Loving What You Do...

Into the Maze

Every once in a while someone will say to me, “You must feel really good doing what you love.” And of course I do love doing what I love. But they’re referring to my crusade to end America’s racism, so no, I don’t love studying and then writing about racism in America. It’s not a joyful topic. When I can, I like to step away from race and do something that I actually love. A couple weeks ago I did just that when I received and accepted an invite to join a group of friends on a trip down into the Maze.

If you don’t know what the Maze is, it’s a district of Canyonlands National Park in Southern Utah. Like most folks, I used to think there was nothing more beautiful than mountains. That was  right up until I first saw the red-rock canyon country of southern Utah. September 1989. I can remember that date because it was my son’s first birthday.

Photo by Doug Meyer

The National Park Service likes to say that the Maze District is the most remote area in the lower 48. I don’t know if that is exactly true or not. If I had a helicopter and could land it in the National Park, the Maze would be less than 100 miles from my house and I’d fly over the bustling tourist trap of Moab Utah about half way between. When I’ve been in the Maze, I’ve had two or sometimes even three bars of cell service. I’ve been in plenty of other places where I was nowhere near cell service or a road. So, I dunno. But what I do know is that it’s remote. Once I leave the pavement I still have at least 6 bone-jarring hours on dirt and then rock roads. Not roads constructed with rocks, but routes over, around, and through rocks.

My first time down we covered 3 miles in 7 hours of driving. This time we had a better, faster route and covered 14 miles in a quick 3 hours.

Photo by Doug Meyer

Maybe the Park Service means the most remote place in the lower 48 that can be driven to…if you have the right vehicle. I dunno. But in any case, it’s remote by almost anyone’s definition. Remote and extraordinarily beautiful.

Photo by Doug Meyer

I didn’t bring a tent. Well…actually I did bring a tent. But I didn’t bring my tent poles, so that rendered the tent kinda useless. The first night the weather cooperated. The second night none of our group slept because of the wind. The two people who set their tents up each broke a tent pole due to the wind and it was the first time I can recall ever being rolled around by wind. I was acutely aware of the 125-foot cliff off to my right, although it was a fair distance away. But that didn’t keep me from thinking about it.

Photo by Doug Meyer

The third night it rained. Lightly at first. My down bag is coated with a water repellent finish, so I hung in there and hoped the rain would cease. It didn’t. It just kept raining harder and harder until both my bag and myself were soaked. Eventually I wormed my way out of my wet, sticky bag and made my way to Steve’s truck and sat inside until the sun came up, the rain went down, and some kind soul got coffee going.

Steve “Browndog” Brown at Perfect Panel

I wrote this piece to take a break from what I usually write. I was going to end with, “What does all this have to do with American racism? Absolutely nothing!” But in a roundabout way, it does. My life has been spent outdoors in beautiful places. And in the many hundreds of days I’ve spent in those places, I have come very, very close to never seeing another Black person. That’s racism. Or at least the after-effect of racism. It’s actually not inexpensive to get outside. If you have to fly to your destination, and then rent a vehicle…ca-ching. But even if all you have to do is buy a $200 pair of hiking boots and if you exist, as do many Black Americans, with 1/10 or so of the wealth of White Americans, than the cost of those boots is not nothing. For every dollar you have, the average Black American has between 7 and 10 cents. That makes the $200 you spent on those hiking boots somewhere around $2,000 - $2,800 for America’s average Black citizen. Add a down jacket, a vest, hiking pants, wool socks ($22.00 a pair at REI), a rain shell, a headlamp, and a day pack, now your hundreds of dollars into it and all you’re prepared to do is hike. A couple thousand or more dollars later you’ve got a tent, a sleeping bag or two for different conditions, a head lamp, sleeping pad, backpack, cookware, a pasal of expensive freeze-dried meals, a multitool, and a bunch of other stuff that you saw in REI or EMS and couldn’t resist.

Photo by Doug Meyer

But there’s more than the cost. There’s the feeling of belonging. Or more precisely the feeling of NOT belonging. The feeling of being different. I thank God that I’m not afflicted with that  disease – or at least not in the great outdoors. But I can understand it. The winners write the history books as well as the ad campaigns and Black Americans, despite all this new found devotion to Diversity Equity and Inclusion (DEI), are seldom pictured as the hearty, adventurous, competent outdoors people we have always been. York was one of the key members of the Lewis and Clark Discovery Corps; Mathew Henson was the first person to stand at the North Pole, not Admiral Peary. The Admiral – sick, complaining, and begging to go home - was close behind Henson in the sled that Henson had drug him to the pole on. The Seminal Negro Indian Scouts, along with the 10^th Cavalry, aka “The Buffalo Soldiers”, fought in all of the Indian Wars, being awarded an unusual number of Medals of Honor. Black Americans have always been there.

