I eased my tired feet into crystal-clear water, appreciating the perfect temperature for soothing blisters. I had made sure to break-in my new hiking boots before the trip, but the sheer number of miles I’d been hiking had left a mark.

It was a bright sunny day with a just-right breeze blowing in from the west side of the mountains. When I looked up towards the peaks, I marveled at the fact that if I kept hiking, I’d reach where I started my journey: Kings Canyon. I had almost made a complete circuit around a portion of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and was squeezing out the last remnants of nature-time from my trip. Mentally I wanted to keep exploring; physically, my body was telling me it was time to rest.

As paddled my feet in the water, I noticed some small fish darting around the lake, coming daringly close to my toes. My hiking app said this was Flower Lake, but other signs in the area were inconsistent. I suppose that in an area that has over 2,000 lakes (thanks, glaciers!), names become a little muddied. For instance, the Deer Lake hike I had recently taken included over three lakes by the same name.

I dried off my feet and found a nice rock on which to lie down. I must have dozed off, because when I awoke the weather had shifted, and I could feel the mid-afternoon storm rolling in. I doubted the inclement weather would make it over the mountains, but I didn’t want to risk being at 10,000 feet without adequate cover.

I drove south along 395, swiveling my head from time to time to look at the glorious mountains framing the highway. Along the way, I saw a historical marker sign that piqued my curiosity. I pulled to the side and discovered Manzanar, a war relocation center where Japanese American citizens/residents were incarcerated during World War II. Part of the National Park Service, Manzanar has been preserved and partially reconstructed in order to tell the stories of the thousands of individuals who stayed there. I somberly walked around, reading the wayside exhibits in order to learn more about this strange place in the middle of the desert. The wind started picking up, adding to the eeriness I felt at being surrounded by desert and encompassed by the narratives of over 120,000 imprisoned Japanese Americans.

I left with a sad heart, but grateful to have learned about this place and what it represents. The stories stuck with me as I battled the wind jerking the car from side to side. I was eager to find a campsite, but also hit with the reality that I couldn’t realistically set up a tent with 60 mph gusts.

Eventually, things settled for the night, and I went through my campsite rituals of cooking, organizing, and cleaning. As I watched the night sky, searching for the comet, I said a prayer of gratitude. I was (and still am) grateful for my freedom, grateful for the natural world, and grateful for the ability to take adventures that fill my heart with joy.