Finding (and Losing) My Balance

“Shall we gather at the river; where bright angel feet have trod… Yes, we’ll gather at the river; the beautiful, beautiful river…” —19th century hymn

Yesterday I decided I was going to hike The Narrows (https://www.canyoneeringusa.com/zion/off-trail/zion-narrows). I’ll wait a minute while you click on that link and see what The Narrows is. So, yeah, I decided to hike 3ish miles in a river up to a slot canyon at the beginning of spring melt in 45 degree water. It’s an iconic hike in Zion, you can’t swing a hiking pole without finding an outfitter willing to rent you the right gear, and I’d never done anything like that before so I thought what the hell. Besides, I can’t get lost on this hike and there’s not enough water to drown in so what could go wrong?

To set the scene I was outfitted in neoprene booties with waterproof hiking boots and special waders designed to keep the water out and my hiking pants nice and dry. I also had a wooden hiking staff to help me navigate the river since, did I mention, most of the hike IS IN THE RIVER.

I knew going into the hike that I would need to be careful of the slick rock and the current. I don’t have the greatest balance in the world and am prone to twisting my ankle. So I knew I would have to take it slow and easy and be mindful and present. After about 15 minutes in the water, it was clear that I really had to watch where I was going. After the first time I crossed to the other side of the river and had to navigate some ripples where the current was stronger, it was definitely clear that I had to pay attention to what I was doing. But I was okay with that. I figured it was a wonderful lesson in being present and mindful. And after a while it felt a bit like a walking meditation. If you are having to be that careful about where you are going, there isn’t much room for thinking about anything else. In fact, that was exactly what I hoped this trip would bring for me. I suck at sitting in meditation so had hoped that hiking would be a sort of walking meditation—a way to clear my mind and be centered.

Entering The Narrows

So my mantra soon became “Slow and steady. Don’t rush. Be present.” Lots of folks passed me, but I’m used to that when I hike. I’m not fast but I’m steady. (Lisa swears that this pretty much describes me in most things.) And I was doing pretty well. I wasn’t slipping. I was managing to figure out how to pick my way up the river. And I was even beginning to “read” the river and discern where the current was faster and slower, where it was safer to cross to the other side or walk down the middle of it, where the rocks were likely to be more uneven, and how to use my staff to anchor myself as I crossed swifter currents without losing my balance. It probably wasn’t the prettiest or most technical of hikes, but I was doing it pretty damn well.

And then I stopped being present. I was getting closer to my destination, “Wall Street,” so I was starting to hurry a bit. The whole hiking in a river thing was losing a bit of its novelty and, let’s be honest, I was getting cocky. So my mind started wandering. At first it was just looking around me and paying more attention to the cliffs. Not that I hadn’t been enjoying the spectacular scenery before, but I had been stopping and enjoying it. Then I started thinking about politics because, well, me. And Super Tuesday. And, again, me self-proclaimed and widely acknowledged political junky. So now I’m not being present; I’m not paying attention; and I am now more concerned at the destination then the journey. And that’s when things went south really fast.

To get through The Narrows you alternate between hiking through the river where you can and then moving to dry land where the water is too deep or swift. At this time of the year, the water stays around your ankles or mid thighs with the occasional waist high water level if you’re short like me. I saw a huge boulder in front of me and didn’t immediately see a dry path around so I figured I should stay in the water. After all, the water was pretty calm at this point with very little current. I used my staff to test the depth and it seemed a little deep but not too bad. And I wasn’t really paying attention because Super Tuesday monkey mind. And then it happened. I stepped down into a deeper hole and that cold 45 degree water flooded into my waders. And I panicked. It’s hard to describe the shock of that cold of water flooding INTO your dry waders and collecting at the cuff of your pants. The shock of the water sent me reeling backwards so now I was trying to not panic, not go completely under, and still keep my head and my camera dry. It probably only lasted ten seconds, but it was one of the longest ten seconds of my life. I finally righted myself, backtracked and found the dry path, and got out and back on the right path chastising myself the entire time for letting my attention wander and not being present.

