The Woman in the Canyon: Scene 1

Acclimation

Welcome to draft content that will feed into my next book, The Woman in the Canyon: A Journey of 100 Trails to Uncover the Secret of Resilience.

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Acclimation

I stood at the rim, breathless—not from the view, but from the lack of oxygen that intensified my struggle to climb to my perch on the Rim Trail. The colors of Bryce Canyon were magnificent—red, orange, gold and white hues glowing under that blue Utah sky. The hoodoos stood below, and I wondered what messages they might hold as I headed toward Navajo Trail. At an elevation of about 8,000 feet above sea level, perhaps I had been too optimistic in selecting this trail, designated as “hard.” I hadn't fully acclimated to the elevation, and no amount of electrolyte-infused water could give me the energy needed for those steep upward climbs.

Nature has always been my sanctuary. As I headed down the trail, carefully navigating patches of ice and mud, I wondered what magic was in store for me. This was the first trail of what I hoped would be a 100-trail journey. While the trails always tested me physically, they were just as integral to my mental and emotional health. On these paths, I found strangers who turned into friends, oddities and surprises that captured my imagination, and the quiet sounds of birds and breezes drifting in the air like a melody.

On this Easter Sunday afternoon, I prepped for the crowds that were sure to be peering over the rim. But as I hiked toward the Peak-a-boo Loop Trail, I was pleasantly surprised by the small number of hikers I encountered. English was the secondary language on the trails, and I tried my hand at recognizing a variety of languages—Mandarin, Danish, Spanish, French, German. While I was at an American national park, it was a microcosm of the larger world. Given the American hostilities shown to our traditional allies, I was thankful that so many foreigners were visiting, and wondered how that might change as summer approached.

As I descended further into the canyon, the weight of the world felt heavier. It was hard not to think about the nation on top of that rim—an America where cruelty and disregard for the rule of law had become the new normal. I had chosen this path, this peaceful existence, to escape the noise. But could I really escape? The world outside was changing, and I was just one person trying to make sense of it. What kind of world did I want to live in, and how did this place, this job, this experience, fit into the bigger picture?

The challenge of hiking into the canyon is that you have to hike back out. That last half-mile nearly wiped me out. It was a series of switchbacks up a steep portion of the canyon that led to Sunset Point. I stopped frequently, hands on hips, thankful that I was not on a time schedule. I would make my way up to the top, on my own time.

Once on board the shuttle, I listened to the driver provide information to guests. I cringed at a factual error, and as I was the last to exit at the shuttle parking lot, I kindly pointed out that the pronghorn was NOT an antelope. The truth is much more interesting, as the pronghorn, while mistaken as an antelope, is native to North America and its own species. Its closest relative? The giraffe. It's a case in which the facts are more interesting than fiction.

The bus driver's response? “They don't know the difference.”

But I knew the difference. And maybe this was a reflection of the larger society. The masses are given information, whether factual or not, for the ultimate purpose of feeding a narrative aligned with the purposes of those in power. Sure, it was one little factoid. Insignificant on the face of it. But it was the driver's response, the nonchalant adoption and spread of false information, that epitomized too much of the political environment in which we live. A nation where climate change, diversity, equity, and inclusion have been banned from political discourse. Antelope. Pronghorn. Giraffe. What does it matter, right?

From the shuttle parking lot, I walked to the employee campground—large swaths of gravel interrupted by small patches of green lawn, a young Western Ponderosa Pine tree at the front of each site. It wasn't idyllic, but it was functional and practical. I had made a choice to accept low-wage work in trade for a spot to park my RV. But I was struggling. I deserved more. Hell, we all deserved more.

As ATV Guides, we counted on customer tips to help us fuel our vehicles and buy groceries at the store. And I couldn't help but think of that classic struggle between time and money. I was tossed back into the world of survival, that dependence on a meager paycheck to simply pay rent, insurance, and food. In many ways, I was humbled. I was just another human being working hard to make a living. Yet, why does “making a living” have to be so difficult in our consumer-driven society? I was seeing capitalism at its worst—the use of low-wage workers to line corporate pockets.

The physical exhaustion from my hike was nothing compared to the mental fatigue I felt those first days on the job. Just twenty hours after arriving, I was trying to absorb everything about being an ATV guide—navigating the route, presenting information to riders, managing bike rentals, figuring out the booking system, meeting new people every hour. It was trial by fire. The air here might be thin, but the expectations were heavy.

