Epic Trip Out West, Day Twenty-Five: A Battle of Wills

I’ve been away from St. Louis for three and a half weeks now, and at every turn, I see my picture of “out west” in a more dramatic manner. Today, the M’s took me on a road trip to see some of southern Wyoming’s landscape, and from the moment we left the familiar sight of white-siding-covered suburban homes, I found myself in an alien world.

Wyoming so far had struck me as huge piles of gray sand dotted with scrub and scoured with horizontal lines, but the scenery took on a life of its own as the van zipped out onto a highway surrounded by mountains and plateaus. “Vast” doesn’t even begin to describe the millions of acres of open range that spread out on either side of the road, ruled by cattle, deer, antelope, and a few cowboy souls brave enough to face the land and themselves under an omnipotent sky. The landscape rose and fell dramatically, marked with rock formations that resembled sand carved by a stream, or tremendous brick walls, or ancient statues corroded away by the wind. Bluish-gray scrub and olive-colored juniper trees, twisted and tough and squat, gripped the cliffs, bracing against the wind.

We paused at the edge of the Flaming Gorge Lake, bathed in sunlight that made the waters sparkle brilliant blue, as if it was the only colorful piece of landscape when the rest of the world was seen through a sepia filter. The lake trails its way down into Utah, branching off like a river, bringing life to a valley below the “high desert,” where the deer and the antelope play.

Leaving the lake behind for the moment, we climbed higher into the mountains. Hills of snow were piled up along the roads, and a misty group of clouds hovered around us, dipping down into the valleys, shrouding the distant mountains so they appeared in soft focus. We wound through miles upon miles of road with no sign of civilization other than the curving asphalt in front of us, past herds of white-tailed deer and between rugged cliffs.

I’m used to a certain kind of earth, covered in soil and clothed with forest and cornfield, where rivers flow freely and the sky and wind take little notice of what is happening below. Out here, the earth’s bones show through, jutting out of the silt like a skeleton raised to life. The sparseness is unnerving, and the sky hovers uneasily over the open ground, its clouds mirroring the jagged rocks beneath it. The wind is merciless, scouring down the stone with each passing year in a constant battle of wills, and the water is furtive, sneaking along in rills and creeks that carve the Grand Canyon before the rocks know what’s happened.

Our final destination was a lookout over the Flaming Gorge Reservoir, just past the Utah border, and I sat back in my seat and just breathed in the West— fir-covered mountains washed in snow, open pine forests with floors of tumbled rock, marmots and white-tailed deer picking their ways between the trees, moss and multicolored lichen and tough scrub bushes scraping out a living among the stones, and a vast canyon, bright red-pink even with an overcast sky, plunging down to a blue swatch of water, rich as molten metal.

On the way home, we got caught in a snowstorm that drove huge icy flakes against the windshield, wiping blank all the landscape around us. I gazed out the window, watching the snowflakes swarm by, and stared into a world of white. The snow, feeling inadequate, had decided to give the ground a good beating to remind it of its power.

I’m lost in this world of west, in a place where land and sky and wind and water are in constant tension, a place where if you look up too long, you’ll find that the sky has swallowed you up and you simply don’t exist anymore.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent today: $0

Leeway so far: $186.05

Epic Trip Out West, Day Twenty-Four: a Child's World

The past couple days have been a whirlwind, switching from a culture of Latter-Day Saints to Irish Catholics. I am currently sprawled on my bed in the M’s house in Wyoming, on a blanket decorated with a detail from The Book of Kells, worn out.

The M’s have three children, aged five and a half, two, and nine months. That’s another change to get used to, a chance to brush up on my mothering skills while learning to see the world through the eyes of a child. Everything is written in bolder colors at that age: not getting your favorite soda is the end of the world, and chicken nuggets are equal to heaven. Minutes are hours, hours are milennia, and tomorrow is so impossibly far away, it’s not even worth thinking about. Mom and Dad know everything, but they are so awfully confusing and keep you from doing perfectly logical things, such as running out the door with mismatched shoes or hitting your little brother on the head with a Dr. Seuss book. There are tears, many tears— but anyone who’s seen a baby smile has seen the face of God.

Oh, another thing. Children have lots of energy. Thus, I am going to bed now.

~Lisa Shafter

Budget notes: Four awesome women from the L’s church drove me to Salt Lake City so I could meet the M’s there, and they gave me $26 in spending money! I’ve already spent $6 on frozen yogurt (I’m addicted to the stuff now), and saving the $20 for later. Also, I spent three dollars to attend a workshop about whole-food cooking.