And then things got really interesting because I had to decide do I press onward to Wall Street and see what I really wanted to see and experience or do I turnaround because I’m now cold and wet and there is always the danger of hypothermia. Plus, trying to hike down the middle of a river is much harder and requires a lot more balance than trying to hike up the middle of a river. And now I have to do it with half a gallon of water filling each leg of the waders, completely soaked hiking pants that are starting to feel like lead, and a coldness that is starting to slowly zap my strength and coordination. I decided to hike the last fifth of a mile into the start of Wall Street and then turned around. Disappointed but pretty sure that this was one of those times where doing the smart thing and giving up was better than pig headedly pressing forward. And, after all, that’s also one of those lessons that I am trying to learn on this trip—when do I barrel forward and when do I recognize my limits and go back.

A glimpse of the start of “Wall Street” before I had to head back lest hypothermia.

For the next hour and half as I picked my way back down the river there was an interesting internal dialogue going on in my head. It alternated between “That was really stupid,” “See, this is what happens when you aren’t mindful; you should remember this and be more present and attentive in your life. This is a wonderful object lesson.,” and “You’re okay. You aren’t in any danger. Yes, you’re cold but you aren’t shivering, you aren’t hypothermic, and your neoprene socks are keeping your toes warm so really, you are okay and can do this.”

I made it out. Cold but with only my dignity damaged. I had a dry clothes in my truck to change into (thank whichever deity of your choice).And most importantly it forced me to be kind and patient with myself. In the past, I think I would have beat myself up over such a dumb mistake. I’m proud that this time although I started to do that, I stopped myself. And now I have a wonderful object lesson on the importance of being mindful and present that I’m pretty sure isn’t going to fade anytime soon. So, let my wet and cold lesson be a warning—don’t daydream about politics when hiking in a river. Actually, more importantly, be present for there are all sorts of real and psychic dangers when we aren’t.

See Van. Van is wet and freezing because he stopped being present. Don’t be like Van.

Being Open to Connections, March 2, 2020

Part of this trip is about getting out, pushing myself (within reason), and disconnecting from the endless news cycle, the negativity of the 2020 election, and the continued weaponization of transgender folks. But part of this trip is also about trying to be open to the world and to see if I can rediscover a common humanity that will help sustain me through the November elections and beyond.

I’ll be honest, that last piece is hard. I tend towards antisocial on a good day and down right misanthropic on a bad day. I’ve never been an overly social person. When I get on airplanes I immediately put headphones on, even if I am not listening to anything. Nothing says leave me alone like headphones. If I’m out by myself for dinner, especially when I am traveling, I often sit at the bar and read. I don’t sit there to be social; it’s usually faster service. And, fortunately, a book is almost as good as headphones in staving off errant conversation.

But this trip is a bit different. I wrote the other day about how I have been offering to take pictures for folks and how it has led to some surprisingly pleasant, if brief, interactions. For example, as I was leaving the campground at Capital Reef National Park Sunday morning, I said good morning to an older woman walking back to her RV from the bathroom. I had noticed them come into the campground the night before with a huge TCU decal plastered across the back window of the RV. When I said good morning to her Sunday morning I commented on the TCU decal and asked if they were from Texas. She told me that her husband had gone to TCU and when she found out I was from Texas, insisted that I come over and meet him. We stood and talked for about 15 minutes and had a pleasant conversation. What was remarkable about it, though, was that it became clear very quickly that we came from two very different political and spiritual places. He told me early in the conversation that he was a graduate of TCU’s divinity school and had taught there, too, until he found it too liberal and left. I told him that I was a graduate of both Southwestern and Vanderbilt. His response was that Southwestern was nice and conservative (I decided not to contradict him) but Vanderbilt was too liberal, much like TCU. My response was something along the lines of, “Well, respectfully, I was just fine with the liberalness of Vandy’s div school” (and decided not to share how I would sometimes insist that my colleagues and I eat lunch at the div school’s cafeteria so I could try to meet some lesbians). What seemed so remarkable was that the conversation didn’t devolve from there. He took my response in stride, I took his response in stride, and we continued to talk about the beauty we found ourselves in, where we had been and where we were going, and how we both wished I wasn’t leaving so we could spend more time talking.

Since getting to Zion, I’ve had a couple of other delightful, and in one case truly remarkable, interactions. While sitting in a local coffee shop within walking distance of the park and campground Monday morning, I struck up a conversation with two women. I don’t know how the conversation started, but we ended up talking about parks in Utah and I told them about Capital Reef and showed them some of my pictures from last week. It was a very pleasant conversation and I counted it as another one of those unexpected delights.

