Ever Read The Fine Print On A Ski Area Waiver? Here's What You Sign Away...

Ever read the fine print of a ski area's waiver when buying a ticket? Well, you should... Credit: The Denver Post

When you buy a ski pass to a mountain you have to sign a waiver. Most often you don't read this waiver. But if you did, you'd find that you just signed away your liability towards that ski area.

By signing the waiver the ski area is in no way liable for any harm/damages that you sustain while skiing there. By signing you assume all responsibility for what happens on the ski area's slopes, even if it's the ski area's fault.

In 2017 A 55-year-old woman in Colorado was hit by a swinging chair that caused her 13 injuries and immediate hospitalization. She underwent several surgeries and experienced prolonged pain. However, before the accident occurred, the woman signed two waivers in order to get her Epic Season Pass that allowed her skiing at that Colorado resort. Those waivers ended up barring her from taking legal action against Vail Resorts after she got hurt.

The waiver you sign when purchasing an Epic Pass from Vail Resorts bars you from suing the company. At the top of that liability waiver, you will find a bolded and highlighted statement that often reads something like "Warning: Please read carefully before signing!" 

As you read farther down on your waiver that you just signed, you will see that you signed away your right to sue or make any claims for any injury, including death, even if the claims are based on resort negligence. This is standard language at all ski areas. 

Here's some fine print taken directly from the limited liability release waiver for Park City Mountain Resort:

"In consideration for allowing Participant to participate in the Activity,
 I AGREE, to the greatest extent permitted by law, TO WAIVE ANY AND ALL CLAIMS
 AGAINST AND TO HOLD HARMLESS, RELEASE, INDEMNIFY, AND AGREE NOT TO SUE Vail
 Resorts, Inc., The Vail Corporation, Trimont Land Company, Heavenly Valley,
 Limited Partnership, VR US Holdings, Inc., VR US Holdings II, LLC, VR CPC
 Holdings, Inc., VR NW Holdings, Inc., VR NE Holdings, LLC, Whistler Blackcomb
 Holdings Inc., Blackcomb Skiing Enterprises Limited Partnership, Whistler
 Mountain Resort Limited Partnership, each of their affiliated companies and
 subsidiaries, the resort owner/operator, land owner, activity operator, the
 equipment manufacturer, The Burton Corporation, Beaver Creek Resort Company,
 Dundee Resort Development, LLC d/b/a Arapahoe Basin Ski Area, the United States,
 Her Majesty The Queen In Right Of The Province Of British Columbia and all their
 respective insurance companies, successors in interest, commercial & corporate
 sponsors, affiliates, agents, employees, representatives, assignees, officers,
 directors, and shareholders (each a “Released Party”) FOR ANY INJURY, INCLUDING
 DEATH, LOSS, PROPERTY DAMAGE OR EXPENSE, WHICH I OR PARTICIPANT MAY SUFFER,
 ARISING IN WHOLE OR IN PART OUT OF PARTICIPANT’S PARTICIPATION IN THE ACTIVITY,
 INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO, THOSE CLAIMS BASED ON ANY RELEASED PARTY’S ALLEGED
 OR ACTUAL NEGLIGENCE OR BREACH OF ANY CONTRACT AND/OR EXPRESS OR IMPLIED WARRANTY
 OR BREACH OF ANY STATUTORY OR OTHER DUTY OF CARE, INCLUDING ANY DUTY OF CARE
 UNDER THE OCCUPIERS LIABILITY ACT IN BRITISH COLUMBIA. I UNDERSTAND THAT
 NEGLIGENCE INCLUDES FAILURE ON THE PART OF ANY RELEASED PARTY TO TAKE REASONABLE
 STEPS TO SAFEGUARD OR PROTECT AGAINST THE RISKS, DANGERS AND HAZARDS OF THE
 ACTIVITY"

There is also a section on most liability waivers dictating that a ski area may confiscate your pass in the event you are not following the skier code or the resort's safety guidelines. That includes actions like ducking ropes or skiing recklessly. Just keep that in mind.

