I chose early October to visit Utah because it was Fall Break at my kids’ school. I didn’t know the Aspens and Maples would be at their peak color; that part was pure luck. Claire, Johna and I rode as Matthew drove our rented black 4runner through for the Cache National Forest to Fifth Water Hot Springs in Diamond Fork Canyon. I mostly resisted taking pictures. I have learned that capturing the grandeur of the mountains is like trying to catch the magic of the moon; it’s nearly impossible. Impossible but tempting and therefore frustrating. In the end, I think it’s better to put the camera down and simply savor the colors and textures of the changing landscape. Thus, my memory of the ride is a beautiful seamless video instead of a frustrating experience, segmented and broken by frame after unsatisfying frame of attempts to capture the moment instead of living it.

It reminded me of when my kids were little. I could either take pictures of the event or enjoy being part of it. Maybe it’s the way I take pictures. I try to become invisible, find the essence of what’s going on and capture it. That is what happens when I hike, too. I wander and muse until ideas flow, then it’s a hunt to find an image to illustrate the heart of the concept.

I am reading Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. She speaks of the Standing People, a beautiful Potawatomi reference to trees. I usually communicate with the Standing People when I hike, but this trip included my human people. The hot springs hike was different for many other reasons too. There were lots of people on the trail. The hike was short, about six miles roundtrip. Short does not mean easy in the mountains because of the hills. The altitude was challenging. My body was willing; my lungs were taxed. We all had our difficulties. We also had our sights set on the hot pools of water at the end of the trail.

We walked. We huffed & puffed. We lallygagged as if the hike was a matter of time, not distance. We goofed around. We talked and told stories. We laughed. We wondered how much further. Sometimes we bravely asked those that were coming from the other direction. One group enthusiastically told us we were almost there. I appreciated the sentiment; I understood that “almost” was relative. We were not almost there.

The mountain appeared to be made of dark-gray cement poured in piles and mixed with way too much gravel. Its shade made the branches and trunks of the trees look black. The fire-red of the Maples and yellow of the Aspens glowed next to the tree silhouettes. The landscape was fascinating and distracted me as it wound up and down along the narrow river. Eventually, we saw steam rising from the water and a bit later, the faint smell of sulfur encouraged us to continue.

I think we sensed the excitement around the many pools before we saw them. We came around a bend and looked up the steep hill to see pool after pool connected by steamy cascading water. People were sitting quietly, neck-deep in the many small pools separated by rocks and trees.

The pools were hotter closer to the source and we found the perfect private spot about halfway up the terraced hill. It was hard to peel off the layers over our bathing suits because it was chilly in the mid-50s. One-hundred-ten-degree water negated any hesitation to getting in the pool once free of hiking clothes. It was warm and dark and silty and smelled strange. We settled in and laughed. It was as if all the challenges of getting to this place melted away. The planning, the flight, the hike, all of it fell away. Life is a grand adventure and we were together in the mountains of Utah. Finding joy together was the essence of this day, this vacation, maybe life. I grabbed my phone and took a few pictures, not of the Aspens or fiery Maples but of my heart, my heart that lives outside of me.

There is something magic about mountain hot springs. The water soothes the mind, body and spirit. Sharing them with my human people among the Standing People might be my favorite family adventure so far.