And I began to think about the process of acclimating. We are struck with new conditions, and if we don't acclimate, adapt, change, we'll only fall further behind. I had no choice but to give my body time to acclimate to the high elevation. But my work environment? Acclimation was already beginning to look different. I did have choices. To what degree did I want to acclimate?

Sure, my work schedule was dictated by someone else, and I was obliged to work as scheduled. Plus, I wanted to be a reliable and trustworthy co-worker and a friendly guide. I would do the job, and I would do it well. But I felt the emotion of resentment sneak into my pores. Resentment at the loss of my own independence, the flexibility I had enjoyed as an entrepreneur.

Acclimating to this new life wasn't just about learning the mechanics of guiding tourists or figuring out the company's operations. It was about adjusting to something deeper—who I was becoming in this new role. On the job, I didn't have time to consider the world outside, and politics had no place in the workplace. “Maybe this will ground me,” I thought. Here I was a cog in the machine. And I was alarmed by the emotional toll this job was taking. After less than two weeks on the job, I was already looking for an out.

As I took the passenger seat on ATV tours, learning the ropes, and then driving and guiding on my own, I was buoyed by one fact. I could make the tour my own. Each guide had a different spin on the talk, and our crew chief encouraged us to personalize our own talk. And that became my license to deviate from the script. A script that attributed the founding of the area to a few white European settlers—men. In each case, they were family men, whose spouses and children were their partners in ranching and running a lodge. But the script? It was HIStory. The wives were invisible, nameless. So task one was to recognize the unsung women who were integral to this area.

This small bit of freedom in aligning the script to my own interests and values might just be my saving grace. Instead of placing the local capitalist who built a tourism empire center stage, I introduced the magic of the night skies over Bryce. So I now tell visitors about Bryce Canyon being an International Dark Sky Park; it's a Gold Tier Dark Sky Park, with the highest quality of starry nights. On a clear night, humans can see over 7,500 stars. The Milky Way stretches like a cosmic ribbon. This is the story I share. The magic of Bryce and how it has sparked human imagination for thousands of years.

Acclimation—without capitulation. We have to acclimate to the environment in which we find ourselves. But we can choose how much of ourselves to surrender in the process.

On the next day, I sought a different perspective at Red Canyon in Dixie National Forest. Highway 12 passes under two memorable red rock arches, making the drive itself worth the trip. I set out on the Birdseye Trail, north of the highway, turning onto the Pink Ledges Trail. But the road noise disrupted what should have been a peaceful hike.

Crossing the highway to the Golden Wall Trails brought pure bliss. On my climb up to the overlook, I stopped to chat with a couple who were descending. They told me that I was the first human they had seen in four hours. In my book, that's a great hike. We chatted about their winters in Costa Rica and their summer home in the Minnesota Northwoods, then continued on our separate ways.

The conversation reminded me of a value I had picked up as a nomad: TRUST. My trust meter has actually gone up the longer I've spent in natural spaces. The more people I meet on the trails, the more I believe we are all the same underneath it all. Without the divisions of politics, race, nation, and gender, hikers connect as fellow travelers, sharing stories, trail information, and brief moments of authentic humanity.

This growing sense of trust was seeping into my work relationships too. We had our differences—our personalities and perspectives were uniquely our own. But we've all experienced pain, we've shown our vulnerabilities, and we've survived challenges. The forced proximity of the employee campground and the shared struggles of low-wage work created unexpected bonds. I found myself sharing personal stories and listening to my co-workers’ life experiences as we put in long hours together. A bond was beginning to form.

Acclimating to high elevation changes your blood—literally. More red blood cells develop to carry oxygen more efficiently. I had acclimated to this nomadic life years ago, and I realized it had changed me too, making me more capable at recognizing the humanity in strangers, more passionate about bridging differences, more willing to extend trust before evidence demanded it. This wasn't naïveté but adaptation—my social muscles developing new strength for a different environment.

As I hiked Red Canyon, I found a sign highlighting bristlecone pines – some of the oldest living organisms in the world. Some of the pines are over 4,800 years old, mostly found in high-altitude regions of the western U.S. The trees are protected by their dense wood, and harsh environments keep pests, diseases, and rot at bay. Over centuries, parts of the tree may die off while other sections keep growing. The bristlecone in front of me had gnarled trunks with twisted, exposed wood.

