In Nevada, there is a Primm pit stop, then Vegas in the rearview. There is dust and there are rocks and mountains, and in between, brief blips of infrastructure punctuate the undulating beige.

In Arizona, there is a small slice of beauty stuffed inside a winding canyon.

In Utah, there is an impressive display of Weather: sun, clouds, heat, chill, wind, rain, hail, snow. There is a succession of mountains, each larger than the last, until finally the most skyward of the bunch don winter caps. There is also Cracker Barrel.

In Idaho, there is idyll. There is a fresh, green coat of spring tucked between spires of snow and rock. There is gravel, upon which casual cycling ensues. There are cats and dogs and near-constant birdsong. There is a brewery with horses and bikes and dogs and babies and popcorn and tacos and a fat lawn that invites lazy, gracious sprawl. There are pastoral sunsets and cabin dreams. There is also Garth Brooks, projecting from the radio his many loves and losses.

In Wyoming, there is magic. There are tufts of green-gray sagebrush and stands of pines guarding hidden lakes that are in turn guarded by showboat peaks. There are elk and baby elk and bison and baby bison, and bastardizations of cowboy songs inspired by such majesty. There are antlers – so many antlers. There are best-laid plans and watery reflections and there is future conjuring. There is also vodka inspired by the great and powerful Channing Tatum.

And then, a reluctant return.

In reverse, there are yawns and early morning sentences still half-spackled to our throats. There is coffee, praise be. There is Cracker Barrel. There are hours spent climbing and descending various lumps in the Utah outback. There are Combos and ice cream sandwiches and jellybeans and proclamations of Only Vegetables From Henceforth. There is a return to beige. There is a large thermometer towering over the Baker Denny’s, where there is a large skillet decorated with overcooked salmon and wilted vegetables. There is bottomless Coca-Cola. There are taillights and billboards and honks, and then there is “civilization.”

And then, finally, home – or the fading construct of some such place, when all I long for is the freedom of the range.

I was writing a thing in which I tried to explain how I spent Earth Day, or at least partially how I spent Earth Day, since I don’t think the part about pineapple-coconut tiki drinks would be all that enlightening, and then I caught myself describing urban rivers as “the mightiest, throbbiest vein in any metropolis” and I decided to stop for obvious reasons.

Let’s have a do-over, eh?

On Earth Day morn, I met up with some friends to help with a cleanup organized by Friends of the LA River. We donned gloves, grabbed garbage bags, and wandered a narrow riverside corridor, scooping up binder clips and hypodermic needles and broken tiles and dead rats. After filling my bag with the sullied spoils of capitalism and the residue of broken dreams, I wandered over to the river itself, thought to hell with it, and waded in, my tennis shoes squelching against the concrete bottom.

For the most part, the Los Angeles River does not a river seem; if you’ve lived here or you’ve seen Chinatown or Grease, you know its certain lack of aesthetic appeal. The river was once wild, but as the city grew dense and flooding became an issue, it was converted to an unattractive concrete funnel, shuttling water along a nearly fifty-mile Slip-n-Slide between the San Fernando Valley and the Pacific Ocean.

Still, we urban-outdoorsy types fawn over this thing as if it carried our very lifeblood, and I think we’re kind of on to something. It may not boast the grassy banks, vibrant parks, or farmer’s markets you’d find along other urban rivers (although that is slowly changing), but it does serve as one of the many threads that weave together our city’s history – and its people.

I’m excited, then, to begin a new project with my friend Brooke (she of Year of the Scout fame), exploring the length of the L.A. River from north to south. Like good stewards, we plan to pick up litter along the way, and like good urbanites, we hope to learn a bit more about our city (and the others it flows through) during our little expedition. Tips and insights on your own L.A. River experiences are welcome!

***

In other Earth Day-related news, I was honored to profile the six winners of this year’s Goldman Environmental Prize for Outside Online. Considering the current state of…affairs…it was really nice to write about people who not only value the environment and their communities, but who are also doing concrete work to fight for the protection of both; a bit of salve for my own soul, as it were.