But the real gem from yesterday was the probably almost two hour unanticipated conversation with the older Canadian couple while I was having lunch. After the coffee shop and getting some work done, I retired to the brew pub next door for beer and lunch. I figured I would sit outside in the glorious weather, drink and eat and work on my blog. Instead, the older couple next to me inquired about why they were seeing so many people get outfitted with waders and other gear. I explained it was for hiking The Narrows and the wife took that as an opening to engage me in conversation. She started by talking about how her husband had rafted down the entirety of the Colorado River and then we started talking about being outdoors. She explained they lived outside of the Canadian Rockies, we compared Rocky Mountain stories and rafting stories among other things. She explained why she was so friendly—she came from Newfoundland. I talked about how I knew of Newfoundland and had friends who had been diverted there on September 11th. She proceeded to tell me about her mother doing research to make vegetarian food for all of those stranded travelers and we both remarked on how important kindness is.

She went on to tell me that she was an OR nurse and asked me what I thought of the American health care system. Between just spending five days in Las Vegas trying to navigate that system on behalf of Lisa’s mom as well as my own ongoing challenges with getting adequate health care as a transgender man, I answered that I thought our system sucked and proceeded to explain why I thought that. What followed was a lengthy conversation about accessing health care while trans. She told me about the steps that her hospital has taken to treat transgender and gender nonbinary patients with dignity and respect. She asked me how I would want to be treated—what sort of interactions would I want, would I be offended if someone asked me which pronoun I used, and how she and her colleagues should navigate the increasing complexity of pronouns. I shared with her one of my biggest fears is ending up in an ER unable to advocate for myself with Lisa not there. I worry about whether or not I would be treated with dignity and respect, especially after watching the way my mother-in-law and other patients were sometimes treated in the skilled nursing facility she just left. And she reiterated many times that Lisa and I should just leave Texas and move to Canada.

All in all, it was one of those conversations where I was reminded that, at heart, I really still am an educator. But more importantly, it was two hours that was utterly delightful and left me feeling like I had made a real and meaningful human connection. Something that never would have happened had I not been open to the world and had kept looking at my screens.

Small Delights, February 29, 2020

I’m trying to keep myself open to unexpected delights as a part of this journey which means, to some extent, eschewing my usual anti-social tendencies and actually speaking to people. On the trail that might mean an acknowledgement and a quick hello although sometimes that leads to a bit of a longer interaction. Case in point has been today.

I’m sitting on a rock under Hickman Bridge (more on it in a bit) writing in a notebook (don’t worry, I’m not taking my laptop hiking with me—I transcribe in the evenings and upload when I reach a stable connection). This isn’t the same solitude as yesterday; this is a popular, shortish hike that draws families with younger children. But there’s beauty here unlike anything I’ve ever seen. And there are delightful surprises everywhere. The view as I’m writing is amazing—white rock littered with holes left from erosion. A wash dotted with juniper. This amazing bridge, carved out over tens of thousands of years, streaked with red and black layers of rock. And snow still covering parts of the wash and cliffs, forming a sprinkling of white in contrast to the rust red of the rocks.

Hickman Bridge, Capitol Reef National Park, Utah

Every so often families or smaller groups of hikers come through. More than once today I’ve volunteered to take pictures of groups to the delight and gratitude of more than one person. It’s interesting, everyone always seems surprised when I volunteer to take their pictures. I wonder why? Have we so devolved into the worst forms of tribalism that we simply assume that there is no kindness or decency left? Nevertheless, I see offering to take a picture as a small kindness and it gives me pleasure. For a brief moment there is a spark of connection that exists in spite of everything that divides us. And, I must admit, that I am quite surprised at how much I enjoy, sometimes even crave, these moments of connection. It’s a moment when we’re united by nature and a sense of beauty and awe and wonder.

I think there is something to that brief moment of connection that affirms our humanity in spite of everything else. I’m fairly sure that the Mormon father of four young children doesn’t share my political views or would even affirm my existence as a transman (although perhaps that is my own bias and prejudice talking). But for a brief moment we bonded over the beauty surrounding us. They live nearby, and I would like to think that I gave him the gift of seeing this place with fresh eyes.