They are tough, resilient trees, often clinging to rocky outcrops. Resilience doesn't always look lush and green. In this case, it is twisted, windblown, and weathered. And still thriving. And maybe that's the core message of resilience. There are times when we have to let part of our selves die off, and let other aspects flourish.

Standing before that ancient pine, I suddenly understood something crucial about the larger political landscape I'd been trying to escape. The bristlecone wasn't teaching me to simply accept harsh conditions—it was showing me selective adaptation across millennia. This tree had lived through ice ages, droughts, lightning strikes, and wildfires. It had witnessed civilizations rise and fall, yet it remained. How? By allowing certain branches to die so others could thrive. It directed its precious resources away from what couldn't survive toward what would endure.

I found profound comfort in this realization. The cruel, authoritarian forces gripping our nation were not the trunk of America's story—they were just a branch that would eventually wither and fall away. A painful but temporary deviation in our long journey. The true core of our nation—our belief in justice, equality, human dignity, and the rule of law—these were the enduring parts, the sections where resources should flow.

But there was a critical difference between trees and democracies. The dictatorship, the cruelty, the inhumanity gripping America wouldn't die off on their own—not like branches in the wind. They would only die when people, institutions, and communities stood up in active resistance. When we defied those values and took back our power. The bristlecone's strategy wasn't passive acceptance but active choice—directing resources away from what couldn't be sustained toward what could thrive.

In the long arc of human history, this dark moment would be just a blip, a small section that withered while the stronger parts—our commitment to justice, law, and humanity—continued to grow and flourish. But that would only happen if we acted like the bristlecone, strategically directing our energy toward what mattered most.

Acclimation isn’t surrender—it’s selective transformation. Some parts wither so others may thrive.

I had chosen to work and live here. I held on to the belief that the rich experiences I would stockpile over time would give me perspective. It would fuel my thoughts and words, and in the end, I would be wiser and have a better sense of who I was, deep down inside.

As I looked out over the canyon from Sunset Point, I realized that acclimation wasn't just about adjusting to the altitude. It was about adjusting to life itself. And just like this trail, there were times when the climb felt impossible. But maybe that was part of the journey. To be out of breath. To take it slow. To acclimate where we must, to resist where we should.

One step at a time.

I was in a raw place, acclimating to my new work environment. And not doing a great job. But perhaps that was okay. Perhaps the struggle itself was the point. To find my way in this new landscape—both the physical one of Bryce Canyon and the emotional one of this chapter of my life—without losing myself in the process.

The hoodoos watched, silent witnesses to my internal battle. They had seen it all before. They would remain long after I was gone. In their presence, my struggles seemed both significant and small. They reminded me that time was the greatest equalizer. All things change. All things erode. All things transform.

Including me. Including America.

The bristlecone pines had offered their own lesson in acclimation. Their gnarled forms weren't signs of failure but of selective adaptation. Parts died so the whole could live. Their weathered appearance wasn't weakness but evidence of survival. Maybe true acclimation wasn't about becoming something different but about selective transformation—allowing what no longer serves you to fall away while nurturing what helps you thrive.

And maybe that's the lesson for our democracy, too. Not to surrender to autocracy, not to normalize cruelty, not to acclimate to the erosion of rights and dignity, not to destroy our government for the benefit of the few. But to actively resist, to organize, to speak truth to power. Democracy doesn't preserve itself—it requires defenders. Freedom doesn't maintain itself—it needs protectors. Justice doesn't advance automatically—it demands advocates.

My small acts of resistance in my tour script felt insignificant against the backdrop of what was happening nationally. But perhaps this was where it started—refusing to normalize what should never be normal, even in the smallest ways. Perhaps resistance, like acclimation, happened one step at a time.

Acclimation, I was learning, meant finding balance between acceptance and resistance. Between integration and independence. Between becoming part of a new environment and maintaining your core. The bristlecone pines had figured it out over millennia. Maybe we could learn something from their patient example.

Tomorrow would bring another work day. Another chance to maneuver in this new landscape. Another opportunity to measure my internal compass against the greater world. Another day of acclimation where necessary, resistance where vital.

Maybe, by trail one hundred, I'd have figured it out.

Trail #1: Rim, Navajo Loop and Peek-a-boo Loop Trail. Location: Bryce Canyon National Park. Distance: 6.4 miles. Elevation Gain: 1,512 feet

Trail #2: Birdseye, Pink Ledges, and Golden Wall Trails. Location: Red Canyon, Dixie National Forest. Distance: 4.8 miles. Elevation Gain: 791 feet