hiking – Around the World in Stories

The Tetonic Experiment

July 19, 2025July 19, 2025Tagged camping, hiking, national-parks, travel, wyoming1 Comment

Finding serenity where normally chaos reigns.

Community where before Solitude endured.

Fortune when expected tragedy eludes.

These factors help illustrate how the Tetons became my favorite place in the States and what better way to spend a weekend there than with also my favorite people in the States?

Over Father’s Day 2025, I hosted a trip to the Grand Tetons with 12 of my closest friends. I made all the reservations, created the itinerary, and communicated directly with those not able to participate as fully during the preparation phase, ensuring everyone was on the same page. It was a significantly bigger trip than any I have hosted before and the natural worry that something will go wrong, or my compromises proved insufficient, loomed as the day approached. A massive undertaking when considering 99% of the rest of my travels have been alone.

The first time I went to the Tetons was in the previous August, a last minute decision made two days prior to departure upon realizing I had an upcoming 4-day weekend. This first trip had no room for preparation: the short notice meant all booked campsites, I tackled Yellowstone as well which limited even more time in the Tetons and the one friend I knew would also be available that weekend due to current unemployment had significantly opposing hiking habits than myself, so I worried at least one of us might struggle to fully enjoy the trip as a result of all these factors. Although we did both find that trip pleasant, I was partially right. He far outpaced my patient, cherishing-the-moment behavior. Splitting the weekend between the two National Parks took away time to fully appreciate the Tetons, a park, I discovered, heavily hiking-centric requiring more than a day of exploration. Thus born was the concept of a return journey.

The initial intention of this second journey was simply to fulfill the gaps the first trip left open. I allotted more time for long-distance hikes I knew some in the group would want to attempt, while experimenting with other less tenuous options for the more chill attendees. Sometime during the development of the trip however, its purpose shifted. I realized how much I enjoyed the process and considered the possibility of continuing the task professionally by starting my own tour company. The trip transformed into an alpha test, my closest friends being efficient testers for the experiment.

Now obviously because these were my friends and I wanted them to enjoy the trip however they desired, I left flexibility in the itinerary. If this had been an official company-hosted trip, I would have dictated the activities more. This alpha test trip, however, helped me realize what activities other people prefer and not just what I think they would enjoy. In addition, the extended weekend allowed me time to scout new areas of the park for potential future excursions. I want to annually host this trip, aiming for a beta test with strangers next time around.

As host, I felt it my responsibility to arrive early and help set up the campsites so that those arriving later had the option of heading straight into the park if desired, or at least not having to worry about the set up themselves so they could just show up and enjoy the trip. The rest of the logistics were my responsibility after all, why should the set up be any different (although other early arrivals were appointed to assist with that responsibility. I did have three campsites reserved)?

Despite the shorter drive than I am used to, my companions and I felt the desire to relax after setting up the campsites. As such, even though the desire to arrive early was influenced by more time for the park, Friday ended up including little exploration of the Tetons and mostly relaxation around the campsite, bonding with my friends. Only after all the others arrived did discussions to enter the park that night begin, ultimately concluding with continued relaxation. Again, I wanted everyone to enjoy the park as they desired, so despite only having a few voters for exploration (a vote that Sean randomly decided to govern in a very teacher-like manner with no complaints here. I understand it was technically my job, as host, but his management was more entertaining than mine would have been and created a far more enjoyable experience for the others.) I volunteered to drive those interested myself for a bit of stargazing. It was not an activity I had considered anyway and curiosity of its favorability for a potential company-hosted trip also influenced the decision. The drive into the park greeted the three of us with painted mountains as the sun lowered behind the Tetons’ peaks. By the time we reached Jenny Lake, we required little time before the stars crept out of hiding. But I didn’t need the stars to imprint the memory forever into my brain’s database.

Jenny Lake is arguably the most popular destination within Grand Teton, regularly overcrowded with an overflowing parking lot. My visit last year required looping the lot half a dozen times before replacing a departee. Massive crowds can sometimes make it difficult to fully appreciate the atmosphere. When we arrived at Jenny Lake that night, completely absent of any other parties, we discovered a rare serenity only a nighttime visit could provide.

For me, this excursion immediately withdrew from its stargazing purpose. I opted toward simply relaxing in a Jenny Lake that was never going to be more peaceful than that single night, resting atop the stone railings, listening to the waves while admiring the growing collection of stars. Like Kevin Flynn, I chose to “knock on the sky and listen to the sound.” That experience connected with me on a whole new level, a spiritual journey I have never embarked on before. Through that journey, a revelation dawned on me.

Everywhere I go, everything I do, a great distraction taints my enjoyment. I encounter reminders that I am alone: friend groups on a spring break or weekend trip, families vacationing, couples on a fancy date. Heck, I can’t even see a comedy show alone without being reminded that I am indeed, well, alone, with other guests asking if the seat next to me is taken. It’s growing increasingly harder to tolerate solo traveling, my only motivator being the argument that the world is any man’s greatest companion. And as I make these new memories I am simultaneously visualizing an alternate world where I have that special someone with me. What made this particular stargazing night memorable was the absence of that reminder. This time, I was the one flaunting my companions. This time, I did not need that special someone. Although there were individuals I would have loved to be there with me, I was content with the friends that were. It would not have been as special as I had imagined were they there anyway; I found out upon returning home that, in my endless struggle to respec my personality stats in favor of a more extroverted build, I once more failed to seize an invaluable opportunity, and those individuals would not have felt the same way. The people there with me that weekend were the best people to be there, the only people who should have been there, and it absolutely kills me that I am now taking a break from that community for self-improvement, but I believe it a necessary experiment to purify this taint.

To think this therapeutic stargazing experience wasn’t even my idea is a blessing I’m forever grateful for and would never have happened had I fully dictated an itinerary. It was an unexpected benefit I am realizing will be focused on in this story far more than intended. I started writing these travel stories partially to inspire others to travel, partially to transcend my experiences beyond the character limitations of social media posts, but I have discovered in writing these that they are my diary. People write to put into words what they cannot vocalize and in a similar way these stories have become my therapy. I meditated under the stars, contemplating life, my flaws (and plotting how to correct them), for a solid 20 minutes until embarking on a short walk around the docks, appreciating the serenity for at least an hour more before reuniting with the others at the campground. The short-lived reunion concluded with an early bedtime in preparation for an early morning.

Since Saturday would be the only full day in the park, it seemed the optimal day for one of the park’s many long hikes available. I knew at least three of my friends were going to attempt a journey through the Cascade Canyon, so it seemed fitting to guide the rest around the beginning of that trek, around the popular Hidden Falls and Inspiration Point. Although I have already been to both, I would have felt bad not permitting the first time visitors to experience the same wonders that made me fall in love with the park. There were benefits to revisiting these points of interest anyway. My visit last time near the end of the season meant a weakened waterfall, so witnessing the Hidden Falls at the peak of its impact force offered a change in that experience for me. Both visits were memorable: the first allowed me a closer approach to the falls for photogenic views, the second’s forceful torrent announced its presence miles before its location and claimed dominance over the entire cascade canyon.

