As the hiking trail planner for my husband’s break week vacation in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming, I was responsible for deciding where we hiked each day. 
I would like to say I diligently planned this out prior to the night before each hike, but that would be a fib. 
The expensive trail map, which we had to purchase again, even though I knew we had the same exact map at home (yet couldn’t find), showed the Tie Hack Dam and Reservoir as a possible decent choice. 
I was taking a chance because, (1), I knew the trail was lightly traveled and the trailhead potentially elusive; (2), there were multiple substantial climbs and descents; (3), I knew an adjoining trail allowed ATVs which might mar our ideal of quietude and serenity and (4), the only comment I could find about the trail read: navigate carefully, many opportunities to make a wrong turn. 
We parked and walked down to the dam. 
Peering over the edge, we wondered if the trail began at the bottom, but it seemed to dead end. 
After we crossed the dam, we saw a path above some sheer rocks. To me it looked dangerous and almost impossible to climb up to the path; to Rob it looked like the potential trailhead. We have a history of differing thoughts about trails: I tend to think the easiest way is the right way, Rob tends to think the most difficult way is the right way.
I won out this time and we ended up walking back to the parking lot where we found the actual trailhead hidden behind some trees. 
The path went up and down until it reached the spillway at the bottom of the dam where we once again disagreed about the path’s direction. This time our roles were reversed: I thought we had to cross a treacherous narrow log to continue; Rob thought the trail paralleled the side of the stream. 
As we scanned the area, we both noticed a cairn — across the stream. I trembled and prayed the entire way across because the water was cold and moving faster than I expected and I knew I would be hurt if I fell in. At one point my hiking pole gave way into some rotten wood and I — like a Weeble — wobbled, but didn’t fall down. Rob, on the other hand, confidently walked across in less than a minute. 
Not only did the hike end up being gorgeous, 
passing through a variety of terrains, 
but we didn’t see a single soul until we reached our turnaround point at the opposite end of the reservoir. 
We basked in quietude and serenity after all. 
And we didn’t get lost, either.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
The Cloud Peak Wilderness is an area within the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming that is wilder, higher, plus more restrictive to preserve its pristine quality. You must register to enter and abide by the rules governing its land. 
For one, you can eat your sack lunch anywhere, even along a refreshing snow-melt stream in the Bighorn Mountains of Wyoming. 
Having just escaped a treacherous blizzard in Wyoming, thanks to closed roads, my husband and I were now frantically searching for another way to get to our motel in Preston, Idaho. Our thwarted plan included a mere four-and-a-half hour drive once we’d exited Yellowstone. Fortunately we didn’t know it at the time, but our new route, skirting Yellowstone, would take us thirteen hours.
I was determined to go to Yellowstone National Park for the first time. Frankly, I had never wanted to go due to the crowds. But my husband, Rob, drove through the park in late July without seeing a single car at the entrance (due to the pandemic), so I figured visiting the day after Labor Day would be perfect. Only, it wasn’t.
We had just been sweltering in 102-degree heat the day before we left for Cody, Wyoming, but then the weather turned. Our day at Yellowstone would now include snow, ice and temperatures in the teens. Each of us had brought a moderately warm fleece, but we hadn’t packed jackets or gloves since a heat wave had been predicted during our 4,000-mile extravaganza.
We awoke in Cody to a crisp, sunny day: cold, but perfect. We were on the road by 6 a.m. since it took an hour-and-a-half to reach the east entrance. We also had reserved a motel room in Idaho that we wanted to reach before dark. Soon we approached a sign that indicated every entrance to the park was closed. A bright, funky car was pulled over just beyond the sign and I got out to talk with the driver. When he rolled down the window, glints of silver reflected off the sun into my eyes: his face and ears were covered in piercings.
I asked him what he proposed to do considering the sign’s blatant refusal to accommodate our collective plans. From his internet browsing, he believed the entrance might open within the hour. We decided to chance it: if the entrance opened we’d enjoy Yellowstone and exit the other side; if it didn’t, we’d drive all the way back and find a route around the entire south end of the park and up into Idaho.
As I drove through Buffalo Bill State Park near the east entrance, the view was gorgeous, but the roads were slick and, in parts, blanketed with snow. Only a few cars had passed before ours, so the thrill of beauty was mixed with the angst of tension.
When we reached the entrance, about ten vehicles idled there, passengers ever hopeful. I got out and spoke with about half of them, getting a feel for their expectations. Everyone thought the snow plows were on their way and would clear a path for us. A lot of the people had rooms back in Cody and could simply wait all day if they felt so inclined. As we didn’t have that luxury, we decided to leave. If we got back to the original sign and it read “open” we would go back, having wasted only three hours of our day.
But all the entrances were still closed when we reached the sign. Our new route included going through a mountain pass, unless it was closed, so I relinquished the wheel to Rob, who tends to be calm in dire situations.
It was snowing in earnest by the time we reached the mountain pass gate. We were pleasantly surprised that it was still open. A pickup sped ahead of us, which made me feel less alone on the road. As we climbed in elevation a full blizzard enveloped the car. We were soon driving in whiteout conditions, barely able to see ten feet in front of us. The narrow, winding road had no shoulders on which to pull over and we now imagined hitting that same speeding truck broadside if it spun out on the slippery pass. Yet there was nowhere to go but forward.
That’s how life is sometimes – we’re forced to move ahead, even when we’re terrified to do so.
My husband’s expert driving got us through and down the other side of the mountain in less than two hours at which point we encountered sunny skies and barely a dusting of snow on the ground.
True, we had been thwarted from experiencing Yellowstone, but we both felt grateful to be alive and well and moving forward.
Oregon’s Crater Lake is the deepest lake in America and the ninth deepest in the world. If that weren’t enough, it’s also stunningly beautiful.
Even amid the hubbub of visitors, the overall feeling is peaceful.
Flowers abound. Many are delicate, exquisite.
How do they survive in such a harsh environment?
Where patches of snow persist in August?
Where wind carves spires from the rock?
Where trees routinely give up their needles for good?
Their Creator has a plan, and they abide by it: enjoy summer to its fullest, then hunker down come winter . . . and wait.
For spring will surely come.
And the mysterious landscape will continue its cycle.
Imagine driving across a desolate landscape as the road gradually becomes invaded by brush. You haven’t seen another car for hours. Has the world ended?
You park, not knowing whether you’re in the middle of the road, or off to the side. In the distance an outcropping resembles castle ruins, but as you approach on foot, you realize it’s weathered rock.
Strangely formed boulders snake towards the pale dry sky—looming.
Squinting at the horizon, a lake appears. Is it a mirage?
Dragging your feet through the scorching sand, sweating under the giant, relentless sun, you come over a hill and praise God the water is real. You strip off your shoes and socks to wade in.
Now revived, traipsing back to the car, you notice life previously unseen: cacti and lichen.
Wild colors assault your eyes and you wonder if you’re dreaming: brilliant green junipers, periwinkle blue cornflowers, explosive pink milkweed.
There are even signs of humans long past—pictographs line canyon walls. You now know you have returned to where you began.
You find your vehicle and drive away. But midway back to civilization you stop at a high point on the lonely road because you sense a vista waiting. You are not disappointed. A river winds its way through the rock, and from this aerial view you see the juxtaposition of lush life next to barrenness. The world has not ended. Life continues, unfettered.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 