, causing his shadow to grow and retract on the white wall behind him. He sang for hours. Jo’s head bobbed as she fought to stay awake. Her mother and aunties calmly reminded her to stay awake through the long hours of the song-filled night. I am exhausted too. I close my eyes. I can still hear the song of the medicine man, and my mind dances on the line between consciousness and sleep. I sipped caffeine for synthetic energy.

As sunrise draws near the songs start to have a conclusive sound to them. The Godmother washes Jo’s hair with yucca as the medicine man sings, this time with a sense of urgency. On his cue Jo takes off to the east, her hair still dripping with yucca water. She is to run further than she has to this point. We ran behind her, chasing the holy girl. We were instructed to make noise so the spirits would know she is coming. Now, I don’t know how many of you have ever tried to run in moccasins and a long skirt in deep sand, but I’ll let you know that it isn’t easy. Flashlights lit the way, as the sun had yet to rise. The moon and stars shone brightly. About two miles later we reached a stopping point. She blessed herself and ran around a young shrub, heading back toward the Hogan. Regardless of the sand and cold, I found myself loving the run. I let myself get in touch with a Super Native bone I didn’t know I had in me. I hooted and hollered to announce Jo to the spirits. Dogs howled at us and I howled back. A few miles later she returned to the Hogan a woman.

Upon returning, we each grabbed a handful of white corn powder and went outside to offer it to the east, praying for our friends, our family, and ourselves. I prayed a prayer of appreciation. I expressed that I want safety in my travels, and I want my loved ones to feel happiness and develop appreciative minds. As we prayed the sun was close to rising, giving the horizon an ombre effect from yellow to light blue to dark.

We took back our blessed belongings and the medicine man teased me as I reached for my racquet.

‘Now you won’t miss any balls’ he chuckled.

‘I better not, or I’m coming after you!’ I joked, instantly wondering if it’s appropriate to heckle a medicine man. The night before the ceremony Jo had made a corn cake in a dug out hole in the ground with help from the women. After the cake cooled she served it to the guests. The men of the family had been outside keeping coals on the cake to cook it and make sure it didn’t burn. I was honored to receive a large chunk of cake and a gift basket as a ‘thank you’ for taking part in Jo’s Kinaalda. It was a beautiful ceremony.

By this time I had been awake for 28 hours, ever since I left my home the previous morning to drive to Antelope Canyon. Even though I was tired, I took time to soak in the sunrise. It is becoming my favorite part of the day. I don’t necessarily like being awake for it, but I’ve seen more beautiful sunrises on this trip than I have in months. It was an incredible 28 hours. 

Antelope Canyon

The sunrise bouncing off of Shiprock is a beautiful sight to see. It stands tall over northwestern New Mexico, and can be seen from over 50 miles away. One legend says that Shiprock, or Tse’ bit’ai’ (rock with wings) is a Monster Bird that once terrorized the Dine’ (Navajo People) and was slain by Monster Slayer, who then turned it to stone. It is a gorgeous monument of the southwest. I once again found myself traveling west, this time, away from home. My time with family in my hometown was relaxing and much needed. I spent three days feasting on green chile, playing high-altitude tennis (literally every ball I hit was two feet out), hiking with my mutt, Kai, analyzing life with my father, and just generally lying around. The one productive activity I stumbled upon was attending a meeting with the mayor of our city to advocate for tennis in the community. Tennis players have faced some hardships and resistance from the city lately, and this meeting was hopefully the beginning of change. Hopefully.

Amanda, Cathy, Corkie and I left the Land of Enchantment before the sun rose in order to get to Antelope Canyon in time for our noon tour. Amanda rode with me and we gossiped about work and boys and marveled at the landscape as we journeyed across the Navajo reservation, ‘the rez’. When we arrived at Antelope Canyon, it didn’t look like much. It was mostly flat land with hills and mountains off in the distance. The Biligaanas (white people) in my group paid their fees to the Navajo girl in the booth who looked at me skeptically when I said I, too am Navajo, exempting me from the entrance fee. We followed our guide on a short walk to the entrance of the slot canyon where we climbed down a very steep metal staircase into a narrow crevice. I was immediately thankful for good eyesight and steady balance. When I set foot on the sandy canyon floor my heart melted. The canyon walls have been carved out by sand and water over the years, leaving smooth, beautiful curves. Rays of sun radiate from above, hitting the arcs and curvatures of the stone at angles that give the walls character, bringing the canyon to life. We looked up as we walked, bumping into rocks and tripping all through the tour. Tourists took hundreds of pictures and their ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ echoed off of the cold, hard walls. The beauty of this canyon is humbling. I felt frustrated that I couldn’t soak it in as much as I wanted to. I wanted to seep into the canyon, becoming part of it, never to leave. I wanted to read, cook, dance, get married, sleep, cry, make love, laugh, and live in the canyon. The light hit the rock walls at a different angle with every stride as we proceeded through, each step seemingly more extraordinary than the last. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. 