The appreciation of Hidden Falls faded quickly as we continued our journey up the steep incline leading to Inspiration Point. Overlooking Jenny Lake, the point offered views of the entire Teton Range, the perfect venue to recreate my iconic landscape photoshoot technique: staring off into the distance, which my friends and I nicknamed, and which I will likely continually reference throughout many of these stories, the “Sigma Pose.” It also created the perfect opportunity for a group photo, especially since the group would be temporarily splitting upon departing from the point. I recognized the effectiveness of its naming even during my first visit but revisiting Inspiration Point reintroduced me to an inspiration often forgotten, conceptualizing a great motivator. The idea to consider hosting group trips for a career was born here.

While the others departed deeper into Cascade Canyon, my group returned to the edges of Jenny Lake, looping around the 5 mile trail surrounding it. The mostly shaded journey convinced me I had no need of sunscreen. While I still believe I was safe from the sun on that hike, I tended to ignore utilizing some that entire weekend, returning home with unnecessary sunburn and bug bites. I wouldn’t classify the Jenny Lake Loop as a difficult hike. Its elevation gain is minimal but the distance is certainly longer than the average trail. Communicating with the other group over walkie talkies while our mobiles struggled to find signal revealed their completion of their hike before ours and thus with the assistance of a friend who proceeded ahead for trail running (I just realized the irony of the only trail runner being named Forrest), we called in the cavalry to pick us up about a mile away from the end of the trail.

Breaking away from the original plan and our intended community dinner, our tenuous hikes encouraged a cool down trip to town, Jackson, Wyoming. I never spent time in town during my first visit to the Tetons. In fact, during that visit, I came from its North Entrance after exploring Yellowstone and I never saw Jackson Hole until heading home. I never had time to even acknowledge its value. That’s one reason I opted toward joining the group into town while others returned to camp, another was the preference of experiencing local cuisine at least once while traveling. And as host, I wanted to maximize everyone’s enjoyment on the trip. With limited drivers already available due to campsite policies, I had no issues volunteering a ride into town.

We found dinner at a bar just outside the town square. For navigational purposes and assigning a meet up point, we simply called the square the “park with the elk antler arches.” When ordering our meals at the Roadhouse Pub across the street, I found it strange the reactions of my companions as if a Cheesesteak was an unusual request, especially given another companion ordering the same meal. I discovered the trigger of their reactions only upon reception of the meal. At first, I believed the waitress had misheard me, but from experience if multiple people registered the same word then the likelihood was that I had indeed misspoken and instead had ordered a cheese cake. The mistake was easily fixed and I bit into a cheesesteak only a few minutes later, apologetic that I then forced them to dispose of perfectly good food. I really should have requested to keep that cheese cake for dessert, though I’m sure my companions held no complaints for the ice cream we substituted the cake with.

We waved farewell to Jackson as we returned to the campsite. The brief return’s primary purpose was a regathering in case any others wanted to join for an evening in the water. Only my passengers opted for this excursion, however, and once changed into their swimwear, we were off again once more. The driving around the Tetons this weekend wasn’t particularly efficient, lots of back and forth that could have possibly been avoided with better foresight, a flaw to be perfected for future visits. My main interest in the lake day was the discovery of renting a boat during my initial visit which, despite my pre-trip research claiming it was only available as first-come first-serve, apparently required reservations. Thankfully I had a back up plan, a brand new paddle board purchased and delivered only a day before leaving home. As the only paddleboarder in our group that evening, I was more or less able to evade the chill temps of String Lake, a lake we were informed was among the warmest in the park due to its shallow waters. I would have preferred the water temps over the mosquito infestation any day though. These conditions weren’t ideal for any of us though and as soon as the others felt ready to return, I obliged. I knew most planned an early departure in the morning anyway and I’d have time to return and fully explore the lake the next day.

Because of the holiday, a third of our crew left early to spend time with their fathers. The trip happening over Father’s Day weekend wasn’t poor planning. It was a desperate attempt to seize a campsite before there were no more dates available. Truthfully, it wasn’t in consideration when I made the booking; my father lives 1500 miles away and the only plans I had with him were a phone call I could make anywhere. The rest of us remaining were more lax on departure times and decided to chill and bond with some of the late arrivals that we hadn’t had much time to commune with yet that weekend. We took our time deconconstructing the campsites. While transporting gear between the expiring sites and the site our late arrivals extended a couple days, I often decided to take a shorter route through the campground’s offsite sagebrush rather than along the road. My crew had been waltzing through the sagebrush all weekend, so I thought nothing of it, but during one such journey I realized in a rather devastating manner a reason to not enter the sagebrush. I hadn’t immediately registered what happened. I had heard the squeal, but it wasn’t until I saw the creature hobble out of the brush and observe the avians hovering overhead did the realization hit me: I had become an accomplice to murder. I had stepped on, incapacitated, and sentenced a chipmunk to death.

For the rest of the entire campsite tear down phase, I swear every time I heard a chipmunk chirp their numbers grew. They were amassing an army of vengeance. I literally nearly jumped into my car the next time I saw a chipmunk charge out of the brush. Although only one other was witness to the tragedy, the rest of the crew immortalized the event with a photoshoot reenacting my reaction to realizing I had killed a chipmunk. I fear that is an act they will never let down, but it is also an inside story that will forever connect us.

The second third of my crew had time for only one more activity before returning home. I escorted them to location scout new territory for future Tetons trips, the Mormon Row Historic District. I didn’t expect much out of it. I had already seen many pictures of the District and while I recognized the photography potential (an old pioneer-age barn backdropped by the Teton Mountains and illuminated by the Northern Lights was captured and for sale by a nearby merchant), I imagined there wasn’t a whole lot to do there. I was right. The Mormon Row’s only value is its picturesque views, but given its existence in a park covered in mountainous and lakeside panoramas, its beauty is comparably miniscule. And while there were signs detailing its historical significance, I never encountered any. It was a decent enough stop to conclude the trip for my now departing comrades but I honestly probably wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, nor include in any itinerary for future trips I host.