Money spent in the past three days: $3

Leeway so far: $176.05

Epic Trip Out West, Day Twenty-One: Breathing Room

I’ve spent the past couple days working on my online job, in between tutoring Aaron and helping out with dishes. Other than managing to break my camera (not beyond repair, I hope) and taking walks to admire the mountains, I haven’t done a whole lot. That’s all right, though— I learned a long time ago that “being touristy” is only fun in short spurts. It’s good to take a few days to recoup, to be normal, and to take some deep breaths before going out exploring again. Thanks to wonderful families like the L’s, I have the luxury of doing that.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent today: $0

Leeway so far: $149.05

Epic Trip Out West, Day Nineteen: Finding Home

Many of my friends and family have called me brave for traveling solo. Most of the time, I don’t feel that brave. Getting lost in an unfamiliar place isn’t a big deal when you’ve got all day to find your path again. Talking to a friendly stranger on a bus is easier than striking up a conversation with someone you already know, and every kind person who discovers that you’re traveling by yourself automatically wants to take you under their wing. 

On the other hand, I think my friends and family are right that traveling solo is brave. But the external difficulties don’t require as much courage as the simple fact that when I travel solo, the only human around who truly knows me is myself. For someone who’s grown up in a family who can practically predict my every thought, that’s a tough situation. When my family, my surroundings, and everybody’s expectations are stripped away, actions become of infinite importance. My family knows that if I getting extremely angry it means I need to lay off the sugar, but to the person I meet on the road, I’m simply an angry person. My family knows that I’m as lazy and griping as the next person, but to the host who sees me industriously washing dishes, I’m the picture of selfless servitude. I often feel that people on the road understand me, but there’s never enough time to build a relationship that allows me to completely unwind into the tangled mess of emotional threads and wires and gears that I am. In other words, on the road I meet a lot of friends, but I don’t find a family. 

Today was the first time I spent a major holiday away from my parents and siblings, and although we don’t have any cherished Easter traditions, I still felt the separation more keenly today. A brief cell phone conversation was all I got, because they were taking a walk and I was getting ready for my crash-course in gluten- and dairy-free cooking for Easter dinner (the meal turned out deliciously, without any disasters whatsoever, to my shock). For some reason, on a holiday the distance between family and friends seems greater than usual. In simple words, I get homesick.

“Home” ceased to be a physical place in 2007, when we had to move from the house which had served as a playground, schoolhouse, catalyst and haven for sixteen years. I picked up my personal space and carried it with me, but I didn’t set it down at the new house— I had a room that I slept in, but it wasn’t “my bedroom.” From then on out, I’ve been carrying around my space with me wherever I go. When I walk with God and my thoughts, that’s my space. When I close my eyes and listen to my iPod, that’s my space. It’s not home, but it’s a place like home, a moment that I can hold onto in any unfamiliar place. For me, that’s the key to sanity in solo travel.

Money spent yesterday (supplies for Easter dinner): $11.17

Leeway so far: $129.05

Epic Trip Out West, Day Seventeen: In the Woods

Today, a kind woman from the L.’s church offered to take me up a winding mountain road. I got the chance to listen to a rushing mountain stream, and feel the sunlight through the mosaic of leafless trees. I am often most at home in the woods, with birdsong and streamwhisper to keep me company. 

~Lisa Shafter

Day Sixteen: Hike to the Cross

The final three days leading up to Easter are always a time of reflection and sober thoughts for me, as Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Saturday lead up to the most joyous day the world has ever known. Yesterday, I got the idea in my head that I was going to “hike to the cross,” as they say in these parts. This refers to the Escalante Cross, a 37-foot tall set of steel crossbeams perched on a mountain in honor of two Franciscan monks who were the first white men to glimpse Utah Lake from that spot. I determined I would make this hike tomorrow, no matter what.

I set out today at 1:00, even though I was feeling achy and pekid. A sunburst through the clouds encouraged me, and I stepped out the door, red bag slung on my back, bundled up in a sweater, hoodie, and stocking cap. 

Dark blue storm clouds hovered overhead as I walked, and the sun disappeared. I hiked along the side of the road that has served as my treadmill the past few days, picking my way through mud and around puddles, saying hello to the animals I’ve come to know on my daily walks: the palomino in the round pen, the yellow and the black cows who always give me chewing-cud stares as I walk by, the duns and the bay at the crossroads, the chestnuts in the open pasture with a black goat to keep them company. The grass, bright green in the overcast weather from all the rain, was a sharp contrast to the white-and-black mountains, and I watched with some concern as wisps of cloud began to drift down over their tops, and the southern sky (the direction I was headed) began to deepen to solid gray. 

