Standing Still at the Edge of the Universe Beneath the Arizona Sky

Northern Arizona, Pandemic Year

I had crossed into Arizona from Utah sometime late in the day and found myself heading toward the road that leads to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. The North Rim was closed because of the pandemic, which meant there was almost nobody out there.

Earlier, I had stopped for gas at a small station somewhere along the way, but something was happening inside. An argument about masks. One person wearing one. Another refusing. Then suddenly guns were out.

I remember not even fully processing it. I just left.

Somewhere after that I made a wrong turn.

At first I didn’t realize it. I was driving through open desert while the landscape slowly began giving way toward the Kaibab Plateau, and by the time I understood I was going the wrong direction, I also realized I didn’t have much gas left.

So I pulled over.

The darkness out there did not feel normal. It felt absolute.

When I turned off the car and the headlights disappeared, I couldn’t see anything beyond the windows. No horizon. No shape to the land. Nothing. I didn’t even want to let my dogs out because I had no idea what surrounded us. The thought of animals somewhere out there in the dark felt suddenly very real.

So I stayed inside the car and eventually fell asleep.

I woke sometime around three in the morning thinking someone had turned on lights.

The desert outside the car was glowing.

For a moment I thought of Walmart parking lots at night, that strange artificial brightness that makes everything feel awake even when nobody is there.

But there was no store. No town. No traffic.

Just the road shining pale beneath me like crushed crystal.

I opened the car door slowly and stepped outside.

The late summer air was dry and crisp, almost absent, as if the darkness had stripped the world down to only stone, sky, and silence.

My dogs climbed out and stayed close beside me. They were used to the road by then. Used to unfamiliar places in the dark.

I stood there trying to understand where the brightness was coming from.

At first I looked toward the horizon and saw what seemed like a dense river of stars stretched across the edge of the sky.

Then I looked higher.

And higher.

My neck almost bent backward trying to follow it.

The Milky Way did not feel distant. It felt consuming. Endless. So large that for a moment I almost felt physically detached from the earth, as if one jump might lift me off the desert floor and pull me upward into whatever this thing really was.

I had never seen anything remotely like it before. Not in photographs. Not in books. Not online.

And the strangest part was realizing that even this impossible sky above me was still only a fraction of what actually existed.

I wasn’t standing beneath it.

I was already inside it.

There I was, somewhere in northern Arizona during the strangest year any of us could remember, low on gas, turned around in the middle of nowhere, standing beside my car while my dogs waited quietly near the roadside, feeling both microscopic and infinite at the same time.

I remember realizing that what frightened me was not the desert.

It was the sudden awareness of how vast everything really was.

And standing there beneath all of it, the fight at the gas station suddenly felt impossibly small. Two frightened human beings pointing guns at each other over masks on a tiny stretch of road somewhere on the crust of a planet floating through a universe so large neither of them, nor I, could truly comprehend it.

The Far Corner Parking Spot

There was always one.

At the edge of the asphalt kingdom,
past the shopping carts,
past the painted arrows and hurried engines,
past the people who parked close to the doors
because they still believed
life was happening inside.

I would drive slowly toward the back,
toward the farthest corner,
where the pavement frayed into grass
and the grass surrendered to weeds,
and the weeds leaned into woods
that no one really looked at anymore.

That was my place.

Not home exactly.
But something adjacent to it.
A temporary treaty
between movement and rest.

I learned the language of parking lots.
Which ones tolerated silence.
Which security guards looked away.
Which grocery stores stayed bright all night
like small artificial moons.
Which corners held shade at two in the afternoon
when the Florida heat pressed down
like a hand on the back of your neck.

I would angle the car carefully.
Always beside bushes if possible.
A little patch of green.
A tree line.
Anything that softened the feeling
of being exposed to the world.

Then came the ritual.

Window shades folded into place.
Driver’s seat reclined just enough.
Shoes loosened.
Phone charging from a tired cable.
A drink sweating in the cup holder.
The distant hum of traffic
becoming ocean-like after a while.

And for twenty minutes,
or forty-five if I was lucky,
I disappeared.

Not dramatically.
Not the kind of disappearing
people write headlines about.

Just enough to become invisible again.
A man between deliveries.
Between destinations.
Between versions of himself.

Sometimes rain tapped softly on the roof
and the whole car became a tiny cabin.
Sometimes sunlight filtered green through the trees
and for one impossible second
the parking lot looked almost beautiful.

On the road,
I wasn’t lost.
Not entirely.

In the far corner parking spot,
I was found.

I was resting beside civilization,
watching it continue without me
for just a little while longer.

And even now,
when I pass giant parking lots at dusk,
I still look instinctively toward the back corners.

Toward the trees.
Toward the hidden spaces.
Toward the places where tired people go
when they need a moment
to close their eyes
without being seen.

