November is complicated, but that's partially my fault.

It used to be simple. It was ski season, or it wasn't. Growing up, we brought out rails the first day the white wales piled up below the snow guns. The first snow storm above 8,000 ft. and snowboards were prepped for a day bouncing over rocks and stumps. No matter how questionable the conditions, it was what you did, and it was a good time. You really, truly, fiended for snow, for storms and for the season to be underway. In the spring, we milked the last of it, hiking the resorts, riding garbage crust and counting down the days to the first fall storm.

But these days, things are different. The first main change being the exploration of several new hobbies. The past three years have welcomed mountain biking, running and climbing into my life, and they continually blow my mind. Since seasons overlap, shitty snowboard conditions likely mean perfect bike conditions, and it's almost always running season.

The other big change was the move to Utah. With the desert anywhere from 3-5 hours away, I no longer have to accept less than ideal conditions in the Wasatch. Just pack it up, hit the road, and you're in paradise for a $30 tank of gas. 

The downside to this seemingly perfect new location and plethora of interests is the classic dilemma of analysis paralysis. Skiing, climbing, backpacking, biking, bikepacking, running, desert-exploring, road tripping and photographing are all possible and potentially perfect in November making it, well, complicated. 

The first week of November proved to provide the perfect storm of indecision. After several days of polling friends, making plans, figuring our itineraries, checking forecasts, and generally overthinking things that didn't truly matter, it was Friday and I still hadn't made up my mind. With wind and snow in the local mountains, I finally knew what I had to do. I grabbed a few of the important things (running shoes, camera, beer) and Hux and I ventured south.  

We parked the truck in Red Canyon the first night, 15 minutes outside of Bryce Canyon National Park. While sitting around the fire eating a camp-stove dinner, I reflected on all that was good in the word and patted myself on the back for deciding to leave the easy comfort of home to create a new adventure. I rarely regret it.

Hux and I rose in the dark and drove over to Bryce to catch a perfect sunrise over the hoodoo-strewn valley. The cooler temps kept the tourists away, and this popular perch was shared with only a few bundled photographers and one selfie stick. Once the good light disappeared and the shutter grew weary, I dropped my gear off and ran an absolutely breathtaking eight-mile loop on the Fairyland Trail. Overwhelmed by the delicate scenery, towering formations and burst of endorphins, I declared the morning perfect. 

After a dirtbag breakfast in the parking lot, it was time for Hux to get his desert kicks. We hit the road and drove east, our sights set on Escalante and more specifically, Zebra Slot Canyon. We arrived at the unmarked trailhead and took off over the sage-strewn landscape. Eventually, our foray into the ultra-tight slot became too technical, and I did a lot of 95-pound dog carrying. But, Zebra was spectacular and we had it all to ourselves.

We found camp for the night on an empty knoll down a lonely BLM road. Raising a glass to the dry air and public land, we howled at the supermoon and binged on gratitude for the perfect day we shared.

Sunday? Time to do it all over again. Rise before the sun, snap some photos, and trail run Coyote Gulch to Jacob Hamblin Arch and back. And what a run! Not another soul for 16 miles of bliss. Jumping over streams, winding through canyons and imagining all the places nearby that I couldn't wait to return to and explore. That's part of the beauty of running through these wild places - it's a slingshot into an area that would have otherwise required twice as much time, permits and a dog sitter. In November, you can do it all.

But now the question begs, "how's the desert in December?"