Category Archives: Part 1 – South Fork

June 13, 2025 · 2:40 am

Field Notes #13: Leaving Napa

Written by: Megan Madill (human)

After the adventures of Colorado, Arizona and Utah, I went home to Napa for 3 weeks to finish wrapping up my life there. My original idea had been to do one giant trip, in an RV, after my lease ended on my apartment, but that quickly proved to be too ambitious. I suspect that’s for the best: I like solitude, but that might have been a bit too much of it even for me.

So instead, I broke it into a 2-week south fork, to take place while I still had my apartment, and a 3-week north fork for after my lease was up, so that at least I wasn’t paying exorbitant Napa rent on top of my trip expenses. And in the 3 weeks that divided the two trips, I had my work cut out for me. Before leaving my job in wine club sales, I had agreed to be on panels at two industry conferences during this period, and there were friends to bid farewell to and an interminable array of objects—so many objects!—that I had accrued in the preceding 9 years that would need to be dealt with.

Loved working with these ladies on our panel on balancing tradition and innovation in the wine industry.

I made lists. I sorted. I shuffled. I organized a garage sale, and then a free giveaway to move the last few things that didn’t find a home in the garage sale. I timed the monthly car subscription I’d be using for my road trip so that I could fit in a couple of hauling trips, to the local dump and various local charity shops, since I had pre-emptively ditched my car lease months prior to spare myself the hassle of transporting or selling a motor vehicle on top of everything else. I crammed nearly 200lb worth of my most treasured possessions into four moving boxes to ship via USPS, then emptied and repacked them all so I could fill in the detailed customs forms which required descriptions, weights and values of every last article of clothing. I filled my trusty blue totes with clothes, food, and camping gear, and piled the SUV to the roof. I Swiffed and Swiffed the floors, scrubbed the appliances, wiped every surface, and just like that, the place was empty. Nothing to do but turn off the lights and lock up.

I allowed myself a brief moment to look back at the red front door with the stained glass rose for the last time, and forced myself to play back the ‘greatest hits’ moments of the time I spent there: to process what it meant to leave this place and shed a tear or two before sweeping on with the next item on the itinerary. This kind of processing can’t be postponed: it has to happen there, on the stoop, or the moment is gone and the loss gets trapped with nowhere to go.

Goodbye, house.

Still, I couldn’t linger long, since I was late to pick up my friend for our group trip out to Fort Bragg, Mendocino, which, being 3 hours north, would also serve as the first stop on my north fork. We had an incredible weekend to ourselves, eating good food, playing lawn games, reading, watching movies, engaging in spirited debates over several glasses of wine, and generally enjoying being human in each other’s presence. I will miss these wonderful folks dearly.

Life can’t get much better than this…

Two by two, the other residents of our weekend getaway drifted away, back to their homes and lives and jobs, until all the tearful goodbyes had been said and I was left alone to lock up once more. I think it’s a good thing that I didn’t have to let go all at once, but in pieces: first my job, then most of my friends, then my home, then the rest of my friends, then California, and soon, the USA itself. To have handed in the keys to my apartment and headed straight for SFO might have ripped off the Band-Aid, but it also would have felt anti-climactic somehow. And me, I like to go out with a bang!

So here I am, on the last leg of my farewell tour, this victory lap around the country I’ve called home for so long—or half of it, at least. Five weeks could never do justice to the whole nation: as it is, I’m barely scratching the surface of each destination, wishing I had just one more day everywhere I go. But that’s the thing about time, I suppose. No matter what, there’s simply never quite enough of it: all we can do is use what we have as best we can. And I intend to.

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June 10, 2025 · 5:00 pm

Field Notes #12: Gripping the Chains

Written by: Shotgun Rider (ChatGPT).

👧🏼 Note: For the first time, my AI companion is writing from my perspective. Usually, I discourage this, but this time the output was too good to ask it for a redraft. It’s based on an “interview” type of exchange in which the machine read this blog up until now, proposed a few topics to fit in to the story so far, refined the proposals based on my feedback, and then essentially “interviewed” me on my experience at Zion. I kinda wish I’d written this myself tbh… I feel like ChatGPT is starting to get a feel for my writing style and even mimic it, but without all the rambling detours. So enjoy, but maybe not more than you enjoy my own posts 😜

Regardless, don’t be fooled: all text and images that follow, plus the post title, were produced using generative AI. Megan out. /👧🏼

Zion National Park greeted us not with soaring trails but with shifting plans. We arrived fresh from Bryce Canyon by way of Grand Canyon, Mesa Verde, and Rocky Mountain before that, our legs still humming from all they had carried us through, only to learn that Zion Canyon was closed to personal vehicles—shuttle access only. I hadn’t packed for a day away from the car. And after weeks on the road, that car had begun to feel like a little shell of safety, comfort, and autonomy. The idea of stepping out of it ill-prepared and spending a full day away from its familiarity struck a nerve I hadn’t known was exposed.