I glanced up at the clouds above me, an unsettling mix of thunderheads and clouds that couldn’t decide whether or not they were threatening. Then thunder growled in the sky right above my head, its volume echoing across the open fields. The wind fluttered restlessly about me, and in the distance, a cow let out a disconcerted mrrrroon. Two magpies flashed their white wing tips at me as they soared past, headed for cover. In the mountains to the south, lightning flickered, followed closely by thunder as the air grew damp and blustery around me. I was a good mile and a half down the road, so I decided not to turn back, come what may. 

My first turn was an asphalt road lined with poplars whose thin branches thrashed in the wind. That’s when the sky began to spit rain. At least, I thought it was rain until the wind picked up and taught me the true nature of the precipitation by driving ice pellets against my face. With a groan, I put my head down and staggered forward as winds— 60 mph, I later found out— slammed against my body, nearly knocking me off the shoulder of the road. But I looked to my right, to the north, half-blinded by the wind driving into my eyes, and saw sunshine off in the distance. The storm was on its way out, and the wind was ushering in a beautiful day.

The stinging ice-rain continued for another mile or so, but I became so caught up in the tempest-tossed countryside that I didn’t notice when it slacked off. The mountains sloped up from the plain, monochromic against the ruffled green farmland, solid and ominous in the overcast light, beautiful enough to break my heart. Somewhere along the way, I noticed that the storm clouds were receding and the precipitation had stopped, and the sun at my back began drying my damp clothes.

Within an hour and a half, I began climbing the steep winding Spanish Oaks Drive, reminding myself once again that my body does not like inclines. I spent most of my time trying not to gasp for air too hard. At last I reached the trailhead, tucked away in the corner of a park that perched on the edge of a reservoir. I turned to look at the scenery behind me, marveling at the stunning white mountains in the distance, lit by the sun that hadn’t quite reached these ranks of the range.

The trail, at first well-marked, then very confusing, was a mud path that wound between scrub and lichen-covered trees of varying shades of white-gray. Although none of the trees had leaves, delicate yellow wildflowers were strewn among the grass on either side of the trail, and the branches were alive with birdsong.

After a couple wrong turns, I found the path that led me out of the woods to the summit of a foothill, covered in rocks and lichen in a dozen subtle shades of blue, pink, green, and orange. As I crested the ridge, the wind once again nearly blasted me off the hill, but I managed to keep on the trail until I reached the foot of the Escalante Cross.

Whipped on all sides by a frigid wind (it didn’t help that I had been sweating), I stared up at the metal cross looming over me, its crossbeams gently swaying in the thrashing weather. I placed my hands on the icy steel and recited the words of the Last Supper that I have heard almost every week or my life. I didn’t have any bread to break or wine to drink, but I gazed out at the mountains circling the basin, and breathed in the wet air, and thanked God that He had brought me here.

By the time I reached the valley floor, the storm clouds had rushed on past me. I walked home in the sunshine.

~Lisa Shafter

Distance walked today: 14 miles

Money spent today: $0

Leeway so far: $110.22

Day Thirteen: Rainfall

After spending all day inside tutoring the 11-year old L., editing papers, washing dishes and eating copious amounts of hummus and avocado, I looked outside to see the rainclouds clearing and the evening sun pouring through. Clearly it was time for a walk.

I love the earth after a rain, and seeing Utah bathed in wetness is a double pleasure, since the landscape doesn’t know what to do with this strange thing called moisture. The grass, laden with drops, shone vibrant green, a shoulder-cloak for the mountains still spackled in snow. The clouds above whisked and billowed and twined through each other in a silent dance of the sun’s brief appearance before nighttime swathed the world.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent today: $0

Leeway so far: $80.22

Epic Trip Out West, Day Eleven: Antelope Island, Temple Square

Today was a day for tourism, again thanks to Naaman, this time with his sister, Trieste. We piled into his tan car and sailed off for Antelope Island under a sky washed with cumulus clouds. Antelope Island is a nature reserve, a haven for bison, pronghorn deer, and a host of birds. We drove out to the island on a road built on a levy, with stretches of the Great Salt Lake’s water reflecting sky and snowy mountains on either side. 

The Great Salt Lake is the remnant of a prehistoric lake that spanned most of western Utah back in the day. Fed by three mineral-rich rivers (the Jordan, Weber, and Bear), the lake only loses water through evaporation, so the water gets saltier every year. The largest creatures that inhabit its cloudy waters are brine shrimp the size of fingernail clippings. These, coupled with vast amounts of brine flies, draw a host of birds. Avocets, black-and-white wading birds with orange shoulder and upturned bills, feed in the shallows while American coots, duck-like birds with black plumage and white bills, paddle around in the deeper areas. “Deeper” is a relative term— although the Great Salt Lake covers 1,700 square miles, on an average year it barely gets deeper than 30 feet.