So the next time you're filled with excitement, hurriedly buying that season pass with a gleam of stoke in your eye, take a moment to become familiar with what it is exactly you're signing. That way, you'll know the conditions you have just agreed to and can be on the same page with your ski area and its safety guidelines. Because if something happens, you get hurt and try to sue -- you will probably lose.


A standard release of liability waiver found at North American ski areas. Credit: hauerandco.com

NOAA: Record Low Expected in Salt Lake City, Utah Tonight: 30ºF Below Normal

 Temperatures are expected to hit record lows in Salt Lake City, Utah tonight 10/29/19. Credit: NOAA
It's winter in the Wasatch. 

NOAA is reporting that temperatures in Salt Lake City will hit record lows tonight, some 30ºF below-average temperatures for this time of year. The massive temperature drop is the result of an arctic storm system currently hitting portions of the western United States.

"In a week of cold temperatures, tonight will have the coldest, with lows running
 30°F below normal for this time of year." - NOAA 10/29/19

Temperature isn't the only thing dropping in the Wasatch, as Utah Ski areas have received 11" of new snow in the past 24 hours.  Below are today's images from Utah ski areas:

Snowbird is reporting 11" of new snow in the past 24 hours, 10/29/19. Credit: Snowbird

Snowbird tram deck buried in new snow, 10/29/19. Credit: Snowbird

 

Alta Ski Area webcam, 12:29 p.m. 10/29/19 Credit: Alta Ski Area

 Alta Ski Area Web Cam, 1:34 pm 10/29/19: Credit: Alta Ski Area

A Tamale is a Tamale: A Dirtbag Epic

Adventure Summary: crack climbing, desert camping, citations, scuba diving, and canned tamales.

The two best state highways in Utah are highways 210 and 211. They are coincidentally numbered one right after the other even though they are located on two different sides of the state. Highway 210 is the road that runs through Little Cottonwood Canyon, home to righteous ski areas Alta and Snowbird and world-class granite rock climbing. Highway 211 runs through Indian Creek.

If you climb then you've probably heard Indian Creek referred to as the 'crack climbing capital of the world.' All the cliches you hear about this place are accurate.

Rolling into The Creek.

Newspaper Rock - Ancient Native American petroglyphs

Indian Creek is located about an hour south of Moab, Utah near Canyonlands National Park. The area has been visited by humans for over 10,000 years and is filled with ancient petroglyphs and remnants of Native American culture. It has thousands of climbing routes, most of them challenging grades.

Indian Creek is best known for its perfect, sandstone splitters and desert towers that attract climbers from all over the world. We ran into a couple of girls from Norway on the Selfish Wall that came all the way out here just to climb these cracks. Climbers everywhere know this place fucks.

Nuclear Wall in Indian Creek

Last week was my semester fall break, and for six straight days, we lived in the desert and climbed. Eat. Sleep. Shit. Climb. Repeat. That's basically all the three of us - Tom, Eamon, and I - did for an entire week. There's just something about a gorgeous sandstone splitter that scratches that certain itch in a dopamine-hungry brain just right.

"Breakfast Social" 5.10 - a gorgeous splitter finger crack

Our days would start by us summoning up the balls to crawl out of our frozen sleeping bags into the desert cold, followed by coffee and cigarettes and then a greasy breakfast. Then, we'd climb all day until our bodies wouldn't allow us to climb any longer and our hunger began to impair our judgment. After that, we'd head back to our remote outpost across from the Superbowl camping area and make dinner, dirtbag style.

Route hunting

Back at camp, dinners came from a plastic bin of greasy canned foods, and canned tamales were always on the menu. For $1.50 you can't go wrong with a 900 calorie meal that at least mimics the idea of a beef tamale. And honestly, the first can of tamales you eat isn't bad. It's by the time you get to your 6th can within a span of a few days do you really start to question your lifestyle habits and the integrity of your gut biome.

Camp

Regardless of the fury we had to face each morning as a result of our meal choices from the night before, the excitement of climbing that day outweighed any potential negative. It was the sole reason we were there, and all other time spent outside of that was just time spent anticipating the next time we'd be back on the walls of those sandstone giants.