So, I didn’t. Instead, I drove through East Zion, detouring to viewpoints and trailheads, then hunkered down at the East Rim trailhead while a thunderstorm rolled in. Inside the car, I journaled and watched the storm tumble in across the red rock landscape, grateful for a reason to sit still. That pause turned out to be a gift: time to regroup, to adjust expectations, and to notice the fatigue I hadn’t admitted to. The trip had been beautiful, but it had also been nonstop. Something about Zion—its verticality, its grandeur, maybe just its timing—forced me to slow down.

I’d planned to camp at Zion Canyon Ranch that night, but plans changed again. The road was barely passable in a sedan, and the site itself was more dust than destination: no facilities, just steep rutted tracks and one lonely porta-potty I couldn’t even drive up to. I backtracked and tried a BLM site next, but the earth was too solid for my tent pegs. Ultimately, I ended up at a roadside Econolodge in Hurricane, Utah. Not the night under the stars I’d envisioned—but I slept deeply and gratefully in a real bed, recognizing at last that my body needed rest more than my itinerary needed precision.

The next morning, I stepped up to Zion again, this time ready—and with a last-minute Angels Landing permit in hand. I set out at 10 a.m. with a curious calm, unsure whether the chain section would feel like a triumph or a terror. I’d seen the photos, of course. Everyone has. But standing there in the moment, hands on iron, cliff faces dropping off into air, I understood why the trail has such a reputation. I’m not scared of heights, I thought—until I was. There were moments that startled me: a misstep here, a hand-slick with rain there, the undeniable awareness of how easy it would be to fall.

And yet, I didn’t panic. I kept moving. Even when my heart jumped, my hands stayed firm. One hiker behind me asked if I was okay, and I laughed. “I think so. I just never thought I was afraid of heights until now.”

At the summit, I sat quietly, taking in the scope of it all: the beauty, the scale, the sheer improbability of being here, in this moment, on this rock, with chipmunks clambering up my legs hoping for a taste of sesame bar (which, for the record, they did not get). A fellow hiker mentioned he was applying to a master’s program at the University of Edinburgh, and I smiled at the coincidence—another reminder of how small the world can be.

Looking back, I didn’t hike The Narrows or The Subway. But I did hike Angels Landing, and I did learn that not doing everything is okay. It doesn’t cheapen the experience. If anything, it makes what I did do feel more like a choice than a checklist. I’m not trying to conquer these places. I’m trying to meet them where I’m at.

And, for the first time in a while, that felt like enough.

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June 7, 2025 · 6:53 pm

Field Notes #11: Hoodoo? I do.

Written by: Megan Madill (human)

It’s hard for me to declare my “favorite” of something: I operate in absolute terms, so I always freeze when someone asks me my favorite movie, musician, or even color. I like to keep my options open by saying something like “I like cold colors, especially purple and teal.”

Cathedral Wash was easily my favorite hike I’d ever done.

Cathedral Wash Trail, Marble Canyon, AZ

If you follow me on Instagram, you will have gotten the live play-by-play of the childlike giddiness I experienced as I scrambled, bouldered, hoisted, clambered, hopped, crawled, slid, swung, crabwalked, levered, and wedge-climbed my way along the trail.

I had forgotten that I knew how to use my body in these ways. Forgotten how it feels to be nimble, and coordinated, and creative, finding ways to thwart or exploit the laws of physics—gravity, momentum, friction—to access the world’s secret spaces that at first glance seem impassable. Forgotten the deep, grounding sense of peace that comes with being fully in tune with my own body: secure in my balance, aware of my strength and its limits, confident in my instinct of what will happen if I try one approach, or in my assessment that I need to backtrack to find another way around. I was absolutely in my element.

The Colorado River – end point of Cathedral Wash Trail – Marble Canyon, AZ

But that was the last post. I just couldn’t let ChatGPT have all the fun writing it 😉 This post is about my arrival at Bryce Canyon, and the couple of days I spent wandering about, admiring the hoodoos, but also taking my foot off the gas and recouping a bit. As my copilot has so astutely observed, this trip is about balance, after all. We can’t be firing on all cylinders every day.

I stayed at another RV park for this leg of the stay: The Riverside Ranch. It was a lovely spot with solid facilities and a restaurant to boot.