And then there was the older woman with her two adult children who was curious as to why I was sitting here writing. We had a brief conversation about adult students, she finished college in her 30s, and the importance of educational opportunities. Another delightful surprise. Now, I am playing peek-a-boo with my most recent visitor—a curious chipmunk. Every so often I catch a glimpse of him/her (do chipmunks acknowledge gender) out of the corner of my eye as they scamper about, eyeing me curiously and cautiously.

But now it’s time to move along. I’ve lunched on hummus, hard cheese, chili mango slices, and hot vanilla tea. It’s not the most gourmet of lunches, but in this environment it feels like a veritable feast. Time to see what lies around the next bend.

On Feeling Small... February 28, 2020

The challenge with a rooftop tent is that once I’m parked and I’ve deployed the tent, I’m hesitant to go through the hassle of packing it up, driving someplace, and then returning and unpacking it. This means that I’m pretty much reliant on my own two legs to get around once I’ve made camp.

My camping set up.

So this morning after a breakfast of coffee and cheese grits (you can take the boy out of Texas but not the Texas out of the boy), I walked the mile down to the visitor’s center to get the lay of the land and some recommendations for appropriate hikes for a semi out of shape 50 year old. In day light the juxtaposition of the orchards, barns, and horses against the red cliffs are even greater than I realized while driving in last night.

Because I don’t want to take my tent down and then set it back up, I’m somewhat limited in my options for hikes. Today I opted for Cohab Canyon, named after some intrepid Mormon settler. The guidebooks listed it as a moderate hike with a strenuous first quarter of a mile. The guidebooks lied.

The first quarter of a mile was pretty much 400+ feet straight up. Coming from the flat lands of West Texas, I’m the first to admit that I don’t have a great perception of heights. Come to find out, 400+ feet in a quarter of mile is pretty damn steep. And made all the more challenging by a spring melt that rendered portions of the trail so muddy that I was alternately walking through mud that sucked at my feet and caked my boots or was so slick that I could gain no traction. The pay off for this hell, an amazing hidden canyon.

Fruita Historic District from 300 feet (I still had another 100+ feet left to climb)

I have to wonder what those early Mormon settlers felt when they first experienced this land. After I finally finished the hellish climb, I found myself looking down into a canyon, probably no more than 40 or 50 yards wide at spots. The first thing I was struck by as I hiked down into the canyon was how diverse the vegetation was. Growing up in West Texas it’s hard for me to think about a desert that isn’t dry, desolate, and pretty much devoid of greenery and vegetation outside of cacti and mesquite bushes. (Yes, I know that they are technically trees but they look a lot more like bushes.) But here I am in a desert with junipers and Mormon tea bushes (I’m sure they are called something else but I don’t know what), oak trees, cacti, and other things that I can’t recognize. I just wasn’t expecting this level of green, but the presence of snow and the resulting melt explains the greenery. But then there are the red cliffs towering on either side of me, especially as I descend into the wash of the canyon.

Cohab Canyon, Capitol Reef National Park

Although descending into the canyon was a bit tricky with both ice on some parts of the trail and that infernal slick mud in other parts, it was worth the work. When I reached the bottom of the canyon it was perfectly silent and still. So much so that it was a bit unnerving and scary. It was so quiet that I jumped when I heard the rock contract from the melt—it sounded like a gunshot. That type of silence is rare for me. I’ve heard people say that silence can be deafening, but I think I finally understand what they mean by that. That silence was so profound, so tangible, and so solid. It felt material. And it was more than a bit frightening once I was aware of it; perhaps because of the isolation that it meant. It’s one thing for me to say that I want to get away from everyone, but it is quite another thing for that to be the reality when it means that I could slip, fall, and hurt myself. I may not really like people, but there is a certain safety in numbers. I’ve heard people say that silence can be deafening, but I think I finally understand what they mean. It was so profound, so tangible, so solid. And it was more than a bit frightening once I did hear the slightest of noise. I could suddenly imagine what it might feel like to be prey to once of the mountain lions roaming this area. The scale of where I was did not lend itself to feeling like I was at the top of the food chain.

But I survived and made it back tired, soar beyond belief, and grateful to climb up into my tent to see what tomorrow brings.

