Adventures with Mom
A week into the first big motorcycle trip of the year in July of 2020, and concerns of the uncontrollable have become a muted screen in the back of my mind. Having covered nearly a thousand-miles in two days from San Francisco to Moab, the clarity and focus are locked-in and I’m in full exploration mode. Today’s goals are all about hiking as much of Arches National Park as possible. A nervous nelly when it comes to crowds and lines, I wake on the south side of four am and soon have coffee and breakfast wolfed down, snacks packed, and a hydration bladder filled. It’s another hour before my parents roll out of their adjoining hotel room with coffees in hand, Bob chipper and Mom barely awake, and we are underway.
A quick drive North on Hwy-191 in the comfy yet cagey confines of their blueberry mid-size, we are swiftly through the entrance station of the park. Mom and I exchange a look of quiet satisfaction in the three of us presenting annual parks passes to the Ranger. After a few terrifying close calls of Bob veering off of the curvy, steep main drive while pointing out landmarks, we are out of the shadows with the sun beating down on the road ahead. Arches of all sizes can be seen among stunning red rock formations on the slow drive. Not a wonder why this park is one of the most visited in the country; the parking lots at trailheads and inlets are nearly full by six am.
We push on to Delicate Arch in hopes for less crowds and snag one of the few remaining parking spots at Wolf Ranch. Though in their seventies, my parents lack nothing in determination when their minds are set to an activity. That was more or less how this hike and trip came to be in the first place. Recently retired and relocated to Santa Fe, New Mexico away from family and friends four months into the pandemic, my parents jumped at the opportunity to join my rubber-tramping motorcycle journey. With only half of an itinerary, we set a date to meet under the blistering heat of southwestern Utah in July.
Three weeks prior I had decided to take a solo motorcycle trip to the Southwest for some long-needed off-road motorcycle exploration. With a loose timeline and no set plans, I rode my packed BMW GS from the California coast to Eastern Utah in two days having only stopped at Great Basin National Park to hike, camp, and sleep. The sights of the less-travelled park are too incredible to be captured with pictures, I opted to roam its trails and mountainside in quiet peace, daydreaming of living out my days there in beautiful solitude.
Barely a few steps from the start of the trailhead, and Bob is already behind. This doesn’t slow us down as this is just what Bob does. He meanders around, not necessarily directionless nor in a straight line, and goes at his own speed while throngs of people do their best to navigate around his solid frame. Unbothered by judgement from others, Bob is singularly the most obstinate person I have ever met when it comes to doing his own thing. This drove me bananas as a child, but it now is one of my favorite attributes in my stepdad. Mom and I, with our long legs, are giddy undertaking the rare hike with someone who can keep up and match our stride.
Barely into the three-mile hike with the heat intensified dramatically, I realize that Mom has only a twelve-ounce bottle of water that is now nearly depleted. Making matters worse, the dauntingly steep climb in elevation on uneasy terrain has asthma and bad knees resisting her every step. She dismisses my concerns with a flash of a wry smile and insists that she will be fine after a rest. Plopping down on a nearby rock she demands that I carry on while she waits for Bob to catch up. Knowing that Bob has little water himself, I assume they will just turn around and head back to the car to hydrate and I agree and move on up the trail solo at a faster clip than before to the Delicate Arch, only a few miles away.
Wasting no time passing what is mainly families and seniors, I ascend the last hundred feet up a narrow path no wider than a doorway, my view obstructed by the massive reddish stone on one side and a sheer drop-off on the other. As I enter into the open arena beyond the path, the crowd ahead are collectively focused on the large shape not a footballs-fields length to the North. With a forty-six by thirty-two feet opening between the “Cowboys Chaps”, the Delicate Arch reduces its sightseers to the size of ants. Deciding to take in the view from afar rather than cramped in line for an up-close perspective, I sit transfixed while soaking in the smells, sounds and colors, and allowing my mind to wander on thoughts of ancient peoples and societies. Fascinated by what creatures had traversed through the Arch’s open window over the millions of years since its formation.