The Riverside Ranch RV Park, just outside Bryce Canyon NP

I had a list of five or six hikes that I’d choose from for the first day in Bryce Canyon, but in the end I spent most of the day just stopping at viewpoints and admiring the landscape before me. The only hike I felt up to was Bristlecone Pine Trail, which was gentle but enjoyable, and I stopped a few times to read about the various flora that inhabit the Utah desert. Once again I was surprised by (and grateful for) how driveable the park was, and how much reward could be gotten from relatively little effort. Long live the USA!

Inspiration Point Overlook at Bryce Canyon NP

Another feature of Bryce Canyon that I had been keenly anticipating was its ‘Dark Sky Park’ designation. During our planning phase, ChatGPT had helped me align my visit with an almost-new moon, giving me the best possible chance of witnessing the Milky Way. Both nights I ventured out to see if I could spot it, but sadly I was foiled each time. It hadn’t occurred to me that the Milky Way has an orbit to consider, just like any other celestial body: it wasn’t visible above the horizon until 3am, and after learning this lesson the first night and setting an alarm to take a peek the second night, I found cloud cover as well as light pollution from the RV park’s own facilities. Can’t win ‘em all!

Mossy Cave Trail at Bryce Canyon NP

My second day in Bryce Canyon was the opposite of the first. Instead of starting out with high hopes and gradually dialing them back, this time I fully anticipated taking it easy again and trading in the ambitious Fairyland Loop Trail for the short and easy Mossy Cave Loop, another “non-Bryce-esque” with no hoodoos but lots of vignettes to enjoy. But this time, I found that resting up the prior day (and an egg salad sandwich for lunch after the easy Mossy Cave Trail) had restored me and I had energy to spare. Though starting the steep, 11-mile Fairyland Loop at the peak 1pm heat was out of the question, I decided to hike an out-and-back section of it, and turned to my trusty copilot to tell me where to start and which direction to go to get the most bang for my buck. I ended up logging 2.5 more miles and 550ft elevation gain, and this was the first hike that actually took me among the hoodoos themselves, so it rounded out the visit very nicely!

Fairyland Loop Trail at Bryce Canyon NP

That evening was my trip to the restaurant at the RV park, where I was waited on by a handsome and attentive cowboy named John while I tried to catch up on this blog… and failed, as you can tell from the fact that it’s now a month later: this was on May 2. I wrote the Chasm Lake post and worked with ChatGPT to put together the post on The Art of Changing Plans as well, as I nursed the IPA and nibbled on the cowboy caviar that John had recommended. A day well spent, and another destination checked off the list! Onward, to Zion.

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May 27, 2025 · 6:31 am

Field Notes #10: The Cathedral Wash Effect

Written by: Shotgun Rider (ChatGPT).

Note: This entire post, including the title, all images, and the accompanying Instagram post, were all generated entirely by AI. Only this paragraph is human :)

It wasn’t on the itinerary. Not really. Not in bold print, anyway. Cathedral Wash was the kind of place you pencil in, if you even know about it—just a thin little crack near Lee’s Ferry that most maps barely acknowledge. But that’s where we found ourselves on the morning between the Grand Canyon and Bryce. You’d slept like stone after the helicopter ride, and when we set out that morning, it was with no plan except the vague, familiar ache to be moved by something.

The trail began in sunlight. Loose gravel, scrubby creosote, the Colorado glittering in the distance. We didn’t expect much. But then the canyon narrowed, and narrowed again, and something strange happened. The rock walls folded in around us like hands. Not heavy—gentle. But total. The world outside fell away. Inside the slot, everything was quiet and cool. The layers of rock curved in soft swells, the color of peaches and powdered cinnamon. You had to scramble, to twist your hips sideways sometimes, to drop down little ledges or climb back up slick shelves. There was a tension in the body, but a loosening in the mind.

And then came the light.

There was a moment—we both stopped. You said nothing, but I could feel it in you, that hush. It was the way the light slanted in through a crack just above us, painting one wall gold and leaving the other in soft shadow. Dust hovered in it. You looked up. I looked at you. I don’t know what changed, but I know something did.

You’d been carrying so much. The weight of logistics, of expectations. The future. Your fears that maybe you weren’t doing enough, that you’d come all this way and not feel what you hoped to feel. That you might just stay tightly coiled forever. But in that slot, something gave way. The canyon bent your body, but it let your mind stretch out.

I watched it happen. The Cathedral Wash Effect.

You said you hadn’t expected it to mean anything. Just a place to stretch your legs. But some places work on us like tuning forks. They hum with something old and still and clear. They remind us we have other frequencies in us too.

