At the time of me typing this on my phone, it is 8:27 AM on a Wednesday morning.

I got to the Valley about an hour ago and decided to hike up the foothills, where I didn’t see very much (for Ken Caryl Valley, that is). Just a few mule deer does, some magpies and towhees. But nothing that particularly caught my attention. I took some images of various purple and white wildflowers, along with a handful of shots of the deer and the birds, before I headed back to my Xterra and drove to my next destination, which is where I am now. 

I’m now seated on a vein of exposed sandstone rock on the hogback overlooking the Valley. Directly in front of me to the west is the Ken Caryl Manor House: a huge white mansion on a hill built in the 1800s. Behind me is a forest of Gambel oak and red cedar trees. It is a cool, damp morning, with clear skies and a warm sun. There’s a slight but growing breeze coming in from the south, and there are wispy cirrus clouds to my north. All around me are the calls of various birds, from thrushes to towhees, magpies and blue jays. Overall, it’s a perfect morning to sit here on this sun-warmed sandstone and write; to reflect on something that’s been eating at me for years. 

A little over two years ago, I took one of my friends from my writer’s group to the valley with me. I remember that day well (and I assume Aaron does too). I didn’t take him up the hogback, but I did take him to the red rock cave I colloquially named “God’s Ass” (I know… how immature of me). We spent almost two hours out there before it got too warm for me and my dog, Penny (who I brought along), and I took Aaron back home. 

Overall, it was an awesome experience and an even greater feeling to bring someone to explore the valley with me for once. But it’s something I haven’t done since. 

Why haven’t I done anything like it since? 

It’s not because I don’t want to. As much as I cherish my alone time with God and His nature, when I tread the same trails every day, they get old after awhile. I know the Valley like the back of my hand, and it’s easy to get so used to the trails that it starts to feel boring. Dare I say, almost a chore to go. 

I must confess that I didn’t want to go to the Valley this morning, despite the perfect weather and lack of people. But I made myself go anyway, because it’s healthy to get outside every day and get some steps in. So, I packed up my hiking stuff (camera gear, a can of Zevia Cola, and a bottle of water), and was on the trail by 7:00 AM. 

While I followed a swollen stream of snowmelt under the shade of Cottonwoods and Ponderosas, I reminded myself that people would kill to have what I now have, and I ought to be grateful, which I am. But I didn’t have nearly the same excitement Aaron had when he saw the valley for the first time. I wasn’t excited today, period. In fact, I was kind of grumpy, and I wonder if that’s why the animals seem to be avoiding me this morning. 

But the morning I took Aaron out to the valley, I was very excited. Not because I was going anywhere new, but because I was excited to share something I love with someone who’s never seen it before. To share in that joy. 

However, I wouldn’t take just anyone on a hike with me. After all, I have trust issues, both valid and irrational. I was comfortable sharing the valley with Aaron because I knew he was trustworthy. Not only was he my friend (and still is), I knew he respected the wilderness just as much as I did, and wouldn’t try anything stupid or scandalous. 

Sadly, I can’t say the same thing for the vast majority of people I run into, or even some people I consider friends. Which is why I use writing and photography to share my adventures with the world, in hopes of subtly knocking some sense into some people so they don't try to pet the fluffy muleys that follow me everywhere here. But, virtually sharing stuff with others isn’t anything close to sharing the real thing with them, which is something I’m really missing this cool, Wednesday morning. 

I mean… there’s just so much to experience out here that no picture or blog post can convey. I can paint pictures with words and even capture pictures and videos of this place. But the people I share those stories, pictures, and videos with are merely seeing it through a screen. They can’t reach out and touch the soft, wet seedheads of the buffalo grass that blankets the entire valley, as they plod up and down the red sandy trails with me. They can’t pick up the oddly-shaped sandstone rocks that litter the ground everywhere and feel their weight and roughness in their palm. They can’t help me spot Muleys or Magpies hiding among the Gambel Oak groves, or listen to the wind and birdsong in the leaves. And they sure as hell can’t act as another set of eyes to make sure no bears or mountain cougars get too close, which really helps to put my skittish ass at ease. 

On top of that, I can’t simply recommend the valley to people. Unless they live here, they can’t access it. These thousands of acres and fifty miles of trails are private; only residents and those accompanied by residents can come here. That’s what makes this place so special and serene and beautiful, but equally lonely and sometimes scary. And that specialness is what drives me to want to share it with others, both virtually and in-person. But more-so in person, especially as I sit alone on this hogback as loneliness gnaws at my heart. 

It’s getting windy now and the birdsong has been silent for some time. I guess that’s my cue to leave. I’m alone here, and I don’t want some bear or mountain cougar using the wind to sneak up to me.