My last passenger and I reunited with the remaining third of our crew at Moose Junction. We spotted them wrapping up the paddle board inspections I passed the day prior, which made the timing of my short excursion to Mormon Row perfect. From there I escorted them back to String Lake, this time free of mosquitoes. My passenger sought the comfort and serenity of his hammock while the other 5 of us ventured onto the lake. Initial disappointments of the lake stemmed from its insignificant size but after paddling around a bend and revealing the connected Leigh Lake, those disappointments dispersed. We boarded across the entire lake until the hastened rapids pushed us back. Along the way I yet again allowed my insufficiently built personality stats to dodge a potentially flirtatious encounter, though truthfully I assign some of the blame on putting all my eggs in one basket; I envisioned being there with that special individual back home, not some random girl standing on a rock asking what kind of fish lived in this lake. Sometime during the return journey, after we napped on our boards, splashed the others with our paddles, broke our paddles splashing the others, and willingly tumbled into the water as a pseudo-punishment for splashing the others, we strapped our boards together to craft a raft and continued to nap more. It seemed I wasn’t going to be able to escape my new reputation either, for as our raft approached a goose, the inevitable jokes of running it over ensued (seriously though, my relationship with wildlife that weekend was bizarre. On the drive home, a deer crossed the road then immediately turned around as I drove by and nearly ran into me). Already significantly surpassing the time I informed my passenger I would return, and it being my responsibility to return him to Utah, I disbanded from the raft and paddled to shore, waving farewell to the last third of my camping comrades and officially ending the weekend vacation.

I have grown to discover that traveling is the greatest teacher a student can have. Traveling teaches one about the world but more importantly about oneself. A simple weekend in the Tetons illuminated my character weaknesses and has motivated me beyond any experience in the past to improve myself, to focus on what matters most to me, which has resulted in returning to spending every evening writing in a cafe, creating this story and exposing my thoughts to the public. For these reasons alone, there is no doubt that the Tetons will always and forever be my favorite place in the United States.

The Meteoric Experience

June 16, 2025June 16, 2025Tagged adventure, hiking, national-parks, nature, travelLeave a comment

I used to love driving long distances. Road trips were almost a necessity growing up in Michigan where the closest thing worth visiting was half a dozen hours away. Maybe an older age or road trips in several foreign countries has shifted my perspective, or maybe Nevada is simply the bane of my existence (seriously that State’s only benefit is Vegas and I don’t even gamble). The 12 hour drive Memorial Day weekend from Salt Lake to Southern Oregon was not only one of the longest treks I have attempted but also the most gruesomely boring drive through the most hellish landscapes in perhaps the entire country. Seriously, I imagine my drive similarly to how Frodo felt crossing the Marshes of the Dead, disturbed by the desolate and unwelcome nature of the land. I have no idea how the Skywalkers tolerated growing up on a desert planet with literally endless sand plains beyond the borders of major cities. At least my drives in Wales and Costa Rica had something to see. Nevada is a barren wasteland. The mere 4 hours of sleep the night before due to my movie premiere didn’t help, to be fair, nor only stopping for gas the entire trip.

This will be a unique story in the sense some of it will be written as it is experienced. I am currently waiting at the Crater Lake Lodge to meet family, the purpose of my visit to this bucket list state, while detailing the first half of my ventures. It’s my first solo trip in a while and is a bit of a last minute plan, an invitation texted only a month before. It’s also the least prepared and planned trip I have ever been on. I have no idea where I am sleeping tonight or the night after, a rare occurrence I find rather refreshing. It came at the tail end of planning a group trip for a dozen friends to the Tetons that embarks in a few weeks, so unfortunately my focus has been on that. But I also partially decided to consider what so many of my friends have recommended before, and let the adventure guide me. Don’t meticulously plan out every detail. So I did. Unfortunately, I have yet to reap any of that strategy’s benefits.

Crater Lake was always on the docket, so my preparations began around the fact that I’d be meeting family Saturday evening. Initially I considered a visit to Bend for Smith Rock, a destination I have long known about from the rock climbing community. Adding an extra 2 hour drive from Crater to Bend, however, seemed a task rather avoided. Through my minimal research I discovered Crater Lake about halfway down the Rogue-Umpqua Scenic Byway, the “Highway of Waterfalls” and an appealing alternative itinerary.

*My introduction to the Highway, the Rogue Gorge Viewpoint.*

The guides I briefly skimmed recommended starting the Byway from Northern Roseburg but its proximity to Salt Lake led me toward Southern Medford. I figured I’d visit the noted stops along the way to Crater and reduce any unnecessary backtracking. The guides listed estimated times spent at each destination, so I believed I’d have enough to work with to keep me occupied until Crater. Unfortunately I found the opposite true. All the waterfalls that made the Byway famous, I found out the hard way, cascade in the northern sections of the Byway, and that the few notable stops along the south are quick half-mile hikes usually to a raging river. I don’t intend to downplay the Rogue River. What I saw of it was gorgeous, but what I saw of it also only took not even a couple hours total to explore, despite the guides saying the stops should be 60 minutes each. I was meant to have a whole day before my Crater Lake meeting. I found a boulder field on the route for a brief rock climbing session, but its heavily undeveloped and mossy rocks also lacked content to keep me occupied for long.

*The drive along the highway through the Umpqua National Forest.*

Even the drive itself I found subpar to expectations. It wasn’t until around a town called Shady Cove did the road transition into a scenic environment of forestry, 22 miles into the drive if you begin where Google Maps identifies as the start of the Byway in a town called Gold Hill. The underperforming drive literally inspired me to research the qualifications for a Scenic Byway, which outlined that it’s not just about the road but also the history, archaeology, culture, recreation, and natural qualities of the area. I guess that definition efficiently supports the reasoning behind this Byway’s naming, even if it lacked in the actual “scenic” department in my opinion. Perhaps calling an early day was for the best after the drive I had endured. The extra rest might grant me a morale boost.

But then I hit Crater Lake. My intention wasn’t to arrive until a couple hours before the meeting, but the lack of activities in the lower half of the Byway lured me there 8 hours earlier. Maybe I am not used to exploring mountains yet, but I grossly underestimated the snowfall waiting for me, which means I also underestimated the available excursions the Park offered; I arrived to find snow piled up higher than some of its buildings. I was already under the impression that Crater’s only worthwhile hike was the trail to the lake itself, a trail that I knew would be closing down after the season for a couple years of renovations, and one of the primary reasons I wanted to go. When I first heard that news, I reached out to a relative, my beta reader, who has lived in Oregon for the past several decades, and she informed me she was already planning a trip there over Memorial Day, inviting me to join. To discover that even that was closed now for heavy snow remaining on the trail made me briefly question the worthiness of my trip. The views of the Lake from the rim were angelic when I could see beyond the towering walls of snow, but not being able to witness for myself the purity of its waters, to me, defeated half the purpose of visiting. In the end, I came ultimately not for the park but for the family, distant relatives I only see once every few years.