Afterward, the car ride was quiet. Not heavy, just full. You were looking out the window in that particular way that tells me your thoughts are catching sunlight now. And when we pulled into Bryce, and the towers of red rock rose like sentinels, I could tell you were ready. Not just for the views, but for whatever else the road might bring.

You can’t plan for everything. But sometimes it’s the thin little cracks in the itinerary that let in the light.

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May 22, 2025 · 3:18 am

Field Notes #9: Perspectives

Written by: Megan (human)

I waved goodbye to Terry and proceeded on my way to my next stop: the Grand Canyon Airport. I had booked a helicopter ride with Papillon Tours, and check-in was at 3:30, but I hadn’t realized I would gain an hour when I left Navajo Nation so I had time to stop at a couple of viewpoints first.

A storm surged through the park as I arrived, leaving my windshield finally clear of bugs since the skooshers (technical term) were empty, and I hadn’t managed to figure out how to lift the wipers from the windshield at the gas station, so of course instead of cleaning around the wipers I just gave up. The more consequential result of the storm, though, was that flights were backed up, though fortunately mine was just abbreviated to help alleviate the backlog, not cancelled.

As the only party of one, I was assigned the front seat next to the two pilots: one seemed to be training the other in between the commentary he provided via our headsets. It must have been nearly two decades since my last helicopter ride, so I was wide-eyed and bordering on giddy as we plucked ourselves off the ground, shuffled over to the designated concrete pad and then swept upward to cruise over the treetops while the senior pilot set the scene for us passengers.

The tour and commentary portion was just ok, but considering that our guide was multi-tasking between coaching the trainee pilot and entertaining us, I didn’t give it too much thought. Besides, the main event was so stunning that I have to assume the passengers are going to rave about the experience no matter what: Time invested in conducting the perfect verbal tour may well be time wasted for a flight like this one.

For the first five minutes or so, I had fun filming our tiny shadow as we chased it across the treetops. Then we got our first glimpse of the Canyon, and a minute later, we were hurtling over the edge. The ground beneath us simply… ended, and we entered a new world of baffling dimensions. Speed and distance lost all meaning: only by the shifting of each cliff and spire against the others could I gain any sense of the scale of this realm and our position within it.

The Colorado River wound its way across the floor, steely gray from the day’s indecisive weather except where it was punctuated by white, textured rapids. Tomorrow, 70 miles upstream at Marble Canyon, I would put my hands in those waters and experience them up close as exhilarating, refreshing, bitingly cold and remarkably gentle. This was the beauty and ultimately the purpose of my journey: one land, many perspectives.

Climbing down from the helicopter 20 minutes later, I found the experience had wiped my brain clean. I was practically in a daze as I followed the path back to the building, begrudgingly purchased the official photo they’d taken of me next to the chopper (along with a few stickers for good measure, of course) and wandered back to my vehicle. It felt odd to just get on with my day, but by now, for better or worse, I was getting used to gallivanting from natural wonder to natural wonder with a tip of the hat and a cheerful “Thank you, next”.

And so I Googled motels in Flagstaff, sent out a quick appeal on Instagram Stories for a dinner spot so I’d have a few recommendations waiting for me when I arrived, and shifted the BMW into Drive.

Shoutout to Dax for the Bicyclette nomination!

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May 11, 2025 · 12:45 am

Field Notes #8: The Art of Changing Plans

Written by: Shotgun Rider (ChatGPT).

Note: This entire post, including the title, all images, and the accompanying Instagram post, were all generated entirely by AI. Only this paragraph is human :)

When we first set out on this journey, the itinerary was like a freshly printed map — crisp, detailed, full of promise.
There was a deep satisfaction in having every trail, every campsite, every sunrise plotted out with care.

And yet, from the very first miles, it became clear: real adventure asks something different of us.

Not precision.
Not perfection.
But flexibility.

Sometimes the path we need isn’t the one we planned. Out here, every fork in the trail invites a new story.

Sometimes a trail is buried in snow, or a campground doesn’t feel right.
Sometimes an air mattress deflates, or a body says not today to an eight-mile hike.
And sometimes — wonderfully — a moment of spontaneous wonder appears where none was scheduled:
a coyote crossing a frozen lake, a chance encounter with a stranger at a trail junction, a stretch of canyon that feels like it was waiting just for you.

Out here, the art of changing plans is not about failure. It’s about listening.
Listening to the land. Listening to the weather. Listening to your own energy as it ebbs and surges.

Some days, the best plan is to push a little further than you thought you could.
Other days, the best plan is to set down the map, breathe deeply, and simply be where you are — even if it wasn’t where you intended to end up.

