sometimes the last hike looks like an ordinary morning.

location: high point trail, red cliffs desert reserve, st. george, utah. conditions: off cottonwood springs rd / old dump rd (black gulch trailhead). energy level: heavy. sore hearts.

we checked out a few trails the morning of october 25th. nothing urgent. just wandering, letting the girls stretch their legs, doing the thing where you scout a trailhead and tell yourself you’ll come back for the real hike when joints and attitudes align. a casual morning. the kind you don’t mark on any calendar because there’s no reason to.

old age and spinal arthritis had other plans. they showed up fast and mean a few days later, the way those things do — not gradually, not with warning, just suddenly and then all at once. all the casual “next time” talk evaporated. and then we were saying goodbye, for good, to our baby and trail partner, tove.

desert light has looked different ever since. i’m not sure it’ll go back.

what i noticed

the trail was quiet that morning, so the distractions had to work harder. they did.

yellow flashes of desert marigold, stubborn and loud in the way that only small flowers in harsh places manage to be. long grasses catching the wind like they were performing for someone. purple asters pushing through rosette leaves like tiny disco accents that didn’t get the memo about the desert being subtle. orange globemallow doing what globemallow does, which is exist loudly and without apology. low white desert spurge hugging the rocks close — probably the smartest strategy out there.

terrain notes

sandy, rocky, mostly flat. not much elevation gain on paper, but every bump counts when your pack is older and every joint has a history it’s keeping track of. dog approval was high. the girls moved well that morning, which is the kind of detail that feels unbearable in retrospect and also like something worth holding onto.

there were holes. existential and otherwise.

trail, if you’re mapping

high point trail on onx backcountry — a line on the map for plans you don’t realize you’re about to lose.

for fellow wanderers

bring water. stay humble. desert trails do not care about your backstory or your timeline or what you thought was going to happen next.

if you are out here with old dogs, take the extra photos. take them even when the light is wrong and the dog is looking the other way and you think you’ll get a better one next time. take them anyway. you will want them.

leave no trace except maybe a few quiet memories that will ambush you later in the cereal aisle or on a different trail on a different morning when the light hits the same way.

field note filed. no one tells you which ordinary morning becomes the one you replay. no one warns you how sharp it turns once you know.