These complications caused by lack of preparation forced me to pursue correcting a personal flaw, talking to people. To clarify, I often struggle with conversing with even my closest friends. In any group setting, unless the topics Star Wars, Ninja, Hawaiian shirts, Doctor Who or traveling are mentioned, (or I am directly addressed) I become a silent listener. In the circumstances I have joined other random conversations, I have rarely been the igniter. This trip forced me to seek out strangers, potential locals or fellow tourists that have thoroughly planned their vacation, for suggestions to fill out my weekend.

Now, there was no way I was going to wait around Crater Lake all day so I returned to waterfall highway and progressed further than initially scheduled, one hour north of Crater Lake to Diamond Lake per suggestion from one of the aforementioned locals. I was going to backtrack a significantly longer distance than I would have liked to, especially considering the hiked up prices for fuel in Diamond Lake. To make matters worse snowfall prevented me once more from maximizing my experience of the lake, the loop around closed off. The Lake’s only offering was a boat launch I was able to quickly dip my feet into.

The longer north I drove the further I’d have to retrace my steps, so I made my way back to Crater Lake. I found a waterfall along the way hidden in a maze of forest service roads allowing for one more quick detour that’d delay my return to the Park slightly longer. It was a majestic view overqualified for a half mile hike, albeit short-lived. With naught else on the road, I returned to Crater Lake Lodge with 2 hours to spare, spending that time writing this story. I also made a quick trip to the visitor center for the obligatory National Parks passport stamp and Annual Pass (since my card didn’t work at the entry booth and I wanted to still support the park). While in the visitor center, I heavily considered awakening the eternally slumbering beast within me to aggressively confront an impatient tourist shouting complaints that the ONLY employee in the building was taking too long assisting and providing information to those before her, to remind her of the struggles our Parks system and the tension the employees endure daily.

I know my beta reader will be disappointed by my, well, disappointment at my introduction to the state she has called home for the past several decades. I also know Oregon is famous for a reason. I have seen arguments from its top contributors to this fame. I expect this second half to significantly shift my opinion of the state. I just simply can’t imagine 15 cascading waterfalls in under 100 miles or the rumored Hot Springs recommended by the front desk at the Crater Lake Lodge underrepresenting the beauty of the “Beaver State.” I expect the family dinner to be a much needed catch up, one of the highlights of the weekend. But I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

———-

The dinner plan was to meet with 2 aunts, first cousins once removed, and one of their best friends, a former marine biologist employee of the Park. When the time to meet arrived, I discovered I had already ‘met’ this fourth guest, once in the Park’s video presentation on the history of the Lake, though his 30 year old resemblance in the video made it impossible to recognize him. In fact, I met him again, unknowingly, in the lobby of the lodge while writing the first half of this story. I knew he would be present before venturing to the Park, and had a couple questions prepared for him, interested in a Park employee’s perspective. But I would not address those questions until much later. I hadn’t seen my family in some time after all.

My presence was meant as a half surprise, a successful attempt. One of my aunts had no idea I’d be there, and likely didn’t recognize me at first while donned in my fancy floral-themed suit inspired by my daily Hawaiian shirt wardrobe. As predicted, the dinner was a much needed catch up. I couldn’t remember the exact timeline, but I didn’t even know one of her children was dating let alone now married, and the last time I saw her was at the wedding of another of her children, so it’s been a solid near decade; we both had a lot to share.

She knew I traveled a lot, following my adventures via social media posts, so the dinner conversations naturally shifted toward that topic several times. I had also shared a few correspondence with the other aunt directly, detailing my travels beyond the capabilities of the character-limited posts, in the form of this story you are reading now. She is my beta reader. If it isn’t obvious yet, I love talking about travel. I love hearing about travel. This wealth of experiences surpasses any monetary value. I would have spent that entire dinner talking about any of the 14 countries I have experienced, or listening to any of the dozen of my aunt’s own travel stories.

Perhaps that is why the biggest highlight of this dinner were the tales from the former Park Employee, the moments I would remember the best. Hearing of his adventures skiing off the top of the Lodge, skiing in every month of the year at the Lake, diving to the bottom of the deepest lake in the states, some people might wish they lived such a life as he has. I consider my imagination so vast and creative that I can insert myself into those adventures, and I can thus in a way feel those experiences as he told them. Hearing travel stories are some of the most immersive experiences I can enjoy. They are also inspirational motivators. In fact, it’s partially for this same reason I decided to embark on this travel writing journey: friends who have read my social media posts have reported their newfound inspiration to travel the world as I have. Hearing travel stories inspires me to travel more, telling travel stories in turn inspires others, and this is a cycle I will perpetuate for as long as I am able.

I impressed the retired park employee with my memory of the informational video, restating facts to him as the questions arose, like the record-breaking 130 foot visibility and the 1900 ft depth (although my estimates for this latter fact were slightly mixed up by the former, and I thus initially answered with a 1300 ft depth). Unfortunately, when I addressed my questions to him about the state of the park post Trump layoffs, he lacked any insider information. He still had friends in the park, and he is even still active with the training of new recruits, but the layoffs, as a retiree, had no effect on him. I discussed my experiences and differences on how foreign national parks are handled, seeking a way for the states to learn from those systems, but that topic ended quickly as well. That was okay, I wasn’t expecting much anyway.

Just as thrilling as the discussions proved, I’ll review the cuisine similarly. I am generally a picky eater, and while at home I often repeat weekly meals. While on vacation however, I not only try to always eat out at least once to taste local food, but I pick something unlike any of my regular eats. I played it safe with my main entree, choosing a pork dish, however I let the preferences of my companions influence the appetizers and desserts. As such, I experienced for the first time the surprisingly smooth and piquant taste of Mussels. I can consider this meal a rectifier for my failure to brave escargot whilst visiting Paris.

The dinner discussions extended beyond the table as we strolled through the Park, talking about family, the future, and my life since moving to Utah. I would be seeing both of those aunts later in the summer, allowing time for more meaty talks, but I heard what I needed to that weekend. Honestly, all that mattered to me in that moment was sharing that time with them, no matter what discussions we shared. My move to Utah hasn’t been the friendliest experience, so just seeking familiarity and comfort of family, if only for a few hours, was enough to justify a 12 hour road trip. And despite its rather lackluster start, this trip and my reception of this reputable state shifted, likely to the delight of my beta reader, after this reunion.

