Las Vegas and Zion

All the travel and busy schedule has left me hopelessly behind on blogging, but then again I've never met a blogger who wasn't hopelessly behind. It's wonderful to be safely home; maybe now I'll have a chance to catch up a little.

Sunday, March 30th, I attended the morning service at the Reformed Presbyterian Church in Fresno and spent the afternoon catching up with Max. After a few short hours of encouraging fellowship, it was time for the 10-hour drive to Utah, the first leg of the journey.

I have never been to or driven through Las Vegas, but my route to Zion National Park takes me right through on I-15. The night has fallen, and I'm driving north opposite a glowing stream of liquid incandescence - thousands of cars headed back to southern California after a weekend of who-knows-what. As I approach the city, an unearthly orange glow begins to darken the outlines of the Nevada hills in front of me, exploding into a panorama of flashing lights as I come through the pass. A small multitude of planes or blimps hover over the city like mosquitoes, making it feel like some kind of battle zone.

Looking for a convenient station at which to refuel, I do my best to ignore the gaudy billboards. The ones advertising easy divorces - which appear to be Nevada's chief export - are the worst: smiling plastic men in suits and ties saying, in effect, "Let us help you tear apart your life!" I have to believe there is a special place in hell for divorce lawyers.

The city is indeed corrupt, but that hardly makes it unique. It simply happens to be more corrupt than most other places. As one of the fastest-growing metro areas in the U.S., Las Vegas represents what most cities would like to be, if they were honest about it. I change lanes and pass another billboard with a quote from Buddha: "With our thoughts we make the world." Yep. Hope you like it, because it's all you've got.

Around 1 AM I turn off the highway into a deserted parking lot in a small town outside Zion, clear some space in the rear of the truck, lay out my sleeping bag and go to sleep. I awake five hours later to a gray dawn, quickly change clothes, grab some breakfast from the food bin, and drive the last half-hour to the Park.

Zion Canyon, the central feature of the Park, is a large chasm cut by the Virgin River. The sandstone cliffs rise several thousand feet on both sides, blocking daylight from reaching the floor of the canyon during the morning and evening hours. After studying the hiking trails at the visitor center and talking to a ranger, I throw some gear in my daypack and ride the park shuttle up the canyon to the trailhead for Observation Point, an 8-mile round trip to the canyon rim that offers a panoramic view of the valley.

There is a storm breaking up, and the morning is cool, with clouds and mists shrouding the tops of the cliffs. I take off up the trail, thrilled to finally be hiking in Utah. The canyon walls tower above me, seemingly growing taller as I ascend. I take frequent pictures, drinking in the shapes and angles and textures as fast as I can, recklessly inquisitive.

The trail leads me through a small overhanging passage and then twists through a few turns before switchbacking up an east-facing ridge. After cresting the ridge, the trail traverses north, parallel to the canyon, and a wide vista opens up westward. I pass one or two other hikers coming back, but no one is there when I reach the overlook at the end of the trail.

As I survey the canyon I munch on a few snacks, thinking about what to do for the afternoon. There's another 5-mile trail up the other side of the canyon, but I'd like to hike into the backcountry tonight and I can't get a permit after 4 PM. I elect to hike down and skip the other trail so as not to risk finding the backcountry desk closed.

Talking to the ranger, I settled on hiking several miles into an open camping zone in the Southwest corner of the park. After finding the trailhead, I propped up my Osprey pack on the tailgate and loaded it for the night, starting up the Coal Pits Wash trail about 3:30 PM.

The terrain here is brushy and sandy, somewhat less dramatic than Zion Canyon itself. The afternoon sun is quite hot, although not uncomfortably so. I choose my route up the wash through the sand, cactus, and willows, making minor adjustments to the pack and thinking about nothing in particular.

I reach the confluence of Coal Pits Wash and Scoggins Wash around 5 o'clock, and decide to head to the right up Scoggins Wash and dry camp, which decision was mainly influenced by the irresistible view up the valley: who wouldn't want to explore what's up that canyon?

I fall into a rhythm, watching for where the trail switchbacks across the wash. Whenever an inconvenient obstacle appears on one side, the other side usually offers a good route. The trail is not always clear, but there are plenty of footprints and hoofprints.

Threading my way up the canyon, I stay alert to potential campsites, finally selecting one up the side of the wash that offers a nice view to the east and west and is also reasonably sheltered from any wind that might pick up during the night. There is a flat area beneath a large rock just large enough for my tiny tent, and a flat rock a few feet away just large enough for my tiny camp stove. After setting up the tent and rolling out my sleeping gear I turn my attention to dinner, removing the dry grasses around my cooking rock as a safety precaution before lighting the stove.

Following an excellent supper of freeze-dried spaghetti, I take the camera and made my way up to the top of the ridge. A lot of the sandstone in Zion is much too soft and crumbly for climbing, so one is obliged to look for routes that don't require rockcraft. The terrain is not particularly steep, so this is not difficult. Within a few minutes I reach the top and set about exploring the area, hopping around from rock to rock, taking pictures, and enjoying the freedom and the view. In some indescribable sense, the place becomes mine; not mine to possess, but mine to enjoy, which is much more meaningful.

