a series of moments. episode 2.

Shit.

The weather was clear. So clear, that yesterday’s bluster had blown the clouds and the howling winds out and had allowed for the contrast of the bright blue skies and orange-red rock that Moab was so known for, to stand king.

Crap.

That means I have no choice.

When I moved west I’d made myself a pact. A pact so real and so in your face that it felt a little like it was pointing at me, laughing hysterically, as I mulled over my escape from this particular situation.

You see. This pact I’d made myself (to myself and only myself…over one glass of cheap red wine too many…) went something like this…

“Never say NO”.

Welp with that in mind and with my hyper-confidence of the weather’s likely overblown conditions to take control of this big, fat, mistakenly uttered, “YES”, I’d somehow agreed to jump out of an airplane with only a parachute attached to my back.

No. Not at the normal altitude of 4000′ above the ground. Nope. That was for lameos. I had agreed to a jump that was something like 12000′ feet above the ground. Because what’s another 8000’?

Shit.

The wind had completely blown my grand plan of avoiding this bravado declaration of YES, out of the ballpark.

I truly had no choice. And this morning? This morning I was jumping out of an airplane. Above the arches and deep canyons of two of the USA’s most celebrated National Parks.

I mean. There had to be worse places to recognize that your grand scheme of “never say no” had failed you and that you were about to jump out of a tiny airplane that featured a pair of cheesy orange flames flanking its sides.

As my mind raced about all of the possible vomit-inducing scenarios that all seemed to bring my happy little life to a painful splat-like death, our chariot pulled up. A tiny man in a jumpsuit rolled up the side door and greeted us with a grin as he wildly waved us on to the plane.

I slid my straddled posture down the bench that spanned the craft from stern to bow until I was nestled, somewhat uncomfortably close, in between my jump partner’s legs.

As we roared down the runway, my body leaning deep into my jump partner, Keith, he whispered into my ear,

“Get ready for the craziest thrill of your life.”

And with that, we were airborne.

I was breathless with the shock of the altitude. Breathless with the cloudless morning and the sight of the sun winking off of the swiftly moving Colorado River below us.

Within what seemed like seconds, I was jerked abruptly from my breathless daydream with the bellow of the jump door being rolled up and a gust of cold air filling the small cabin.

Crap.

Here goes nothing.

Without warning, Keith started to scoot me along the length of our perch towards the roaring exit of our plane as it soared 12000′ above the hard, dusty, red desert floor.

Before I knew it, there I was.

Legs dangling out of the side of the airplane; the desert landscape and mighty Colorado River suspended below my sneakered feet.

And with that, in the time it takes to take a breath, we were airborne. Free-falling back to the Earth that cradles us. The Earth that nurtures us and provides us with life-giving resources and memories.

It was so loud; it was almost like I was rushing through a tunnel of silence. I couldn’t hear anything but the roar of the wind as it whipped by my ears, pulling my cheeks back with the velocity of the speed at which we were falling.

Gravity took its toll and we flipped and flopped and tumbled back towards solid ground and with a single, sudden jerk, we stopped. And we floated, suspended high above life as we knew it.

And as we floated, drifting back to Earth, I giggled to myself. Giggling that for better or for worse, somehow after the craziest, most thrilling moment of my life, never saying no still hadn’t failed me.

wintermooning.

While fall colors are just reaching their peak in most parts of the country, fall has come and gone up in the High Country and we are on the verge of welcoming winter. In fact, Summit County won the “race to winter” when Arapahoe Basin opened for the season on Friday. Speaking of which, anyone interested in an afternoon “shred sesh” on Tuesday…sure it’s only a half a run, but shredding is shredding brah!

Anyway, in an attempt to soak up the last bit of summer sun before Mother Nature buries us in snow, Mr. A and I escaped down to Moab for a few days in the desert. We camped, we hiked, we bombed around the desert in a UTV and we ate far too many s’mores. By the time we packed up to head home to the mountains on Wednesday morning, we were thoroughly caked in red dirt.

We’re calling it our “wintermoon” and a fabulous “wintermoon” it was.

Colorado River from “Wall St.”

Hurrah Pass selfie

Mr. A and his new favorite toy, the UTV

Abbs pondering her next squirrel ambush.

Go fast, take chances.

Lower Drinks Canyon campsite

Colorado River from the Lower Drinks Canyon campsite

Lower Drinks Canyon campsite–camping just off Route 128, aka “the river road”

Red rocks along the Negro Bill Canyon

Hurrah Pass snack break

life elevated.

MOAB. 

We came, we saw, we…erm…had to cut the trip short by five days due to a bout of canine heat exhaustion. Apparently, a black dog and the hot desert sun do not mix; especially when said black dog considers running up and down hillsides after rodents, a hobby.

Last year, we camped down in Kane Creek Canyon so Abbs was able to cool herself off by taking a dip in the chilly waters of Kane Creek. This year however, Kane Creek Canyon had already been snagged by April Action Car Show goers so we made our way up Cotter Mine Road and set up camp in Mill Canyon. 

Mill Canyon, with it’s monumental red walls, scrubby mesquite trees, heady scent of sagebrush, and the fine rust colored sand that infiltrates anything and everything, gives you the feeling that a Pterodactyl is about swoop in and steal the hotdog that you’re cooking over the fire.   

The hot sun beats down on the hard red earth and challenges the Earth, or you, or anything, to get in its way. And with few trees to offer a reprieve from the sun’s beating rays, Mill Canyon takes no prisoners and offers no apologies.

Luckily we noticed that Abbey seemed more fatigued than usual and got her to the animal hospital for some fluids and air conditioning with lightening speed. She was given a clean bill of health but the doc suggested that we get her out of the desert. So we heeded his advice and trekked back to cold, snowy Summit County. Miss Abbs is back to her usual rambunctious self, burying her ball in the snow, begging without abandon for just a taste of our bacon, and making flying leaps through the five inches of snow that fell overnight last night.

And although our time in the desert was short, we still managed to get in a bike ride down 191, a few hikes around Mill Canyon, a sunset spaghetti dinner, and of course some deliciously gooey s’mores over a cracklin’ campfire.

Kane Creek Canyon save a spot for us, ’cause we’ll be back for ya!