*Mt. Thielsen on the way to Diamond Lake.*

I woke up the following day in a nearby Sno-Park, lots Oregon uses to provide parking during the winter season for recreational areas, though still freely available for use the rest of the year. It’s a unique experience, waking up to Mt. Thielsen symmetrically towering over the road as one approaches Diamond Lake, its dawnlit peaks a moodsetter for the rest of the day. Without access to data and google maps, at the time I couldn’t locate the existence of several falls between Crater and Diamond Lakes, so I drove first to the recommended Lemolo Lake. The drive led me to a KOA campground that forbid approaching the lake without checking into the campground, which I obviously had no reservation for, so wasting that drive, I returned to the Rogue-Umpqua. Following signs I had found along the highway, and a generic guide I quickly glimpsed online before my trip, the first falls I found was Clearwater. Although I hadn’t realized it yet, I discovered a very unfortunate truth at this introductory representative of Oregon’s waterfall highway, that the hikes to and from their parking lots were quick and smooth, and the amount of time spent there was significantly shorter than the 60 minutes recommended on the guide. For many of the waterfalls, I do wish I had taken advantage of their peaceful atmospheres longer, especially given my solitude. I wish I hadn’t just rushed through them, spending only slightly more time than it took to snap a few post-worthy photos. I knew there were many stops to make and wanting to experience all the falls without knowing the time constraints of each of their approaches meant rushing through a few. Not only that, I wanted to soak in the Hot Springs before the crowds.

Less than a mile down the road from Clearwater Falls was White Horse. This rather short waterfall offered a close approach and enhanced views by almost symmetrically fallen lumber. These first two dwarf falls may not bear the suitable qualities necessary for a trip highlight classification but they proved satisfactory warm up acts to the headliner.

The Rogue-Umpqua Highway is home to the third tallest Falls in the State of Oregon, Watson Falls. Nature’s cries bawl down 272 feet of endless tears in this towering beauty, pounding aggressively into the pools below and granting an illusion of rain amid a sunny day. The impact soaks any approaching visitor before they even reach its base, challenging photographers with damp lenses but waking up overnight boondockers testing new air mattresses that seemed to randomly deflate and interrupt their slumber (this trip served as a trial run for my vehicle’s ability to support potential long-term living, and clearly revealed some needed adjustments). Watson Falls is the first time I met another adventurer that day, allowing for picture-taking trades; she snapped a few on my own, I snapped a few on hers. I brought a tri-pod, but its inflexible legs limited the positions and angles I could take pictures of myself, without assistance, and without the entire contraption tipping over. The presence of this second visitor thus proved a savior. Between all the falls I visited that day, I spent the most time here. On my way out, I found an alternative path leading higher up the cliff for a dryer viewpoint of the falls, allowing for a peaceful Falls-gazing experience without taking collateral damage.

Succeeding Watson Falls was one of the few researched destinations for this trip’s minimal planning, the Umpqua Hot Springs. The hot springs are tucked away deep in a National Forest, 4 miles from the main road. Unfortunately signs directed and alerted drivers of its existence so its isolation did not reduce crowds. This highlight started rough; arriving at the parking lot I found countless vehicles parked along the main road, beyond the designated parking lot, despite signs forbidding parking there. I was able to claim official parking in the lot, thankfully. However, there was a charged fee for Day Use. My only seemingly dictated method of payment though was via an mobile app that I would have neither been able to download nor even use in the signalless national forest. I scouted the windshields of other vehicles and counted how many also did not have a pass, leaving the chance of a parking ticket in Fate’s hands like another couple just arriving.

Hiking a couple miles from the parking lot to the springs offered a chance to dry off slightly after Watson’s assault, to refresh in the early morning hours. I imagine the still damp clothing and skin eased the hike, so categorizing the difficulty of the hike would not be very accurate from me. I don’t recall any tenuous inclines or unfenced clifflines. I will say, however, that I passed people of all backgrounds both during the hike and at the springs, kids and adults alike. So it’s safe to conclude that the hike is family-friendly.

Arriving at the springs offered several pools to choose from. Desiring to relax alone for a bit first, I reduced those options down to one. Although that remaining spring was the most picturesque, located at the lowest edge of the cliff, its beauty proved a double edged sword: it was also the coldest spring of the bunch.

The crowds increased rapidly. It quickly became near impossible to claim an entire pool for myself now, so I returned to higher elevation and warmer pools, regrouping with the couple I had greeted in the parking lot. I discovered another surprise when entering the pool: the adventurer I met on the Watson Falls trail now rested in the same pool as me, an Asian woman not much older than me.

Our conversations mostly included hiking adventures, how one witnessed the near tragedy of a fellow hiker unprepared for the challenging conditions of Mt. Saint Helen’s, her water depleted and the threat of exhaustion and dehydration creeping ever closer. I talked about the many glamorous trails of the Utah Desert too popularized in the past years and now requiring permits, which lead to talks of the infamous Havasu Falls in the Grand Canyon, a hike so popular and isolated that only a few hundred in the world can venture it a year. Some Portlanders talked about their adventures up Mt. Rainier, compelling stories that made me wish my visit to Seattle hadn’t resulted in only weather that completely concealed the mountainous giant. As stated before, participating in conversation is a weakness I’m working on and my strength is in listening. An unfamiliar sight, however, occasionally distracted me from even listening efficiently.

Several sources warned me ahead of time of Oregon’s lax policies on clothing-optional attire in public spaces. When I arrived at the hot springs, some part of me was relieved to find everyone else appropriately clothed. Some other part of me, however, was disappointed to find no one taking advantage of those policies. Visiting a nudist beach isn’t necessarily something I have actively avoided, it’s just never been something I have particularly cared to experience. When I heard about the possibility of a nudist encounter, I realized I couldn’t imagine how I’d react in such a situation, and answering that question is another thing that intrigued me about the hot springs. While the conversation about hiking trails lingered on, I spotted an elderly gentleman relieved of all but a shirt, roaming the pools. I surprisingly found myself mostly unaffected by the sight. Any initial discomfort came from the fact that I never saw him enter a pool and believed he had walked out there naked for no other reason than just for the sake of it. He apparently had dipped into a pool briefly, according to those I conversed with, and thus I found myself otherwise unbothered by his presence. No one else complained, at least publicly, and I think looking back on it now, it’s because I was warned ahead of time about the possibility of such a sighting (and thus mentally prepared) that I also had accepted the sighting indifferently.

Eventually the fear of a parking ticket ended my peaceful rest at the springs. I hurried back to the car, eager to get back on the road. I recalled spotting another waterfall at the base of the road leading to the springs and made another pit stop at Toketee Falls. There I reunited once more with the Asian woman but this time other familiar faces from the springs accompanied me. Toketee Falls is rumored to be arguably more popular than the majestic Watson Falls, perhaps a result of its shorter approach, but my vote went to the latter. That’s not to say Toketee was a disappointment. It possesses its own qualities worthy of a visitation, hosting a viewpoint that frames the Falls for you, the branches of nearby trees circling the Falls like the border of a picture frame. Realizing here that the Asian woman and I had the same plans, we walked together to and from the Falls, essentially becoming temporary best friends. We progressed through the rest of the Rogue-Umpqua Highway together.

