The Woman in the Canyon: Scene 3

Standing Ground

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.

** Don’t forget to sign up for my Nature Writing Workshop. Seats are limited! I can’t wait to see you inside.

More than two weeks had slipped by since my last hike. I dragged myself home at the end of each work day, barely mustering the energy to take Coco and Isabella on their leashed walks around the campsite. The new 5:30 tour meant I didn't get home until almost 7:00 on days when we had riders. And soon, we would be adding an 8:00 a.m. tour – stretching into 12-hour shifts of work that hardly paid the bills. Was it worth it? The question surfaced daily now, like a persistent stone in my hiking boot.

Yet here I was. I reminded myself why: to witness the natural world, to gather stories, to observe how people live, to absorb the alchemy of Utah's canyonlands and forests. I'd been here almost a month, and still hadn't found my rhythm. My writing suffered the same fate. Perhaps I was forcing it? Trying to manufacture connections between chapters, or muting my voice with contrived characters and plots? Maybe this book wasn't meant to be a tidy narrative but rather a mosaic of stories, reflections, and calls to action. Today, I decided to surrender to the current and stop dissecting every word I committed to the page.

This morning, I joined my first group call as the newest volunteer at Quiet Parks International. I'd discovered the organization during my archaeology tech work in Anza-Borrego Desert State Park. A handful of emails and Zoom calls later, I'd found my tribe – people who revered quiet and the sounds of the natural world as much as I did. One member's words lingered: "Quiet isn't just about the sounds of nature. It runs deeper. It's the quiet solitude that speaks to the soul; the sounds of very life itself."

Standing alone beneath a forest canopy, or perched at a lake's edge where water whispered against the shore, I found more than solace—I found myself. The silence spoke a language my soul had always understood but my busy mind had forgotten. Perhaps, when the noise of life eventually subsided, this was my true calling: to be a guardian of quiet places, a translator of nature's hushed conversations, a witness to the profound eloquence of stillness.

Since embarking on my RV journey in 2020, I'd grown attuned to my emotional landscape and to the sensory tapestry around me – the sounds, sights, textures, and scents that composed the world. I'd never felt so present, so aware. Symbols, metaphors, synchronicities, and energy currents revealed themselves everywhere. Had they always been there? Maybe I'd finally opened my eyes, set aside my rigid rationality, and embraced the unknown. Not everything needed explanation. Connections formed and dissolved, like morning mist in sunlight.

I confess to a deepening sadness as I watch America's rule of law crumble, our public spaces auctioned to the highest bidder, our immigrants villainized, our institutions dismantled. And yes, I'm angry. I am one small voice. But in these pages, I want you to know you aren't alone. There are those of us who care profoundly for the vulnerable, the disenfranchised. At our core, we believe that compassion and generosity will outlast the shadow forces of greed and hatred. But today, winter's grip feels relentless. When will the soil thaw, the buds unfurl, the birdsong return?

It snowed today, in mid-May. How appropriate. Just yesterday, I'd selected a trail. It was my final free day this week, and I was long overdue for a proper hike. Yet I wanted nothing more than to remain cocooned under my covers. I'd enjoyed wonderful visits with friends and cousins recently, but between the capricious weather, work demands, and seasonal allergies, I'd neglected my hiking – my communion with nature. Then something shifted—a quiet rebellion against my own inertia. I would walk today, even if just for a few miles, even if my body protested every step.

I packed my gear, stuffed extra tissues and throat lozenges into my pockets, and drove the Jeep into Dixie National Forest – nearly two million acres stretching 170 miles across southern Utah. Its terrain ranges from desert canyons to high alpine forests, plateaus, and mountain lakes. My destination was just 13 miles away: the forest service road alongside Tropic Reservoir.

