No mind, then. Instead, I thought back to a sunrise I experienced last week while in Death Valley National Park. My friend Brooke and I rose in the early morning dark, a brisk wind beating us awake through the walls of the tent. We communicated in sleepy mumbles while tying on shoes and zipping up coats, then headed out to Zabriskie Point, an overlook above an impressive stretch of deeply folded badlands. We’d hiked a loop just below the day before, between Golden Canyon and neighboring Gower Gulch, marveling at the mineral striations decorating the canyon walls, the lavender rocks underfoot, the mark of wind and water all around. This particular morning, the colors glowed softly at first, then with more vibrancy as the dusky pre-dawn became illuminated. It was stunning and peaceful all at once.

If you’re not careful, Death Valley is the kind of place you’ll fall in love with before you realize it, maybe without even wanting it to happen. You’ll be drawn in by the otherworldly geometry, the shocking array of colors, and how in contrast to its name, the place pulses with life in unexpected ways. You’ll stand at an overlook to gain sweeping views to the salt flat below and snow-capped peaks above, only to realize the massive viewshed is nothing more than a fraction of these boundless lands. You’ll scamper along on sand dunes, cresting one ridge only to discover a feeling of infinity beyond. You’ll find yourself a tiny speck in relation, experiencing a graceful humility beyond all else.

Brooke had never been to Death Valley before, and she spent those three days on a continual wonder trip, her exclamations careening on a loop between describing the place as “vast” and “beautiful,” both things so very true. It was a gift to share this magical place with her, and it’s a gift to all of us that it is protected as a national park.

Most people probably don’t know the history of Death Valley – or any of our national parks, for that matter – and most probably don’t realize that a large chunk of our public lands exist because of the Antiquities Act of 1906, passed by Theodore Roosevelt to allow presidential oversight in protecting places with important cultural, historic, and scientific significance. During his time in office, he made eighteen designations, including Devils Tower in Wyoming, Lassen Peak in California, and a little something called the Grand Canyon.

Death Valley was designated by Herbert Hoover as a National Monument in 1933, one of nineteen places he protected during his term in office. Hoover grew up with a deep love of and respect for the land, along with a belief in the healing power of nature. He communicated that during his term: these places were not set aside for gas, mineral, or oil extraction, but for the greater good, to preserve not just their cultural and natural resources, but also their effect on humanity. On our very humanness.

The monument became Death Valley National Park in 1994, part of the preservations set forth under the Clinton-endorsed Desert Protection Act, which also saw the establishment of Joshua Tree National Park and Mojave National Preserve. Because of the foresight of Presidents Roosevelt, Hoover, and Clinton, and because of the commitment of California Senators Alan Cranston and Dianne Feinstein, multiple regional organizations, and concerned citizens, we can escape to these protected places to find wonder and joy, seek solace and space, and experience a pure relationship with the land.

However, I think every outdoorsperson – from hiker to hunter, cyclist to boater, takes for granted that other people share the same enthusiasm for unspoiled spaces, and that our government representatives will continue to think beyond the here and now to protect and preserve for generations to come. We can no longer assume this. Certainly, Republican members of Congress and the incoming administration have already promised an assault on not only the Antiquities Act, but also on the continued preservation of public lands. In fact, the new administration has already teased plans on Day One to derail policies like the Climate Action Plan in favor of pursuing more aggressive resource extraction: “We must take advantage of the estimated $50 trillion in untapped shale, oil, and natural gas reserves, especially those on federal lands that the American people own.”

Well, they said it – WE own these lands.

It’s important for all of us who love our national parks, monuments, and other public lands to not only get out there and enjoy them, but also prepare to defend them. Learn about your local and state officials’ stance on land management, natural resource management, renewable energy, and climate change (try here or here) – and let them know how you feel about it. Get involved with local organizations and community efforts related to public lands and other environmental issues. Donate to national organizations like the Trust for Public Land and the Sierra Club, who are actively working on these fronts.

Most importantly, perhaps, take other people outside and let them find the magic and build their own connection to these special places, so that they, too, may become stewards of the land.

To the classic A-frame sunk into a muddy field near Devil’s Lake. You were a warm respite, a cozy nook, a place to gather with friends…as well as the site of my first completely unintentional hot-boxing. Dear tentmates: sixteen years later, I am still sorry. Please forgive.

