Don't Worry, It's Only an Advanced Trail, You Pussy!

Sunday is a spiritual time. I spent most of today praying that I would survive our ride on the Sovereign trail, which I guess is Moab’s only singletrack ride. Things were going pretty well at the beginning. Then things started to get tricky. Not out of control, mind you, but difficult. That was about a quarter of the way in.

“What kind of trail is this?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s rated as advanced,” Caroline said matter-of-factly.

Shortly thereafter, a merry band of bikers—a robust coterie of Spandex-clad men—came zipping up the trail behind us. We pulled over to let them by. They passed and then stopped right in front of us, whipping the Camelbacks from their shoulders and whipping out Power Bars and bananas. They stuffed these items in their mouths and chewed with mighty, purposeful, robust chews, chattering about the obstacles behind and the trail ahead. One let out a tremendous belch, a battle cry to let the Earth know that it was about to be conquered. As we watched them snake up the hills in the distance, they looked like swarming ants, zigging and zagging around and then bunching up in little groups, waiting for the lead ants to go off and come back with news of what lay ahead.

A ways down the trail I found myself curled up in the fetal position next to the trail, making all kinds of promises to God about how I’d repent for all of my sins and mend my wretched ways if He would just grant me the strength in my legs and the coordination to pick my way through the remaining rocks, drops and badly rutted trail sections. It seemed as though a summer of torrential rains apparently rutted out the trail in several areas, making it much more difficult than when Caroline had last ridden it a few years ago. About 12 miles later, we found ourselves back at the car. I was happy to be alive. Caroline was relieved that my whining had ceased.

Caroline is a Moab pro. She danced over the trail on her bike like a pixie at a German wedding ceremony. And for those of you who don’t know what that means, well, I’m here to tell you that it’s pretty friggen graceful. She never broke a sweat—but she did mostly drain her Camelback.

Back at the hotel, I fell into a deep slumber. I had these terrible dreams of Angels buzzing around my head, reminding me of the promises I had made. I dreamed I was riding down some of the smoothest singletrack on the continent. Then my point of view zoomed out and I realized I was riding through the Slot Canyons of Hell on a singletrack trail that spelled out the word “Repent” in some of the most graceful penmanship I had ever seen.

When I awoke, I found that Caroline had taken it upon herself to clean up the bikes, organize our things and start looking over the itinerary of the coming days. I brooded in a sleep-soaked stupor.

With a few hours of daylight left, we made the drive into Arches National Park. Arches! Arches! Arches! That’s what you see there. Arches! I’m telling you. They’re everywhere, dotting the landscape like the forgotten promises of my Sovereign Repentance. We figured that we had timed things just right to be able to hit the Delicate Arch at around sunset, when the light would be most spectacular.

It was a brilliant idea, we thought, one that no one else would possibly think of. Why, the hike alone would scare most people away, we thought. The parking area was full when we arrived, but we snagged a space because Caroline hasn’t yet used up all her favors with the Lord. I figure God’s favors are kind of like sick leave and you only get so many each month. I constantly have a deficit going, but I believe Caroline has amassed enough to be able to ask for five, maybe six, favors a day for the rest of her life. I’m the John Travolta character to her Olivia Newton John character in our own real-life production of Grease (we’re planning on a debut live in Vegas next month).

Now this is an apparently magical time of the year right now. Every German, Asian and British tourist is right here, right now, visiting exactly the same places as we are. And perhaps this is why our plan went awry. The trudge to Delicate Arch was fairly strenuous, meandering through desert and slick rock. Had only the typical fat, out-of-shape American tourists that we routinely happen upon be out here, we surely would have been alone; most would have given up early on in the hike. The last half mile included a treacherous walk along a narrow ledge with a several hundred foot drop off the side. And just beyond this thin rock walkway lies Delicate Arch. Our arrival time was perfect, the light in the west was just beginning to soften, bringing out the vibrant colors of the surrounding landscape.

“This is perfect,” I whispered as we rounded the last corner.

It was wishful thinking. We crossed the threshold only to find that about 200 people had gathered with with their tripods and professional cameras and camcorders and tiny digital cameras perched atop 40-pound professional tripods. They were all there. Waiting. To take that perfect photo. As if Kodak were offering a million bucks this week only for the best Delicate Arch photos, which are ubiquitous in this area. One poor soul wandered beyond the threshold of people to stand under the arch for a photo. The mob cried out in protest and ran him off. These people were gathered to capture a rock, not people. Then, in a millisecond, it was over: The light flashed to a perfect hue, the sound of a thousand shutters echoed off the canyon walls.

Caroline and I jogged away, intent on beating the crush of humanity back to the parking lot, where a traffic jam awaited in this pristine land. And in three months, in hundreds of houses across the globe, a single photo of the Delicate Arch will lie forgotten, tucked away in hard drives, CD ROMs, and shoe boxes full of photos stuffed on the top shelf of a closet, to be discovered again later and puzzled over as to why it was taken in the first place.

See you on down the road.