On a similar note, I continue to write the new “Trailblazers” series for Modern Hiker, shining a light on people who are making an impact in the outdoor world on both a national and local level. My next subject is the incredible Nick Hummingbird of the Hahamonga Native Plant Nursery, an indigenous Californian who works to educate the public on cultural history, the importance of embracing native plants, and the necessity of forging a connection with the natural world. He’s a master storyteller and I was absolutely transfixed while listening to him drop knowledge. I might have cried.

Ok, I definitely cried.

***

To close this new letter-ish thing I’m trying out, here are a few pieces I’ve read lately that lounged around in my head after the fact:

• Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About The Antiquities Act But Didn’t Know Who To Ask (Casey Schreiner for Modern Hiker)
• Going It Alone (Rahawa Haile for Outside Online)
• The Heart of Whiteness: Ijeoma Oluo Interviews Rachel Dolezal, the White Woman Who Identifies as Black (Ijeoma Oluo for The Stranger)
• Tough Love (Blair Braverman’s new column for Outside Online)

Adiós!

- Shawnté

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.

Like many years prior, I was going to usher in the new year from the most excellent party central of my well-worn Big Agnes Fly Creek UL2 tent, or maybe even while cowboy camping somewhere on the desert floor. Coyote yips would serve as noisemakers, the stars above as sparklers, with a bit of whiskey in my apple cider to cheer the passage of time.

Instead, I spent the day nervously watching my spectacularly stoned kitty Eddie Cat Halen wander around my apartment in a post-surgery stupor, now eight teeth (and perhaps a few brain cells) lighter. I not only felt like the Certified Worst Human on Earth, but also felt disappointed that I was landlocked in the city, when all I wanted was to roam free in the wild.

My friend Brooke broke my sad-sack spell with an invite to join her family for a retro New Year’s Eve luau, so I donned my brightest island wear, baked a pineapple upside-down cake, and nudged myself into some form of reluctant optimism. We watched Blue Hawaii and Forgetting Sarah Marshall, marveled at a rather ingenious Christmas-tree-turned-volcano, tipped back a few mai tais, and feasted like royalty. Through the relaxed joyfulness of it all, I was reminded of the utter power of friendship to lift you out of the dumps.

Still, I knew that I needed to be outside on New Year’s Day, even if its eve had been salvaged. If the power of friendship rings strong in my life, so, too, does the power of the outdoors. For me, being outside is as essential as food and water, as necessary as love. In fact, it is love.

***

I woke early to watch the sunrise from a ridgeline below the impressive and somewhat chaotic crowds gathered to do the same at the Griffith Park Observatory. I sat down and hugged my knees to my chest against the brisk air. Tucked between a few bushes, I was beautifully alone. I watched the city yawn and stretch and come alive, first in muted pastels, then with more vibrant colors. I, too, felt alive – awash in optimism about the day, the year, my life.

Shedding any residual disappointment over the dissolution of best laid plans, I drove to my friend Pamela’s house and we rode together into the San Gabriel Mountains. Everything else dropped away as we climbed through the chaparral foothills into the pine-studded high country, the sky a stunning blue above the clouds. We made our way up the southeast ridge of Winston Peak, punching through fresh snow, pulsating with happiness. Near the summit, we laid out a tarp, drank apple cider, shared snacks, and let flow a cavalcade of thank-yous:

“Thank you for inviting me out today!”
“Thank you for coming with me!”
“Thank you for everything!”

Sometimes nowhere does gratitude flow so strong as it does in the mountains with good people.

We strapped on our snowshoes for the descent, and prolonged our return by exploring the slopes, taking photos, and enjoying the views all around – from Mount Waterman to the south to the Mojave Desert and distant Tehachapi Mountains to the northwest. It was perfect. While I might not have celebrated the new year in a tent as hoped, I still did so surrounded by beauty, buoyed by the fresh-aired optimism of a day in the mountains, my soul alive with love for what has been and what is to come.