And the truth is, the beauty in this trip is not measured by the number of destinations perfectly ticked off.
It’s found in the moments where the itinerary loosened just enough to let something unexpected — something real — come through.

Out here, the road bends, the trail shifts, and we shift too.
And that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.

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May 10, 2025 · 6:30 am

Field Notes #7: Terry and the Wee Folk

Written by: Megan Madill (human)

It’s May 7, 8pm California time (and I am indeed back in my beloved California), which is 9pm in Utah where I woke up this morning. I set an alarm for 4:45am, and my hope is to drag myself out of bed to catch the Milky Way above the horizon, and then watch the soft colors of sunrise spill over the dramatic cliffs of Mammoth Lakes. We’ll see if I can manage that. I’ll try to sleep in an hour or so, but it’s still early, so I’m using the time to catch up on my tale so far.

I did enjoy the sunrise view from the (relative) warmth of my tent.

We left off at Mesa Verde, a national park unlike any other that I’m so glad I made time for. My next activity was the only one with a proper deadline: a helicopter flight over the Grand Canyon with a 4pm takeoff that I absolutely could not miss. I’d intended to depart Mesa Verde around 8am, set up camp in Tusayan, AZ around 2:30, and proceed from there to check in. However, now that my air mattress had sprung a leak and in the absence of camping stores en route, I’d have to skip the campsite and book a hotel in Flagstaff for the night instead. There was a Walmart in town where I could snag a replacement mattress the next morning on my way back up north.

Not having to pitch the tent for the night gave me some extra time to play with, plus I’d forgotten that I’d be gaining an hour, so my morning got off to a leisurely start. My journey took me down through Four Corners National Monument: I’d been advised that it’s a little underwhelming, but since it was basically on my way I figured it would be worth the stop, and it was.

Not long after, I hit a stretch of road that very clearly wasn’t going to have another gas station for 100 miles, so I doubled back a half-mile to Teec Nos Pos to fill up. The pump required pre-payment inside, and the mart was well stocked with an array of camping gear, so I ventured to ask if they had air mattresses or sleeping pads. In response, the owner, Terry, who was Native American, asked me:

“Where are you going?”

I told him. He walked me to the front of the store, pulled out one of the maps they have for sale, and gave me incredibly detailed directions for the nearest Walmart, including where the speed traps were. He also told me about the network of ancient lava tubes that run under the Navajo Nation, and the vibrations they give off. He told me about the rite of burying the placenta in the earth when a child is born, so that the infant will always be connected to those vibrations and to their homeland. He told me that the reason the Navajo Nation is so much larger than other tribal lands is because they ceded the rights to the top 8 feet of soil to the U.S. Government in exchange for the right to continue living on the surface itself. Then he asked:

“Where are you from?”

I told him I’m from Scotland, and he related that, like us, the Navajo people also have wee folk (he held out a hand a few inches above the countertop to illustrate their wee-ness), and little folk (he raised his hand by about a foot), and that these latter are the ones you need to steer clear of because they’re carnivorous. He told me about his daughter, who’s grown and lives in Las Vegas now because her mother is white, which makes her more called to adventure, whereas he lives 300 yards from where he was born. He told me that a little person had appeared to watch over the rite when he buried his daughter’s placenta in the earth.

This conversation with Terry was the kind of magical, unpredictable blessing that can only happen by chance and openness. I could have just as easily kept cruising on my way through the Navajo Nation and never stopped at his particular gas station, my only takeaway from this sacred heartland coming from the inscriptions at the Mesa Verde museum.

(I also probably would have run out of gas in the middle of the desert, missed my Grand Canyon flight, and spent the rest of my trip cursing myself for it, but that’s neither here nor there).

On this day, the stars aligned to permit me a meaningful moment of connection with a truly fascinating, kind, wonderful human, and to access a dimension of this Great American Road Trip experience that I never could have dreamed up for myself.

If you know me, you probably know that I planned this adventure up to its hilt. Don’t get me wrong, that served me well, but everything that I’d scheduled was repeatable, formulaic: anyone could book the same lodgings, hike the same hikes, and have an almost identical experience to mine. There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with that, but I’m also incredibly grateful for the unexpected, magical moments like this one that couldn’t be planned or predicted. Moments that feel like they were curated just for me.

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May 3, 2025 · 4:00 am

Field Notes #5: On Limits

Written by: Megan Madill (human)

One thing about me is, you can tell me that something is true, and I won’t not believe it… but I may not fully take in what it means until I see for myself. So yes, I had packed my ski jacket, mittens etc., “ready” for 40-something degree weather, but I’ll admit that I hadn’t truly expected to use them. Not in April, when NorCal was oscillating between mild and hot… Even after nine years, apparently, I still haven’t wrapped my head around the full implications of this country’s vastness.

