Jason and I organize an epic Easter hunt every year with my family. Virtually all our nieces and nephews on my side participate in this quest regardless of their age; no teenagers decline on the grounds of childishness for the plunder is rather ludicrous.
Jadon was the lucky locator of one of the golden eggs.
Between goodies supplied by aunts, uncles, and grandparents, the kids got way more booty than necessary but they didn’t seem to mind.
Porter, our oldest nephew, was still digging and climbing for his hoard long after the little kiddies had found theirs.
We make the hunt interesting by adding some competitive elements, golden eggs with substantial cash in them for instance, but all the kids take home a disturbingly large pile of goodies regardless of their seeking skills.
Benson discovered this gilded shell and its monetary contents.
Jason insisted on buying two outlandishly-sized bunnies for the finders of some tiny eggs.
As the “cool” aunt and uncle, we take creating memories and hyperactivity very seriously. We would never dream of letting an Easter pass without providing an opportunity for our young relatives to acquire one-pound peanut butter bunnies and cash-filled eggs. The Easter Bunny wishes he could be all that and a bag of Peeps.
There is something extraordinary about the places that evoke the remnants of childhood joy. My grandma’s house is such a place for me.
Beautiful antebellum homes can be found in unexpected places throughout the South.
My grandma lives in a rural area of the South. Her small home, humble by adult standards, always thrilled me and my siblings as children. To her grandkids that house meant endless doting, plentiful food, innumerable hugs, rows of dress-up shoes- all the standard spoilings of proud and loving grandparents. We believed our grandparents were loaded, quite erroneously, because they offered us everything they had.
Bingo is a popular pastime in the South; my grandma plays it rather religiously.
Running is not a popular pastime in the South. We ran into more rattlesnakes than runners during a 10-mile jog.
Recently, Jason and I took a trip to visit my outstanding grandma. This time, my sister and dad traveled with us. We toured the sites of my father’s youth, lost at Bingo, visited with living relatives and those no longer around, sampled Memphis barbecue, explored antebellum homes, gobbled catfish and hushpuppies, and enjoyed Easter gatherings.
We don’t see our Southern relatives often so it was nice to catch up.
My grandma now suffers from some of the afflictions that get us all in the end and doesn’t have the energy she once did but visiting her still brings back a surge of memories and an onslaught of hugs. And that’s why her stout home, unremarkable to the rest of the world, will forever remain a shrine to unconditional love to me.
Due to my school schedule, we again opted to leave our bikes at home when we headed to Moab for a couple days this spring. It was sad to be cycle-less once more but, fortunately, I’m on pretty good terms with my feet.
The Titan is Fisher’s tallest tower and is believed to be the largest free-standing natural tower in the United States.
Our first outing was a repeat requested by Jason. We scrambled across the Fisher Towers Trail about six years ago in a darkness-induced fluster. So, Jason wanted to try it again without the runs.
Framing is a preferred photographic technique of mine but I don’t often get to use 900-foot goliaths for this purpose.
All along the Fisher Towers Trail one finds unusual beauty.
Some things never get old, even after 225 million years or multiple visits, the Fisher Towers are amongst these. The Fisher Towers are extraordinary skyscrapers made of sandstone and red mud. Their uncanny combination of uprightness and cratering makes them visually captivating. They are also enticing to rock climbers and are recognized as one of the best places to climb in the United States.
I dare you to hike through Fisher Towers without constantly gawking in wonder. It’s impossible.
It took us about four hours to complete this hike with a relaxing snack break at the ending overlook. With no need to hurry, those 4.4 miles passed a lot less hectically than when we squeezed them into two hours.
In Moab, striking colors blend in bewildering ways.
We jammed in one more hike after Fisher Towers, maybe because we missed the stupidity-fueled adrenaline rush of running from the dark. Parriott Mesa, a 2.8-mile trek that climbs over absurdly-steep boulder-infested hillsides, was our choice of nearly-nightfall dash.
The path to Parriott climbs abruptly through a rock field where it becomes a faint line in a jumble of stones.
On our way out, we got questioned by a returning hiker regarding our preparedness and abilities. He seemed enormously concerned about the approach of sundown in combination with our lethargic-looking limbs. However, he grossly underestimated the power in those wet noodles and the speed at which a stubborn girl can take on a mountain. We did the whole thing in about an hour and 40 minutes despite the 1345-foot elevation gain and rock-littered path. We made it back to our car without even needing flashlights. Darkness, you ain’t got nothing on a determined woman.
Parriott Mesa stands as a sentinel to Castle Valley.
The sunsets in Moab are some of my favorites on the planet.
We decided to spend our last day in Moab 2,000 feet above the Colorado River at Dead Horse Point State Park. We walked eight miles on the East Rim Trail, West Rim Trail, and every overlook detour available. Basically, we trekked all the hiking-only paths at the park.
When you’re 2,000 feet above the Colorado, your existence seems immeasurably small compared to the ages carved out in the canyons below you.
The terrain around the Colorado River doesn’t seem like it quite belongs on this spinning sphere.
How would I rate these trails? The magnificent views are as nonstop as the drop-offs. I only shot pictures at a few spots because catching every amazing angle would have required constant snapping and stopping. (Wandering around cliffs while gazing through a lens instead of at your feet seems like a less than wonderful idea.) Since these paths go around the top of a plateau, there isn’t much vertical change along them. Hence, I would categorize them as physically easy. However, if you dread heights, their soaring setting might put you in a nearly-constant state of discomfort.
On Dead Horse Point’s Rim Trails, you are almost always just a large leap or two away from a big drop.
Without bikes, Moab is missing a little something but I’m not complaining much. Jason and I still got to experience some of Utah’s most enthralling high rises and high places at the speed of foot.
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