Upon emerging, we sat on the trunks of our cars and made sandwiches in the parking lot. We discussed the flawless magnificence of the canyon. After weighing our options of what to do next, we decided to check out Lake Powell.

Amanda and I sprawled out on the rocks overlooking the massive lake. We had been awake way too long and were absolutely exhausted. After a short nap, I led my crew through a yoga session on the cliffs before heading to our hotel. Tonight I have been invited to be a part of a Kinaalda, a Navajo puberty ceremony beginning at midnight. Rest is the only factor I forgot to plan for Tour de Polkahontas. It’s naptime.

550 North

Mountains are good for the soul. So is yoga. In the interest of furthering my own knowledge of the practice I traveled to Colorado to track down Renee, a friend and certified yoga instructor. We met at a local coffee shop where I had spent dozens of collegiate hours writing papers and flirting with the cute barista. Renee came prepared. She walked me through yoga literature and vocabulary that I had never heard of. I asked questions about poses and she demonstrated in the middle of the coffee shop, receiving strange looks from caffeinated patrons. After enough talking we decided to put the information to practice, ditching the coffee shop and heading up to campus, my alma mater. We rolled out our mats in the empty rec center studio and swapped ideas of different poses and flow. The sun set, leaving the studio dim, but neither of us broke concentration to switch the lights on. We chatted about mindfulness and how being present is so helpful in yoga, tennis, and life in general. Afterward, I walked to the rim of campus feeling loose, mindful, and centered. I sat 500 feet above the glowing mountain town watching the residual light of the sun fade behind the dark outline of the mountains. Another great day on Tour de Polkahontas was done.

The next morning Tori and I stared at the marquee on 550 North that read ‘Red Mountain Pass closed due to rock slide’. We had planned on going to Ouray hot springs, but with the pass closed the alternate route would take us twice as long. We debated what to do, and decided to take the detour for the sake of adventure…..and beer. We added gas to the tank and headed west. The trip was not quick, as we stopped twice to marvel at the incredibly gigantic snow-capped mountains that towered above us against the bright blue sky. We’re not in west Texas anymore, Toto. Two hours later we came up on Telluride, a small and cozy ski town nestled in a bowl of the San Juan Mountains. We decided to stop and see what Telluride had to offer. The hippie at the visitor’s center directed us to a hike above town. We set off to find the trailhead but after twenty minutes of walking we figured that we had missed our turn, probably because we couldn’t take our eyes off of the scenery long enough to read street signs. As we walked back toward town, we discussed which of the multi-million dollar condos we would purchase to live in with our Telluride boyfriends and Telluride dogs. Walking to the gondola didn’t take long, and before we knew it we had been swept up 1,800 feet above Telluride to the most incredible view of the trip so far. Coming off of our mountain high, we went in search of a brew. Mousa at the Lost Dollar Saloon hooked us up with two blondes from the Telluride Brewing Company. We sipped our beers at 8,750 feet, almost instantly feeling lightheaded and giggly. Two men, Jim and Mark sat down next to us and the four of us were soon lost in conversation. As it were, Tori’s mom used to work for Jim. Tori and Jim caught up and we all marveled at the randomness of their connection. The men told us about the ‘Free Box’ across the street from the Lost Dollar. This is a cubby where people leave things they no longer need with the idea that their trash might be someone else’s treasure. The local saying is ‘The Free Box provides’. I love this because it plays off of the natural human instinct of reciprocity. Give what you don’t need. Take what you do need. Tori and I walked over to check out the box full of books, clothes, household items, and shoes. I picked up a pair of pants that were just my size. Tori found a shirt and a sweater. When we returned to the bar Jim said he had to leave to meet a friend for sushi and asked us to come along. A few chilly blocks later, we found ourselves in the Cosmopolitan lounge where we met Pete, Nick and Rich. Jim ordered a mountain of sushi for the table, and I finally got my beet and goat cheese salad that I’ve been jonesing for on this trip. Over fish and beets we conversed about our professions, I told the story of Tour de Polkahontas, and Jim told us that his house had recently burnt down, rendering him homeless for the time being.

‘But you know,’ he added, ‘Stuff isn’t home. My house wasn’t home. This is home. Dinner with new friends, old friends, and beautiful mountains; That’s home’. We clinked glasses. I couldn’t agree more.

The gentlemen walked us to our car, practicing our Midwestern accents and making loon calls to the moon all the way.  We exchanged information and promised to call if we ever again found ourselves in close proximity.  Before we left town Tori and I stopped by the Free Box once again. I popped my trunk and pulled out one of my favorite books and a t-shirt from the ranch. I placed them in the cubby, hoping someone would get great use out of each of them.

On the way home I stopped the car to get out and gawk at the glowing mountains. It was a full moon, bright enough to see the ominous peaks in detail. The blue moon radiated off of the snowy mountains, giving them an incandescent appearance. Stars dotted the sky. I looked up to see Orion, the only constant character on this tour other than myself. I struck the Eagle pose that Renee taught me and ‘opened my heart to the world around me’, allowing beauty and appreciation to saturate it once again.  Home. It feels good to be home. 

