Day 6: Living in Luxury at the Lizard
The throb in my back from the night’s sleep softened when I looked out my window to see three pronghorns leaping gracefully across the dirt road. Later I learned they are the fastest land animals in North America: a pretty spectacular sight first thing in the morning.
I lingered awhile, wiping down, reorganizing, watching an episode I’d downloaded the day before. My timed entry, which I found rather annoying for a national park, was set for 10 a.m. After some dilly-dallying, I drove to Arches National Park, waited in a stupidly long line of cars, bought an interagency parks pass, and, of course, patches. One read “I hiked Delicate Arch,” so at least I had one plan for the day.
First I wandered the Windows Viewpoint: three arches carved into the sky. Then I braved the steep hike to Delicate Arch in 95-degree heat. My mind was a mess the whole way up, as it usually is on solo hikes: replaying old conversations and what I should have said differently, trying to remember the name of a board game I played when I was seven, mentally mapping out a new fitness routine I would surely stick to this time, correcting my posture only to slouch again seconds later. Accompanying this turbulence was the same tug-of-war: excitement for the unknown life ahead and an equal measure of fear. As I passed other struggling hikers, I couldn’t help but wonder what was on their minds as they made the climb or if they were thinking at all. Maybe I was the only one caught up in all these reckless thoughts, and everyone else had a normal brain simply focused on how much longer until the trail’s end.
Despite my racing thoughts on the way there, the arch had been worth it. Perched above a sandstone bowl, Delicate Arch rose out of the red rock like a monument, with the La Sal Mountains hazy in the distance. Around the trail, prickly pear cactus and the occasional Utah juniper broke up the expanse of rock.
I spent a half hour in awe gazing out at the scenery I earned. When I made the descent, I decided to wander through the rest of the park, stopping at the occasional lookout spot.
Back in town, I restocked my cooler at a local market and finally convinced myself to check into a hostel. The Lazy Lizard was the only one in Moab and it looked promising enough for my first-ever hostel experience. I’m not quite sure why I was nervous walking in, but when the old man at the desk greeted me with a smile and spent half an hour talking with me about my life, I knew I’d chosen right.
Showers. Laundry. Warm meals. Air conditioning. A bed. Room to walk around. All things that might sound basic, everyday, but felt like luxuries. After days of dirt, sweat, and fear, this place was a sanctuary, even with its questionable bathroom and odd-smelling bedrooms. I lay in bed after practically moaning under the stream of hot water, then just laughed. It’s all about perspective. Many people probably wouldn’t step foot in this place, but to me it was heaven. And best of all, I had people to exchange experiences with.
I crept down to grab my laundry late at night and found a man painting in oils at the dining table, while a couple laughed softly in another language as they cooked their dinner. I didn’t need to join them, the sound of people simply being was enough. My first hostel stay, and I already felt hooked. Dreams of hopping around Asia and Europe one day seemed more manageable now that I knew what this whole hostel thing was about. Maybe it was naive of me to think this way after one experience, but I didn’t care.
Day 7: Strangers’ Stories
In the morning, I packed up and drove to Canyonlands National Park, conveniently only forty minutes away. I decided it was time to put a dent in some of the podcasts I’d downloaded, starting with one on science journalism tips. Along with bits of career advice I tucked into my back pocket, another message found me: “Everything will be alright in the end. If it’s not alright, it’s not the end yet.” A friendly reminder when I least expected it. This was starting to be a common theme on this trip.
Mesa Arch was my first stop. Even though Arches National Park is known for, well, its arches, I had a particular fondness for this one. You can walk right up to it, and looking through its stone window to the canyon below felt like peering into another world, with the Colorado River winding far beneath sheer cliffs. Later I made my way to the Aztec Butte Trail, where lizards quick as sparks darted across the sand beside me as my tired legs trudged along the path. Ancient granaries clung to the cliff walls, reminders of the Ancestral Puebloans who once stored food here.