Feeling small, February 27, 2020

Today I finally got to leave Las Vegas and head out into the wilds of southern Utah—Capitol Reef National Park. This trip so far hasn’t quite gone as I expected it would. In almost two weeks I had only managed to camp one night—in Gila National Forrest at Gila Hot Springs. I knew I was going to start this trip out with work but life intervened and I needed to spend five days in Las Vegas helping to coordinate my mother-in-law’s medical care as we worked to get her back home. As an aside, theou  American health care system absolutely sucks in case anyone had any doubts. Oh, and for those of you who have a PhD or EdD after your name, judicious use of “doctor” can work wonders with insurance underlings. Eventually we were able to get Lisa’s mom squared away and I finally was off to Capitol Reef National Park, a premier dark sky park.

Driving into Capitol Reef was indescribable. As I entered the red rock, I suddenly felt so small. In fact, if there is any through line in much of my travels so far, it’s that I feel small (but in a good way, if that makes sense). Driving into Capitol Reef you start passing these huge red and white cliffs with sheer walls and amazing striations. I’ve never been much interested in geology, but if I lived close to this area, I think I would take one or two geology classes.

I arrived shortly before sunset so although I had a glimpse of the cliffs surrounding the campground in Fruita, I was mostly preoccupied with getting camp set up. Since this was really my first foray into settled camping this trip, I was still trying to figure a few things out. For those of you who are wondering, I’m camping in a roof top tent (picture below). Setting it up isn’t too bad. I carry a ladder in my Forester and it’s just a matter of rolling the cover off, extending the ladder and unfolding the tent like a clam. At night I simply climb up the ladder into my own personal and portable tree house.

The campground in Capitol Reef is in what is known as the Fruita Historic District. The name, though not exactly original, is apt. The area borders on the Freemont River and was settled by a handful of Mormon families in the late 1800s. Using a ready and steady irrigation source in the Freemont River, they cultivated a number of fruit orchards which the National Park Service now maintains. Though the trees are not currently in bloom, the juxtaposition of fruit orchards against the sheer red rock cliffs is both surreal and stunning.

More important to me is the remoteness of Capitol Reef. The park is designated as an international dark sky site and has few amenities. No electiricity, no cell reception, no wifi, and very little running water this time of year. The result is a nearly deserted campground with only a handful of other folks, mostly rvs, scattered about. At night it’s dark enough to see satellites and the Milky Way and dead silent. A welcome respite after Las Vegas.

More tomorrow after I’ve had a chance to properly explore and adjust to some welcome solitude.

Cacti and Country Singers

After I came down off the mountain in Gila National Forest, I drove over to Phoenix to spend some time facilitating strategy meetings for one of my clients, and now I’m in Las Vegas taking care of some family business before finally getting to head into the wilds of southern Utah next week. But yesterday, in between meetings, I spent a few hours hiking in Saguaro National Park.

Saguaro National Park, Nevada, February 21, 2020

I think I knew intellectually that this environment was otherworldly, but I was unprepared for the experience. Even on the trail, I found myself enveloped by these huge cacti and a much more diverse ecosystem than I ever could have imagined. For starters, it was much greener than I expected, especially once I slowed down and started to pay more attention. I spent a fair amount of time swiveling my head from looking at the trail at my feet (because snakes) and staring up at towering cacti.

If you didn’t know, I’m terrified of snakes. Growing up in West Texas meant that pretty much anything with less than two legs or more than four legs was poisonous and that fear of snakes has never left me. Hell, it’s so acute that it was one of the reasons I got a rooftop tent for this trip. Snakes aren’t going to climb a ladder up into my tent. But this was one time when spending so much time looking at the ground paid off because otherwise I would have missed something that I never expected to see— a few small, but blooming, bluebonnets.

Bluebonnet, Saguaro National Park, Arizona, February 21, 2020

I’m not entirely sure why I found this so delightful. Maybe it was the purely unexpectedness of finding such a familiar site in such an otherworldly place. Finding a little bit of home made it a little less foreign. It’s hard to put into words. This trip, even though I haven’t really gotten to experience any of the solitude that I’ve been longing for, is frightening for me. I fill my life with lots of things— mostly work— that function as very effective distractions from ever really spending time sitting with myself. And here I was, over a thousand miles away from home, looking down at a bluebonnet. It wasn’t part of the giant fields of blue and white and yellow that we are used to seeing in the Hill Country, but that made it even more wonderful and special.