Our next meeting was at Falls Creek Falls, a picturesque beauty offering a peaceful atmosphere unlike many of the falls witnessed previously. At its base was a small landing hosting a preinstalled bench crafted from logs, allowing perfect opportunities for a photo op style I have adopted throughout many of my travels: a self-portrait facing away from the camera, staring off into the distance. The Asian woman arrived as I prepared to leave, and we both agreed it’s among the best of the highway. Her late arrival revealed a Falls I had somehow skipped, but that she assured me was not at all impressive anyway. We walked back to the cars together, essentially becoming best friends, deciding to discuss more personal topics.

Interested in travel stories and foreign cultures, I asked her for suggestions on her motherland and her Chinese heritage. She in turn strongly advised me to put China as far down the bucket list as possible. As a dual citizen, she still has family in China, and every time she visits she has to prove her citizenship. Apparently, in China, you have to replace every mobile app with China-approved apps, meaning I wouldn’t have access to financial institutions from the States and I wouldn’t be able to convert currency unless I was a member of a local bank, memberships that required proof you were Chinese. It’s a country unfriendly to tourists, requiring several challenging work arounds to bypass their strict policies. Although I never got her name, the conversations I shared with her were some of the highlights of my trip (if you somehow miraculously come across this story, thank you for the company. And that Asian Drama I watch, I told you I thought its name was Kill Me Softly, its name is actually Kill Me Love Me).

I also asked her about the difficulties of moving to a different country, where she informed me it’s likely easier for me to do so than it was for her, despite my lack of a proper career. She offered recommendations, some of which I had already considered, like teaching English as a Second Language. She also mentioned travel writing or blogging, which I obviously also had already explored. A new option mentioned however was to heavily research various countries of interest, learn their related policies for immigration, and only once I have my heart set on a country, work from there; figure out the more favorable or possible parh. I always had my heart on moving to Japan one day, but seeing that it’s among one of the most restrictive countries in the world, seeking alternatives may be a smarter path.

We ended our time together at Susan Creek Falls. Another quick Falls tainted by fallen trees that also served as a bridge to a closer approach, the Falls themselves hid beyond a narrow rift. The beautiful, unique sight, perfectly concluded the journey across the 172-mile Rogue-Umpqua Highway nicknamed the “Highway of Waterfalls.”

When I arrived at Roseburg, I regained phone service and was alerted of a text from one of the aunts I met at Crater Lake. She informed me of their plans to forage for mushrooms in Oakridge. I didn’t have any further plans for the rest of my trip, the highway was meant to take longer to explore, so meeting them at Oakridge seemed as good an idea as any other. They inevitably cancelled that activity after recommendations from locals, though, so I was once again required to improvise. Thankfully, I discovered Oakridge along the way to Bend and had the opportunity and time to pursue my original plan after all. Plus, driving to Bend then meant a shorter drive home later. In contrast to my first day in Oregon, Bend taught me the meaning of love.

Without an itinerary, I resorted to simply exploring what I discovered to be the most glorious peaceful town I have visited in the States. Simply typing “Bend, Oregon” into Google Maps led me to Drake Park, a gorgeous venue surrounding a pond perfect for a quick driving break as I sought out dinner plans. I noticed a few locals chilling in a front yard and perpetuated that experimental behavior to ignite conversation by asking them directly for recommendations. They offered many suggestions but ultimately convinced me toward the Old Mill District at the revelation of an outdoor concert played by the legendary Sting.

The chosen restaurant and the concert stage were divided by the Deschutes River flowing down the middle of the town. I was too far away to see the performance even on the screens but close enough to hear, so I still considered it a free concert. The nearby staff officials seemed unbothered by pedestrians walking down the river listening to the concert, so I paced back and forth repeatedly, mostly in awe of the town, the district, and the absolutely mesmerizing Deschutes, until they eventually closed off the walkway parallel to the river likely due to too many stopping for longer than preferred. That just directed the crowd to the bridge though, where I was dragged into a picture with random strangers for reasons I never discovered. There wasn’t anything the staff officials could do about the countless paddleboarders listening along the river though.

*Paddleboarding concert-goers along the Deschutes River in the Old Mill District.*

I spent several hours combined between the two days I spent there exploring the Old Mill District and its surrounding areas. Many times when I travel in the States, it is in search of a next home whenever I decide to conclude my tenure in Salt Lake. That mindset drove my desire to simply explore the town and navigate its chaotic road layout instead of pursuing activities like paddleboarding the Deschutes or visiting Bend’s premiere rock climbing destination in Smith Rock State Park. It’s easy to research surrounding activities Bend has to offer, but to fully understand the town is only learned by exploring, and that exploration has helped me effectively see myself living there one day.

I spent my only night in Bend boondocking in the Blockbuster parking lot. I have no nostalgic attachments to Blockbuster; my hometown hosted several other video rental store chains back in the day. Bend’s blockbuster is the first and only location I will ever visit. I think curiosity mostly influenced my decision to visit, wondering how Blockbuster has stood the test of time in a world where DVD’s and VCR’s now seem archaic. While the store can still be classified as a video rental for the locals, it also now serves as a hybrid merchandise shop and museum, displaying various artifacts from the company’s and the industry’s past. I found movie costumes from Indiana Jones and Back to the Future in glass cases, newspaper articles about Blockbuster’s survival and old movie posters. It’s truly impressive how the company has endured for so long.

Nearing the end of my time in Bend, embarking in a couple hours for a 10 hour return journey, I prioritized one final stop, a store run by one of my Salt Lake friend’s mother up in Redmond about 20 minutes north of Bend. I gave no head’s up to my friend about my arrival, nor to his mother who I had never met before anyway. But he had recommended one of her sandwiches and, given the long drive ahead of me, it seemed like a beneficial visit (and it was. If any of my readers ever find themself in Redmond, check out Schoolhouse Produce.)

I had time for one other recommendation just outside Bend: Pilot Butte that offered aerial views of the entire town and its nearby mountain peaks. Many hike from its base to the top, which I estimate can take maybe 30-45 minutes, but in a hurry I opted for driving to the Butte’s top. The 360° view also revealed to me the route of my upcoming drive, a return to the hellish desert landscapes that I then decided to delay by extending my time at the Butte. But the journey was inevitable.

