Grassland Adventure

My sisters were here a few days ago, and it was an especially great visit. Besides getting to see them, I also got to go to the national grasslands, an area I’ve been wanting to explore ever since I moved here. I have driven through the grasslands and saw . . . ta da! Yep, you guessed it — grass! Miles and miles of grasses.

In the back country of those grasslands are all sorts of interesting things such as canyons, petroglyphs, dinosaur tracks, and tarantulas. There are hiking trails back there, too, but they are not the easiest, nor are they the easiest to get to — miles of dirt and gravel roads, and I have no interest in shaking my car apart just to satisfy my curiosity. (Do you remember those cartoons where some character is driving a jalopy, the car hits a bump, and the thing falls to pieces? That’s what I always envision when I have to drive a bit on unpaved roads.)

We headed out late in the afternoon, so by the time we got to the grasslands, we were only able to explore and hike for a short time before the sun starting setting. Still, even without seeing petroglyphs and dinosaur tracks, we were able to get a sense of the area.

Huge slabs of sedimentary rock looked like a river in the fading light. It was easy to believe that these slabs once formed the muddy floor of a prehistoric lake.

The sun shining on the canyon wall peeping over the rim made it look as if the canyon were on fire.

Vast swaths of grass gleamed with autumn colors.

It was hard to imagine how the folks traveling the Santa Fe Trail we able to traverse such areas in their primitive vehicles. (Though I’m sure at the time, those wagons were considered modern conveyances.)

But best of all, to my delight (and to my sister’s screeching horror) I finally got to see a tarantula! Ever since I heard of the tarantula migration in this area, I’ve been on the lookout for tarantulas. I even set out at dusk a couple of times to see if I could find any tarantulas on the move, but they’ve proven to be illusive creatures.

There’s still so much to explore out in the grasslands, but I won’t be able to return until I can find someone with a proper vehicle and a sense of adventure to go with me. Although I used to hike alone in remote areas, that was when I was younger. Admittedly, I was only four or five years younger, but back then, I didn’t feel as if I had anything to lose. And too, my knees were in great condition. But that’s not something I want to dwell on. The truth is, I am very grateful to have been able to see (and experience) what I got to see. Such an adventure!


Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

Risk Management

I have never been a risk taker. I do not like pain or discomfort of any kind — not taunts, not scoldings, not broken bones, not cuts, not illness. For most of my life, my adventures were the literary kind, and oh, I was intrepid. Actually, that’s not true. I never identified as the hero. I was always sort of a companion, analyzing the risks and trying to figure out how not to have gotten into the scrapes the character did, and thinking about how I would get myself out the situation.

The habit of analyzing risks followed me into real life. For example, although I had no aptitude for dancing when I was young and there was no way for me to take dance classes, I’d still decided at a young age that dancing wasn’t for me. I didn’t want the foot pain and bleeding toes, the horrendous hours of work, and all the rest that goes into being a dancer. I still don’t want any of that. As dedicated as I am about taking dance classes now, at the first sign of debilitating pain (other than the muscle aches from too many plies), that will be it.

Even before I fell and broke my arm, I’d fall-proofed wherever I lived — stayed away from area rugs, made sure the night time trek from bed to bathroom was completely open. Now I have bars in the bathtub, but I’d always been careful getting in and out of the shower, been especially careful picking up soap if I dropped it because I knew that’s how and where most home injuries occurred.

How did I know all this? I have always been a researcher. And I think things through and rethink things to the point of overthinking.

That being said, the truth is, there is no way to avoid risk. Many terrible things have happened to me over the years, from being held up at gunpoint, to having to deal with devastating grief when Jeff died, and most recently, the destruction of my arm. Everything bad that has ever happened to me has happened in the city, sometimes even when I was with someone else.

If I were still with Jeff, or if I hadn’t had to deal with the horrors of grief, my adventurous spirit might never have been kindled, but now the wild woman in me is struggling to get out. I have an inordinate desire to live. To experience. To be. To become.

I realize this call to adventure (whatever the adventure might be) involves more risks than reading in bed (though I have known people who broke hips when they fell out of bed), but all I can do is minimize the risks. As I have always done, I research ways to be safe, I imagine myself in precarious situations, learn what others have done and what I would do to get out of them. Even following a well established trail, it’s easy to get lost (as many people have discovered too late), but my years of venturing into the nearby desert have taught me to mark the way back to the trail if I have to leave it, to pay attention to my tracks (and the tracks of other creatures).

I make sure my cell phone is fully charged, and I am always wary, never acting as if I am in a safe place, though the truth is, I am safer wandering in the desert than I am in the city. (A lot safer than driving, that’s for sure!) The most dangerous thing I do is cross a street. I’m not joking here. To get to the dance studio, I have to cross one of the busiest and most dangerous intersections in town where six roads with multiple lanes meet, cars going all directions, and no cross walk. (Sometimes I jaywalk, which is safer, unless I’m caught, and then I face an $80 fine).

I have driven cross country alone, hiked in national parks and wild places alone. I have camped alone. It’s not as if I have no experience being alone in potentially dangerous places, but still, people worry about me.

Don’t get me wrong — I appreciate the concern. I really do. It’s pleasing — and comforting — to know that people care. Lately, though, so many people have cautioned my about putting myself at risk, that I’m getting scared. And I don’t want to be.

Of course I’m at risk, and I will be at even greater risk when I take my trip in May, but so what? I can’t live my life in fear of something bad happening to me. I take more than reasonable precautions, but I will not be bounded by fear, mine or anyone else’s. If something happens, will it be worse than Jeff dying? Will it be worse than being held up at gunpoint? Will it be worse than destroying my arm? Will it be worse than living in fear? Will it be worse than stagnating, worse than squandering this opportunity of freedom where I am still healthy enough to go where adventure calls, worse than squandering myself?

I understand that terrible things could be waiting for me out there, and if any of those things happen, I’ll deal with it then.

But think of this. What if I can handle whatever comes as I have always done? What if nothing bad happens? What if something wonderful is waiting for me if I only have the courage to grab hold of adventure and life?

So yes, please worry about me, but don’t forget to encourage me, too. I need both.


Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels UnfinishedMadame ZeeZee’s Nightmare, Light BringerMore Deaths Than OneA Spark of Heavenly Fireand Daughter Am IBertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.