After I hiked back to my car, I drove the rest of the way down a dirt road to Signal Hill, site of rock art from the Hohokam dating back over a thousand of years. It’s hard to imagine living in this harsh environment, but it was clearly a populated area. The designs are largely abstract and the meanings lost, but there’s something archetypal about some of the designs, especially the spirals, that I need to think about. As I write this, I’m realizing that this isn’t the first time this spiral design has come up in my life recently. Several of the books that I have packed for this trip are books of Celtic mythology and poetry dating back to the days of the Druids and even before that. Spirals also feature in those works. There’s something there that I need to think about and be mindful of, I suspect.

Hohokam petroglyph, Saguaro National Park, Arizona, February 21, 2020

The other completely unexpected and utterly delightful event of the day happened in really the place I least expected it to happen— a McDonald’s in Marana, Arizona (basically, a wide spot in the road on the way to I-10). I noticed a lot of older folks when I went into the restaurant who were clearly socializing more than eating. I’m used to the way that places like this (usually Dairy Queens in Texas) function in small towns; they become the de facto community center. What I wasn’t prepared for was the quintet of 70 somethings who unpacked their guitars, mics, and other paraphernalia and proceeded to sing old school country songs, mostly about lost loves. Was it the best singing and playing I’ve heard, not by a long shot. But was it a wonderful surprise? Most definitely. And it was an excellent object lesson in how I need to slow myself down and be open to the journey this trip rather than fixate on my destination. If I had been fixated on the destination, getting up the road to Las Vegas, I would have either gone through the drive through and eaten my dinner in the car or I would have wolfed down my food and gotten in and out as fast as I could. But I sat in a small town McDonald’s for an hour waiting for and then listening to a group of old timers sing the music that they clearly love and watched a community socialize around me. All in a place that I would normally dismiss. Hopefully, I will remember this extraordinary lesson in looking for delight in the least expected placed of all.

Beginnings....

Hand petroglyphs, Canyonlands National Park, Utah

February 18, 2020

Yesterday I loaded my Subaru with way more supplies than I needed (and without sufficient heed as to the placement of the supplies I would need each night) and set off on an 8 week journey of camping across the American west.

I turned 50 last year and have been experiencing a crisis of sorts. I know having a midlife crisis at 50 sounds hackneyed, but there you go.

I wasn’t prepared for turning 50 as a man, especially one trying to simultaneously get a business off the ground and figure out what the next stage of my career should be. And I certainly never thought I would be turning 50 as a married man living in a two story house in the suburbs.

About two months after turning 50 my Beloved convinced me to go river rafting down the Colorado and Green Rivers with her. She had been twice and loves the red rock of the Utah desert. I was more than dubious— I don’t swim well, I wasn’t keen on spending five days with strangers I couldn’t escape; and was quite worried about peeing since I can’t seem to live in a world where I don’t have to worry about bathrooms. But I went, and I loved it and thrived being immersed in nature. There was an amazing peace I experienced at night under a sky unlike anything I had ever seen before. And then I came home and that peace evaporated within a week.

Even before the trip I had been playing with the idea of taking off and driving west to Yosemite and camping along the way. Maybe not a gap year (which, let’s face it, is unrealistic for most folks), but maybe a couple of months. The need to do that became much greater as the 2020 election maelstrom started heating up. In October the Texas Republican Party made it clear that they planned on weaponizing transpeople again, this time by denying trans children medical care. The lies and vitriol, and hatred are almost too much, especially when coupled with this 24/7 news cycle.

Gila Cliff Dwellings, Gila National Forest

So here I am. It’s midnight, and I’m sitting in my tent on top of my Subaru (it’s a bit like my own personal treehouse) in the middle of Gila National Forest in western New Mexico on the banks of the Gila River with three natural hot springs steps away from my tent. The sky is spectacular on this mostly moonless night. It’s amazing how much light stars can give out. I can hear the river 30 yards away and that’s all I can hear. Before climbing up into my tent for the night I skinny dipped in one of the hot springs— the first time I’ve ever done anything like that in my life. Earlier in the day I hiked up to the Gila Cliff Dwellings and walked through the ruins of 600 to 700 year old homes.

I started reading Ross Gay’s book of essays, The Book of Delights. Gay tried to write one little essay every day for a year— all on something that delighted him. Three days into his experience he missed a day— something that oddly delights me. One of the things I struggle with is feeling like everything has to be perfect— that it’s all or nothing. So my delight today is twofold— hiking up the side of a cliff to see these 600 year old ruins and seeing someone embrace imperfection

Sunset, Gila Hot Springs Campground