After several miles, asphalt surrendered to gravel, and the dust I kicked up transformed my rear windshield into a Rorschach puzzle of dirt patterns. The road carried me past the reservoir to a sign marking the Paunsaugunt ATV Trail, with its 75 miles of looping routes. I didn't want to be out here – not physically, not mentally. But I knew I needed nature's medicine, and with the chilly temperature and gusting wind, I had a good chance of experiencing that beautiful sound: quiet. A smile crept across my face as I realized I'd guessed correctly. The place was mine alone. I tugged my winter hat lower as wind swirled around me. Then came what sounded like an avian argument: a Pinyon Jay screeching at a Red-breasted Nuthatch. I continued forward, veering onto a path that led to the water's edge. Water lapping. Wind sweeping. Geese cutting across the sky. Thick cumulus clouds casting shadows in the rippling water. This was exactly why I'd come – a brief communion with nature to counterbalance life's mundanity.

It was a short walk, but sufficient. As I turned back, snow began to fall. I returned to a silent campground, a power outage having halted electricity throughout town. A few generators disrupted the stillness until power returned hours later. With overnight temperatures plunging into the 20s, I hoped the electricity would keep me warm through the night.

Trail 5: Tropic Reservoir
Location: Dixie National Forest
Date: May 14, 2025
Distance: 2.2 miles
Elevation Gain: 135 feet

As I watched geese migrate northward, I sensed spring's promise. My allergies, dormant since leaving Virginia, offered another clue that warmer days approached. I found myself thinking about my two guests from last week's ATV tour. Our 1:00 slot had been empty, so I was surprised to watch an older woman slowly emerge from a three-wheeled trike. She didn't strike me as someone who'd drive such a sporty vehicle. She clutched a paper, and I approached, asking how I could help. Despite our vacant booking system, her paper confirmed a 1:00 tour reservation.

I readied our two-seater Razor ATV and prepped my guide vehicle. She quietly explained that the front desk had rebooked last week's tour – her husband hadn't been feeling well. Today, he felt better. Then she confided: her husband had stage 4 cancer and little time remaining. Slowly, he appeared from their vehicle, cane in hand. Eventually, he settled behind the driver's seat of the Razor, his wife beside him. I helped with his buckle, provided instructions, offered to drive at a gentler pace if desired, and began the tour.

Sunlight accompanied us as I gave them a personal tour, sharing fresh stories about Bryce Canyon's magic while we stood at the rim. Then, things took an unexpected turn. As we rounded pastureland toward a pond, a massive rodeo bull claimed the muddy pool that had formed in the trail's center. With fencing on one side and a dropoff on the other, I halted the ATV. Perhaps the bull would move with gentle persuasion? I stepped out and walked slowly toward it, softly asking it to yield the path. Instead, the bull turned to face me, locking eyes. The last time an animal had done that – a bison in Caprock Canyon State Park in Texas – it had charged seconds later. This time, I chose caution. I retreated to the ATV and executed a careful U-turn. Sometimes, to move forward, you must first retrace your steps.

On our return from our woodland obstacle course, I found myself stopping again. This time, a mischievous Utah prairie dog commanded our attention. She perched atop her burrow in the middle of the road, chattering with nearby companions. Slowly, we guided our ATVs to the side, trying not to encroach on her territory. Was she scolding us?

Our tour, like all our tours, lasted an hour. I never tire of the scenery – the way shadows dance across Powell Point as daylight shifts, the surprise appearances of mule deer and occasional coyotes, the steady chatter of prairie dogs conducting their business across the fields. For that hour, the couple I guided had no thoughts of cancer, no worries, no pain, no regrets. Perhaps that's the gift I offer: sixty minutes of transportation to a place where, if you allow it, awe and wonder can reclaim your world.

I pondered the bull blocking our path, forcing us to turn back and take a longer route. It hadn't happened before. Was there a message or mere coincidence? This man was dying. Was the bull telling him he had unfinished business to attend to? That perhaps he still had time to heal old wounds before it was too late? Or maybe the bull was simply thirsty and protective of its modest pool of muddy water?

These days, I often feel powerless. I lack the authority, influence, or resources to shape policy decisions. I watch helplessly, searching for courage from those positioned to protect our democracy, our human rights, our planet. But on this day, in this hour, I gave someone a gift – a moment of carefree joy, time with the natural world, and some kind words. Perhaps that's the most any of us can do. When we act together, we become a formidable force, like a rodeo bull standing its ground and forcing drivers to retreat. Today, I'll embrace that small glimmer of hope, and mischief.