Precisely 48 hours after a newish friend invited me to join her and a group of vagabond photographers I'd never met before on a 4-day weekend road trip to Yosemite over Valentine's day, I was ready to go, bags packed and everything. I'd met Schylar, the friend who invited me, eight months prior at a photography workshop, and after a dubious breakup that left the crew short by a member, I received a last-minute invitation. 

My general philosophy for both travel and life is to jump at new opportunities. Even though Yosemite was lower on my travel bucket list, and while the thought of traveling with a group of strangers wasn't something I was necessarily keen on, the idea of staying home alone on Valentine's day jolted me into RSVPing "YES!" immediately. It was a no-brainer. Until I'd Venmo'd over my half for lodging and gas and started to second guess my decision and backpedal. 

"Wait, we're staying in a motel?" I asked Schylar.

"Yes," she replied, matter of factly.

"There weren't any photos on the website, what if it's a major dump and we end up having to share a minuscule looking closet for a bedroom? Isn't this the kind of place you get bed bugs?"

"Maybe."

"What if I don't get along with someone, and there's nowhere to escape if it gets awkward and uncomfortable?"

"Bring a good book."

"Wait, it's FOUR days? Crap, I read the group chat wrong...this is a long time to spend traveling with strangers in the middle of a national forest that doesn't accommodate high-speed wifi."

I wasn't sure if it was the excitement of the open road or my fear of spending my 33rd Valentine's day alone for the 33rd time that won me over from my momentary panic, but either way, it didn't take long after meeting the group to realize that my gut instinct was right. 

I met Trevon and Amanda first when the two of them, along with Schylar in tow, came to pick me up and introduced themselves as my carpool companions. I buckled up and discovered rather quickly that these new travel buddies weren't wallflowers. For the first four hours of our drive, they peppered me with questions about my life in Minneapolis. Why had I moved away? What brought me to Phoenix? They quizzed me excitedly, and I ping-pong my way through each answer carefully. 

Eventually, the real reasons why I found myself in the desert surfaced as I shared about my mom's suicide and all the events that had to lead me into picking Phoenix as the place to heal. We talked openly about mental health, and each member of the crew shared a personal struggle. The palpable vibe of openness and acceptance among the four of us shocked me, and whether it came about because we knew we'd be spending so much time in close quarters or thanks to the humble nature of each of our personalities, I wasn't sure. What I knew was that I felt recognized among this new group of friends who were already so comfortable with each other. Before I knew it, I was laying out my detailed plans of how I wanted to spread some of my mother's ashes in remembrance on the adventure. 

In any other setting, I'm quite certain that this same group of strangers would have resisted sharing thoughts so intimate and specific. Still, I was forever grateful that we didn't and for the mini enduring spiritual journey that unfolded. 

Day 1:

After a 12-hour drive straight through the night, we pulled into Yosemite View Lodge as the sun began to peek up from the horizon. Exhausted from the miles, but eager to catch up with the rest of our group, we bypassed checking in and headed straight into the park. 

As we drove into the park, we hit a checkpoint where rangers directed us to pull over to put chains on our car. Fumbling out one-by-one, the four of us peered down at the rubber tires in front of us and attempted to come up with a game-plan. My travel companions, all Arizona natives, weren't all that familiar with winterizing a vehicle, and sadly even with my years of Minnesota winters behind me, I wasn't any help either. With zero out of four of us having any prior snow chain experience, I wandered off with my camera while the other three read over the packagings instructions. 

Eventually, we managed to get the snow chains on, but it wasn't before asking the park ranger for help. With our wheels weatherized, we journeyed into the park and united with the rest of our group, Courtney, Mitchell, David, and Maraen-three out of the four photographers themselves.

Together the nine of us hiked through Yosemite, taking in the spectacular views and snow-capped granite peaks until we came to Lower Yosemite Falls. One of the quickest and most accessible hikes in Yosemite, Lower Yosemite Falls, delivered with breathtaking views immediately. I stared up at the tallest waterfall in North America- a structure nearly twice as tall as the Empire State Building in New York and felt chills at the magnitude of it. Even in the dead of winter, the falls were still cascading down, framed by pendant icicles. 

Day 2:

The next morning, I woke up with a stiff neck and a very peculiar set of bites that went up both sides of my ankles. Had anyone in the group checked the reviews on yelp for this place? Dirty and outdated, the overpriced motel masquerading as a Lodge was the closest to the entrance of the park, but no amount of convenience could cover up the stains and stench that lurked throughout the room.

The list of reasons I'd never stay at Yosemite View Lodge again was growing, but learning that the lodge was also home to the Yosemite Serial Killer years before was the proverbial cherry on top!