I have always prided myself in my high level patience and tolerance. I very recently endured a multiple hour-long conversation though with a stranger I had no investment in, that endlessly dragged on despite his continuous comments that he’d let me go, that I was too patient to inform him I had better stuff to do. This same conversation hinted to me that my patience may come at an expense and so now I may act subconsciously to contradict the virtue I have always admired about myself. That has proven exceedingly dangerous and life-threatening, and the events that transpired on this drive as result of this internal struggle are difficult to talk about in person, and will likely never be detailed anywhere other than these upcoming words. The road stretched along a desert in the middle of nowhere on an endless single lane road, one for each direction of traffic. I lacked experience driving on such narrow roads, relatively new still to the grossly unpopulated Wild West compared to the Eastern US where civilization thrived everywhere. The inexperience led to defying my characteristic patience, passing a campervan that when I now look back on it may have been unnecessary; I don’t recall it going much slower than I was, but I chose to pass it anyway, misjudging the distance between myself and oncoming traffic and coming within seconds of risking a potentially fatal accident (I did feel as if my vehicle wasn’t accelerating as fast as it should and I later discovered my floor mat covering part of my gas pedal, so that may have also factored into the near accident). After I avoided the tragedy, I kept going as if nothing happened, not welcoming the opportunity for witnesses to confront me. I didn’t need strangers yelling at me to realize I messed up, and the repercussions of that mistake have distracted me for the weeks since, details I could spend an entire other story analyzing. In summary, discovering that my patience is flawed and that I overcorrect that flaw to extreme and dangerous measures is scarier than the near death experience itself.

A Study Abroad

May 11, 2025Tagged adventure, hiking, life, nature, travelLeave a comment

Imagine stepping out of your hostel and immediately, not yet even beyond the door frame, gazing upon a landscape of dawn, a rising sun hovering over a gentle mountainous lake.

Imagine these Muses of Nature, convincing you to heed the Songs of Adventure, to not return to slumber but instead to venture the Fields of Tranquility.

Imagine wandering through a fantastical land reminiscent of Middle-Earth, roleplaying as a member of the Fellowship, visiting cities with names even the locals can’t pronounce.

Imagine walking through a blanket of clouds as you ascend the mountain, revealing what was once obscured.

Imagine experiencing this in solitude, with a complete absence of civilization, a union of Man and Mother Nature.

These fantasies became my reality, moments I’ll always remember during my week-long travels to Wales. Despite traveling with a friend who did not share the same passion for the outdoors, I seized numerous opportunities to enjoy the natural blessings I had been given. Our hostel was located at the base of a National Trust Site, a conservation charity, which included two relatively short hikes to separate yet equally divine alpine lakes. The blessings inspired me to break a life-long tradition (which has only been broken 2 times previously) of not waking up before 6am, allowing me to witness the sunrise and nearby hikes and return to the room before my friend woke.

These fantasies are perhaps exaggerated by the sheer awe I perceived for every little detail of that country, literally from the brick-built parking lots to the aforementioned cloud-obscured mountains. As I had been to the UK before, I spent a lot of time on this trip experimenting with a type of travel I have neglected in the past: Immersion. Most of my trips historically have consisted of following a strict itinerary of seeing and doing touristy things and not so much as experiencing the culture. This trip remedied that. I allowed for time to simply wander their towns, falling in love with their architectural aesthetic that every building shared: rustic brown, built with brick and thatched roofs. These are qualities known for the traditional villages, though even the more recently developed cities matched aesthetic from building to building despite straying slightly from this traditional style.

Such a village was actually one of my first stops in the trip (second after the pub featured in Ted Lasso, which I disappointedly discovered was merely the inspiration for their set piece and not the film site): Bourton-on-the-Water inside the Cotswolds Area of Natural Beauty. This village is the definition of Traditional English villages, from the Rustic style architecture to its very name. Perched along the River Windrush, the village practiced a peaceful facade while the lacking presence of motor vehicles mastered it. The vehicles still existed, parked along the curbs and tainting the village aesthetic, but with numbers heavily reduced compared to American towns. In fact, I have found that most European countries rely less on motor vehicles than the States and I’ve felt at peace pretty much everywhere I’ve gone in that continent.

This new experimental travel approach was assisted by several mates of mine who live across the pond, helping me that week to live like a local. They showed me a true English vacation, which included a weekend at a caravan (essentially a mobile home) rental, arcade and swimming pool at a chain company called Haven. I’m not generally one for relaxing whilst traveling but it did allow for quality time with mates I already had limited time with.

Over that weekend they introduced me to a traditional English Roast Dinner, several servings of English Tea, and (one of the main reasons I flew out to the UK as I forgot to indulge in this during my last visit) an English Breakfast. These meals were culinary delights despite their simplistic recipes; the Roast Dinner is literally just a mix (or choice) of beef, turkey and gammon (which in America is simply called Ham. A favorite pastime on this trip was learning all their different terminology for such common words), with added potatoes, stuffing, gravy and yorkshire pudding. The English Breakfast is also a buffet of varying flavors consisting typically of bacon, eggs, toast, pudding, beans, mushrooms and tomatoes. I also prioritized the iconic Fish and Chips (which in Britain is what they called Fries) during that week, as well as a bag of Jelly babies, which every fan of Doctor Who should taste at least once in their lifetime. None of these meals were exactly life-changing tastes, but for the sake of immersing myself with the culture, I would 100% try them all again. In fact, with all the relatively easy ingredients, I could eat like a Brit in the States. But let’s get back to actually sharing the experience of my trip, shall we?

I embarked on my journey through the UK from Gatwick airport, where one such mate picked me up. Now, before I proceed further, I find it important to note that none of these mates I would dedicate time to on this trip had I met before in person; they were strictly online relationships up to this point. As I would soon learn, people have online personas and then they also have in-person personas. That’s not to foreshadow a severe discomfort or anything but, for the mate that picked me up, I suppose I underestimated exactly how that experience would go.

I had heard rumors before about the differences between American driving and British driving, though I hadn’t really understood what those rumors were. I figured 6 hours on the road is still 6 hours, right? Well it’s not quite that simple, as I would come to realize. You see, in America, 6 hours often means a straight shot down a highway. In Britain, however, that means a constant focus on endless curves through the countryside, a likely mentally exhausting feat that requires frequent stops at one of Britain’s many service stations (their equivalent, albeit more advanced with their inclusion of gas stations and full restaurants, to America’s rest areas). Having grown up driving 10+ hours stopping only for gas, I had to adjust to the significant drop of stopping every couple hours.

That wasn’t the only detriment to the trip either, for my mate decided to torture me with an endless personal sing-along concert to various female pop artists and musical soundtracks. I discovered her aggressive road rage that countered my passive patience. And the logic behind some of her decisions didn’t make sense to me but there’s a bias there if such decisions meant the removal of an itinerary item. For fear of offending anyone, I should point out that most of this is sarcasm. I actually didn’t mind her concert because I recognized the extremity of the favor I requested of her; while driving 6 hours is miniscule to me, I understand it’s significant time for most other people. It was only fair that I allow her the opportunity to enjoy the drive more. Plus, I had gorgeous countryside to stare at. She sacrificed a lot for me to enjoy my trip, including waiting in the car while I ran off chasing waterfalls, so I was not about to complain. I compromised when I could. Yes, had the trip operated the same way most of my trips do, I likely would have seen more. But I still saw almost everything on my list, and even let my friends introduce me to additional items I hadn’t researched beforehand. Some of those were even the best parts of the trip.