Covered in our own filth for days on end, sleeping under the stars and eating cheap canned meals, we became the definition of dirtbags. And we loved every second of it. Because at the end of a glorious day of desert climbing, you're going to be stoked and you're going to be famished, and a tamale is a tamale.

After a solid week of climbing, we were out of tamales and out of stamina to continue climbing. It was time for a break. We left The Creek and headed to Moab to grab some real food and spend a night in the area before heading to some hot springs in the morning to heal our broken bodies.

"Splitness" 5.10

We decided we'd camp outside of Moab on Potash Road aka 'Wall Street,' a classic Utah crag where you can literally pull up to hundreds of climbing routes on the side of the road and climb from your car. Although we were all extremely fatigued, we figured we'd hit a quick sport pitch here in the morning before heading to the hot springs.

 By the time we got to Potash road, it was late and all the campsites were full. So instead of camping at a designated campsite, we decided to park behind a nice looking boulder on the side of the road, smoke a blunt, and illegally crash there for the night.

Wall Street 

Just around dawn, Eamon aka 'Fat Boi,' was rudely awakened by a kick to his side from the boot of a state highway patrolman.

"Get up! What are you doing here?" The officer demanded to know.

"I don't know, sleeping??" A startled, half-asleep Eamon exclaimed.

When this was happening I heard some chatter coming from outside of my jeep (where I was sleeping) and just figured it was Eamon or Tom bullshitting or looking for the lighter or some shit, per usual. But when I heard, "Tom. Martin. Get up now," in the most agitated, cop voice I could have imagined, I was immediately awake and alert.

 I instantly knew what was happening and instinctively moved the weed and open beer cans that were out from the night before to a dark depth of the jeep. Although we were only an hour away from the imaginary line that separated Utah from Colorado where marijuana was legal, it was not here.

By the skin of our teeth, we avoided serious trouble with the law and each received an $80 citation for illegally camping. The officer grilled us about why that was a silly idea in the first place, and when it was all said and done Eamon offered to shake his hand but the cop wouldn't do it. He knew we were all some greasy fucks from living and climbing in the desert all week. So he offered Eamon a fist bump instead. Tom and I howled.

Climbing next to petroglyphs on "Hot Sex" 5.9

When Mr. Police Man left, we checked out some petroglyphs down the road and climbed a quick sport route next to them, all the while keeping an eye out for him since we told him we were going to leave the area immediately. I had been wanting to climb Wall Street for quite a while, and the view of the Colorado River from the top of the pitch was lovely. After the climb, we booked it straight to the hot springs.

We drove east on I-70 through the gorgeous San Rafael Swell in southern Utah, then south on I-15 to Meadow Hot Spring. Meadow Hot Spring is a series of waterholes in the middle of an impressively flat pasture in the desert somewhere, with mountains visible in the distance. The waterholes there are shockingly deep.

Two of the natural pools are kind of cold, but the third is just the right temperature for drinking beer and telling your friends that you'll get out in another "5 minutes." It was heaven on earth and our bodies definitely needed it after a week in The Creek.

Free scuba lessons at Meadow Hot Spring 

In the hot spring, there was a man who claimed he was a scuba diver and was boasting about his scuba diving abilities. He was telling about how people scuba dive in the pool we were all sitting in because apparently, it was pretty deep. None of us actually took him seriously. Then, right after Scuba Steve left, the unexpected happened. A group of about 5 or 6 scuba divers rolled up to the pool with scuba gear and began scuba diving.

Eamon, Tom, and I looked at each other with utter surprise and immediately saw the comedy in all of this. By this time, night had fallen and the divers were diving with flashlights. After a couple of dives, they were kind enough to let us dive with them. Eamon, Tom, and this girl named Kirsten that we had befriended in the hot spring used the divers' secondary, yellow "buddy" hoses and dove down sharing air with them for their first scuba diving experience ever. They were all anxious about submerging at first but by the time they had resurfaced they all were all in love with scuba diving. One of the divers then let me borrow his BCD/tank/mask so I could have a go at it myself.

