Stranger’s Guide explores how politics, power and culture shape daily life across the globe. We believe that local writers, journalists and thinkers are best equipped to explain their political and cultural realities and we publish stories that ask us to listen to the complexities of the world.
Weekly Long Read is for everyone but it’s made possible by our paid subscribers. Thanks to those who support our work, and if you’re not yet a paid subscriber, today is the perfect day to join!
Day of Rest by Amy Yedida Wolfe. Stranger’s Guide: US National Parks.
“Next stop, North Rim, Grand Canyon!” I said with nervous excitement as the kids piled into the 15 passenger van we had rented for our summer camping trip. For the past five years, my husband Dan, our four kids and I had left our Hasidic Brooklyn enclave regularly to visit national parks throughout the western United States. We traveled with my dad, an expert outdoorsman from Southern California, as our guide. Visiting the North Rim was the highlight of our 11-day tour, and it was the place we chose to spend the Sabbath, since its high elevation promised respite from the punishing desert heat.
As an Orthodox Jewish mother of four children ages 10–17, traveling on Friday felt risky—after nightfall, we were in Sabbath mode. From sunset Friday until Saturday night, we refrained from 39 categories of work outlined by the Torah. Lighting a flame, cooking, scrubbing, sorting, shopping and carrying were all forbidden on the Sabbath, so a week’s worth of errands and chores had to be done by Friday afternoon. In Brooklyn, we prepared fish, soup, chicken and salads, joking that every week in a Hasidic home was Thanksgiving. Sabbath at the North Rim was simpler, more serene. There was no last dash to the corner market for babka. Still, we needed to have our tents and meals ready before sunset so that we wouldn’t transgress any of the complex laws.
“There is nowhere to eat lunch before we get there,” my dad said, hoping to calm me. “So that won’t slow us down.” My dad is not Orthodox Jewish, unlike my husband, kids and me, yet he was so loyal and supportive that he ate the vacuum-packed kosher pastrami on stale challah with us instead of a fresh burrito from Chipotle.
Lumbering through the Kaibab National Forest, our van rattled with the weight of our six coolers of kosher food and camping gear. Smoke plumed in the nearby mountains. My ears popped as we gained elevation. The landscape grew thicker with tall Jeffrey pine trees and skinny aspen forests. A sign warned “Wildfire in Progress” as we neared Jacob’s Lake, the nearest town to the North Rim. I wondered about the fire but did not express my fears about evacuating without violating Sabbath laws. Camping was supposed to relax us.
A herd of bison slowed traffic as we neared the park entrance. Cars stopped in the middle of the two-lane highway to photograph the beasts. I was anxious to pass the dawdling onlookers until I noticed an unfortunate bison lying sideways, the victim of an accident. There was no safe way around. I snapped photos blurred by the dusty van window.
It was close to 2 p.m. when we arrived at our campsite. My 10-year-old son and 13-year-old daughter covered the concrete picnic table with a paper cover. My two older daughters, 15 and 17, took sandwich orders and started an assembly line of ingredients, racing against the sun. Dan and my dad lifted the coolers out of the van, tilting them on the wooden border of our site. We took turns eating, cleaning, emptying the van and erecting our eight-person tent, sunshade pavilion and tent cover for the table we named “the dining room.” We placed the temporary structures close together, connecting the spaces, so that we could access books, clothing and food without violating the Sabbath rules against carrying objects outside.
“Do you think we have time to hike to the lodge?” my dad asked.
“Shabbos is in two and a half hours,” Dan said. “We have time.” The kids shoved on their sneakers, ready to move after the long drive.
“Follow signs for the Transept Trail,” my dad told us, as we followed his lead down the gravel path that cut through the campground toward the canyon walls.
The orange glow of the late afternoon sun illuminated sandstone buttes and mesas. At the lodge, we wandered out to the veranda where a waiter was serving drinks and snacks to hotel guests in Adirondack chairs facing the canyon. I checked my watch to see if there was time to order a soda, but it was getting late. “We’ll come back on Sunday,” I told the waiter, hoping it was true. Being dressed in a long skirt, husband and son in yarmulkes, meant I represented Jews. And I wanted this man to know we were trustworthy, generous, kind, normal.
