Fingers of sunlight broke through the morning cloud layer, illuminating the snow-capped peaks of the La Sals on the horizon. Sunbeams shifted over the pointed butte of Sixshooter Peak and stretched across the newly green Cottonwood trees dotting the canyon I’d followed into the park. Before long the light was shining on me — or more accurately, on the grains of sand glistening atop the rock beside me.
I ran my hand over the sandstone and held my palm to my face. Flecks of sand continued to sparkle — more like shards of glass than tiny pieces of the earth. I knew it wasn’t possible. More than a year had passed since we scattered Dad’s ashes over this high point on the Peekaboo Trail. A year of wind and rain and snow had doubtlessly carried every last particle away from here — sweeping across the sandstone plateaus, down Salt Creek, or into Lost Canyon, tumbling into the Colorado River, the Pacific, the atmosphere, eternity.
I once read a pop science book in which the author declared that each of us possesses at least one atom from every breath that every human has ever taken. With every year that passes, we shed and replace 90 percent of our atoms. There’s nothing inside of us that is permanently ours, even in our lifetimes. Through our billion billion billion atoms, we are connected to everything, the continuation of everything, the recycled matter that predates the earliest sparks of life. Would it even make a difference if this sparkling grain of sand was a fleck of skin, a fragment of bone, or whatever remains of my father? But I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe that this sand was where the rock ended and my dad began.
I had been trying to take this trip for months. But every time the weekend I’d blocked out neared, there was going to be horrific traffic on I-70, or a big storm rolled in, or the trails were likely to be icy and dangerous. The excuses stacked up as my anxiety took over, telling me it would be too risky to make that drive, too painful to leave the house. My mind told me the desert was a particularly menacing place. Parched valleys and roaring whitewater canyons haunted my nightmares. In hindsight, that burst of irrational fear should have been one of the first indicators that it was time to seek help.
My dad took this trip nearly every spring for more than 20 years. He packed his spring-bar canvas tent, 40-year-old water thermos, cooler carefully arranged to ensure the ice lasted for four days, classic picnic basket with the same box of plastic cutlery that we likely used as children, and a big stack of foam mattresses because Dad didn’t enjoy sleeping on the ground. What he loved was the Needles District — the southeast corner of Canyonlands National Park, where spires of Cedar Mesa sandstone jut out of the earth like skyscrapers. He’d spend a few days wandering through these petrified cityscapes, traipsing his favorite trails so many times that knew every hidden nook and labyrinthine bypass.
After several months of trying new things — yoga, meditation, therapy, medication — the anxiety began to subside. It was as though a layer of smog had been trapped in my mind. It thickened and settled for so long that I believed yellow haze was all I had left. Now, the smog was finally clearing. Suddenly I could see the world again; it was bright and new and full of promise. It was also, suddenly, May. Where did the winter go? But when I looked at the forecast, I saw the thing my Dad was always holding out for — a perfect spring weekend. Dry, partly cloudy (which meant nice light without an overwhelming about of sun), and temperatures between 40 and 60 degrees.
Driving still triggers my anxiety. I barely slept the night before my commute from Boulder to Monticello, Utah. Despite the nice weather and low traffic, I was jittery all day. I completed a stressful afternoon of remote work and tried an early bedtime, but I couldn't rest. Why was I so nervous? Canyonlands was a place without expectations. I was going to do some hiking, I was going to visit the two spots where we left Dad’s ashes a year ago. But I couldn’t shake it. Was this, I wondered, the root source of my anxiety? Was it him? Was it that every time I say goodbye, I force myself to gulp down the fear of being alone all over again?
After a few fitful hours of sleep, I slumped out of bed at 4:30 a.m. … might as well go now. The highway was menacing and dark, the park road eerily empty. But when I passed by Sixshooter and the full moon setting beside its perfect point, I knew everything was going to be okay.
The sun rose at 6:16 a.m. It was the same minute that I stepped onto the sandy creekbed and started trudging up Salt Creek wash. This was a corner of Canyonlands I’d never visited before. The former four-wheel-drive route isn’t a popular spot for day hiking. The canyon is wide and sandy, and not all that interesting at this location. But I’d mapped out a loop to stop by Dad’s two resting places and continue hiking most of his favorite trails, including a spur to Druid Arch. It was going to come in around 32 miles once I’d closed the loop. That sort of mileage is especially taxing on this terrain — all sand and rock and serpentine scrambles. There isn’t a straightforward mile in the park.