I dove down to the bottom of the hot springs which was something like 35 feet deep. The water was warmer down there than at the surface. I buried myself in the silt at the bottom of the spring and turned my flashlight off. I just sat there, covered in warm silt, looking upwards towards the moonlight above the distant surface and listened to the sounds of the bottom.

After losing track of time, I resurfaced and gave the diver back his gear, thanking him for the unique, unexpected experience of scuba diving in a hot spring in the middle of the Utah desert. The whole thing was quite silly and almost feels like a wacky dream.

The night ended with a tender campfire shared with new friends from the springs. The moon was full and illuminated the still desert around us in the beautiful way that it tends to do out there. Around the campfire, the three of us told of the horrors of canned tamale dinners in a desert canyon where sandstone gods still dwell.

Just a few dirtbags in The Creek

Juan José: Colombian Surfing Prodigy

Juan José: Puerto Colombia's youth surfing champion. 

A chat the other day with an aging surfer in a hot spring had me thinking again about that little Colombian surfing devil, Juan José.

Juan Jose is a 9-year-old surfing prodigy born and raised in the Colombian beach town of Puerto Colombia. He would look like an ordinary boy from Colombia; thin and dark-skinned, if it weren't for his bleach-blonde, surfer-boy hair. Sure, he's a good kid, running around full of energy and always smiling. All the women love cute little Juan José. But he's also a little asshole who thoroughly enjoys fucking with you. Oh, and did I mention he surfs better than the majority of heads at Pradomar Beach? 

When I first got to Pradomar with my 7.5-foot foam board, I had the slightest idea of how to actually surf. In the beginning, I'd be out there in the water, struggling hard and getting my ass handed to me by the waves. I'd always be frustrated and my eyes would be constantly burning from the salinity of the water after losing my balance or getting smushed by yet another toppling wave. 

That's typically when I'd see little Juan José zipping past a few inches from my face on his tiny board, ripping the hell out of a wave and slashing back and forth like a seasoned pro. Always with an ear-to-ear grin on his face. 

After successfully crushing a wave, Juan José may look back at me, who was way back by where the wave initially broke, and laugh as he made fun of the long-haired gringo who couldn't catch the wave. He may have even paddled back to offer me a victorious fist bump, only to retract his hand to make a gesture of greasing back his hair like a cool guy before erupting into contagious laughter. I actually kind of loved that kid, and I really enjoyed watching him rip.

The kid was fluid and natural on his board in a way that was inspiring to watch. He always made it look so effortless. I learned a lot about surfing from him. Sometimes he'd make motions with his arms and legs to show me how to paddle/kick when a wave was approaching. Other times I'd learn something new just from watching him surf and then trying to imitate his style. 

He had really good balance and would get super low in stance on his board, almost like he was intentionally trying to be stylish. I applied this to my own style and I noticed an improvement in my surfing ability as I started to make much better turns with my board.

This goofy, wide-eyed little kid who was at times pretty annoying turned out to be a pretty good teacher and a true inspiration. That's why it came to no surprise to me at all when I had heard that Juan José came in 1st place in the Puerto Colombia Youth Division Surfing Competition that year. 

I left Puerto Colombia and the beach behind without ever saying goodbye to that lil' fucker or any of the other local surfers I had befriended during my 5 months there. I'm sure he's still out there every single day doing what he loves most, which makes me happy to think. Surf on, Juan José.

Juan José and I paddling out at Pradomar beach. 

Great Ski Etiquette: 10 Do's and Don'ts

The do's and don'ts of proper ski etiquette. Credit: Oxygene Ski School

The skier in front of you has the right of way. They may be a slowpoke and be blocking your line, but give them space so you don't accidentally hit them and have to get ski patrol involved. Always ski in control, too.


The skier code. Credit: Stonehouse signs

Stop somewhere sensible. Stop on the side of the piste or where you can be visibly seen so you don't end up being a part of someone's landing.

Know before you go. Make sure to know the trail you are taking so you don't screw yourself by blindly sending into a massive cliff zone or a run that's way steeper than what you're comfortable with. Ski areas hand out trail maps like candy - study them.