In the interest of not spending my entire trip in Utah, though there’s enough to see that you easily could, I reached Capitol Reef National Park by midday. Trees at last. Petroglyphs. And the delightful sight of water, too. It was just a small trickle, but Sulphur Creek was exactly what I needed. I frolicked along the creek bed, snapping photos and wondering why I am so drawn to water. Maybe it’s the sound. Maybe it’s something deeper, having grown up on the shores of the Great Lakes. It’s cheesy but sometimes I seriously think about the possibility of rivers weaving around my veins, coursing through my body. I had only gone one whole day without the sight of a body of water, and I was already yearning for it. Something about this creek made me feel like a child again, skipping thin stones across the surface and grinning at this simple pleasure. Although Capitol Reef is often overlooked by travelers making their way through Utah, I was glad I had made the journey.
Back at the visitor center, I met a cyclist who, as he shoveled peanut butter out of the container into his mouth, told me he was on a biking adventure from Alaska to Mexico. His answer to why was simple: “I just wanted to see these places.” No agenda, no performance. Just experience.
Then another bit of serendipity. A Minnesota-plated car pulled up beside mine, roof bag piled high just like mine, with bags practically bursting from the backseat. Guessing she was making a big move, I approached the young woman who stepped out of the driver’s side. It turned out she was moving from the Midwest to California for graduate school in Environmental Science, with an interest in communication, practically just like me. If her mom hadn’t been along for the drive, I might have suggested that we finish the journey together. Meeting her, after the woman in Indiana Dunes National Park and after a few other encounters with like-minded people, felt like a series of small, perfect coincidences that served as signs that I wasn’t alone on this path.
On the drive out of the park to my dispersed camping destination, I felt uncomfortable in my too-small thrifted hiking top and decided to shed the only layer I was wearing. I drove topless for a few miles just because, well, I could. I felt like a free woman, out on the wild desert roads all by herself.
That night, I reheated chicken, broccoli, and sweet potatoes, which, surprisingly, were still quite tasty despite being over a week old. After a decent meal, I slipped back into my usual car-bed routine: wiping down, washing my face and brushing my teeth, rearranging bags, inflating my doomed sleeping mat, lining everything just so. Cramped, sandy, sweaty. Back to the familiar rhythm.
Day 8: Hoodoos & Hippies
The night had dropped into the 40s, a crisp reminder that fall exists even in the desert south. It felt good to wake up bundled in my sweats and sleeping bag.
Bryce Canyon National Park was calling, and I answered, a rare occurrence in my personal life. I followed the red road into the park and started my day at the visitor center. I watched a short film in the theater, read about the park’s geology, history, and wildlife, and was reminded how much I missed learning; it’s something too often taken for granted as you move into adulthood.
Just a short drive later, I stood at the rim of the canyon at Sunrise Point. I walked to the edge and gasped. Towers of orange and red hoodoos stretched into the sky, interspersed with Ponderosa pines and Douglas firs rooted defiantly on impossible slopes.
I chose the longest hike I could find through the canyon, determined to see as much as possible in a single day. I trekked seven miles up and down through narrow tunnels, ponderosa and aspen forests, sheer cliffs, and slot canyons carved into the sandstone. Every turn revealed something new, from hidden amphitheaters to delicate hoodoos balancing precariously. As I climbed the carefully carved staircase out of the canyon, I made a mental note: this is my favorite hike I have ever done.
Afterward, I showered at a campground just outside the park, pulled on my favorite pants, and even did my makeup for the first time in a week. In Kanab, I wandered shops, bought local art, and collected a number of recommendations from an outdoor gear shop owner. Later I drove out to Jackson Lake Reservoir, just beyond the quaint western town. Looking forward to the same meal I had prepared the night before, I rummaged through my cooler only to find my baked chicken and veggies completely waterlogged. A tragedy, yes, but it didn’t stop me from eating straight out of the container.