To the cheap Coleman with the flimsy fabric and irritable zippers. You were the first tent I exchanged real, live money for; I owned you with pride. I look back fondly on our times spent tucked into the sands of Huntington Island and that other swampy place whose name I can’t recall. I only regret riding you hard and putting you away wet – who knew mold was so tenacious?

To my first backpacking rig, the spacious REI Half Dome. You accompanied me to the highest and lowest points in the Continental United States. You weathered two wide ExPed Synmats being jammed across your interior time and time again. You handled the repeated abuse on that single zipper like a real pro. Miles and miles and miles, you were my workhorse. My companion. My everything. I hope you aren’t jealous of my new, infinitely lighter and sexier backpacking tent.

Oops – did I say that out loud? Apologies.

To that snazzy glamping compound in the Serengeti. I’ll never forget the solace of your flushing toilet, the comfort of your asininely huge bed, or the bliss of your warm bucket shower. I’m also infinitely grateful for your protection against that one jackal that spent the entire night stalking me. Asante sana.

To the fancy expedition model on Kilimanjaro. What can I say? We laughed together, we cried together, and that one vulgarly cold night, you even let me pee in you (in a clearly marked Nalgene bottle, of course). I’m not sure if my special eau de backpacker ever left your weather-resistant walls, but I hope you’ll remember me always.

To the stupidly small rented Mountain Hardware disaster pitched in the snow at Rock Creek Lake. Your guylines were dumb. Your interior was miniscule. Your walls manufactured cascades of condensation despite proper ventilation. Still…I suppose you held up your end of the bargain. Barely.

To the absurdly large Kelty 4-person castle. You are my McMansion of car camping. The day I realized I could set up a folding chair inside of you was the best day ever. So what if I look like I’m fighting a greased pig every time I set you up while alone?

To my relatively brand new Big Agnes Fly Creek UL2. Your silnylon is soooooo sexy. The way it barely collects dew in the morning…the way it dries nearly instantly if damp…the utter and improbable lightness in my pack…I’m in love with you. What do you say we hike 942 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail together this year?

…and to sometimes leaving all of the tents behind in favor of cowboy camping under an infinite sky.

(Yes, that’s the best cowboy camping picture I have. The sky looked way better at night, I promise.)

After months of soul-searching, I am finally ready to tell the story of that horrid day.

 ***

10:00a – Reflect on the beauty of Utah.

10:30a – Think about Mormons.

10:45a – Eat one quarter of a bag of Trader Joe’s Baked Cheese Crunchies.

11:00a – Reflect on the beauty of the Virgin River Gorge. Tell myself that it’s…GORGEous. [Giggle]

11:15a – Think some more about Mormons.

11:30a – Marvel at 75mph speed limits! LIFE IS GRAND!!!

12:00p – Vegas.

12:30p – Ten feet from Vegas.

12:40p – Mood darkens. Listen to “Black Skinhead” by Kanye West.

1:00p – Twenty feet from Vegas.

1:15p – Think about Ewan McGregor.

1:30p – Eat one quarter of a bag of Trader Joe’s Baked Cheese Crunchies.

1:50p – Fifty feet from Vegas.

2:00p – Consider driving the fifty feet back to Vegas and making a home there.

2:30p – Crawl off the exit in Primm, Nevada because I need gas and because I’m very close to opening the sunroof, standing on my seat, and screaming expletives at no one in particular.

2:35p – Instantly regret my decision as the parking lot of Whiskey Pete’s Shitshow Casino And Gas Station (I believe that’s the official name) is the 7^th, 8^th, and 9^th Circles of Hell combined.

2:42p – Attempt to exit the parking lot and realize the futility of said attempt due to the other seven hundred cars and semis making the same attempt via one poorly constructed exit lane.

2:44p – Begin a set of desperate texts to my friend Jay, who was supposed to accompany me on this trip.

2:50p – Consider a detour through Mojave National Preserve.

2:57p – Consider the possibility of getting lost if I take a detour through Mojave National Preserve.

2:59p – Consider getting lost in Mojave National Preserve a far better fate than living out the rest of my life on this desolate stretch of freeway.

3:10p – Still in the parking lot.

3:18p – Text to Jay: “Maybe I should just give up and stay in this parking lot for the rest of my life.”

3:19p – Text from Jay: “I bet you’d make a great blackjack dealer!”