Keep the mountains clean! Credit: Live Science

Don't litter. There are often bins at the top of ski lifts so you can recycle your beer cans. It takes a serious scumbag to actively litter in a holy place like a ski area.

Don't cut the lift line. People are already hot and bothered enough on powder days, and fists can fly at any moment in the line to a ski lift.

Help your fellow skiers and don't hesitate to call ski patrol if needed. Credit: Depositphotos

Stop and help a fellow skier who has fallen or looks hurt. This doesn't mean give them CPR or try to save their lives, but if you see a downed skier go over to them and see if they need ski patrol called. No one wants to be left unconscious in the snow.

Don't duck ropes or ski into closed areas. There's a reason ski patrol hasn't opened it yet, and it probably has something to do with your own safety. This is also the quickest way to lose that brand new, shiny season pass of yours.

 Ski lifts have birthed countless friendships and love affairs throughout the ages. Credit: US News Travel

Be friendly on the chair lift. No need to be standoffish on the chair, we're all here for the same reason. Say hi to your fellow skiers, unless they have music in or don't seem to speak the same language as you. Just be respectful and friendly, because who knows, you may make a new friend or wind up with a hot date.

 Liftlines like these cause anxiety. Be cool... Credit: Get Ski Tickets

Don't stand on other people's skis in the lift line. Pretty self-explanatory, but it still happens every day. No one wants a scratch on their brand new Atomic Bent Chetler's from some jerry in the lift line. Watch where you swing those ski poles, too.

HAVE FUN! A wise man once said that the best skier on the mountain is the one who has the most fun. Be as competitive as you like on the hill, but remember the whole reason why you started skiing in the first place - to enjoy yourself and the mountains!


Is there anything more fun than powder skiing? Credit: YouTube

NOAA: 2018/19 = Northern California's Wettest Year In The Last 20 Years!

The 2018/2019 season was the wettest year in the past 20 years for Squaw Valley. Credit: Squaw Valley Alpine Meadows/Facebook

Last winter Squaw Valley had its snowiest February EVER. They received 246 inches or 20.5 feet of snow. That's a record for the month by 50 inches, and only 3 feet from surpassing the snowiest month ever on record (January 2017, 282 inches).

The 2018/2019 season at Squaw valley was their 3rd snowiest season ever with 719" of snowfall. The last day it snowed was May 27th, 2019.

Recent findings by NOAA suggest that the northern Sierra had an unusually wet year - the wettest in 20 years. 

Credit: NOAA

"The northern Sierra just ended an unusually wet water year, which runs from 
October 1st to September 30th. The 8 Station Index had a total of 70.7 inches,
136% of normal! Only 3 years have been wetter out of the past 20: 2017, 2011 
& 2006." - NOAA

February 2019. Squaw Valley, you under there? Credit: Squaw Valley Alpine Meadows/Facebook

The Crag and The Hawk

(An essay for an Environmental Communication course)

Roughly a year ago I started rock climbing outdoors. Little did I know that doing this would change the course of my life forever and would have me utterly addicted to the sport. Yet, it is not just the act of climbing that lures me back into the mountains time after time to ascend the rock. Mysteriously, it is the rock itself that continues to bring me back.

I started climbing in the gym but after my first proper outdoor session, I never stepped foot back inside one again. There’s something about the mountain air on your skin as you’re suspended dozens of feet off the ground on a cool, gigantic rock face that is enchanting. At the end of each climbing session, however tired you may be, you are left with an unquenchable thirst for more – to come back the next day and get after it once again. It can be cold or hot, windy or even rainy, but when you’re up on that rock face you cannot feel any of that external stimuli. You become the rock in the sense of how fortified your psyche is at that present time. It’s as if you are you are the same with that rock. Like the rock is climbing itself, as silly as that may sound.  

Take for example rock climbing in the desert. Out there, beyond the furthest reaches of civilization, you are on your own, at the will of the elements, far from the likes of man. Here, survival comes as intuitively as the path you walk through the desert sands amongst the junipers and cacti. The desert is as enchanting as it is empowering, and when you throw climbing in the mix it’s taken to a whole new level. 