Brushing aside what appeared to be the one down-side to our trip, I resolved to be a little less boujee. I was the girl who had backpacked her way through the Sok river jungle in Thailand after all.

Gradually the remaining members of the group woke up and settled into a morning routine of prepping snacks and packing up camera equipment. We pulled into the park later than anticipated and drove around, looking for photographs. But it was slow going. That morning there was a fortuitously high altitude haze that diffused the sun. Just as we arrived, to El Capitan, a thick cloud of fog lifted just enough for all 3000 feet of the cliff to peek through. 

We scrambled out of the car one-by-one, each of us scouring the landscape before us trying to scope out the best vantage point. Photographers to the core, we strived to capture the rock formation is a way that didn't feel copied. I thought about El Capitan, Winter Sunrise, the famous photograph Ansel Adams had snapped of El Cap fifty years prior, and how the clouds I saw before me danced and swirled around the peak just like they did in it. I studied the granite monolith, composed my frame, and clicked my shutter.

During any other season, Yosemite visitors can enjoy a quick bus ride to Mirror Lake. In winter, however, all roads that lead there are closed. It was a long trek to the lake, and for most of it, I trailed behind my fellow photo sherpas with my head deep inside my thoughts. We hiked through ponderosa pines and icicle-adorned boulders and my thoughts were just starting to drift off to my mom's ashes when seconds later, a snowball flew past me narrowly missing my face.

"Snowball fight!" yelled Trevon, and in that instant, I could see he had a whole stack ready to pelt. Seconds later, Amanda was behind Trevon taking cover, two sets of gloved hands in the snow, frantically making a stockpile to retaliate with. Within another few seconds of the warning, the brisk air was thick with snowballs so compacted that several felt solid and icy. The ones from the freshly fallen flakes of snow burst open on impact, showering crystalline fragments that glinted in the sunlight. 

Part of me felt too old to be throwing snowballs with the stupid grin plastered all over my face, but it felt so refreshing to let myself be silly. To allow myself to play at that moment felt like the most healing thing I'd done in a while and was one of my favorite parts of the whole trip.

With less than an hour before dusk, we made our way to Mirror Lake to check out the charming water's crisp reflection for ourselves. The broad, shallow pool in Tenaya Creek was a seasonal wonder whose magic-mirror like powers existed only in the spring and winter. I was enjoying my last sunset aperitivo in Yosemite and unsure I could ever leave such a magnificent place.

Day 3:

On the final day of our trip, I woke up with what I believed to be the worst case of lichenification my insect bitten skin had ever seen. The day was short, considering we had a twelve-hour car ride home ahead of us. I decided the night before on the perfect spot to release my mom's ashes, and after we said goodbye to a part of our group, Trevon, Amanda, and Schylar accompanied me to a little bridge right outside the Yosemite Church. It wasn't particularly grandiose, and compared to all the other spots in Yosemite, it was rather unexciting. Still, the little footbridge out of view from the wandering public felt like the ideal place.

The bridge was covered in a thick blanket of white snow, footsteps, and paw prints crisscrossed each other around the labyrinth of paths that lead up to it. I stood at the top of the bridge, a fresh handful of my mother ready to make the first cast of her cremains over the ledge. Positioned on the wooden bridge with my palms outstretched over the water, I noticed a snowflake land on my face as softly as the kisses my mom used to plant and a tear rolled down my face. I closed my eyes, and gave the course sand between my palms a gentle squeeze before letting go. 

After a few moments, the slow, calming current swept my mother beneath the water's surface. And in that moment, I wanted to turn the pages back to dwell on the finer details: the crows feet around her eyes that deepened when she laughed, how she always wore my father's winter boots with three layers of socks rather than buy her own, and how she never got too old to throw a snowball or play in the snow with me. 

It is said that we live in the present, that the past is always gone, and that each day is the chance for something new. A stepping stone into a future we dream of even in the cold. For me that was the footbridge covered in snow, it was that wintery day, and seeing how the fallen snow had blanketed the earth around me in it's own sheet of white as if to offer me a blank page. 

Since my mother's suicide I resisted showing up fully in any of my relationships for the first two years, as my trust in human connection was fragile. But Yosemite and the snow had shown me that it was ok to soften that resistance and allow myself to be held and comforted by others. 

Back home at my Phoenician studio apartment as I unpacked from the trip, I felt full. I wondered what my new friends were up to at that very moment and when we'd see each other again and thanked my lucky stars that I’d said yes to a last minute invitation that to this day was one of the best trips of my life—not because of the destination, or even the journey, but because of the people.