3:20p – Think to self: WHY IS THERE ONLY ONE EXIT LANE FROM THIS GODFORSAKEN HELLPIT OF DESPAIR-RIDDEN AWFULNESS?!

3:21p – Deep, calming breaths.

3:30p – Text from Jay: “It will get better!”

3:31p – Text to Jay: “I don’t think it will.”

3:45p – Text to Jay: “My desire to punch someone has never been stronger.”

3:46p – Text from Jay: “You should get out and ghostride your whip!”

3:47p – Briefly scowl at Jay, even though he is many, many miles away and is only trying to do the right thing with his suggestion of “ghostriding” my “whip.”

4:00p – Finally released from the hellscape of Primm! I do not see any brake lights! I am finally leaving Nevada! LIFE IS GRAND!!!

4:30p – Think about Peter Sarsgaard.

5:00p – Arrive at Baker, where there are so many brake lights.

5:15p – Eat a tuna sandwich that I made seven hours ago; stomach responds with a melodic grumble.

5:35p – Wonder if I have deep vein thrombosis in my right leg.

5:47p – Mutter long string of expletives.

6:00p – Five miles from Baker. Whisper to myself in a register only barely, barely audible, “Have you ever entertained vaguely homicidal thoughts while stuck in really terrible traffic? Asking for a friend.”

6:15p – Text to Jay: “I’ve been driving for over eight hours with no end in sight.”

6:16p– Text from Jay: “The freeway has to end sooner or later!”

6:30p – Consider pulling over, setting up my tent, drinking the half bottle of red wine squirreled away in my trunk, and settling in for the night – or for the rest of my life.

6:42p – Marvel at a man peeing right on the side of the road. My, what a graceful arc of urine!

7:10 – Listen to “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis.

7:15p – Listen to “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis.

7:20p - Listen to “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis.

7:25p – Listen to “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis.

7:30p – Text to Jay: “I don’t think Maxine (my car) wants to talk to me. We drive in silence.”

7:45p –Listen to “If I Had A Million Dollars” by Barenaked Ladies. Sing out loud and off-key, “If I had a million dollars, I would build a freeway in the sky that went directly from Los Angeles to Zion National Park, so I never have to see Nevada again!” [Cackle]

8:49p – Text to Jay: “I am a shell of a woman, drooling on myself in line at the In-N-Out…I have eaten half a bag of fake Cheetos & a tuna sandwich. I’m incoherent and my entire body hurts.”

8:53p – Text from Jay: “I feel as though you might give ‘animal style’ a new meaning at In-N-Out.”

8:54p – Text to Jay: “I’m feral.”

8:55p – Text from Jay: “Well then, you should definitely ‘animal style’ your fries, too.”

8:56p – Text to Jay: “I’m gonna ‘animal style’ someone’s face if I don’t get food soon.”

9:57p – Twelve hours and a high percentage of my sanity later, I am home, freed from the oppressive bondage of the I-15.

10p – Fall asleep in my clothes.

Epilogue – Find a french fry in bed the next morning. Whimper quietly during rush hour commute.

The Mojave lit a fire; straight away, I knew I wanted to visit Joshua Tree National Park. I needed more of those freaky trees, more of that eerie quiet, more pastel twilight vistas. After spending most of the spring and summer preparing for an early fall trek up Mt. Whitney, I finally seized the opportunity in October as part of a planned outing to the mystical high desert hippieland of Pioneertown for a friend’s birthday. I woke with the sun that Saturday morning, loaded up the car, and sped across the Inland Empire, U2’s “With Or Without You” on a delightfully ridiculous cycle in my head.

A bit of research led me to breakfast at Crossroads Café, located at the bustling intersection of Highway 62 and Park Avenue.

I use the term “bustling” loosely.

The drive north of Palm Springs had taken an uninspiring turn through the Morongo Valley, where visions of meth-fueled sunlit stabbings danced in my head. Rough dirt roads branched off into tracts of parched nothingness, dilapidated buildings far outnumbering those with intact windows and roofs. On offer along this depressing stretch were tattoos, liquor, beef jerky, bail bonds, Mexican food, and oddly enough, sushi. Yucca Valley, the largest settlement before reaching the actual town of Joshua Tree, was only slightly better, with the standard array of fast food establishments and scattered suburban retail outposts acting as an artificial buffer against the despair.