On the way to the desert crag in which I am walking towards to climb, my feet somehow know to guide me in the path of least resistance and most shade, if there is any at all. I flow through the desert tides with ease, like a sailing vessel harnessing a big wind. Meanwhile, my eyes are locked and focused up ahead; my neck slightly canted upwards as I stare at the giant wall I am about to ascend with gear and my climbing partner. The closer I get to this rock the more alive I feel. My heart beats faster, my skin perspires a little more, my throat muscles contract – I am thirsty, but the thirst I have is not the kind that can be quenched by liquids. I crave this rock how desert succulents crave water. Yet, when I am geared up and ready to climb this big wall – which I know may take several hours and use up all the energy I came here with - I fall into a state of unexplainable calmness. 

Some would call it tranquility. As my mind becomes still, my breathing slows down, and I am only focused on the rock in front of me. The smooth feel of the desert sandstone becomes ever more prominent as my sense of touch is heightened, along with my other senses. My vision becomes sharper as my eyes start to see where my next moves on the wall will be, even though my mind doesn’t seem to be giving it much thought. My ears tune in to the sound of my hand and foot placements on the wall and to the sifting of the sand on the rock. I hear the breeze grow in ferocity the further I ascend, like a melody that’s older than time itself. This same wind cools my body somehow promoting an energized sensation only adding to my stamina. I keep climbing.

My mind is as still and as silent as the rock that is currently holding my life. If I stop and look down I can see the progress I’ve made. My climbing partner now looks like an ant on the desert floor below. I start to feel a tingle of fear trickle down my spine. I grip the crag evermore tightly for a second only to have this fear be absorbed by the rock allowing the stillness to return. My hands and feet start to move on their own again and I am re-submerged in a state of flow. 

On this desert crag, I forget who I am. I forget what I am. I am just there – I just am. I am an extension of the rock. It’s an empowering feeling that is counterintuitively relaxing at the same time, in a way I’ll never truly understand. As I continue to climb and place gear, I may stop to catch my breath for a moment. This is when I notice the inhabitants of this crag and the desert with whom I am currently sharing. 

I spot some grass growing in the rock, a hundred feet up off the ground. I wonder: how does this living entity thrive here, in the scorching heat of the desert, way up on this unforgiving rock? How does it survive, day in and day out? Besides the heavy load of water I brought with me, I haven’t seen the stuff for miles around. Yet, as fortified as the rock in which it is growing out of, this little desert shrub lives on. 

Further captivated, I examine the shrub on the wall and realize it is not the only one besides me up here. There are insects crawling around. There is bird poop on the rock next to me. I can begin to see the entire universe that comprises this rock come into play, made up of an unthinkable number of organisms – from the grass to the insects to the birds flying around it and nesting and so forth. Above, like the stars in the night sky comprising the universe in which we live, below is no different. As above, so below, a wise man once said. It all starts to make sense now. I close my eyes and picture this series of infinite universes within themselves start to come into play. The wind picks up into a howl and I breathe in deeply, realizing that I am not apart from this desert world in which I’ve found myself. I am this desert world, I am the wind howling. I realize that as I breathe in the crisp, untainted desert air, in a way I am actually breathing in my self. And I smile. 

My climbing partner calls from below and asks if I’m doing alright. I realize that I’ve paused and had my eyes closed for longer than I intended to. I shout down a phrase of reassurance, scan my beautiful surroundings from up high one more time, thanking it for its existence and its beauty. I look upwards and commence climbing once again, going for one last push to the top of the rock, that along with my rope and gear has held me on this existential journey up it. 

As I near the top, I realize that I am sweating profusely because my fingertips are losing their grip on the rock which has now become slick with the grease from my hands. I put some more climbing chalk on my fingers which I now connect to the fact that it is just as much from the earth as the crag that I’m climbing. What a strange thought to pop into my head, I think to myself, especially since the amount of genuine thoughts I’m having up here is undoubtedly limited by the state of flow I’ve found myself immersed in. A couple more big leg pushes with some good handholds and I find myself at the end of the climbing route, surprised. I’m surprised that the route is now over as if I hadn’t expected it to ever end. I am pleasantly surprised yet almost disappointed that there isn’t more rock to climb, that it just ends here at the top. Strange it feels to have climbed it. Because although I may have spent several hours climbing this tall crag lost in the mystery of the desert, the climb itself had ended just as quickly as it had begun. 

