The hike was not starting well.
We were scrambling down a sun-blasted trail in Moab, Utah, and we were lost. Making matters worse, we were short of water. We like to think we are cautious hikers, but we had inadvertently left a backpack with half our water bottles on our hotel room counter.
We were in an area known as Fisher Towers, which sounds like it should be a beachfront condo in Florida but is actually a rugged wilderness area 16-miles outside of Moab town. It is known for a series of towering sandstone pillars and bizarre rock formations, all ancient and sun-gutted and connected by a worn, broken trail of packed dirt and rock. It can be incredibly hot.
We encountered four people on the hike. We met the first two shortly after we started out. They were young and fit and were quick to caution us to pay close attention to the trail, as they had gotten lost. "Always stay to the right," they said. So, we thanked them and continued on our way, staying always to the right, and before long, we were lost, too.
Ironically, our destination was in clear view. We were bound for the Titan, the tallest, free-standing natural tower in the nation. It soared in the distance, beckoning us with its apparent nearness. And it was near, less than a mile away. It was as though we were at the Lincoln Memorial, trying to hike to the Washington Monument, 0.8-miles away. But instead of a peaceful reflecting pool and a pleasant walkway, we faced a twisting, heat-blurred landscape of boulders, crags, and crevices. And, somewhere, there was a trail that we had not been able to find.
We had been husbanding our water from the moment we realized our mistake, but, as the sun climbed, our thirst mounted. It was August, the height of summer, and it was already 100-degrees. We stopped on occasion in the shade of large boulders and walls of rock, and I decided that if our situation became dire, we could always hole up in the shade until the day was nearly done and then try to pick our way back to the car in the remaining snatches of daylight.
Nearly 300-feet taller than the Washington Monument, the Titan was always there, teasing us and luring us onward like a Greek Siren. Sometimes we would drop into a crevice and lose it for a minute, but we knew it would be there when we emerged from the other end. We eventually found ourselves on a trail that seemed promising, but when it suddenly ended at a cliff edge, our spirits sank, and we knew we had to make a difficult decision. With an inadequate supply of water, we decided it would be prudent to turn back. This, too, was not without its own problems. Since we had no idea where we were, we also had no idea where to find the trail back to our car.
As we prepared to turn back, but still reluctant to give up, we mounted a large boulder for a last look ahead. And then we saw it. The additional elevation granted by the boulder enabled us to spy in the distance a distinct trail. Marked by stone cairns, it ran sinuously through the wilderness, but heading always toward the Titan. Putting aside our plans to go back, we scrambled across a stretch of broken rock until we reached the path, where we immediately found the hiking much easier.
We hurried along the trail, rounded a bend, pushed up a rise and found ourselves gaping in awe at the first in a series of towering spires. For the moment, we forgot our thirst.
My wife went ahead, and I lagged behind to get a photo of her alongside the cliffs. Just before I reached the base of the spires, I noticed two figures in the distance. They were heading our way, walking single-file along the trail where it hugged the shadows at the base of the cliffs. The first of the two figures to reach me was a middle-aged black fellow with friendly eyes and a pleasant smile. He was with a white woman, and though it was left unsaid, I think because my wife and I are also a mixed-race couple, it forged an immediate bond between the four of us.
He stopped and smiled, and his teeth were even and white. His skin glistened with sweat, and his muscles moved sinuously beneath his skin. There was an air of easy confidence about him. They were both noticeably excited. They were returning from the end of the trail, and he said that when they had stood beneath the Titan and looked up, it felt as though they were on a strange, unnamed planet. “It’s an easy trail,” he offered. “There is one place where you need to climb a ladder, but it is not hard. Neither of us had a problem. You will be amazed when you see it," he said with unbridled enthusiasm. I said we had gotten lost, and we were amazed to have even gotten this far. They laughed heartily and agreed it was easy to get lost on the trail. Then, as things often happen, our conversation drifted to other subjects. We were comfortable in the shade offered by those ancient walls of stone, and we were at ease with each other. A soft, cool wind roamed the base of the rock wall, a welcome change from the blast of the sun. He asked if I lived in Utah, and I said no, I live in Hawaii. He said he was from Alabama. He mentioned he had lived in Japan, and I said my wife is Japanese. He said he loved Japanese people and thought they were wonderful, and he remarked at how safe it is to travel in Japan. Probably the safest country in the world, I said. As we spoke, a camaraderie seemed to develop between us, a mutual feeling of respect and goodness. Then something happened that still leaves me baffled. He removed his backpack, rummaged through his belongings and emerged with a water bottle. He held it out to me. “Here, take this,” he said. I had made no mention of our water situation. I had thought about it, but I had not wanted to beg for water. “That’s kind of you,” I said, "but you might need that. You should keep it.” “No,” he proclaimed. “I want you to have it. We're on our way back and won’t be needing it.” Oh, how I wanted that water! But still I dissented. He looked at me a moment, and then he pointed to a tumble of rocks at the base of the cliffs. “Do you know how those rocks got there?” he asked. I glanced at the piles of broken boulders and rocks, some crushed and pulverized into pebbles and dust. “Yes,” I said. “Erosion. They tumbled from the cliffs.” “That’s right,” he said, “ and the day will come when no cliffs remain. They will have all crumbled into dust. It’s a reminder that our time here, too, is brief. So . . . while I am still here, I want to give a man some water." And then he pressed the bottle into my hand. I took it like he was giving me a gold nugget. We spoke a little longer, and, after brief goodbyes, we parted. I took the water to my wife. It would go far towards seeing us to safety.
“Look at what that fellow gave us,” I said. “And I didn’t even ask him.” My voice had a little crack in it.
We shared the water and it immediately refreshed us in body. But it did more than that. Much more. At the risk of sounding too syrupy, I will say that it also refreshed our belief in the goodness of humanity. His unsolicited act of kindness was something that is much too rare these days, and this lack of goodwill and decency troubles me. This was the type of man I would want as a close friend.
I turned and watched them pick their way down the trail. He turned and waved once, and then they rounded a bend and disappeared from sight. I’ve never seen them again, but I’ll never forget that good man from Alabama. I wish I had asked his name.
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“Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you’re already in heaven now." - Jack Kerouac
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