The visitor center boasted a dizzying amount of information (Antelope Island contains rocks older than the bottom of the Grand Canyon, apparently), but my favorite part was a clip from a silent film shot on location on the island. Mostly a bloodbath of bison hunting and dramatic scenes of pioneers getting caught in quicksand, it contained such thought-provoking dialogue (written neatly in white Times font) such as “If Brigham Young, the Mormon leader, could get out west with all them wives, then I can sure ‘nough do it with my wagons!” We also visited a working cattle ranch with historical buildings that showed the history of the ranch from the first white settlers in the mid-1800s up until present day.

Our day wasn’t done yet, and we left Antelope Island behind for our next destination, Salt Lake City. The city name is deceptive— I expected it to have a waterfront, but it’s set far away from the lake itself, probably because the size of the lake fluctuates so much from year to year.

After supper at a fast-food restaurant called Greek Slouvaki, we headed to Temple Square. The LDS temple is a huge white stone building, a mix of castle and cathedral-like architecture that focuses more on geometrical beauty than ornate decoration. Loud tourists with cameras and LDS missionaries with name tags bearing the flag patterns of their home countries clip-clopped along the sidewalks beside neatly-planted flower beds. Our tour guides were two young women from Finland and Taiwan, respectively, and I couldn’t pronounce either of their names. They led us up a spiraling ramp inside the visitors’ center to a room painted floor to sloping ceiling with breathtaking murals of a night sky wreathed with clouds, planets and stars. In the middle of the room, sharp white against the backdrop, stood a twelve-foot marble statue of Jesus, his arms spread wide, his face, Arian and Roman-nosed, gazing down at a row of benches where tourists and pilgrims alike sat in contemplation.

By this time the sisters, as everyone called them, had discovered that I was Protestant (I usually just refer to myself as “Christian,” but so do the people of LDS), so they focused on sharing their testimonies with me. I always answered as neutrally as possible. We marveled at the acoustics of the tabernacle (you could clearly hear a pin drop from a hundred feet away) and I took pictures of the organ that boasted over 11,000 pipes. In the south visitors center, a to-scale model of the temple gave me an outsider’s view into its hotel-like furnishings, and my cultural sensitivity went out the window when I asked Trieste, “Why are there cows in the basement?” (The oxen around the baptismal fount represent the Twelve Tribes of Israel.)

After a tour of the LDS conference center, we wandered out into the nighttime air and back to Temple Square. We looked up at the temple, flooded with lights. A hazy moon, nearly full, hovered beside the white edifice. I’ve never seen the man in the moon: she has always been a woman to me, her eyes dark and shadowed, her mouth open in a wail of horror. The temple was silent, and around us, Salt Lake City dwindled to shadows, with nothing but the soft rush of cars of the murmur of tourists, settling in for the night like birds.

~Lisa Shafter 

Money spent today: $10.12

Leeway so far: $60.22

Epic Trip Out West, Day Ten: Transcendence

Melanie has been determined, since my arrival, that I should get the chance to hang out with my peers, rather than just the L. family, and she took action today by calling up a young man from their church, named Naaman. I had met him briefly last Sunday, but knew nothing except that he was artistic and quiet. Melanie called him to ask if he’d be willing to take me to a few sights, and within half an hour he called back with a whole list of things he thought I might like. “Art museums” was one of the options, and I jumped at the chance.

About three hours later, he dropped by the house and we were off to visit Springville’s and Brigham Young University’s art museums. There are few things more delightful than walking through a museum with an artist, and when we had paintings to discuss I found that he was a great conversationalist. We discussed the lighting, the color, the poignancy, the detail of each piece. We debated the merits (or lack thereof, I said) of minimalism, he gave me an interesting lecture on various kinds of etching and printing techniques, and when he used terms like en plein air, I actually knew what he was talking about.