I had hoped to “run” at least a small percentage of those miles, to help cover the distance in a reasonable amount of time. Right out of the gate, the wash softened to seemingly bottomless sand, the kind that makes you feel like you’re running in one of those slow-motion dreams. Within a couple of miles, the canyon narrowed and the creek bed was filled with muddy water. It became difficult and then impossible to avoid. My shoes became fully packed with wet sand and I was shivering because the temperature was still in the 30s. I turned up the wrong drainage, then tried to correct my mistake by scrambling up a sandy embankment. The sandbank collapsed around me, packing the rest of my clothing with sand. When I finally crawled up to the point where I thought I could connect with my GPS track, I encountered a sheer sandstone cliff. Because of course, there’d be a cliff within 500 yards of my trail. This is Canyonlands, the most convoluted landscape that geology can design. Water and wind cut into the fragile stratum like knives, carving impenetrable canyons that have confused humans for centuries.
Admittedly, my mood soured. Here I was, less than five miles into this big day, already lost once, covered head-to-toe in gritty mud, feet wet, leg muscles screaming from attempted sand running, and knees bleeding from stupidly scrambling up a wall made of sand. I looked up at the ladder leading out of the canyon and mumbled, “I just can’t do this without you, Dad.” But I had to. Even though I was tired, and even though I am afraid of any kind of exposure — ladders included — and even though I didn’t have to … I had to. It’s so perplexing — all of these stories our brains tell us.
Visiting the place where you spread the ashes of somebody you love is a strange experience, a paradoxical mixture of comfort and discomfort. I’ve walked these red benches with my dad at least four times before. The first was in 2004, while I was in a deep funk in my young life. I’d spent much of the past year embracing the dream of an adventurous life on the road, only to retreat to my old job and a tiny apartment in the sad town of Tooele, Utah. It was also the period in my life that I’d distanced myself farthest from my family, which, looking back … I wonder if that’s why Dad invited me on what had been a cherished solo trek. I sadly don’t remember a lot about that trip in 2004. I remember feeling frightened of the big drop-offs and ladders. I was frightened of a lot back then. I am frightened of a lot now.
The last time I walked these red benches with my Dad was in April 2021. He extended the invitation to my husband, Beat, who had never been to Canyonlands. We were still in the throes of pandemic anxiety; Beat and I had received our second Covid vaccination just one day earlier and we were both ill. I still felt a tinge of panic about touching another human when I hugged my dad outside the Subway in Moab. But we settled into the trip nicely. Dad pulled out his spring-bar tent and foam pads and it was the same as it ever was. Beat was like a kid in a candy store, discovering the color and splendor for the first time. Dad guided us through all of his favorites. At a most cherished spot in Chesler Park, he paused briefly to make what I thought was a rather off-hand comment:
“This is where I’d like my ashes spread someday.” He made a broad gesture with both arms. “Anywhere in here.”
The following day, he said this again as we traversed the Peekaboo Trail, standing at a high point that looked over an expanse of rock and mountains to the south.
“And here,” he concluded, “Overlooking The Sentinel.”
The Sentinel is a name my dad gave to a nearby rock formation, one of those balancing rocks on a thin sandstone platform that stands all alone. It looks like the kind of thing that might topple any minute.
“Oh, Dad,” I laughed. “You’re probably going to outlive The Sentinel.”
Less than two months later, Dad was gone.
I thought returning to Peekaboo might feel like visiting a grave site, but it wasn’t. I ran my hands through flecks of sand and wanted these to be remnants of my dad, but I knew they weren’t. And I knew it didn’t matter. I stood and looked toward The Sentinel, still standing as tall and proud as ever.
“You’re everywhere now,” I said and felt this in my core. This was Truth. Regardless of any metaphysical possibilities, the material truth remains that when we die, our molecules disperse and rejoin everything, once again.
I felt buoyed as I stood and continued my trek toward Lost Canyon and then followed a chain of lesser-used trails through Big Spring Canyon. The routes were harder than I remembered. They always are. I could run maybe 300 or 400 feet at a time, only to be stopped by a precipitous climb up another bench, or a hop over a mud puddle, or a shimmy through a narrow crack between two enormous boulders. It’s objectively fun, playful hiking, but I admit it starts to wear on me. I thrive on the slog and its mindless flow state. I wanted space to walk and think about my dad, and Canyonlands wasn’t giving me that.