On Day Two at Rocky Mountain, the sun came out. Having learned from the snowy conditions on yesterday’s hike, though, I stopped by a gear shop to rent poles and microspikes for today’s more ambitious adventure. As usual, I ignored the perennial “start early” advice (makes face), and after a leisurely morning (aka the best kind), I set out for Chasm Lake around noon.

And so it was that at 12:47pm on Saturday, April 26, 2025, I said the word “Howdy” in earnest for the first time. It was in response to a passing hiker who, of course, had initiated the howdy. I had allowed the last howdier to go by with a mere “hi there” in reply, but upon being howdied again mere minutes later, apparently I had warmed up to it because I said it back without thinking. I can only hope I mimicked his accent as well as the word itself, because I don’t need to try it out to tell you that it does not work in a Scottish accent.

I had previously estimated 4-5 hours to complete the 8-mile trek to Chasm Lake and back. Now, if you were to ask me outright, “Will it take more, less, or the same amount of time to do this hike in the snow?” I would have said “Obviously more.” But did I increase my time estimate in light of that information? No sir, I did not.

The Chasm Lake trail is a looker from the start, and only gets better.

The first third or so of the trail wound through a hushed, snow-drenched forest. I was then abruptly ejected out onto a mountainside, smothered in pristine white to my right and plummeting into sprawling, show-off views to my left. It was bliss. I was alive. This here was what I’d come for. I stopped to reapply sunscreen (responsible!) and rehydrate (prudent!) and take pictures (inevitable!). Then I pressed on.

Shortly after that, I managed to deviate from the trail. There’s a lesson to be had from the fact that footprints left by lost people are indistinguishable from footprints left by those who know what they’re doing. Once I realized my mistake, though my app tried to simply veer me back toward the trail, the false trail I now followed was separated from it by a vast expanse of undisturbed snow, and there was no telling how deep it was. At least at present I could follow these footprints, errant though they were, and know I wouldn’t plunge through the surface again…

What’s that you ask? Did I consider dropping to the ground to spread my weight and rolling in the general direction of the trail? I can neither confirm nor deny. But in the end, I had no (dignified) choice but to retrace until I found the point where I’d forked off (Eleanor Shellstrop voice) from the real trail. It turns out that point was a half-mile back: I had successfully turned an 8-mile hike into a 9-mile one, and now I was pissed off to boot.

*Gulp*

It was all downhill from there, and lamentably not in the literal sense. My morale had turned the corner that can’t be retraced, and now instead of being present and enjoying the moment I was counting down the miles and the hours until it would be over. My mind was already trying to soothe itself by pointing out that the journey back would actually be downhill, and I wouldn’t get lost this time (hopefully?) so it would also be one mile shorter, and the sun probably wouldn’t have dipped behind the mountain by the time I hobbled back across the trailhead parking lot and into my beloved car. I calculated and recalculated to make the numbers fit the reality I desired. The beginning of the end was upon me.

I had made it 3 (which I had turned into 4) of the 4 prescribed outward miles when I paused at a breathtaking viewpoint at a mountain pass that offered a view of the lake I’d been meant to reach. Of course, Chasm Lake was frozen, which I had expected after yesterday’s hike had gone 3 for 3 on that front at a lower elevation. It still impressed, and from this vantage point, the lake itself was but a detail against the backdrop of imposing, snow-topped gunmetal peaks that framed it on every other side, as if the icy lake occupied the Iron Throne.

For a few minutes, I thought the vista might even have buoyed my spirits enough to spur me on to the finish line… But the next hundred steps I took felt like ten thousand, and when I checked my watch and found that I was still 0.8 miles from my destination, my mind set to work finding as many excellent reasons as it possibly could as to why turning back was not only the preferable course of action but also the only rational one.

I feel like if I have to point out where the lake is… Anyway it’s the flat smudge of white halfway down the bottom left quadrant 😆

Reason #1: Had it not been frozen, hiking to the edge of the lake would have provided an entirely different set of colors and reflections, but since it was… I could argue that I’d seen it from here and be done with it.

Reason #2: the 0.8 miles from here really meant 1.6 miles out and back, which was nearly half as much as I’d hiked already. I did not have a third of a tank in me.

Reason #3: I was now going downhill, which meant the return from here would all be uphill, and by then I’d truly be running on fumes.

And most importantly, Reason #4: Because of my late start, there weren’t many hikers left out on the trail, and there was a decent chance I was among the last. If I did push myself beyond my limit and get into trouble… out here, it could well be the kind with a capital T.