Gumbo Limbo Boardwalk Review, A Relaxing South Florida Nature Walk

If you are looking for a South Florida nature walk that feels manageable, scenic, and calming without requiring a major hike, the boardwalk trail and observation tower at Gumbo Limbo Nature Center in Boca Raton might be one of the best short walks in the area. This is not a “hardcore hiking” experience. It is a slow Florida coastal nature experience, and honestly that is part of its charm.

The walk itself is relatively short and easy to navigate. The boardwalk loop, including the tower area, is roughly a half mile total depending on how much time you spend exploring. The path winds through shaded coastal hammock and mangrove areas with a very classic tropical South Florida feel. You hear birds, wind moving through the trees, and sometimes distant traffic mixed with the sounds of nature. The atmosphere changes depending on the time of day. Early morning feels peaceful and cool. Sunset gives the whole place a golden glow, especially near the tower overlook.

One thing I appreciate about this walk is that the boardwalk makes movement feel more approachable. You are not trudging through deep sand or uneven terrain. The path is smooth and predictable, which matters if you have knee issues, balance concerns, extra body weight, or simply are trying to rebuild stamina. There are sections where you can slow down without feeling like you are “holding people up.” That psychological comfort matters more than many hiking blogs acknowledge.

The observation tower is one of the best parts of the experience because it is accessible in different ways depending on your energy level and comfort. If you are feeling ambitious or brave, there are stairs that take you to the top fairly quickly. If you prefer a slower pace, the tower also has ramps that gradually wind upward, making it much more approachable for people who need to take their time. That flexibility fits the overall vibe of Gumbo Limbo. You do not feel rushed here.

The trail is not completely isolated, but it also does not usually feel chaotic the way some public parks in South Florida can feel. Timing makes a huge difference. Midday weekends can bring families, tourists, and groups taking photos. If you prefer quieter experiences, sunrise and early morning tend to feel much calmer. Going earlier in the day is also your best strategy for parking. The Gumbo Limbo lot itself is free, which is a huge advantage in this area, but it fills up quickly on busy days. If you miss out and have to park at nearby beach parks, parking can become surprisingly expensive.

From the top of the tower you can catch beautiful sunset colors, tropical skies, and the feeling of being suspended above the trees. It creates that rare South Florida feeling where the city disappears for a few moments and nature takes over.

I still remember being there one evening around sunset when a group of Brazilians recognized me from TikTok. They started shouting out the cities they were from, laughing and filming videos at the top of the tower. One of them yelled “Brian Brasil!” and honestly it became one of those unexpectedly meaningful South Florida moments that blended nature, culture, language, and community all together. That kind of thing seems to happen naturally in this part of Broward and Palm Beach County because so many different worlds overlap here.

Another thing people often want to know is whether there are places to stop and rest. Yes, there are benches and resting spots throughout the area, which makes this walk more accessible than many longer Florida nature trails. If you are someone rebuilding fitness, managing body mechanics, recovering from health issues, or simply not in the mood for an aggressive workout, this matters. You can pause, watch birds, take photos, sip water, or just sit quietly without feeling pressured to keep moving.

As for bugs, South Florida is South Florida. The no-see-ums can absolutely become an issue depending on season, humidity, and wind conditions, especially near sunset or after rainy weather. Breezier mornings usually feel much more comfortable. Personally, I think the key to enjoying places like this is learning timing rather than avoiding nature altogether. The difference between a magical walk and an irritating one can literally be an hour on the clock.

This is also a good walk for people who are uncomfortable with intense “fitness culture.” Nobody here expects you to power walk six miles in athletic gear. You see tourists, older adults, photographers, families, birdwatchers, couples, and people simply wandering slowly through the environment. That creates a more welcoming feeling if you are self-conscious about your pace or body.

For me, the boardwalk at Gumbo Limbo is not about conquering distance. It is about reconnecting with movement, atmosphere, and the slower side of South Florida. Sometimes a half-mile nature walk with good light, quiet moments, and a beautiful tower overlook can do more for your mental health than forcing yourself through an exhausting workout.

And honestly, that is what makes this place special.

Hiking the Hidden Trails of Philadelphia's Great Woods

By Brian Schwarz

I was teaching at Temple University the year I wandered into the overgrown woods of West Fairmount Park with a very specific plan.

From satellite images, it looked like this entire section of the park might hold together as one continuous loop. Not a marked trail. Not something designed as it exists today. But something that hinted at an earlier structure. A system that may have once been part of a more elegant park layout, now grown over and left to evolve on its own.

I wanted to see if it still worked.

I started near Chamounix Drive with that loop already mapped out in my head. The goal wasn’t to wander. It was to stay within the shape of the woods and link together whatever paths remained to complete the full circuit.

Once inside, the overgrown nature of the woods was immediately clear. These weren’t manicured trails, and they weren’t marked. But they were there. Worn in just enough to follow, branching off in multiple directions, constantly giving you options.

And every so often, something would feel different.

A stretch that ran just a little too straight. A curve that seemed too deliberate. A sense that beneath the overgrowth, there had once been intention. Not obvious, not preserved, but still present if you were paying attention.