I realize now that this is probably how my entire life will feel once I’m at the end of it, as I know now that everything in this realm of the living is temporary. I stop to look around and only now can I comprehend how far of a distance I’ve traveled vertically up this rock. I’m impressed. Not with myself moreover, but with the rock, I have just climbed, and the exquisite desert it is in. That’s when my favorite part of the entire experience finds me. Directly above me, close enough to lock eyes with the feathered beast, I notice a large hawk soaring in the glow of the afternoon sun. 

The hawk is soaring above me in circles looking as magnificent as anything I have ever seen. The raptor is coasting on thermals, going up, down, and around, perplexed on the desert floor below it. We notice each other. It starts to feel as if this entire day spent climbing up this incredible wall that has empowered me into temporarily being the most powerful, in-tune version of myself, has led up to this moment. It’s led to this somewhat important seeming encounter with this eternal keeper of the desert. We communicate with one other, but not in words; not in any tongue or not with any way of thinking – at least, not in the conventional or human sense. I can’t help but be flooded with an innate sense of appreciation as if the hawk was channeling to me, showing me the beauty of his land of which I am a humble visitor. 

            Then I think back to the climb I have just completed. It’s like climbing this rock was an entry exam granting me access into the eternal realm that the hawk resides. By gaining acceptance, I briefly get to step inside his domain. I unfocus my eyes to try and take it all in - the hawk, the crag, the wide-open sky, the wind; but I can’t. It’s all too much to absorb. Instead, I allow this overpowering sense of gratitude to flow through me once again. However, I don’t grip on to this feeling, like the rock that brought me up to this point in the desert. No instead, I let it go. I let go of the last sliver of human intention and I surrender to this sense of gratitude. For it’s as though the desert is trying to get back in touch with its self that’s hidden deep within me. And I let it. 

           

Reflection

By the time we both got done climbing this huge wall, packed up our gear and started to head back through the desert landscape towards the vehicle to head home, the sun was setting. It was on this walk back that I tried to process everything that had just taken place in this outer-worldly beautiful and enchanting area of the desert which we just climbed. However, I had a hard time doing so because it was all too much. 

I try to replay the events of the day and the climb in my head, focusing on the best parts of it. Like the hard parts of the climb, staring at the grass growing on the rock, or my encounter with the hawk at the top. I try to relive it, to enjoy it again as fully as I did when it was happening. But I don’t find much success. As thankful as I am and as good as I feel about all of it having happened, I don’t understand why or how all these things came to be. I especially don’t understand the reasons why I felt this way, or why I feel this way now. Why I had these sort of connections, and how my now altered brain chemistry had played into it all. Which is when I wonder: perhaps I was never meant to understand these things at all? Maybe I was just meant to live them? To enjoy them.

This shoots me off into an even deeper rabbit hole of thought about the nature of life itself, and my place in the universe. I question whether we as humans are meant to understand these questions, or even be asking them. Maybe, we aren’t. Maybe, we are just meant to live our lives and experience this ride we call life, and that’s as far as it goes. Maybe the purpose of life is inherently simple; and that is, to just live it! 

The older I get and the more I learn, the less I know. However, the older I do get, the more comfortable I become with not knowing because I can start to accept that I actually don’t know anything at all. And that’s fine by me. Sure, I still plan to learn as much as I can until I have to leave this world, but I can now accept that there are some things I probably just won’t ever know or fully understand. I could go my whole life trying to find answers to life’s unanswerable questions. But I could also just accept that I don’t know, that I won’t ever fully know, and proceed to just live my life, happily. Otherwise, the alternative is to die consumed by these ponderings in a disturbed sort of way, as if I had failed by not finding the answers. Yet, I feel as though the hawk or the desert do not care for me to find these answers. Because they don’t even care about finding the answers themselves.