I had high hopes, then, for Joshua Tree. I cultivated a vision of a free spirit’s dreamland, Topanga Canyon’s desert sister, a tie-dyed mecca offering a swaying hands, flailing dreadlocks “Hallelujah!” in contrast to the rusted-out remains of what lay before. And in a way, it is all of those things—the afore-mentioned intersection is a hemp-wearing, organic-farming, patchouli-scented oasis where tattoos and peasant skirts are as common as climbing shoes and Patagonia puffies.

But that was it. One block on each side of the road, a few scattered outposts on the other side of the street, and then it flattened out once more into a blur of indiscernible beige. I tempered my disappointment at the general lack of stuff and strolled towards Crossroads, hunger in tow. When I ran into the birthday boy and friends at breakfast, I explained that I was going for a quick hike and would meet them back at the Pioneertown ranch in a bit.

One extremely delicious plate of polenta and eggs later, I coasted into JTNP armed with a crappy map and a hike description pulled from a friend’s hiking website, hoping for something more spectacular than the one-stoplight town that gives the park its name. The road wasted no time snaking up from the valley, twisting through sandy boulder fields that quickly gave way to chunky mountains and those eponymous trees.

Six miles past the gate, I reached the brown metal stick on the left side of the road that signaled the rather unmarked trailhead for the relatively new North View / Maze / Windows Loop. I stretched, slathered on sunscreen, tightened my laces and strode up a dirt path flanked by mystical rock temples and spiny wonders in every size, babbling under my breath in constant awe.

Entranced by the desert and her siren ways, double-fisting my iPhone and Canon to catch every little windswept boulder and cottonball cloud, I didn’t know that I was off trail until I nearly stepped off a ledge into a small slot canyon below. I studied it. I studied my map. I studied it. Hmm. Hmpf. This was not the trail.

I backtracked and then I saw it, a thin dirt path leading up through some rather chunky rock formations. Apparently, I was so mesmerized that I wandered right past it, over a rather obvious waterbar, and nearly right into some trouble. Clearly, the desert required a bit more focus, so I slugged some water, adjusted my sunglasses, and focused my way up, up, up until I reached a stupidly beautiful valley, and then I cackled out loud at the sheer magnificence of it all and the sheer insignificance of myself in its midst.

I danced around here completely alone, in giddy, wondrous euphoria for a long time. A long, long time. So long, in fact, that when I checked the time on my phone, I realized that I’d gone maybe just under two miles in an hour’s time, due to my off-trail exploits and rock worshipping, and was due back at the ranch in an hour for dinner.

Not wanting to backtrack and still floating on my desert high, I figured I could complete a small section of the loop, so I stowed the camera gear and picked up the pace, running downhill into a wash, then back uphill along some switchbacks, passing one trail junction for a viewpoint, then another. Suddenly, I found myself at the top of a ridge, gazing down with a bird’s-eye view at the wide desert valley, once again bellowing with joyous, vaguely maniacal laughter, until I realized that the trail just ended. Stopped. Went. Nowhere.

Crap. Crapcrapcrap. I peered back into the valley and caught the grey glint of my car far below, checked my compass (sort of), and picked my way along the ridgeline, figuring the trail must ride along the top for a bit until dipping back down below.

It didn’t.

Instead, in my haste to bust booty back to the barbecue, I accidentally left the main trail. From my erroneous perch, I saw the trail ribbon through a valley behind me, and was able to reason my way back to it, suddenly not enjoying my desert adventure as much anymore.

This is the part of hiking that I usually name the “Get Me Off This Mountain” phase of the adventure, except now it was “Get Me Off Of This Godforsaken Sunburned Swath Of Sandy Misery.” I was walking so quickly that it almost qualified as running. I cursed my sense of adventure. I cursed the Stabby Little Asshole Plants along the trail. I found myself fixating on thoughts of rattlesnakes. And tarantulas. And mountain lions.

And so I wandered into the wrong wash twice, backtracked a few times, followed some footprints to a dead end, backtracked a few more times, and almost cried. Then my phone rang and it was the birthday boy, asking me to stop and pick up some assorted meat products for the barbecue. As I ended the call, I laughed at what a freakin’ idiot I had just been in the most beautiful place I’ve ever been, and sprinted across the sand with a wide grin plastered on my face, my soul bursting with happiness.

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