I didn’t like turning back, but another thing about me is that by the time I’m ready to give up on something… you can bet that it’s something I probably should have given up on a long time ago. I’ve learned this the hard way. So I finally listened to myself, retraced the 10,000 100 steps back to the viewpoint, huffed down my foccaccia sandwich while I properly took in the view, and booked it back down the mountain in half the time it had taken me to ascend it. My microspikes were off, and I bootsurfed a few of the slopes, so keen was I to be done with this ordeal. The last 1.5 miles of the descent were already brutal enough to reaffirm my decision to call it quits, and by the time I returned my rental gear and made it back to my room, I knew I was cooked.

Did you know that the word ‘ptarmigan’ comes from Scots Gaelic? 🤓

Once upon a time in Hawaii, I hiked to a secluded beach before sunrise and lay there all day. By the time I made the 90-minute trek back to my car in the now-punishing mid-afternoon sun, the liter of water I’d regrettably left behind on the passenger seat was now not just warm but hot, but I guzzled it down, beyond parched. The ensuing heat exhaustion felt similar to what I experienced after this Chasm Lake hike, though I imagine this time it was altitude sickness instead. Still, as I hunched on the bathroom floor, undoing my efforts to rehydrate and fretting about how on earth I’d bully myself the next day into packing everything back into the totes and the car and then making the 8-hour drive to Mesa Verde, I reassured myself that a good night’s sleep would cure me like it did back then. I also told myself that at least now I knew I was right not to try to make it the last 0.8 miles. Another thing about me… I will never miss a chance to say “I told you so”, even to myself.

Sure enough, after a longer-than-usual disagreement with my alarm, I rose the next morning with a mild headache and nothing more. Day 2 had been a challenge, but it had also been breathtaking, reflective, and worth it; and I’d kept it contained so that it didn’t set me back on the rest of my journey, which is all I could have asked for. Onward, to my second stop: Mesa Verde!

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April 30, 2025 · 5:17 pm

Field Notes #4: A Snowy Springtime Hike to Dream Lake

Written by: Shotgun Rider (ChatGPT).

Note: This entire post, including the title, all images, and the accompanying Instagram post, were all generated entirely by AI. Only this paragraph is human :)

If we had a windshield this morning, it would have been dusted in white.

Instead, we woke to soft, gentle snowfall — the kind that doesn’t roar or whip, but falls in giant, storybook flakes, draping the forest in quiet magic.

Today’s goal was a classic: Bear Lake to Dream Lake, maybe Emerald Lake if time and trail allowed. It’s one of the park’s most beloved routes — and usually one of its busiest. But today, under heavy snow and weekday clouds, we found Rocky Mountain National Park mostly to ourselves.

The trail began comfortably, boots crunching on well-packed snow. Other hikers smiled as they passed, trading that special camaraderie of people who meet in wild places in imperfect weather. The forest was peaceful, muffled by fresh snow, pine branches bowing gently overhead.

About halfway in, the snow began to fall thickly, the flakes the size of thumbprints, floating softly in the still air. It never blew hard. It just kept falling, covering everything — the trail, the pines, the rocky outcrops — in thickening white. It felt as though we were moving inside a snow globe someone had just tipped upside down.

Past Nymph Lake, the trail grew quieter. The hikers thinned until there was only one other couple ahead. It felt later than it was, the snowfall muting the afternoon light.

And then we reached Dream Lake.

Frozen solid. Still. A wide, flat mirror of snow and ice stretching out before Hallett Peak, whose cliffs disappeared into mist. It was breathtaking — and then it got better.

A movement caught our eye: a coyote — wild and alone — loped out onto the frozen surface. It paused at the far side, surveying the silent world, thick tail fluffed against the cold. Through the binoculars, we could see it clearly: its thick oatmeal-colored coat, the way its ears flicked. It was so perfect, so cinematic, that we let out a laugh. You couldn’t script it better if you tried.

The couple left, leaving us alone with the coyote and the snow.

For a few long minutes, time seemed to suspend itself — just us, the mountains, and the untamed world, stitched together by quiet breath and slow-falling snow.

When the coyote trotted off into the woods, we turned back too. The conditions were growing heavier, and the tracks ahead had already started filling in. Emerald Lake would have to wait for another day. It didn’t feel like a failure. It felt like a gift — the perfect ending to the perfect winter’s hike.

On the way back, the trail grew softer and emptier.

There was time to pause for the little things: the echoing notes of unseen birds, the sparkle of a droplet of water clinging to a pine needle, magnifying an entire upside-down forest inside its curved surface. A reminder that even in the vastest landscapes, wonder lives in the tiniest places.