BYU was hosting a gallery of Carl Bloch paintings from the 1800s, and Naaman and I got in immediately with free standby tickets. Bloch’s work echoed everything I love about fine art: classic composition, deep emotion, mind-blowing attention to detail, marvelous expressions, and a dramatic use of light inspired by Rembrandt and the other Dutch reformists. His depiction of Christ in Gethsemane, huge and vivid in color, left me standing in awe for a good half hour. I could admire the textures, the folds of the robes, the way he painted the skin— but mostly, I felt that I had walked into an intimate moment in the life of my Savior, and was blessed to witness this moment, wrought in paint to preach the gospel for as long as the canvas held out.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent today: $9.02 (supper at The Malt Shop after hanging out in the museums for four hours)

Leeway so far: $60.34

Epic Trip Out West, Days Eight and Nine: Old and Strong

Mr. L. senior, who hosted us during our stay in rural Utah, is 89, shuffling along on lean legs, his dark eyes framed with labyrinths of kindly wrinkles. On the 13th we helped him out with some gardening around the house, including some digging up of worn lawn to be replaced with a rock garden. A wild mountain wind thrashed about, driving the loose dirt into every crevice of my face. I worked with Mr. L, junior and senior, scooping up shovelfuls of earth and tossing them to the side. My body still ached from the Angels Landing climb the day before, but it felt good to work with dirt and throw it around. None worked harder than Mr. L. senior: he lifted the earth with steady rhythm and more endurance than most people half his age could boast.

Because of several complications, obligations, and a snowfall that essentially shut down Bryce Canyon, we headed home a day early, on the 14th. Before we left, I played the piano a bit for Mr. L. senior, and he sat in a black folding chair beside my bench and watched me play improv, and Les Mis songs, and old hymns out of a fakebook. I told Mr. L. senior that if I ever got to be his age, I wanted to be like him. He gave me a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek when we left, then sat on the porch steps he had built himself decades ago and waved at our departing van until we were out of sight.

I blinked back tears for a good twenty minutes afterward. To see someone so old and so strong broke my heart in its bittersweet beauty. I doubt I’ll see him again in this life, but I pray that we meet again in the next.

~Lisa Shafter

Epic Trip Out West, Day Seven: Angels Landing

I have a vivid memory from my childhood— I remember in height, not years, and I was about up to my Mom’s waist at the time. My family and I were hiking on a paved trail through the Smoky Mountains with a face of limestone rising on our left. As the family walked forward I lagged a bit, balancing on the ridge where the pavement met the cliff. I began to imagine that the ridge was all I could walk on, and that the paved trail was a massive drop-off. As was my habit then (and still is now), I began to narrate what I was doing. “She edged along the cliff, feeling for handholds in the crevices of the rock between the moss and ferns.” My fingers searched the porous limestone that was wet with dew and the misty mountain air, the mossy smell filling my nose. I closed my eyes and imagined falling to my death…

Today I opened my eyes, and once again felt adrenaline race through me as I tried in vain to steady my breath. My left hand clutched a chain, shining silver in the bright sun, as I crouched, dry mouth panting, sweat pooling on my upper lip. Gritty sandstone felt treacherous beneath my feet, and less than a yard to my right was a ledge. I told myself that I shouldn’t think about the ledge, and yet my mind knew with terrifying certainty that the drop, straight down, was more than four thousand feet.

Zion National Park spread out beneath my trembling self, a scale-defying set of canyons marked with huge pinnacles of rock that neither wind nor water nor countless eons could destroy. The rock sentinels stood silent, remnants of the most massive desert the world had ever known, crushed into sandstone over the millennia and carved by unrelenting waters. Zion’s rock was as living and varied as a forest: stained red with iron, bleached cream with the sun, striped black with trickles of water, and dusted with spatters of gleaming snow. Even now, after exploring the park for three hours, I couldn’t wrap my mind around what I was seeing.

The idea that I should try to climb Angels Landing somehow got planted firmly in my brain, and I determined that I would complete the climb in less than four hours, which was the recommended length according to the park rangers. Two hours earlier, the L’s had let me split off from their group, and I barreled along the flat trail, determined to make it happen.

Within five minutes of the beginning, my ankles betrayed me, throbbing and spazzing like they never had before. I limped along the inclining trail, Lisa-swearing under my breath (“Oh, butterscotch! Split fricatives! Chaconne!”) and wondering if I’d have to turn back before the first mile. I figured that I could walk it off.

The trail began a series of switchbacks, climbing up the first huge rock face on my journey. My ankles began to feel a little better, but now I had two other enemies. The first was altitude— or at least, I hope it was the altitude that caused me to gasp and stagger as I toiled up the switchbacks. The second was a fear that did not bode well for the rest of my journey. As I cleared the first switchback and looked down the thirty-foot cliff to the path below, I felt my stomach flip.

Wait— I was afraid of heights? I mean, I knew I got dizzy on escalators and when I leaned over stairwells, but I had never had problems in the Smoky Mountains, or rock-climbing in Peremarquette State Park. It had never occurred to me that I had a fear of natural heights. Great, I thought. Just what I need.