At each split, I made decisions based on orientation. I knew where the edges of the woods were supposed to be. I knew roughly how the loop should wrap. The question was whether the remnants of this older structure would still connect.

They did.

Moving through Belmont Woods, the terrain shifted in ways that confirmed where I was. Lower sections tightened with thicker growth and water moving through. Higher ground opened along the ridge near Chamounix. Even without signs, the landscape aligned with the plan.

At times, the presence of the Schuylkill Expressway defined the outer edge. Not something I needed to reach, but something that confirmed I was staying within the boundary of the loop.

The key point came at the crossing of Belmont Mansion and Chamounix Drive. That was the midpoint. If everything connected cleanly to that point, then the loop was real. I crossed once, exactly where expected, and went right back into the woods.

From there, it was about closing it.

The second half followed the same logic. Stay within the system. Keep the direction consistent. Use whatever path held the line of the loop, whether it felt like a worn trail or something that had simply been reclaimed by the woods.

And it held all the way through.

By the time I returned to where I started, I had completed just over five miles. One road crossing. No marked route. No need for one.

What looked like a possibility from above turned out to be fully walkable on the ground.

The overgrown woods of West Fairmount Park feel like something that was once shaped and then left behind. Not abandoned, but absorbed. If you understand how to read it, the structure is still there.

You don’t follow a trail here.

You follow what remains.

The Skyline Trail Is a Hike That Quietly Earns Its Ending

I started a hike at an ice rink and ended it on top of a mountain.

There was no dramatic beginning. Just a quiet start in Quincy, stepping onto the Skyline Trail with the intention of making it all the way to the end.

Early on, the trail gave me something unexpected. A still pool of water tucked between massive granite boulders. It felt hidden, like something you only notice if you’re really paying attention. 

And not long after, I realized something else. Even as the trail began to challenge you, there were always places to pause. Plenty of boulders to sit on, catch your breath, and take in the views.

The Blue Hills Reservation doesn’t hit you all at once. It unfolds. You go up and over one hill, then another, then another. Each one feels like a small destination. Each one gives you a slightly different perspective.

There were short sections where I had to use my hands and move carefully across the rocks. Not constant, just enough to keep you present. Just enough to remind you that you’re not just walking, you’re moving through the landscape.

What stood out most was that feeling of progression. It wasn’t about one big climb. It was about crossing something. Moving through it, not just up it.

And then, almost without realizing it, you arrive at Great Blue Hill.

You’re tired, but it’s the kind of tired that feels right. You look out, and it hits you. You didn’t just reach a high point. You got there step by step, starting from somewhere that didn’t feel like much at all.

That’s what stayed with me.

Not the summit.

The way you get there.

Hiking Mount San Jacinto from the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway

Mount San Jacinto offers one of the most unique hiking experiences in Southern California, and it starts in a way most hikes do not. Instead of climbing from the desert floor, you take the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway up to about 8,000 feet. In just minutes, you leave behind the heat of the Coachella Valley and step into a completely different environment of cool air, mountain silence, and towering lodgepole pines.

From there, the real hike begins.

The trail climbs another 3,000 feet through a landscape that feels almost unreal. Along one side of the mountain, an entire slope stretches out in massive white granite boulders. These are not small rocks scattered across the ground. They are enormous, some of them the size of buses, stacked and layered in a way that reshapes the entire mountainside.

Rising above and between them are tall lodgepole pines, straight and steady, creating a striking contrast between living forest and solid stone.

As you get closer to the summit, the environment changes again. The trees disappear, and you move into a wide, open mountainside covered in low shrubs. The shrubs are filled with small flowers, and bees move constantly between them, creating a quiet hum in the air. They are everywhere, but they do not bother you. You simply walk through the space, surrounded by movement and sound.

Then the final stretch begins.

You are no longer just hiking. You are climbing. The trail leads you onto the same massive white boulders you saw from below. To reach the top, you have to scramble, using your hands as well as your feet, moving carefully across the rock. It feels raw and physical, like the mountain is asking a little more from you before it gives anything back.

At the very top, you climb up and around the highest boulder, and that is when it opens up.

The view is beyond anything you expect. One direction stretches across the Inland Empire, past Los Angeles and Santa Monica, all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Another drops into the vast Coachella Valley. To the north, layers of mountains rise and fade into the distance.

It is the kind of reward you do not forget.

Mount San Jacinto is not just a hike. It is an experience you earn.

Waterfall for summer's last blast - get out and enjoy September!

This is your friendly reminder that this heat you're feeling in the Mid-Atlantic states right now, well, it's not going to last. Remember that September offer's summer's last blast of what feels unbearable but that which we long for during many of the colder months of the year.

Fun in the falls at Rickett's Glen, Pennsylvania

If you live in Pennsylvania, consider yourself a lucky so-and-so, because you have access to more recreational falls just beyond your front door than many would-be outdoors-people.

Now, wake me up when September ends. I'm patiently awaiting those cool and sunny days of October.