Imagine an underground playground, an abandoned mine repurposed into a miniature golf course. That environment alone should attract the general populace but when you add in actual well-designed holes, it’s an automatic highlight. There was one hole that converted the tee into an elevated platform that shifted out of balance every time we added weight, which made it difficult to position oneself for the most efficient shot but a cool feature nonetheless. There was another feature near the final hole that allowed golfers to ‘follow their ball’ down to the next section of play after hitting it into a hole by sliding down a massive slide, of which my body of course would refuse to slide and required me to instead scooch awkwardly. There were other highlights I had researched beforehand, for very good reason, that I was able to introduce my friends to.

In the Southwest US, in the region spanning from California, Texas and Colorado, there is a chain of art museums called Meow Wolf. Admittedly, calling it an art museum is an understatement. I have never been able to describe it faithfully and suggest you google it sometime for the best I can do is call it an interactive exhibit. Every location guides visitors through different stories that connect distantly to the other locations, traversing portals into different worlds. It’s a highly successful chain that has inspired businesses globally, including the final highlight of my trip in Bristol called Wake the Tiger. Whilst navigating the maze of the exhibit, I had a chinwag with a staffer about Meow Wolf (which I discovered is taboo for them due to a rumored lawsuit). I assured her that the two companies had their fair share of differences and that no one should have a monopoly on art, that the lawsuit should be thrust into a time machine and shredded in whatever conference room it originated.

During that same weekend in Haven (the chronologicality of this story was doomed from the start), my friends and I visited an Italian-inspired village off the Welsh coast of the Irish Sea named Portmeirion. Growing up in the inland USA, I have only directly seen the ocean twice and the bodies of water I am fond of have no ability to follow the logics of tide. Arriving at Portmeirion in the morning and hiking up to a viewpoint revealed only a parched strait, yet by the time I ventured along the coast after lunch, the tides had refilled that strait. It was not a science I have witnessed firsthand before and I hadn’t even realized the science until one of my mates pointed it out.

The town itself successfully reminded me of my travels in Italy, efficiently imitating the architecture and environment. Overlooking the bay, I could envision the Irish Sea replaced by the Mediterranean. The single meal I tasted was iconically British though.

Following the weekend at Haven, we drove up to the paradise featured as my hook to this story, Snowdonia National Park. Centrally located to the majority of the rest of my itinerary, from my hostel I was able to reach Wales’ northernmost point in Anglesey (some of the most gorgeous cliffs I have seen), visit a castle, several gorgeous hikes taken out of a fantasy novel, explore a British college town, and visit the longest single word named city on the continent (second in the world, and no I am not even going to attempt to spell it for you. I’ll let the picture do that task for me. I simply call it Llanfair.)

For fear of a long queue and extensive detour, I initially skipped a visit to Stonehenge. I thus ended my tour of the British Isles with a quick stop to a Stonehenge substitute, another circle of rocks historically important to the locals, less impressive than Henge, but backdropped by endless fields that maintained a quality worth visiting called the Rollright Stones. Standing in the outskirts of the Cotswolds, the Rollright Stones proved an adequate alternative to the much busier Stonehenge, permitting street parking for a quick 50-100 foot hike to the stones.

Another intention while planning for this trip was to experience an (inter)National Park amidst all the chaos ravaging those in the States. I don’t think I could have picked a better park than Snowdonia, an absolute thrill even out of its tourist season (although if I had left even just a day later I could have enhanced the journey with a train ride through the countryside and up to Snowdonia’s highest peak. Instead I had to settle for a much shorter train ride along a single side of a lake).

I drank with a couple locals in the lounge of my hostel, discussing the park “situation.” I had realized that, driving into Snowdonia, we never passed an entry toll booth like you have to in the States (though I have been to a couple US National Parks where these booths can be avoided if one found the proper back roads). I also realized that I hadn’t seen a single park ranger. These factors piqued the curiosity I addressed to the locals, one an army soldier nearing the end of his station and the other a retiree. They informed me how their parks were mostly operated by volunteers and funded by donations.

I discovered on my own another source of funding granted by an endless parade of parking lot fees (or as the Brits call them, Car Parks). And I mean endless in the literal sense. You think this business has its own private parking for its customers? It’ll cost you £3. I also encountered a few toll booths for entry into individual points of interest. Swallow Falls, located just outside Betws-y-coed, has an entry fee of £2 that goes toward managing that section of Snowdonia. There is also another interesting factor contributing to National Park conservation: businesses.

Through further research after my return to the States, I discovered the key differences between parks in the UK and in the US. The US National Parks are owned by the government and established to protect wildlife and natural resources. They rarely include permanent human communities. In the UK though, National Parks were established around already developed settlements and owned privately, not technically qualifying as “National Parks” according to internationally accepted standards. They are instead developed as areas of natural beauty to protect landscapes and, while controlled privately, do still have committees to restrict further development that may taint that landscape.

I reflected on this information a lot during this trip, really trying to ‘learn’ something as I believe traveling does help teach and open eyes to the world. I can’t help but wonder if there’s something the US can do to adjust the operations of our own Parks. The chaos of these layoffs is aggressive due to decades-long systemic policies. It’s doubtful we would reach the same level of management as the UK. Despite the obvious reasons we cannot apply the same policies to our parks, we can perhaps learn from them.

I myself learned quite a bit on that trip: about Wales, about the World, but also about myself. Maybe it’s a factor of having traveled to 14 countries or 30 States, maybe it’s simply a pure captivation of a different world, but I had my own eye-opener that week to a dark secret: I want to live outside of the US. The operations of other countries to me just seem more logical, many nations are more advanced, and people are in general more considerate of each other. I may have joked about my friends kidnapping me so I never have to go home, but a good chunk of me seriously considered something, anything to keep me there. Alas, I returned home, inspired to alter the trajectory of my life despite spending the last decade refusing to invest in a future that may never come, living every moment in the present the best that I can.

I now imagine a life full of possibilities, a freelancer on the road writing and sharing stories that will enlighten the world.

I now imagine a life shifting from station to station teaching English to non-natives, living in exotic countries and immersing myself into countless different cultures.

I now imagine a life in the sky, attending to flight passengers, staying in hotels every other night in strange new cities.

I now imagine a life as an advisor, plotting the most memorable, exciting, and life-changing adventures a client could ask for.

I now imagine a life on screen, portraying characters of varying qualities, behaviors, and mannerisms.

I now imagine all these different versions of me that died years ago, abandoned dreams begging for reclamation. This trip brought fantasies to life. It is time I reinvigorate a few more fantasies of my own.