We rushed past scenic lookouts on the way back. I finished sautéing dinner just before the deadline. I smoothed my blond wig, salty and stiff from travel, and called my daughters to come and light the Sabbath candles. It took five tries for our 10 tea lights to hold their flames against the evening wind. We waved our hands in ceremonial circles above the fire pit, then covered our eyes and recited the blessing.
I exhaled, feeling free. There was nothing to do except watch the pink sun fade behind the trees, listen to the rustling aspens, and inhale the clear air. Gathered around the picnic table, my husband and kids chanted an ancient melody inviting the angels to bless our table. Dan recited the blessings on the bread and grape juice we had brought. A dim green glow stick hung over the table and illuminated our meal.
Without any electronics, flashlight or campfire, the kids fell asleep right away. Dan and I put the food back into the coolers to keep animals away. “The candles,” I said, remembering that we needed to watch the tealights in case of fire. The surrounding brush and pine trees were dry, and signs warned that fire danger was high. The last thing I wanted was to cause harm to fellow campers or wildlife.
Dan joined my watch. “It’s a mini date,” he said, eating licorice. He offered me a strand. Sabbath nights in Brooklyn meant hosting three-course meals with neighbors and friends. We were rarely alone on the day of rest. Here, we were the last people awake for miles. The full moon blotted out the constellations we had hoped to see. Then, I heard rustling in the brush behind us. I looked, but saw only a moth flitting toward the weak light. “How long are these candles supposed to burn?” I asked, zipping up my down jacket as the temperature dropped. Extinguishing the flames would desecrate Jewish law, so we waited until the last light burned out before going to bed.
Morning was bright and cool. I tied a scarf around my hair before leaving the tent. I emerged to find my husband wrapped in his prayer shawl. Swaying in devotion as he recited the morning service together with my kids, he reminded me of the ancient Jewish mystics who met in the forest to pray and learn the secrets of Torah. Every object felt sacred in nature, each moment new and vibrant.
At home in Brooklyn, neighbors came over to play unannounced Sabbath afternoon. Here, after reading the books we schlepped and trying every board game, the kids felt bored and lonely. I ached to explore the canyon but feared we would wander too far into nature, breaking another Sabbath law. Just then, my dad appeared.
“I found a hike that can work for you,” he told us, smiling. On the Sabbath, walking more than half a mile past settled land is not allowed. In the city, we could wander for miles without nearing the city boundary. Here in the wild, we would have to be aware. The trail edged along the canyon walls but tracked the ranger houses and camp services, keeping us within permitted range.
Wildflowers lined the path. Under a hollow log, we saw a fat horned lizard. Just past the staff housing, we found the canyon rim. I felt small, reverent, staring at the jagged rocks. We gazed at the layers of geologic history, awed by the scale. On the way back, I lost sight of buildings and worried I had transgressed the permitted distance. But whom would I ask? There was no rabbi to consult. My observance of the laws was personal here, there was no public worship, no levels or judgment. G-d felt close.
On the way back, we went to the ranger talk on California condors. I reassured the kids that if the presentation required breaking the Sabbath, we would leave. The ranger told jokes and encouraged audience participation as she explained the political history of these endangered birds. For that hour, we connected with tourists from all over, feeling the same as everyone else.
Scanning the horizon for condors, we headed back to our tents. Hungry, we waited for Sabbath to end so we could make s’mores. Finally, we saw three stars in the sky and checked a watch to confirm the Sabbath had ended. We lit the braided candle as my husband sang the Havdalah prayer, to separate the holy from the mundane, the secular and the spiritual, the Sabbath from the rest of the week. In the Grand Canyon, where buttes and mesas are named for ancient temples, the day had felt consecrated. We dipped our pinky fingers into the ritual grape juice, a sign of good luck.
AMY YEDIDA WOLFE is a journalist living in Brooklyn.