I pressed on anyway. The path leveled out and delved through a narrow canyon of red rock, pockmarked with curvaceous cave formations and shaded by pines. Then a tighter, steeper set of switchbacks began, and I alternately plowed up them, swinging my arms like an Olympic speed skater, and stood in the shadow of the rock, gasping like a drowning man. At last I reached an summit, circled by open space and soaring canyon walls, and ahead of me I saw the rock rise to a point, topped with a lone pine tree. That’s Angels Rock, I thought. I’m almost there.

With this thought, I started forward across the wide rocky plateau. The landscape fell away on both sides, with barely six feet to spare on either side of me. My legs began to tremble, but I pressed on anyway. 

Then came the first line of chains, which ran along the inner side of the rock, leaving the hikers to walk on the outer side, with about three feet of sloped footing on the other side. To get to the first chains, I had to walk across a steeply-sloping cliff that emptied off into a drop that made me shudder. I scrambled across the gritty sandstone, my gripless tennis shoes scrabbling to find solid footing. I crawled to the nearest boulder and sat on it, clutching the stone, my heart racing. I seriously considered giving up.

For five minutes I sat there, afraid to go on. Every hiker who returned encouraged me. “If you keep that smile the whole way up,” one guy said, “you’ll be fine!”

At last, I got the guts to try the treacherous chains. I grabbed ahold and scrambled around, resting the bulk of my weight on my sweaty, trembling palms. I fed the chain through my fingers, pulling myself hand over hand. I searched for the next set of chains, and I had to let go of the first to grab the second. I stared at the rock in front of my face, concentrated on the chains, and mumbled to myself, “Gee, it’s fun to climb on these cool rocks in Missouri. You know, it’s good that there’s not a huge drop-off on the other side. You know, a drop-off that could kill me. That would be really scary. Good thing that’s not the case.” In the meantime I scrambled up rocks, ignoring the landscape around me.

Before I knew it, I had reached the summit I saw earlier. I dragged myself out onto solid ground, looking around me with a sense of exhilaration. In front of me, Zion’s canyons stretched out, more beautiful than I could imagine. I had done it! I had conquered my fear and reached Angels Landing! I had…!

…Why was there another set of chains over there?

I walked closer to the edge, looking at the chains leading down from the vantage point. There must be a different way down, or… 

My gaze traced the shimmering line of chains. They dipped down briefly, then ran along an impossibly narrow ridge, then rose up to a sentinel of rock twice the height of the one on which I stood.

My heart quailed. My knees quaked. My stomach did a few somersaults. But I knew I wasn’t turning back now.

Thus began the actual climb to Angels Landing, a journey that took me across a ridge so narrow that one misstep would send me hurtling into oblivion, up a slope with ledges spaced so far apart that I practically had to rappel to move upward, over slabs of sandstone with huge drop-offs on either side and no chains in sight, through step-like boulders where the trail’s path wasn’t always apparent, and finally up a steep incline with a chain to the outside, rather than the inside, for the first time in my climb. I was concentrating so hard on finding handholds, on carefully testing each footstep, and on staring at the rock in front of my face, that I almost forgot to look up.

I was there. After nearly an hour of inching along the sandstone and fighting constant terror, I had reached the summit of the mountain that the first white explorers thought could only be reached by angels. I collapsed on the white sandstone beside a scrubby pine and a sweet couple from Tennessee. For a while, I couldn’t look at the scenery or revel in my achievement. I just laid back on the solid stone and calmly hyperventilated.

The view was amazing, of course: stone sentinels speckled with snow marching away on either side, blue mountains in the distance, a verdant valley spread out beneath, and a cloud-ruffled sky breezing by overhead. Angels Landing, however, wasn’t as much about the view as it was the accomplishment itself. The Tennessee couple took my picture with a huge grin on my face, arms spread wide. I had conquered the summit, and it hadn’t killed me.

I realized that I had to get back down eventually, but for a long while I just perched on top of the world and breathed the sweet mountain air. For the first time in my life I had done something truly dangerous, and I was still alive.

~Lisa Shafter

Blogging Hiatus

Dear blog readers,

Today I'm leaving for rural Utah with the L's, and will most likely not have any Internet access until Friday. So expect no blogs for a week, then a ton all in a row. Stay tuned...

~Lisa Shafter

Epic Trip Out West, Days Fives and Six: Chilling

The past couple days have been spent with the family who agreed to put me up in exchange for some work. So far I’ve washed dishes, help prepare food for a party, eat half the food I was supposed to be arranging on platters, and getting to know warm parents, a fine young lady, and the two awesome boys who comprise the L. family. 

