2022 was coming to a close and winter was supposed to be arriving. It was getting cold but not enough for the rain to turn in to snow. The wet start to winter on the east coast of Maine was nothing close to motivating or inspiring. The internal imbalance I have to chase after things that both scare and excite me was feeling especially strong which only meant one thing — time for a road trip.
In the weeks leading up to my departure, I was pulling extra shifts at my restaurant side-hustle and missing out on social engagements to save as much money as possible; I knew it would all be worth it once I was on the road. After a full check at the mechanic and the construction of a questionably-built sleeping set up, my car was ready for the trip, too. This trip was a solo one, with the only consistent company being my border collie mix, Fern. I had been on longer road trips in the past with companions and shorter ones solo, but this was the first just me and Fern.
Day One Fender Benders
I chose to start the trip on the day after Christmas (not my best choice). Traffic was backed up all through New England as everyone and their family was heading south from the holiday weekend. A seven-hour drive that had turned to 12 was made worse by a fender bender leaving my passenger-side door notably dented and my confidence in the trip damaged too. I had never been in an accident so far from home. Granted, I had just made it to Pennsylvania, but I had to handle this one completely on my own. I moved through the motions with the other driver and was eventually on my way.
A bit shaken up from the interaction, but oddly accepting of the situation, I reflected on what had just happened for the rest of the drive to my cousin’s house. I didn’t cry, I didn’t get angry, I acted rationally and found a solution to the problem. I was proud of myself for handling a really crappy situation in the best way possible. Both cars were just cosmetically damaged and no one was injured — everything was going to be okay.
That day, I learned that I can handle whatever comes at me, even if it is a 15-passenger van on a Pennsylvania street.
Almost Lost in Palo Duro Canyon
As we made our way through the southern states of the U.S., I had my eyes set on the Palo Duro Canyon located in the panhandle of Texas. The Palo Duro is the second largest canyon in the U.S. and is known for its 120-mile long red sand floor. Our driving days were lengthy and we had to be in Colorado by the new year, which meant time for only one hike in the canyon, and a sunrise one at that.
Fern and I woke up around 3 a.m. on the last day of 2022, ready to get going and hike out to “The Lighthouse”, the farthest point but most well-known hike in Palo Duro Canyon — I was told if we only had time to do one hike, this was the one, but now looking back on it, this was a little ambitious.
Wearing my headlamp — and Fern decked out in her bell and light — we were ready to start the hike. I tried following the map but with complete darkness inside the canyon, it was hard to identify my surroundings other than what was directly in front of me. As we continued on, I began to feel like we should have come across more signs. We walked a bit farther and deeper into the canyon, still not confident we were on the right track. We came to a clearing in the rocks that lead to what looked like a dirt road for park rangers and other utility trucks. The map said nothing about the trail changing into conditions like this. I looked down and saw both human foot prints and horse hoof prints in the sand. At that moment I wasn’t sure if they were from the day before or fresh, but either way I was uncomfortable. We turned around and followed the way we came; at this point the sun was just starting to illuminate the sky outside the canyon and the need for my headlamp became less and less. When we got closer to the trailhead and our car, others were beginning to fill the lot and I was able to take a deep breath.
I have been an avid hiker as an adult and have done solo double-digit mile treks in the past, but this time I felt a level of unease I never felt before. That day was the first time I ever turned around on a hike. Fern never alerted to company on that hike and I’d like to think we were alone, but the reality is you are never truly alone in a 120-mile-long canyon. I’ve heard stories of others turning back due to weather or potential injury and how they felt the need to turn back. I had never understood that feeling until the morning in the Palo Duro Canyon where my body told me the hike stopped there.
Risk + Reward
A key component of growing, aging and developing awareness is understanding the consequences when taking risks. This feedback-loop system is what forms the lessons we learn. Without taking the initial risk of the unknown, we limit ourselves to the potential knowledge we are able to gain. Without the risk, the reward is far less tangible.
Viewing risks as potential lessons gives you more grace to accept when life does not pan out according to your plan. Breathe deep, find your flow and start that journey.
Laura Mills
Writer + Community Engagement Manager
