Mesa Arch, Canyonlands

I hadn't realized when planning this trip that this would become a major goal for me, and a major accomplishment. It wasn't until I had the official park map in hand that I realized it even existed, much less what I'd do to accomplish my goal.

Now that the trip is mostly over, photo wise, I can look back on this and say definitely that this was the most hard fought photo(s) taken - 'cause I never do just one, right? - and one of the very top favorites from the trip.

We'd tried to get there the day before. Somebody forgot to mention that this spot fills up early in the day, to the point where even the illegal parking spots are overcrowded. You can only travel very slowly, hopefully, through the parking lot in the chance somebody, somewhere, will be pulling out just ahead of your car, before somebody else can grab it. But no go.

At the motel that evening, I told Steve I wanted to head out really early and give it a go. By then I knew enough to not fight for space with the sunrise photographers. It should be just as crowded then as the afternoon before. I aimed for leaving the motel at sunrise, knowing the drive would kill enough time to drive them away because "the light was over." 

Laugh's on them. It was far from over. That renowned glow in the underside of the arch was still very much there. So were vacant parking spaces. 

Steve and I had agreed that he would sleep in, I'd go by myself, and he'd pack up enough of our stuff sprawled all over the room after four nights that upon my return I could pack up what remained and load the car before our 11:00 AM checkout time. I figured I'd also have time to swing by Arches one last time and get his National Parks Passport stamped, proof he'd been there. By the time we were there when somebody was there to stamp it on previous visits, he was in enough pain that a passport was the last thing on his mind, languishing in the glove box, so I offered. Plans made, off I went.

I'd settled on this hike because it was one of the shortest in the park, "only" a half mile round trip. I do double that in the pool in an hour. I'm not arguing with their distances. I simply set out naive enough to think it might be flat, paved, maybe even equipped with handrails on occasion. Not so. Parts of it were flat, like the first 45 feet. Then it rose, marked by occasional squared timbers designating "steps." The rest was slanted, rocks with uneven surfaces bordered on both sides by chunks of dead junipers suggesting the path ahead. Between and even over those rocks was a consistent scattering of silt, full of the footprints of everybody else's hiking boot treads. 

Oh! Hiking boots! How was it I forgot to pack those? Oh yeah, no room left in the car with everything else. At least I had pretty decent Nikes... 3 years old. Or was it 5?

The tread patterns were usually helpful in showing the path most traveled, except for all those times we humans picked out our own paths in 7 different directions from the last step. I knew the general direction, of course, and there were enough people coming back from their mesa view that I figured I couldn't actually get lost. But the safest trip there? Hmmmm......

I stood at one such spot for over a minute, debating just the single next step. Which was the safest? Just one step. Please, a clue somebody. Down is somehow always the hardest. Here I am with no walking stick and my old bones and imperfect balance, just wanting to get there, see it and shoot it and get back to Steve safely. Luckily a friendly couple in their 30s paused nearby, and he offered me his hand if I wanted it. Boy, did I want it! I gratefully accepted, and the steady lead did the trick. Twice on the downhill leg. I thanked them gratefully, made it to the spots I picked for my pictures, and turned around for the trek back.

Uh... path? I know it was sorta this way. Did I really come over that? Oh wait, they put rock cairns in a twisting pattern at the bottom of the hike, and they pointed the way. Uphill. To somewhere. Somehow the trek back was easier in terms of footing. Maybe it was confidence, maybe just not so far visually to the landing spot should I fall.

On the other hand, it was uphill. At altitude I wasn't used to. A quarter mile back. Now those dead juniper trunks started becoming more than photogenic decorations and path hints. Evey hundred yards or so were trunks of width, height, and strength enough that they became convenient benches to rest on, catching my breath. I spend some of the time joking with passers-by that I was doing a strength test. Holding them in place from the (nonexistent) wind. Doing dead tree counts. Sometimes it was just loving what t-shirts said. Sharing a smile. Offering a smile and encouragement that the view was worth it.

As I finally descended the last bit, parking lot in view and still with empty spots, I met a young woman waiting for an elderly (relative?) making her snail-slow pace uphill with two walking sticks. Oh-oh, I certainly hope they could make it. Did they have no clue what lay ahead?  Was this a bucket list event? Bucket included? I chose instead of sowing doubt to point uphill a short ways where the silt between rocks was full of tiny, very clear animal tracks. If nothing else,  it would be something nobody else seemed to notice, as well as a reason to pause again.

After a water and gorp break back at the car, I headed back to the motel, surprised at how long I'd been gone. I would have called Steve to let him know I was fine and on my way back, but the phone was... oh yeah, in the motel. Almost never a chance to use it on the trip so far, so left forgotten, uncharged, ready to pack. Reaching Arches, I was surprised at the long lines to check in. Another 20 minutes gone in the morning. Then the stop at the visitor center for the passport stamp (masks still required for another day in National Parks), and finally back tot he motel. 

We managed to pack up and check out at ... 11:02. No complaints at the extra 2 minutes forthcoming.

Whew! Mission accomplished.