'Something Awesome' along Route 66

Nine hours of driving is too long. Around hour four I came up on a small interstate town in New Mexico. Trail mix and Red bull left my stomach in need of actual food, so I decided to pull over and make a sandwich. As I was looking for a good place to stop I saw a man with a cardboard sign that read ‘two daughters, need help’. I remembered the cash that I received earlier in the trip and had promised to do 'something awesome' with. I pulled up next to the man’s Subaru that was packed with clothes and boxes. Inside the car were two young girls whose eyes peeked out at me from the backseat. I asked the three of them if they were hungry and the girls shook their heads up and down eagerly.

‘There’s a restaurant up the road. Let’s get some food’ I suggested.

‘We haven’t showered. We’re not really fit to go anywhere’ the man protested humbly. He was wearing jeans and a shabby jacket.

‘Don’t worry about it. Let’s get some food’ I repeated.

We sat down at the Route 66 diner and started chatting. Dennis, a man in his late 40s is the father of his two girls, Caitlin and Mckelsey. The girls are 13 and 11, respectively.  Dennis had deep worry wrinkles on his face and a tired, defeated look about him.  His salt and pepper stubble led up to a mess of grey hair matted down under a black ski cap. His gauged ears partially covered tattoos of his daughter’s names on his neck. The girls wore dirty sweatshirts and new matching jeans and boots that they told me they had received for Christmas from a community shelter. The girls seemed tired too, but still had a youthful energy. We started chatting over chips and salsa after our waitress took our orders. Dennis told me a story of love and loss. He shared with me that they were running away from a domestic violence situation in which he was run over by a car. They had to leave almost everything behind in exchange for their safety. I could tell the girls didn’t want to talk about their sad story. I posed silly questions, asking them what their favorite food is (chicken strips and mashed potatoes), where they would like to vacation (‘anywhere but Texas…ick!’), and their favorite subjects in school (science and math). We talked about pets and I showed them pictures of Kai, my mutt. Caitlin told me a story about the time Mckelsey ate salmon eggs while they were fishing because she thought they were candy. We laughed and water came out Mckelsey’s nose, so we laughed even harder. As our food arrived I told them about camping and how excited I was for the Grand Canyon. I talked and they shoveled food into their mouths hungrily. Mckelsey had already finished half her plate of chicken tenders before I finished dressing my salad. Caitlin didn’t get it.

‘You’ve hiked the canyon four times and you’re still excited?’ she challenged. I painted them a verbal picture of how beautiful the canyon is and how good it feels to accomplish the hike. Mckelsey was more interested in the mules.

‘Did you know mules can’t even reproduce? It takes a donkey and a horse. I don’t know why a horse would be interested in an ugly old donkey’. She made a donkey face and ‘heehawed’, much to Caitlin’s pleasure. We finished our meals and I paid the check with my Tour de Polkahontas scholarship money. We wished each other the best of luck on our respective journeys and parted ways.

I drove away, reflecting on the conversation and hoping with all my heart that those sweet girls would have a fair shot in this life. An hour later my gas light came on. At the entrance of the Pilot station was a dirty couple with two dogs and a sign reading ‘Santa Rosa’. They were trying to get to the town I had just come from. As the gas pumped into my tank I filled a grocery sack with bottled water and spare snacks from my car. The strong wind blew my gas cap off the trunk of my car and carried it across the parking lot like a hockey puck. The dirty man chased it down and brought it over to me. Our eyes met as I handed him the bag of goodies, and we exchanged thank yous. Under other circumstances, I would have stayed to chat. But in all honesty, I was cold and wanted to get home for dinner- green chile soup from mom’s kitchen. We waved at each other as I pulled out of the gas station and sent up a prayer that they’d find a warm place to sleep that night.

While working in the psychiatric hospital last summer, we conducted interviews with a few of the patients individually. We would mostly talk about food and vacations, but we really wanted to know about their experience with mental illness. It’s part of their discharge criteria to be open about their offense. We weren’t allowed to ask them about it directly, so we danced around it and asked about ‘rock bottom’. Almost every patient answered that being homeless was rock bottom. They described the anxiety of not knowing if they’d be able to eat that day or sleep someplace warm and safe. They described feeling invisible, alone, and afraid. A friend from college once told me about her trip to Detroit where she was shocked by the abundance of homeless people. Everyone in her group was annoyed because she took the time to greet them as she passed. She didn’t walk by and ignore them like most people do because she wanted them to know that she saw them. To me, this is beautiful. This is what I wanted for the hospital patients last summer, and what I wanted for the friends I made yesterday. I wanted them to know that they aren’t alone and they aren’t invisible.

I didn’t do much for the people I met on the road. It was a bit of food and only an hour out of my life that I sacrificed. But the human connection will stick with us for much longer than the meal. It is a simple message, capable of encouragement far beyond our understanding. ‘I see you. I see that you exist’.