Losing My Self

How do you get lost just a few miles from your home? If there's a way, I'll find it — or lose it, as the case may be. But getting lost isn't such a bad thing. In fact, some times getting lost is the best thing that can happen to me. 

There's a trail called Hidden Valley. You climb and climb and climb and when you get to the top, the mountain opens up to this unbelievably beautiful meadow. (In the spring it's covered with bright orange globe mallow blossoms.) If you keep walking along the well-worn path, you come to a rise where Native people drew petroglyphs into the rock — perhaps in the earliest form of social media —chronicling their challenges and triumphs.

Hidden Valley is a very popular hike and, when the weather is nice, you'll meet dozens of people on the trail. On this particular fall day, I decided to make the trek all the way up and over the Hidden Valley trailhead and down to the bottom of Moab Rim. It's a 7.5 mile hike up a mountain, through the valley, and across rocky, desert terrain to finally descend 1000 feet from the canyon rim. I'd hiked up the rim many times (they call it the Stair Master with good reason) but I'd never put the full end-to-end trail together —and I'd never hiked it all alone. Today was the day.

Hidden Valley revealed.

Greg dropped me off at the Hidden Valley trailhead after leaving my truck at the Moab Rim parking lot. I studied the AllTrails map and felt confident I could make the hike in about three hours. It was a straight shot due west from Hidden Valley to the Rim. What could possibly go wrong? 

When I began my hike at 11 a.m., the air was relatively cool. I had everything I needed: a jug of water, a pack of Peanut Butter Toasties, my phone, and a little spiral-bound journal for notes. I slung my lightweight blue backpack over my shoulder and began the ascent. 

While hiking up Hidden Valley trail I met a couple of folks coming down. But once I got to the top, I was alone. It is remarkable to consider how few people have walked this trail in the history of the earth. I am always humbled by my good fortunate to be among those who get to experience this beauty. When I made it to the petroglyphs, I climbed up on some rocks, looked out over the valley, and scribbled some notes in my journal. 

As a kid, I loved exploring the stream and the woods behind the barns on my parents' little farm. It was never this remote or this grand, but sitting on this vantage point, gazing out on the La Sal mountains, I felt like that little girl again filled with wonder of God's creation. 

That's what being in Nature does for me. And I need it. I need that connection, both to my physicality and to the natural world. It's so easy for me to forget that I am part of the earth. I live in my mind most of the time. That's the nature of being a writer, I suppose. My thoughts propel me — and often vex me. So exerting myself up a mountain and across a remote trail requires me to shift from my cognitive go-to to my most basic physical self. 

On my first solo hike in the desert, I became more keenly aware of my surroundings. The first leg of the hike was familiar and very well-worn. No way to get lost hiking Hidden Valley! But after I passed the petroglyphs, I was in fresh terrain. The field turned to slick rock. Discerning footprints was more difficult. I had to focus and look for subtle signs to show me the way.

Signs of early adventurers.

The temperature climbed to 90 degrees and there was no shade. I stopped to chug some water and continued down the rocky path. I knew I needed to keep heading west, but when the trail dropped off into a deep gulley, I feared I'd taken a wrong turn. How? How do you get lost in a place where there are no trees? Thankfully, I saw a cairn left by other hikers which showed me the way. I still had a long way to go and now I was in completely unfamiliar terrain. The town of Moab was just beyond the rim, and yet I'd never felt more alone.

The desert leaves you vulnerable in a way that no other landscape can. It is harsh and unforgiving. Creatures that survive there are hearty and opportunistic: rattlesnakes, lizards, spiders, carrion fowl. The Western movies I used to watch with my Dad often romanticized many details, but they got the desert's cruelty right. Did I mention there was very little shade? Thankfully there was some welcome cloud cover and a breeze that foretold an incoming storm to help break the monotonous heat. 

There were a few sign posts for the Moab Rim trail, which I happily welcomed. But, as it turned out, the one I followed was misleading. It took me to an overlook of the city — not the trail that would lead me to the area where my truck was parked. This misdirection added an hour of hiking to my adventure before I realized I'd followed the wrong path.

My destination: Descending 1000' from Moab Rim.

I was frustrated when I realized my mistake, but there was nothing I could do except back-track and continue my hike. I stopped, drank some water and and ate half my peanut butter crackers before starting off again — this time in the right direction. What I didn't know is that I still had a long way to go. 

I hiked for another hour before I made it to the descending trail on Moab Rim. When I finally arrived at my truck, my feet ached and I was sweaty and sunburned and tired, but I also felt a sense of accomplishment that I had rarely felt before. I made it! I did what I set out to do. Not only that, I got lost in the wilderness and found my way home.

How often do we really get lost these days? 

With GPS and mobile capabilities we can find our way just about anywhere. We have immediate access to step-by-step directions. To be in a locale where I literally have no idea where to turn and the only way to determine the next step is to just keep going and find my way through trial and error is a bit exhilarating. I wouldn't want to do it everyday, but I loved that hike and it will always be special for me. I was in a place where I literally had no idea which way to turn, and I found my way. I followed my instincts and relied on my body —not my mind — to get me where I needed to go. 

While being physically lost is rare for me, being emotionally lost is far more common. Almost daily I'm wandering around in my head lost in the the stories I concoct about myself and other people. 

The wasteland that is my mind is far more difficult to navigate than any trail. And can be far more dangerous to myself and others — if I am not conscious. 

Without being aware of it, I can so easily take a wrong turn and find myself unable to connect with the people I love the most. It's a very lonely place and yet — like the Valley to Rim route — I'm never actually that far from civilization. It is only a perception that I am separate, unloved, not considered. Why do I go there? And once I'm lost, can my instincts help me return to what is familiar and loving? I need a different type of cairn to show me the way.

Whether it's God or Jesus or the teachings of Buddha or Mohammed or Allah, or the Great Spirit, I believe there is a power greater than the individual mind that can bring me back to sanity, to presence, and to my path of serenity. 

I don't know why human beings — specifically me — struggle so to remain on the path of conscious awareness. It seems like it would be so much easier, and yet, often the trail markers aren't visible to follow. And yet, there's always a way back. Often I have to back track to find the right way. Typically, I have to get to the point where I am ready to give up in order to see with clarity the path home.