At mile 12, I climbed to another high bench, only to look down at a vertical drop plummeting 30 or 40 feet down. Here was the Big Ladder. I don’t know whether I’ve climbed or descended it since — I’m sure I have — but this is one thing I remember vividly from 2004. The Big Scary Ladder. Ladders are easy. I tell myself this. But my brain vibrates all the same as the yawning abyss tugs at my back. I got myself down without issue, but I was rattled. Then stupidly, I took off running right away. The trail below the bench was smooth sand and I inexplicably wanted to distance myself from the Big Scary Ladder.
Predictably, within a few hundred feet, I caught my toe on a juniper root. I nearly caught my fall. I threw my other foot down, then met the momentum with my newly freed foot, and took several loping steps, gaining distance and speed downhill until the physics no longer worked in my favor and I went flying. The landing was hard, all hip and head. I smacked my temple so hard that I lost my hat; it took several minutes to find that and my trekking poles, which had been tossed more than 10 feet. My hip hurt the most. For several minutes I lay and wondered if I had broken my femur; something similar happened to a friend of mine once.
But no, I was okay. I could stand. I could locate my hat. I could keep walking. My head throbbed, my right pinky finger started to hurt something fierce, and I was angry. I limped another quarter mile before I plopped down on the trail and indulged in a messy, gulping sob.
“I can’t do this without you, Dad. I just can’t.”
This time I wasn’t talking about ladders. I was talking about life.
Quitting was on my mind, but I was far enough into my loop that there wasn’t much mileage left to cut. There was no way I could skip Chesler Park. But I was skipping Druid Arch. I limped along and stewed in my pain until it began to soften, as all pain does. Just 1.5 miles later, I reached the intersection with the Druid Arch trail and felt fine enough to continue to the canyon’s end. Dad always relished the hike up this canyon, skirting in and out of the gorge on clever bypasses. The iconic arch comes into view more than a mile away, but from the side, it looks like just another sandstone fin. Dad likes to quiz newcomers on their guessed location of the hidden arch. They usually get it wrong. I did in 2004, and Beat did in 2021.
Druid Arch to Chesler Park is a maddening piece of convoluted Earth. It’s all scrambles in and out of small drainages, splayed fingers gripping slickrock, and legs straining for distant toe-holds. Having forgotten how hard this section of trail was, I dragged my mom and sisters through here last year in the cold pouring rain. They performed admirably, but I still associate that day with more stress than reverence.
We spread Dad’s ashes in a wash, to minimize the impact, between the only two juniper trees standing in the center of the valley. Last year was cold and gray, and we rushed a bit with the incoming weather. This year, I could see the views stretched to the Maze District and Island in the Sky. These were the Needles I had seen from the White Rim Trail dozens of miles away. My brain again began to vibrate, the way it had on the ladder, but in a good way. This was joy bursting out of me because I could feel it. This is where my Dad is. He may be everywhere, but he’s here, right here, right now. I wrapped my arms around my shoulders to catch my heaving sobs as I knelt on the sand.
Everything I felt was more than I could absorb at once. The depths of pain, both emotional and physical, the fear and frustration, the awe and the soaring joy. My head was overloaded and it was still pounding beneath the ugly goose egg that bulged from my temple. I robotically continued down the Joint Trail that Dad always touted as the “fan favorite” for its quarter-mile-long slot canyon that brushes both shoulders as you walk. My route continued for another 12 miles back to the Salt Creek trailhead. I was spent. More emotionally than physically. My flattened emotions actually made it easier to navigate the obstacles, and I jogged four 11-minute miles on the road to close out the 32-mile loop.
I drove all the way back to Monticello, having neglected to bring camping gear the way my Dad always did. A back road climbs beside the Abajo Mountains; I could tell the road had only recently been cleared of snow. In the evening light, the views toward Canyonlands were soul-rending. I cried some more. After I spent those emotions, I descended toward the Subway sandwich I’d been dreaming about for dinner.
I’d not planned to hike the following day, but that night my brain continued to disturb much-needed sleep with its strange stories. “That wasn’t all of the trails. You need to visit all of the trails.”
So I awoke, not quite as early but early enough, and drove all the way back into the park. I stopped at the visitor center to buy a park pass, where I was confronted by a ranger and a hiker about my travels the previous day.
“Weren’t you the trail runner we saw on the road?” the ranger asked, referring to the Joint Trail connector where I passed a bunch of rangers doing trail work in the afternoon. “I saw you in the morning at Big Springs. You were all over!”
The hiker remembered me from a brief interaction on the Joint Trail. When I guessed where I was heading — “Um, Elephant Hill?” — he told me he came from there and it was 9 miles in this direction and “that’s a tough day.” (I still had 14 miles to finish my loop at the time but didn’t say so.)
