I had been dreaming of a Vegas vacation, but in the most unusual way.
The separation had been tougher than I could have ever imagined. Salty texts, recriminations, lots of tears. "This too shall pass," the old adage went, but there were times when I was engaged in the umpteenth fight with my ex that I began to wonder if the Persian poets were full of shit.
Some point during my visit to the "falling out of love" hell pit, I promised myself a getaway if I emerged alive on the other side.
My friends had hiked this gorgeous stretch inside the Red Rocks Canyon; I was entranced by pictures of sandstone formations that were the color of cider mill doughnuts and of unblemished skies.
Mountaineering had long been a hobby of mine. It was my escape from the cacophony of voices that came to define my Monday through Friday existence: never-satisfied bosses, a petulant husband and a slew of idiots that tried to chat me up during my gym time.
I had set a goal ten years ago to reach the summit of all 46 Adirondack High Peaks, but I hadn't truly made it a mission until my marriage started dissolving. It was easier, I suppose, to walk up 4,000 feet of incline than it was to bear the sight of my ex concocting another lie as he talked to me.
While I never intended hiking to be a solitary endeavor, the truth was my friends talked a good game, but rarely delivered. I could count on Kirsten or Cathy if my goal for the day was a 2.5 mile loop over somewhat even terrain. But they begged off of longer hikes, citing flimsy promises to attend their daughter's 13th softball game of the year or help their boss get ahead on a client pitch on a weekend.
I didn't give a second thought to inviting a girlfriend to Vegas with me. I've always felt responsible for other people's good times. And, as selfish as this might sound, I wanted to plan almost nothing and let the spirits decide the day's activities.
I booked my trip for early March, figuring I'd be quite over the sub-zero temperatures and face-whipping winds of upstate New York by then. The Nevada weather would be near ideal for hiking, with highs in the upper 60s, lows in the mid-40s and nary a chance of precipitation, even in the higher elevations.
Although I was excited about hiking unfamiliar terrain, it wouldn't allow for much time to pursue my other new passion: enjoying my new found freedom from monogamy. Tinder had become a wasteland of one-night stands, with guys mostly in the 5-7 range on the 1-to-Jon-Hamm scale being my willing prey. Most of these men were going to be forever single because of any one of their various idiosyncrasies, so I felt like the Florence Nightengale of fucking -- healing damaged egos and restoring virility.
I had a vibrator that didn't lack for attention, but I greatly preferred a man's touch. Intimacy, even for one hour or one night, was a welcomed change after my husband's touch ran cold too many years ago.
***
The Bridge Mountain Trail was an excursion you wanted to start early in the morning.
When my alarm went off at 4:35 a.m., I lept into the shower. I did my best thinking there, and today's hike was going to take a bit of planning. The Red Rock Canyon was about a three hour drive from my home in Lake Havasu City, Ariz., although I would get an hour of that back traveling from the Mountain to Pacific time zones. Last night, I had packed all the necessary supplies into my North Face Terra 65 -- water, food, sunscreen, first aid kit, compass and warmer clothing -- so that I could get on the road without delay.
The trail was a 14-mile circuit through a juniper and pinyon pine forest, in which hikers navigated unmarked portions with minimal climbing equipment. It would require a strong set of hands, an understanding of one's own center of gravity and a keen sense of direction.
Between the degree of difficulty and my decision to mountaineer mid-week, I figured I'd have a good six to eight hours by myself. I wasn't anticipating reliable cell service, which was admittedly kind of a relief. The people at my firm had a nasty habit of not respecting "days off," and I relished the thought of how many calls would go straight to voicemail.
I made sure the dog had enough food for a few days -- in case I was feeling a side excursion to Vegas after my hike -- before pointing my Toyota 4Runner north toward Interstate 95.
I made it to the conservation area as the sun was painting everything in its proximity with a warm splash of red. My SUV handled the uneven terrain to the trailhead with minimal trouble, and I soon discovered the parking lot had yet to be touched by another human this morning.
I reached into my passenger seat for my Thermos of coffee and my hiking boots. I laced the boots from toe to ankle, checked my phone -- oscillating between one and two bars here -- and grabbed my pack.
I made it to the junction between the North Peak and Bridge Mountain trails with relative ease, and enjoyed the views of the sandstone cliffs as well of as my home state. I continued to follow signs toward the summit, passing the Keystone and Canyon overlooks. The trail became less obvious as I pressed on and, as the ridge narrowed, I ditched my trekking poles near a prominent painted rock that I thought would stand out on my return trip.
I methodically moved through the steep gullies, up the cracked rocks and picked the route that would lead me under the staggering, nature-made arch. I refilled my canteen using the water that collected in a pocket of bedrock and then continued -- upward this time -- to the summit.
I was feeling very accomplished when I reached the apex of the trail. I stopped for a half-hour to refuel, sign the register and take pictures of my 360 degree view of California and Nevada's most prominent mountain ranges and high peaks.
As I descended, I began to take note of my body. Despite the caloric boost, my legs were putty -- not a comforting feeling when you're palming and smearing your way down a shale formation. It took just one bad plant, and my balance was lost. I extended my right hand out to cushion my fall and heard a sound like a fat man stepping on a bag of potato chips.
I rolled onto my shoulder and reflexively grabbed my wrist. I barely had touched it when I felt the pain shoot down into my elbow.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I shimmied my body toward a rock that would provide some back support and took my first good look at my wrist. Nothing was protruding -- very good -- but it definitely looked askew. It was very tender, reacting to even the lightest of touches.
I used my good hand to reach into my backpack and find the ibuprofen. When I swallowed those, I grabbed my cell phone. I tried a friend's number, but the phone would not connect. I tried several other numbers. No service.
I leaned my head back on the rock, took a few deep breaths and tried to keep from crying.
***
The hiking gods were laughing at me.
I had wanted a challenge. That's why I picked the Bridge Mountain Trail. Now I was cursing my five-hours-ago self for her hubris.
I silently thanked myself for having the foresight, at least, to purchase a permit to camp on this trail. The tent had added pack weight, which wasn't helping the pins and needles feeling in my feet. But I would get as far as I could, find a spot sheltered from crosswinds and put down stakes.
Mentally, I was committed to hitting the summit today. Physically, I just wasn't sure it was possible. There had been a fair amount of trucks in the parking lot. Yet the farther I walked, the fewer people I encountered. The casual hikers came for the sights and found them at the early canyons. The hardcores must have stayed home -- with the exception of whoever left behind their trekking poles at the painted rock.
With my walking now feeling like moving through Jell-O, I took more time to appreciate the scenery. At the arch, I even tried to close my eyes and meditate. With only the slight rustle of wind to distract me, I still failed to clear my mind.
