Slow Travel: Sedona is Calling

A winter adventure for the mind

This past February, Sedona called me to take a break from a winter of injuries, illness, epic shoveling, exhausting family dynamics, and worrying that my teenager was losing his heart, soul, and burgeoning brain to the black box in his sweet hand. Armed with a double Mexi mocha and curried butternut squash soup in paper cups with pink lids from Pearl Street Bagels in Wilson, the Tetons in my rearview mirror, I screamed a guttural "Boooyaaa" as I drove south through Hoback Canyon.

"Why are you going by yourself?" my son had asked me a week before. Why indeed? My intention was to escape the negative energies of the patriarchy, find clarity in aging and explore my contribution to time, to essence, to the stars, and to the mountain bluebird.

As I rolled down Oak Creek Canyon from Flagstaff, dodging rockfall and ice patches, the canyons opened up to reveal white-capped temples to the cosmos kissed by the last of the late afternoon sunbeams. I felt my hands relax on the steering wheel, my shoulders drop down my back, and my heart opened up to the sun setting in the west.

Sedona is known as a sanctuary for nature and a place that generates energy to heal the human spirit. I came to immerse myself in it, having done little research other than booking an Airbnb for ten days. Although I had passed through once before and remembered a nice hike, I had barely scratched the surface.

On my first morning, I set out to find food and figure out how to clean the dried salty slush off our bikes. I ended up at the Thunder Mountain bike shop, where I was greeted warmly and offered a giant squirt bottle of pink bike cleaner. "We can clean your bikes for you," a young man offered. When I asked how much it would cost, he said, "no charge."

"No, you haven't seen the bikes," I replied. "I'm happy to pay."

"It's cool; we do it for people all the time, and we aren't that busy today," he said. Dang.

After unloading the bikes, I walked to the "organic oasis" a friend had recommended called the ChocolaTree that just happened to be next door. The dark, cozy entrance exuded a hippy warmth and smelled like homemade chai and patchouli. The line to order at the counter was long and moving slowly, and I was anxious to hit the trails. But something in my subconscious told me, "Slow down. You know this will be worth the wait."

While waiting, I soaked up the sun reading in an enclosed garden surrounded by quiet fountains, funky art, gentle music, and calm people. An hour and a half later, I emerged onto the street energized by the "comfort bowl,” the special of the day, a warm Thai salad with cashews served over brown rice with Ayurvedic cream sauce, and a “Pachamama latte” made with coconut milk, maple syrup, and cinnamon.

"I can't believe how nice everyone is," I thought. "This is too good to be true. This is only my first day. I'm sure it will change." It never did.

I filled my days wandering sandy red trails; I watched a friend walk the famous “white line” where mountain bike “bros” court death in front of gawking tourists in pink jeeps. I flipped over my own handlebars in the Canyon of Fools. I circled Cathedral Rock alone in a snow squall and sipped turmeric lattes in coffee shops. At the Tibetan Stupa on a hill standing in a cove of gnarled Pinon pines, wind chimes serenaded me, and I fell into a trance until a grizzled man with a cane and a chihuahua on a leash shuffled silently by.

I sat and wondered on the banks of a forested creek. I could tell that it floods sometimes. but that day, it was slow and frigid, and into it, I dipped my aching ankle and reveled in the raw shock of nature. Here, like my home in the Tetons, everything - the prickly Havalina, the rocks, the caves, the streams, and especially the wind - brought me alive.

While trying to organize my thoughts spanning six decades, I reflected on how and why women are conditioned to be contained. I also pondered what "new age" really means and concluded that it started with the hippies, but they lost their way once they became enamored with money, material possessions, and power. As I watched the clouds constantly change shape and move through the sky, I realized that, like them, I am a complex system influenced by internal and external factors. Although abundance is my gift and superpower, it can also hold me back. My mind unfolded with the ceaseless changes of the clouds, and I reclaimed my focus on manifesting a creative life.

Walking back to the Baldwin trailhead on the last day of my trip, thoughts of the 13-hour drive home and my ignored to-do list started creeping back into my mind. However, I could still enjoy the last rays of the afternoon sun and the power emanating from the canyon wall's red glow for the last time. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks when I heard singing from an ancient flute floating through the canyon. "No way... this is too much," I thought, spinning around and grinning. Then, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of fresh desert air, and listened while I imagined Kokopeli (if he had come this far south) dancing and whirling over the sandstone buttes.

When the music stopped, I turned a corner and saw a chiseled man with long black dreadlocks on the trail, reminiscent of Lenny Kravitz in his 20s. He was slipping a 24-inch long, 4-inch-wide wooden instrument inlaid with turquoise into a woven bag. Seriously? I caught his eye, smiled, gave him a silent Namaste, and he agreed to play another tune for the three other hikers who had also stopped in awe and me. Before we continued, he filled us with stories about his relationship with the Navajo elder who had carved the flute, preserving indigenous knowledge.

Just a few hours before, I had stopped at a local coffee shop where an ancient copy of Arizona Highways Magazine on a bookshelf caught my eye. When I picked it up, I saw the date - October 1963 - the year and month of my birth. Was it yet another sign that I was meant to be her? Or another random thing I was lucky enough to notice.

Like my beloved Tetons, Sedona amplifies the energy of the good, the beautiful, and the kind. Whether you call it a vortex or simply an inspiring place, it's a natural wonder that truly leaves an impact.

What is Slow Travel?

It’s the best way to experience a place! Slow travel is a mindful approach to traveling that emphasizes taking the time to fully experience and appreciate a destination rather than rushing through it quickly. It often involves using more sustainable modes of transportation, staying in locally owned accommodations, and engaging in authentic cultural experiences. Slow travel can also help reduce the impact of tourism on local communities and the environment by supporting local businesses and reducing carbon emissions. It allows travelers to connect with the places they visit on a deeper level and gain a greater understanding and appreciation for their cultures and histories.