Taking the last snapshots of the Arch and its many visitors I realize that I have been here for quite a while longer than intended. Not too concerned as we knew that cell reception would be minimal at best and that most likely my parents had simply returned to the car after reuniting, I pack up and return to the trail slowly finding my position in the long queue snaking down the path. As I round the final corner, I notice a person struggling off to the side of the raised trail. On all fours, gripping jagged rocks and weeds while climbing slowly up the steep mountain side, pausing often to catch their breath. Immediately filled with concern for this person and anger at the idiot that dragged them up this trail, I realize that I am the idiot, and that wheezing person is my Mom.
Her water bottle empty and long discarded it takes a minute to catch her breath and cool down after chugging from my hydration pack. The sweat dripping down her rosy temples adds to the overwhelming nervousness I feel, an unsettling fear and uncontrollable spectatorship as time erodes at her life. I chide and scold her; mansplaining the dangers and risks she has undertaken just to see this arch. I laugh writing this, imagining the many times she had felt the same lack of power over the decisions made in my own life. How often had she bitten her tongue knowing that if she gave her own two cents, it would only fall on deaf ears if spoken aloud?
After calming down her breathing she surprises me with abruptly standing up without word or assistance, and pushing herself forward up the narrow path, and towards the Arch. Shocked, I plead with her to turn around and head back, as the temperature grows ever stronger as noon approaches and snacks and water are nearly depleted. The short three mile walk back to the car, back to safety and civilization might as well be three hundred miles. Steadfast and without a doubt in her eyes, she smiles and assures me that she is fine. The sun is blocked by the rim of her large hat, allowing me to see her grey-blue eyes twinkle in the same way they would when tucking me in at night as a child, sneaking tickles that often resulted in giggles and happiness. The lump in my throat prevents me from arguing further as I relent and follow her direction towards the now larger crowds near Delicate Arch. Age nor circumstance can change Mom taking me to school.
The slow walk back to the car was at times both solemn and chatty. Relieved of prior worries, we discuss the beauty of the park and our upcoming plans for the week. We muse at where Bob could be and the random park-goers he was sure to be engaging.
We reconnect with him not far from the bathrooms near the parking lot. Unsurprisingly he has made friends with a couple from Alabama also here with their children attempting to make the most out of the pandemic. The Alabaman introduces his wife and son, and Bob does the same. After goodbyes we move along to the car and back to Moab. My relationship with my stepdad has come a long way since the rough early days when in my mind, nobody could overshadow my real Dad, and Bob could only do wrong. Always respectful of my feelings for my Dad, rarely had he referred to me as his Son over the years, not knowing his place in that role. Today’s use of the moniker, however, is more than appropriate with the sentiment mutually felt by us both.
After the short hike up to the Delicate Arch, our time was brief and surrounded by too many people. We asked a stranger to take a few pictures that ended up being some of the best from the trip. I would later stare at the photographs of Mom and I, thinking about the transitions that we have both gone through in life. How unlikely it was for us both to have found our place in the world and in each other’s lives. How close I had come to losing her, and myself. I felt the humanity of my mother more today than ever before. Her immortal armor replaced by thin and wrinkled skin, spotted by the West Texas blistering sun at an early age she now resembled her hero Georgia O’Keefe; sun washed and tan, unwavering, satisfied, and yet still hungry for more life.
Taking the slow road back, I regale Bob with the story of Mom’s daring summit of the Delicate Arch, though these impressive acts no longer surprise him. He listens intently regardless, already knowing the depths of her inner strength more than anyone. Our evening ends with take-out from the BBQ spot across the street from our hotel, quickly devoured in the parking lot of the Quality Inn and chased down with Corona’s, Mom’s favorite despite the irony.
Saying our goodnights my parents depart and I linger to clean up remains of our meal and capture the last moments of the setting sun. Giving my parked motorcycle a once-over before returning to my hotel room, I remind myself that crime in Moab is not the same as San Francisco and I can breathe easy. Although today had nothing to do with motorcycles, it had everything to do with discovery, exploration and adventure. I just never figured that it would all come from my Mom. With a full belly and swelling pride, I say goodnight to the purple twilight sky and am soon making the plans and edits to the next day’s adventures, and to the ride ahead.
Early goings
Determined
Looking away from the Delicate Arch down the path
Mom and I at Delicate Arch
Happy Mothers Day!
Georgia O’Keefe