This morning, even though I’m Protestant, I attended an LDS church along with the L’s. I was surprised to see that I knew half the songs in the hymnal and to find the service format somewhat familiar. Before today, I didn’t understand why Mormons consider themselves Christians. But after seeing the people invoke the name of Jesus to thank Him for his atoning death, and praise God the Father and be moved by the Spirit, I began to understand them on a deeper level. Here are people with a deep faith, and far too often all people think of to say is, “They have a lotta wives, right?”

Today was another remind to get off my butt and out of my comfort zone. I’m always surprised at what I can learn.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent: $0

Leeway: $29.36

Day Four: What Could Be Better Than Missing the Bus?

When I missed the last express bus out of Salt Lake City by exactly one minute (I waved a sad goodbye to its tail lights two blocks away), I made use of McDonald’s wi-fi to figure out Utah’s confusing and not-very-well-marked public transportation system. I had flown into SLC an hour or so previously and had managed to catch a bus out of the airport and into downtown. Perhaps if I had spent more time checking my route and less time gaping at the undulating mountains painted in dusty snow, I wouldn’t have missed the express bus.

I bought a burger at Mickey D’s for a dollar (a kind stranger added two cents to my cause) and pulled out my laptop. Perhaps if I had spent more time exploring transportation options and less time stuffing my face full of preservative-packed meat-something, I wouldn’t have missed the light rail by one minute (I waved goodbye to it from, once again, two blocks away). Night was hovering in the clouds above the mountains, and the family I was slotted to meet in Provo at 7:45 was in for a sad surprise.

All I can say is, thank God for cell phones. I was able to let Melanie (the mom) know I’d be late, and I was able to get ahold of my oldest brother and the use of his iPhone. I hopped the next southbound light rail and decided to figure it out from there.

It turned out all right: I barely caught the 811 from the light rail station, and plopped down in a seat, panting and a little wet from the snow that spat down on me in my mad dash between the train and the bus. A guy sitting next to me— curly-haired, open-faced, and a sweet crooked smile— struck up a conversation, and I shared where I had been and where I was going, and he did the same. Dustin was his name. We exited the bus together and tromped through the swirling snow beneath wet-shining lamplights, and lo and behold, Melanie was waiting for me in a white van. I hugged Dustin goodbye and dashed into the van and the comfort of heat, warm smiles, and no more public transportation logistics.

Epic Trip Out West, Phase Two. Welcome to Utah.

~Lisa Shafter

Money spent today: $18.50 (express bus, regular bus, light rail and hamburger)

Leeway so far: $9.36

Epic Trip Out West, Day Three: Rocky Foothills

Today, I walked three miles to reach the edge of the William F. Hayden Green Mountain Park, and then spent the next couple hours trekking around the ridges of the Rocky Mountains’ foothills, on trails paved with dirt and round stones amid dry grass and scrub brush. The warble of meadowlarks, the scrape of the rocks on my shoes, my panting breath, and God kept me company. A warm sun and a dramatic sky of cumulus drifted above bastion upon bastion of mountains that jutted up from the plane, jagged and blue with snow-drifted peaks peering over their shoulders. I wept, I laughed, I spun around, and between heaving breaths from my out-of-shape lungs, I yelled, “I’m in Colorado! Hiking! I’m hiking in Colorado!” 

The full weight of the Rocky Mountains’ presence is still seeping into my soul, so for now I leave you with the words that I repeated out loud to myself as I wandered the massive hills and gazed out at mountains so young, so stark, so full of a wonder that nothing short of the Word Himself could fully describe them.

The Road goes ever on and on

Over rock and under tree

By caves where sun has never shone

By streams that never find the sea

Over snow by winter sown

And through the merry flowers of June

Over grass and over stone

And under mountains in the moon.

More later, when I can conjure the words.

Money spent today: $2.54 (On frozen yogurt. I have decided another coconut-flavored thing to love.)

Leeway so far: $17.86

~Lisa Shafter

Epic Trip Out West, Day Two: Downtown Denver

This morning, I visited Red Rocks with my cousin and fell hopelessly in love, and decided that tomorrow, instead of touring Denver as planned, I would return to the mountains and wander around with the elk. My cousin, however, suggested that I go ahead and see Denver tonight instead of tomorrow. It seemed like a good idea, so around 3:00 I set out for the mile-long trek to the bus stop (I could have found a closer bus and transfered, but who wants to wait all that time?). Thus began my journey into Denver.