Every once in a while someone will say to me, “You must feel really good doing what you love.” And of course I do love doing what I love. But they’re referring to my crusade to end America’s racism, so no, I don’t love studying and then writing about racism in America. It’s not a joyful topic. When I can, I like to step away from race and do something that I actually love. A couple weeks ago I did just that when I received and accepted an invite to join a group of friends on a trip down into the Maze. I filled the max people that the permit would allow. Phew!

If you don’t know what the Maze is, it’s a district of Canyonlands National Park in Southern Utah. Like most folks, I used to think there was nothing more beautiful than mountains. That was  right up until I first saw the red-rock canyon country of southern Utah. September 1989. I can remember that date because it was my son’s first birthday.

Photo by Doug Meyer

The National Park Service likes to say that the Maze District is the most remote area in the lower 48. I don’t know if that is exactly true or not. If I had a helicopter and could land it in the National Park, the Maze would be less than 100 miles from my house and I’d fly over the bustling tourist trap of Moab Utah about half way between. When I’ve been in the Maze, I’ve had two or sometimes even three bars of cell service. I’ve been in plenty of other places where I was nowhere near cell service or a road. So, I dunno. But what I do know is that it’s remote. Once I leave the pavement I still have at least 6 bone-jarring hours on dirt and then rock roads. Not roads constructed with rocks, but routes over, around, and through rocks.

My first time down we covered 3 miles in 7 hours of driving. This time we had a better, faster route and covered 14 miles in a quick 3 hours.

Photo by Doug Meyer

Maybe the Park Service means the most remote place in the lower 48 that can be driven to…if you have the right vehicle. I dunno. But in any case, it’s remote by almost anyone’s definition. Remote and extraordinarily beautiful.

Photo by Doug Meyer

I didn’t bring a tent. Well…actually I did bring a tent. But I didn’t bring my tent poles, so that rendered the tent kinda useless. The first night the weather cooperated. The second night none of our group slept because of the wind. The two people who set their tents up each broke a tent pole due to the wind and it was the first time I can recall ever being rolled around by wind. I was acutely aware of the 125-foot cliff off to my right, although it was a fair distance away. But that didn’t keep me from thinking about it.

Photo by Doug Meyer

The third night it rained. Lightly at first. My down bag is coated with a water repellent finish, so I hung in there and hoped the rain would cease. It didn’t. It just kept raining harder and harder until both my bag and myself were soaked. Eventually I wormed my way out of my wet, sticky bag and made my way to Steve’s truck and sat inside until the sun came up, the rain went down, and some kind soul got coffee going.

Steve “Browndog” Brown at Perfect Panel

I wrote this piece to take a break from what I usually write. I was going to end with, “What does all this have to do with American racism? Absolutely nothing!” But in a roundabout way, it does. My life has been spent outdoors in beautiful places. And in the many hundreds of days I’ve spent in those places, I have come very, very close to never seeing another Black person. That’s racism. Or at least the after-effect of racism. It’s actually not inexpensive to get outside. If you have to fly to your destination, and then rent a vehicle…ca-ching. But even if all you have to do is buy a $200 pair of hiking boots and if you exist, as do many Black Americans, with 1/10 or so of the wealth of White Americans, than the cost of those boots is not nothing. For every dollar you have, the average Black American has between 7 and 10 cents. That makes the $200 you spent on those hiking boots somewhere around $2,000 - $2,800 for America’s average Black citizen. Add a down jacket, a vest, hiking pants, wool socks ($22.00 a pair at REI), a rain shell, a headlamp, and a day pack, now your hundreds of dollars into it and all you’re prepared to do is hike. A couple thousand or more dollars later you’ve got a tent, a sleeping bag or two for different conditions, a head lamp, sleeping pad, backpack, cookware, a pasal of expensive freeze-dried meals, a multitool, and a bunch of other stuff that you saw in REI or EMS and couldn’t resist.

Photo by Doug Meyer

But there’s more than the cost. There’s the feeling of belonging. Or more precisely the feeling of NOT belonging. The feeling of being different. I thank God that I’m not afflicted with that  disease – or at least not in the great outdoors. But I can understand it. The winners write the history books as well as the ad campaigns and Black Americans, despite all this new found devotion to Diversity Equity and Inclusion (DEI), are seldom pictured as the hearty, adventurous, competent outdoors people we have always been. York was one of the key members of the Lewis and Clark Discovery Corps; Mathew Henson was the first person to stand at the North Pole, not Admiral Peary. The Admiral – sick, complaining, and begging to go home - was close behind Henson in the sled that Henson had drug him to the pole on. The Seminal Negro Indian Scouts, along with the 10^th Cavalry, aka “The Buffalo Soldiers”, fought in all of the Indian Wars, being awarded an unusual number of Medals of Honor. Black Americans have always been there.

             

Photo by Doug Meyer

But yeah… it was a good respite and it was good to do what I actually love.

Photo by Doug Meyer