Return to One Mile

When seen from above, Taylor Canyon is a dark fissure in the brown sage hills that define the southern end of the valley. The deep and narrow scar allows little light, the lichen covered walls towering over steep roofed cabins and a winding two lane road. 

The maddening thing about Taylor Canyon is that, unlike its dramatic desert cousins to the west, there is no clear moment when one emerges from within, no sudden table-top to carefully look over. While the views gained are certainly expansive, climbing either side of Taylor Canyon is only the beginning of the work. The intricate drainages and valleys of Fossil Ridge lie to the south, the north side is defined by Baldy, Paint and both Cement Mountains. On both sides, you gain one thousand feet from the river to the top, but you will just as quickly lose the same amount and then be forced to gain it all over again. And it goes on like this in both directions, over and over, until, I suppose, you left the valley all together. 

One Mile creek lies on the north side of the canyon, across from Rosy Lane campground. A steep, narrow cut in mossy granite walls, the four-wheel drive road climbs determinedly before bursting onto a clearing that may be the most beautiful place to watch a sunset in the history of watching sunsets. Keep heading south and you will descend and ascend, over and over and over again towards Beaver Creek.  

Today, I have set out to find 586.1C, a dead- end road that eventually meets Cliff Creek and a little used wilderness trail that heads towards Fossil Ridge. There are multiple decommissioned paths before it and I have wandered about them more than once, mile after exhausting mile, only to realize at home that I had somehow missed it again.    

Last March, I had come to this same place, using the same means of transportation. My new friend and I toiled that day, our snowshoes sinking in the deep snow. Distracted by a steady stream of high-quality conversation, we passed 586.1C, committing ourselves to the deep descent to Beaver Creek. Today I turn left, far before then. 

The snowpack is historically terrible this year. The snowshoes are handy, not for flotation, but as a steady surface to travel across the few inches of rapidly deteriorating winter cover. The rotting snowpack exposes the rocks underneath, the tan, curved edges of the dirt road visible. In less than a mile, the white line narrows, then disappears and I am now snowshoeing on intermittent patches of dry dirt. 

I remember that sunny day with Karen. Although we were a month closer to spring, there was at least three times as much snow. One year later, our friendship has built upon that day, the cardiovascular heavy adventure serving as the beginning of an ongoing, looping conversation. Our time is spent laughing, feeling, and wondering about the meaning of it all. Two years later, we navigate the pitches of the ski area and the ever-shifting ground of parenting teenagers. 

As the dogs and I ascend 586.1C, the few inches of snow disappear entirely. My snowshoes are covered in mud and finally, I acquiesce to the conditions and strap them to my backpack. The meandering road plunges down one drainage and up again. Finally, we leave the dry, rolling hills and enter the pines. The sugary snow requires re-attaching the snowshoes, the rock walls of Fossil Ridge blue in the distance. After a few miles, I check the map and giddily realize that Cliff Creek is just below me. I ditch the snowshoes again and trot down the long hill, the lonely brown trail sign proof that the goal has been achieved. 

I’m reminded of a day two falls ago with another friend. We had approached this same intersection from Five Mile Creek– an even steeper, tighter access a few miles upstream. We spent the better part of a day getting here and arrived exhausted. The gold leaves shimmered behind Tanith’s red hair. It was a long slog back the way we came, but we were rewarded with a rising and falling horizon and a cloudless October sky. As we always do, we spoke of the deepest parts of our hearts, without caution, anxiety or the careful curating of appearances that can so plague middle aged friendships. Like a sister, she never fools me– the contours of her interior life as familiar to me as my own. Looking up the hill I came down today, I hear my own voice telling her confidently that on a different day, I would be back here. 

The low spot is a good place to take a break, the cottonwoods and stringy willows silent, the afternoon eerily warm. If I hunted through the camera roll on my phone, I could find the selfies taken with both friends on different days and seasons, up here in the drainages on the other side of the canyon.   

Even though the vast majority of my exploration is done alone, for me, friendship is built upon doing– the stream of conscious conversations, the distraction of mountain ridges, the shared granola bars and tired drives home. Pulling a person out of their orbit, even for just an afternoon, exposes their soft spots, their vulnerabilities, the narratives by which they have constructed their lives. Thin air breeds honesty; a pumping heart has no room for pretense. 

Protracted absences are the cost of this dream of mine. It is an addiction to wander freely through the hills and my own mind. It takes up quite a bit of time. The hours spent confiding and trusting among the aspens are like remembered dreams, the miles tying me inexorably and deeply both to the landscape and to the women with whom I have shared so many views. 

Turning back, satisfied with the day’s accomplishment, I can only hope the impression was mutual.