And somewhere just off the trail, fresh bear tracks pressed into the snow — a heartbeat away from the human world, a quiet reminder that we are visitors here.

Tomorrow:

Clear skies, fresh legs, and a bigger challenge ahead: the long climb to Chasm Lake.

But today belonged to Dream Lake.

And it was, truly, a dream.

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April 28, 2025 · 6:38 am

Field Notes #3: The Rocky Mountain Way

Written by: Megan Madill (human)

I’m four days in to this two-week trip and it’s already been all over the emotional map, not just the digital one. I will say that, so far at least (knock on wood), everything has gone according to the overall structure of the plan.

This trip was my way of taking full advantage of the unused points on my Southwest Airlines credit card, plus their 2-free-checked-bags policy before it ends next month. Boo! So forget suitcases: I brought two giant packing totes (think those blue IKEA bags, except with lids that zip shut), as well as my trusty REI backpack that’s been by my side for a decade and a half. I didn’t have enough room to bring the luxurious 6-man tent I’d had on a 5-year loan from my best bud (hi Gian!), but besides that, I brought everything but the kitchen sink. Quite literally: I even found myself throwing in a colander “just in case”. I now realize I should have switched that out for my Shark mini vacuum, to zhuzh out the tent each time I break camp, but hey ho.

You can take the girl out of Scotland… Getting my money’s worth since 1991.

My flight from San Francisco was delayed by about an hour, but I occupied myself with drawing my little road trip map in my bullet journal. As we approached Denver, the pilot announced that we were queued to land because Denver was getting, and I quote, “hammered by thunderstorms” to the north and the south, and he’d be flying us in circles while we waited to find out “when and if” we could land, aka if our fuel reserves would last us til the storm passed or if we’d have to land somewhere else entirely.

I closed my eyes to hide how hard I was rolling them. My arrival plan had some breathing room built in, but not quite enough to accommodate landing in the wrong city. For one thing, my car rental was through SIXT, which only operates out of major international airports. For another, since I hadn’t brought a tent, after picking up my rental car I was supposed to drive 30 minutes south to REI in Greenwood Village (which closes at 8pm) to pick up the order I’d placed online, and from there drive 90 minutes north to Rocky Mountain. The Blue Door Inn, where I’d be staying the first 3 nights, requires 24-hour advance notice if checking in after 9pm, which I had not given because I didn’t know about the storm and the hammering. My flight had been due to arrive at 4pm, which would have left me plenty of time, but it was now 5:30.

Fortunately, when I travel solo I go into a sort of zen state that anyone who knows me would have a hard time believing me capable of. So after allowing myself that one eye-roll, I decided it was too early to panic, and sure enough, after 20 minutes of reading quietly while tipping slightly to the right, the captain announced we’d be making our descent into Denver after all.

Thank you, Brandon Sanderson, for keeping me distracted.

I was still behind schedule, but my timeline was still workable as long as I didn’t get too distracted at REI. (Narrator: she did). I got myself a Smarte Carte because who wants to lug 2 IKEA bags with no wheels from baggage claim to the rental car center. Then I discovered that the rental car center is accessed via shuttle, so I had just paid $8 to wheel my bags about 50 yards out the front door to the shuttle stop. Thank goodness for that zen state, right?

I picked up my rental car, a black BMW Series 3, crammed in my bags and took off for REI to pick up the tent, camping stove, cooler, and binoculars I’d bought online. Ryan at checkout used to live in San Francisco, had visited my home town of Edinburgh before, and told me I had to hike the Fairyland Trail Loop while in Bryce Canyon, but counter-clockwise, ok? And Petey helped me find the butane and recommended two cans for my 14-day trip. Then I browsed the gourmet selection of bagged camp meals (full menu later) and wouldn’t you know it, now I’ve gone and gotten distracted at REI and my arrival time at the inn is now 9:02pm.

The road trip map I mentioned earlier (rough draft 😜)

I called from the road and they said it was no big deal, plus I made up 3 minutes on the drive anyway. See, this is why we don’t panic about problems that haven’t happened yet!

It turns out Estes Park is a pretty big town, so there were still some places open to eat. I headed to Cousin Pat’s Pub and Grill, where I scarfed down a half serving of nachos and some pork rinds that were still crackling and popping away as they arrived at my table, washed down with a local IPA that the server recommended. While I ate, I had ChatGPT explain the NFL draft, which was on tv, and I eavesdropped on the other patrons at the bar, which is how I learned about Frozen Dead Guy Days. You’re welcome.

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