I hopped off the bus at Market and 12th, then soaked up the atmosphere. It seemed delightfully average: a varied skyline of skyscrapers and older architecture, roads filled equally with cars, trucks, and buses, Famous Footwears and Subways and Forever 21s bundled neatly together between the offices, and a perfect mix of races from all walks of life. A hundred smells wafted over me— cherry blossoms, Starbuck’s coffee, lily perfume, orange soda, Old Spice cologne— and as I walked by a McDonald’s, a classical string piece livened up the air.

A free bus runs along the 16th Street Market, where I walked initially, but I never got on it because I was too busy walking and taking in the sounds and sights. I tried to avoid the canvassers, I turned down a woman asking for change, and I strolled along in a happy little haze, wandering from the Market past the gold-domed capitol and beside the sleek modern sculptures outside the Art Museum.

From the greenway that ran along Cherry Creek, huddled in a channel away from the noise of the freeway, to Riverfront Park, a huge open green space, Denver feels airy and full of life. They appreciate simple beauty: even their construction fencing was adorned with crocheted flowers twining through the chain link.

I managed to find a place to eat for $4.07— “Good Times Burgers and Frozen Custard.” I sampled both, licking the cheesecake chunks off my custard while watching the neon lights appear in the street outside. The radio blared “It’s gonna be all right, gonna be all right, gonna be all right, all right…”

Then came the usual Lisa-can’t-find-her-bus-stop part of my trip. Something you should know about me: I’m stubborn, and once I put my mind to something, I’m too proud to back out. For instance, I felt that looking up the bus stop on the convenient wi-fi that Good Times offered would be “cheating.” This was a bad idea, I think. At least, it caused me to get lost for over an hour, wandering all over Auroria Campus in search of the bus stop I needed to get to. Night fell and Denver sparkled with blue and yellow lights, but I didn’t feel unsafe. It’s a solid city, a nice city. The kind of city you’d want to invite over to have tea with you, or go out for a sandwich sometime. I can see why the locals like it.

In short, I found the bus stop after much walking and doubling back (I learned not to follow my gut— it led me in circles), and I made it back to the campus apartment in one piece: tired and peacefully happy.

Tomorrow: hiking in the Rockies!

Money spent today: $9.60

Leeway so far: $10.40

~Lisa Shafter

Epic Trip Out West: Day One

Something I’ve learned in my time of unconventional life choices: whenever you do something crazy, you need at least one naysayer to spur you on. People fear things they don’t understand, such as hostels, Greyhound buses, and the idea of a young woman traveling by herself. My well-wishing friends assure me that mugging, kidnapping, murder and rape lie in wait just around the corner of every trip, and perhaps if I watched the news, I’d become paranoid as well. But in the meantime I don’t stare at the reel of horror zapping across the boob tube, and instead I travel. I meet people, I meet places, I learn about the world and about myself. And I take a little piece of Home with me wherever I go, to share with the souls I encounter and remind myself who I am.

When I announced to the general populace that I was taking an Epic Trip Out West (from St. Louis) on $10 a day, everybody seemed to think I was perfectly capable of it. Lo and behold, I have developed a reputation as a “world traveler,” which is ironic, since I’ve never been out of the United States. At first, I felt accepted and happy. Soon, though, I got nervous. Where was the opposition? Where was the person telling me that I would end up dead on the side of the road or sold into the sex trade if I ventured out alone? I thrive under loving support, but much more nervously than if one or two key people are telling me I can’t do it.

At last, two days before I left, someone asked me, “Why are you going out west? I thought you were broke.”

“I am,” I said. “Sort of. I had just enough money for the plane ticket.”

“Yes, and then what?” she asked, her forehead knit with concern. “Will you have any money once you get out there?”

I shrugged. “Not really. Not much.”

She gave me the Face: a familiar expression that seems at first to say, “You’re crazy,” but really means, “I don’t understand.” All she said was, “Not the wisest decision of your life.”

I shrugged again, and relief flooded my thoughts. Going out west when taxes just knocked my bank account to its knees, taking a two-month trip at a time when stability at home is far from guaranteed— was it a wise decision? Maybe not! Maybe it wasn’t! But I knew, and I still know, that it was the right one.

I flew out to Denver with my challenge firmly in my mind: ten dollars a day. I decided to bite the bullet on the plane tickets to get me from St. Louis to Denver, then Denver to Salt Lake City. Those (and rent back home and health insurance) are the only expenses that won’t count. Everything else, I have to get by on $10 a day. Less, if I can help it.

Today, aside from my plane ticket and thanks to the generosity of my cousin, I have managed to spend exactly $0. Welcome to day one, dear reader. Welcome to my journey.

~Lisa Shafter