MY SOLO HIKE ON BROADS FORK

Whether you’re interpreting medical images from 8am to 6pm or hiking to the top of a mountain, it’s possible to attain neurochemical reward in any activity as long as your interpretation of reality allows for it. And since our subjective experiences of life are really just patterns of neuronal activity, this neurochemical reward activity is really the basis of happiness. I think that for the most part, this need for neurochemical reward underlies all depression and job dissatisfaction on one hand and fulfillment and work engagement on the other. Ultimately, if you can derive neurochemical reward from whatever you do, you’ll be satisfied with life. Maybe I’ll write an entire post on this subject in the future… For now though, I mention all of this because it was the theme of my day hike on the Broads Fork trail in Salt Lake City. 

I was stuck in a dilemma: I was living in Salt Lake City surrounded by amazing nature to get out and explore, but I was also applying for medical residencies and needed to work on my application. In the past I would’ve done one or the other. I would’ve gone our for hike, all the while feeling bad about not being “productive” or I would’ve sat inside and worked on my application feeling good about my productivity but with disappointment in my inability to “live” my life. I was stuck in the myth of dogmatic connotation.

Luckily I got out of this early in medical school. When your life becomes one dimensional in periods of high workload, if you don’t find a way to mentally flexibility that allows you to enjoy it, you’ll quickly become burnt out. So today, instead of either hiking or working on my application, I was going to do both. I would hike to the top of a mountain prepared to stay all day and work on my application on my iPad. 

The first thing I did upon waking up was fill the Mr. Coffee drip brewer sitting on the laminate countertop in my AirBnb with water, listening to it gargle away as it brewed my caffeine supply for the day. While it did its job I packed water, some dehydrated backpacking meals and clif bars, a lightweight backpacking chair, and my iPad into my pack. Once finished brewing, the coffee found a home in my green Stanley thermos, and I set out toward Big Cottonwood Canyon. I found a spot along the canyon road to park my car and hiked along the roadside stream until I reached the trailhead for the Broads Fork Trail.

This hike would be relatively straightforward. Two miles up the side of a mountain to a green meadow surrounded by snow-capped peaks. Eager to get out in nature, I started the climb. About 30 minutes in, I eyed a break in the trees that guarded a stream rushing down the mountain and found a rock on which to sit. This is where I would eat my breakfast: a stroopwafel and a few thermos-top cups of coffee. 

There I sat, sun beaming down through the coniferous trees swaying in the gentle breeze above, birds chirping, water rushing just below my feet. I couldn’t imagine anything more peaceful. I still had on my fleece jacket keeping out the cool bite of the morning air. I almost considered setting up shop there for the day, but the views promised by higher elevation motivated me onward up the mountain. 

The rocky path below my feet guided me past occasional breaks in the trees where wildflowers dominated the views. Butterflies, hummingbirds. It felt like a scene from a movie. The distance passed quickly, and eventually I found myself surrounded by Aspen trees. Having completed this hike the weekend before when my girlfriend came to visit, I knew the end goal was approaching. 

Another clearing, then another small group of trees passed. And then the sky opened up. The dense trees were all behind me. After a few more steps over a grass-covered hill I found myself looking up and out, surrounded by the amphitheater of snow-capped peaks I had come for. The mountain-top wind whispered over trees and boulders and rock faces, summing to a gentle airy hum. There wasn’t another soul there. 

Looking down at my watch, the time was about 11:30am. Lunchtime. Gas from the red MSR canister flowed up through my MSR PocketRocket, and the system easily took a spark. The flames from the pressurized fuel made quick work of bringing a small amount of water to a rolling boil. I dumped the water into a freeze dried Mountain House backpacking meal and waited about 10 minutes before digging in. As always, the high sodium meal was tasty enough, and with my stomach full, I continued working. A few hours more passed and my Stanley thermos was nearly empty. The sun was setting in the western sky casting the area in a golden-hour glow. The shadows of trees grew longer and the mornings birds had gone quiet. I was still the only person for at least a thousand yards in any direction.

Looking down at my watch, the time was about 11:30am. Lunchtime. Gas from the red MSR canister flowed up through my MSR PocketRocket, and the system easily took a spark. The flames from the pressurized fuel made quick work of bringing a small amount of water to a rolling boil. I dumped the water into a freeze dried Mountain House backpacking meal and waited about 10 minutes before digging in. As always, the high sodium meal was tasty enough, and with my stomach full, I continued working. A few hours more passed and my Stanley thermos was nearly empty. The sun was setting in the western sky casting the area in a golden-hour glow. The shadows of trees grew longer and the mornings birds had gone quiet. I was still the only person for at least a thousand yards in any direction.

Not wanting to hike down in the dark, I packed up my things, stood at the top of my little hill for a moment, reflecting on how productive and enjoyable the day had been, and then started the trek down. At first my progress was slow, wanting to savor the mountain meadow that surrounded me. But as soon as the blue sky above me was traded for dense foliage I picked up my pace to an easy downhill trail run to cover ground more quickly. 

I continued this light jog for about half a mile before rounding a corner of dense trees and catching a brown furry figure in my peripheral vision. I froze. The moose’s nose was no more than 6 feet away from me. I could’ve taken a big step to the left and touched it. 

In case you weren’t already aware, moose are huge. And like any large animal, they can be dangerous -especially a mother moose with its calf. This one stood with its nose just above my eye level and it’s calf stepped out from some bushes and stared at me. I stood there in mild shock for what felt like a full minute but was probably only a few seconds. My sympathetic nervous system had activated and my legs were shaking as I slowly started to back away. Luckily for me, this moose cow didn’t seem too interested in me. It took a few steps away from the path and began eating leaves from a tree. Camera always in hand, I snapped a few pictures (perhaps unwisely) and took a wide berth around the trail and past the moose. Honestly a bit flustered, I used my extra energy to propel me even more quickly down the mountain. My mind ruminated on the privilege of seeing such a beautiful animal that close, and the good fortune of its relative tameness. What a magnificent end to a truly wonderful day.