“Where are you going today?” the ranger asked. I pointed to Elephant Hill on the map, then made a gesture toward the Green and Colorado River confluence and back toward the Joint Trail. If I actually did all of that, it was going to be at least another 20 miles.
“I’ve never explored out that way,” I said, which was a lie, but I wanted to seem a little less crazy.
I had abundant energy on the way to the Confluence Overlook. I don’t know why. I jogged some on the sandy road that was vaguely runnable but decided to stop because it was sucking the energy out of my legs. Anyway, jogging with my head down was not respectful to Dad.
Dad loved this spot. It was always the place he hit first when his legs were fresh and time was limited after a long drive from Salt Lake and setting up his camp. I thought if there was another place he could spend eternity, it would be here, watching the murky waters of two rivers meet and swirl together like spilled paint.
I continued onto a trail I thought I hadn’t traveled before, although the strong sense of Déjà vu made me wonder if this was the secret canyon we visited in 2010. Cyclone Canyon probably doesn’t see many hikers. It’s an old road bed beneath sheer cliffs with few escape routes, and it’s far from anywhere on both ends. I was in absolute bliss walking along a narrow ribbon through the deep sand — the perfect slog. I could almost see the profile of my Dad walking in front of me — his brimmed hat, his canvas shorts, his wool socks stretched over his calves. Where does my dad end and Canyonlands begin? If I carry him in my memory, can that be enough? If I can love the earth he’s become, can that be enough?
After miles of secret canyons, I made my way back to Chesler Park. Again I found the spot in the wash between two juniper trees. I could still feel, just as strongly, the love of my father.
“This is a place I can always go when I don’t want to feel alone,” I thought, and this brought an immense feeling of relief. I thought of a memory that isn’t even my memory; it’s a story Dad told me once about riding motorcycles with his brothers and father through Salt Creek Wash. They’d rev their engines and accelerate, splashing each other with muddy water until they’d all nearly crashed in fits of laughter. My dad could be understated in his emotions. He was steady and reserved much of the time. But when he felt true joy, his face lit up in a way I will never forget.
My head was vibrating again so I sat down, right in the spot where we left Dad’s ashes a year ago. For the first time, I noticed a small yellow flower growing in the wash. It was all by itself, clinging to the shade of the juniper tree, just as my dad did whenever he stopped to rest. A wash is a strange place for a flower to grow, especially after such a wet spring when runoff would have carried most shoots away. But this little yellow flower held strong. Again I collapsed into an overwhelming burst of emotions, all of the emotions, the joy and pride and sadness and relief and fear. It was too much. It was too much for one day. It was too much for one place. It was too much for one person, for one life. Still, as I cried, I knew it would never be enough.
Again spent, I made my way back to Elephant Hill. Even though I was running alarmingly low on water, I still opted to take the long way through Devil’s Canyon (Dad loved Devil’s Canyon) and I did not let my anxious self stop and beg for water at the four-wheel-drive campground on Devil’s Lane. Dad would never stoop to begging when he knew he would be perfectly fine for the next five miles, even if his throat did feel a little bit parched, his legs a little bit rubbery.
This day ended at 25.5 miles … so 57.5 total. I did not cover all of the trails in the Needles District. Really, it’s not even close if you count the four-wheeler roads or the full length of Salt Canyon. But within the main corridor, I only missed a few connector trails and Lost Canyon. Someday I think I’ll go back and find a way to cover all of the trails, maybe another beautiful spring weekend, or perhaps one of those lost winter days, or a day when I’m feeling most afraid and alone.
Dad will always be here. Because he’s everywhere. But in my heart, he’s here.
This is beautiful. Losing and grieving a parent is so hard. What happened to your dad? Do you have an earlier post about him dying that I could read? This motivates me to return to the Needles District, where I feel the spirit of my grandpa, who spent so much time there buying & driving cattle back from Indian Creek. There’s even a photo of him and another cowboy in the visitor center there. He donated photos and helped the park service with their history exhibits back in the 1980s, he loves the place so much & knew it so well. Lavender Canyon there is named after his stepfather, Ed Lavender, who gave us our last name when he adopted my grandpa. Anyway....I feel for you and miss my parents similarly deeply. Take care.
My dad was a recreational/family outing kind of low-key hiker (resurrection trail in Alaska, his favorite) still so much of this beautiful writing resonates with me. I miss my dad, who passed in 2019, and I remembered him in a special way while reading. Sending you strength in your journey, and thanks for writing.