Book shielding the bright sun from my eyes, red sand beneath my toes, and a colorful sailboat drifting across the small lake, I let myself read and rest for a while. It wasn’t long before heavy eyelids won out, and I surrendered to the last warm rays of the day.
When I woke to near darkness, I made my way back to the car. Earlier, a local had mentioned live music at the Buckskin Tavern, just across the border into Arizona. Not at all worried about where I’d sleep, knowing there was plenty of dispersed camping nearby, I drove twenty minutes to the self-proclaimed longest bar in Arizona. Fitted with cow-print barstools and, indeed, an impressively long bar, I ordered a local cider and made my way to the outdoor stage, where a crowd of cowboys and hippies gathered and a band played covers beneath a starry sky.
By the time I searched for camp, rough roads threatened to tip my car, but eventually I found a spot among other vans, relief flooding me. Bundled in the dark, I thought of hoodoos and hikes, sunburns and sailboats, cider and country music. All the life I had just lived in one day.
Day 9: Learning to Listen
In the morning I left the dusty backroad I’d shared with other boondockers and followed the red road into Zion National Park. The cliffs rose like painted walls, tunnels carving impossibly long paths through the rock. A herd of bighorn sheep crossed the pavement at their own pace, indifferent to the line of cars waiting on them.
By the time I reached the visitor center, every massive lot was packed. After looping around in frustration for twenty minutes, I finally snagged the last spot at the museum and trudged back under the hot sun just to figure out how to get around the park. The swarms of people soured my mood immediately. I already knew the two most iconic hikes, Angels Landing and The Narrows, were permit-only, but then I learned that the trails I had hoped to do were only accessible by shuttle on gated roads.
I understood the reasoning, but it stripped away the sense of exploration that I love most about being outdoors. The sheer popularity of places like Zion can smother that freedom, and for me, it did.
I hopped the shuttle anyway, dozed off, and woke up at the Scout Lookout trailhead. Multiple uphill miles loomed ahead. My body resisted, but I went. When else would I be here? The climb was brutal, but the view at the top was staggering: canyon walls stretching endlessly in every direction.
From the overlook, I watched hikers attempt Angels Landing just beyond: a narrow fin of rock with only chains to cling to. Children cried, adults froze mid-step, some turned back pale-faced. I had wanted my own shot at it but hadn’t been able to secure a permit, so instead I sat with my protein bar, equal parts disappointed and entertained by the spectacle playing out in front of me.
On the descent I met two UCLA girls who radiated joy about California. Their energy carried me until my knees began to wobble under the strain. By the bottom I was drenched, stripped to my sports bra, splashing water on my face to stay upright.
Still, I boarded the shuttle again, stubbornly dragging myself to the Riverside Walk. My body begged me to stop, but I trudged along the murky riverbed until I finally granted myself permission to turn back. That felt like a small moment of growth: honoring how I actually felt instead of chasing a photo or a box checked.
I dozed off again on the shuttle, woke up starving, and tore through the last of the snacks in my car. Just outside the park, a much-needed shower waited for me. It ran on an inconvenient token system, but I splurged and gave myself the luxury of ten whole minutes under the water.
By evening, I was driving toward Death Valley National Park, the desert unfurling in cacti, tumbleweeds, and palm silhouettes. The air thickened with heat: 105 degrees at 7 p.m. The sunset set the whole desert aflame, purple mountains backlit by a rising golden moon. I screamed Rainbow Kitten Surprise lyrics out my window, voice raw, stomach in flutters.
I camped in open fields of sand and shrubs. Dinner was cold cauliflower rice and half-inedible turkey. Sweat pooled, insects circled, and I braced for a long, restless night.
Day 10: All for Me
The desert never cooled; it was 90 degrees all night. My fan died at 2am, and I lay melting until I soaked a rag, pressed it to my forehead, flipped my body to the hatch, and rearranged my bug net. Coyotes and scorpions haunted my thoughts, but eventually I slept.
By midmorning, Death Valley was already searing at 110 degrees. I tried to enjoy my greek yogurt breakfast in the thin strip of shade outside the visitor center before wandering through the exhibits. I had to laugh as I naively read the signs proclaiming the park’s extremes: the hottest, driest, and lowest point in North America, and the largest national park outside of Alaska. All of it made sense now.
I had no intention of lingering in this beautiful hellhole, so I opted to walk out across the multiple-foot-thick salt flats of Badwater Basin, then turned back toward the road.
From there I drove on for hours through endless desert roads, no service, no other cars, and abandoned shacks crumbling into the sand. It was just like the cheesy scenes you see in old western films. The silence was sharp, the kind that made my mind wander to dangerous places. What will I do if my car overheats? If I get a flat tire out here? I passed the time with podcasts, laughing deliriously at Anything Goes by Emma Chamberlain as she confessed her control freak tendencies, traits I recognized too well in myself.
At last, a highway. Civilization again. Relief. I called my Mom, called friends, then climbed into the greenery of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. The world changed in what felt like a few minutes as I drove the winding roads up the mountain. Closed visitor centers, quiet rustic lodges, air cooler with every curve. By sunset I stood on a cliff ledge, watching the sky ignite behind towering sequoias and canyon walls. Adrenaline surged through my body. I felt like I could scream, cry, float. I thought to myself: This is what it’s all about. This is why all the heat, the fear, and the loneliness is all worth it. For moments like this one.
When darkness fell, I found refuge in the very conveniently located Sequoia National Forest right up the road (dispersed camping is generally always allowed in national forests). I reheated chili, tore sourdough into pieces, and ate by headlamp. The chili had been frozen, thawed, warmed, and cooled again over the past week or so, but it still tasted like heaven. I realized, with pride, I had done well with food planning. I was coming to the end of my trip and had managed to only need to restock a few items once.
As I cozied up in my car for bed, I contemplated my plan for the next day. Would it be my last? Was I ready to head straight for Santa Cruz or should I put off the fear of settling in and unpacking for another day or two?
Day 11: A Humbling Homecoming
My alarm stunned me awake in the dark. It was 46 crisp degrees, and I loved it. I headed straight for the General Sherman Tree, accompanied by the rising sun over the canyon beside me. As planned, I beat the crowds and practically had the world’s largest tree all to myself. It’s a staggering thirty-seven feet wide. Wandering up from the spectacle, I found myself on the Congress Trail. It wound through the forest, lined with giants and creeks cutting through meadows. Bear signs were everywhere, but no bears, unfortunately. Only deer, slipping through the brush.
The air up there felt different: fresher and lighter. I wandered in awe, a tiny human in a vast, mystical landscape. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, despite never having watched or read it in its entirety.
At the nearby Giant Forest Museum, I listened to a ranger explain the science behind prescribed burns and their significance in these ecosystems. It was genuinely intriguing and got me thinking about having a job like hers after school. It also gave me a jolt of excitement for my graduate program, which was starting in just a couple of weeks.
Later, winding down the mountain roads, John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders” poured through the speakers, sunlight warming me exactly as he sang it. That was when it hit: this was the day. My final drive. I had officially typed “Santa Cruz” into my Maps app.
Orchards blurred past, fruit stands on the roadside. To my right, a glovebox spilling over with patches and maps from every stop. Behind me, a trunk packed with everything I owned. Ahead of me, a sign labeled with my destination.
Tears tangled up with every emotion came fast, just as they had when I made it home from my roadtrip a few months prior. Eleven days and thousands of miles. Bucket list items ticked off one by one. Loneliness and fear, laughter and awe. And now there I was, lugging my life up two flights of stairs into a bare room that would be home for at least nine months.
I collapsed on the hardwood, dizzy with disbelief. There was no one to greet me, no party for my arrival, no nothing. As I unpacked from my long adventure, a new one was beginning. It was a gentle reminder that some of the most pivotal moments in life can feel quite ordinary.