The night passes uneventfully. I wake before the sun has crested the eastern ridge, and set about preparing breakfast - instant oatmeal and a cup of diced fruit. After pouring out a bottle of water around my cooking rock as a penance for uprooting the grasses, I begin the hike out, retracing my steps from the previous afternoon. The morning is sunny at first, giving way to an overcast sky after a half hour. Great hunks of sandstone lay in the wash, eroded and hollowed out like fantastic giant molds, with voids shaped for cannonballs, or keys to ogre's castles.

Being out on my own, I must be wholly reliant on my own skills and intuition: following vague routes, estimating distances, maintaining a sense of direction, taking care of my body and my gear, and staying alert to my surroundings. I feel equal to the challenge, prepared, equipped, experienced. I feel invigorated, and, in a sense, invincible. Still, it is the seasoned outdoorsman who has the deepest respect for nature. The more I learn, the more humbled I am, and the more keenly aware of my need for God's direction and protection.

I pass numerous junipers, laden with the hard pea-sized white berries peculiar to that tree. As I pluck one of the berries and prick it with my fingernail, memories of growing up in Sacramento came flooding back to me, of the summer afternoons my brothers and I spent waging elaborate wars with these little bullets, until we were too tired to throw anymore and lay on our backs on the front lawn watching the clouds float by. Good times. And now - what surprises life brings! How little I knew then of where I'd be now - how much has changed! We've seen it happen to so many others, and yet growing older never ceases to surprise us, as if we expected to be six years old and live on cheerios and PBJ sandwiches forever.

I return to my truck, having seen no one. As I pass through the entrance gate at the trailhead, there is another backpacker just heading out, with a white handkerchief tucked beneath his hat and draped over his neck, desert-style. He queries me about the trail, I offer a few pointers, and we go our separate ways. I find I've come to appreciate these chance, transitory encounters: 60 seconds of casual conversation, a few moments of genuine good will between human beings who are complete strangers and don't care. When once we realize that everything matters, life becomes an unceasing procession of small adventures and big smiles, and things are never the same.

California Dreamin'

Tomorrow morning I say goodbye to Georgia and begin the drive west. My time here has been full, rich, and very worthwhile, and I am greatly indebted to the saints here for their kindness, openness, and generous hospitality. The body of Christ is truly an amazing organism.

Lord willing I'll be home sometime next week, with pictures to share, stories to tell, and a lot of family time to catch up on. Be God's and keep doing the Kingdom!

The Vision of Tora

Last week I read Gunnar's Daughter, a short work of fiction by Sigrid Undset. Some of you might recognize Undset as the author of Kristin Lavransdatter, a classic that was recommended to me once, though I do not now remember why or by whom. I procured a copy of Lavransdatter at a book sale, and also picked up Gunnar's Daughter, to get a feel for Undset's work without committing to a long novel.

The edition I have contains a forward and afterword by Thomas Cahill, who praises the book as "Sigrid Undset's Lost Masterpiece." The story is set in 11th century Norway and Iceland - well off the beaten path in terms of both period and location. I don't intend to go into detail about the story itself, but I do want to highlight one section that boldly and beautifully confronts one of the ugliest and most tragic sins of our time: abortion.

Abortion is not new, it is merely grown more sophisticated, as most sins do over time. In olden days, people disposed of unwanted babies for the same frivolous reasons, only instead of aborting them, they simply exposed them, savage-fashion. Gunnar's Daughter contains one instance of this desperate cruelty, though you will be relieved to know the child was rescued and grew into a fine man. Later in the book, in the form of a tale told by a visiting priest around the hearth at evening, Undset approaches the issue directly, in a style similar to that used by Bunyan in Pilgrim's Progress in describing the various visions and wonders of the Interpreter's House. The following parable immediately captured me with it's directness, pathos, and power. Read it, be reminded, and be changed.

There was once a woman in Odinso. Her name was Tora and she was very fair. So it befell that she was seduced, and seeking to hide her misfortune she cast the child into the sea.
Afterwards she made a good marriage, lived respected and beloved and had many children, of whom she was very fond. But then she fell into a grievous sickness and swooned away, so that she lay as one dead. While she lay thus it seemed to her that she was dead, and she was clothed and adorned and laid in the burial mound; but she could hear her little children weeping for her at home in her house and she fervently desired she could find means of going home to comfort them. Then it seemed to her that one came into the mound; he was wrapped from head to foot in a black cloak, and he took her by the hand, saying: 'Rise up, Tora, and come with me.' Now she no longer felt that she was dead, and she begged that she might go home, where her children were crying for her. The man in the cloak nodded and led her with him. 'But this is not the way we are to go,' said Tora. 'Yes, this is the way,' replied the man.
When they had gone a long way they came to a deep, dark valley; there was a black river at the bottom of the valley and a sheer cliff down to the water, and on the other side there was also a sheer cliff. But on the mountain there stood a castle of pure gold; it shone like the sun, and outside it stood knights in golden armour, and within the castle they sang and played upon harps, so that she had never thought that anything could be so beautiful. She asked who was the master of the golden castle. 'I am the master there,' said the man. 'Will you come with me, Tora, and see my house?' Yes, she would come gladly, but afterwards she would go home to her children.
They began to go down the mountainside. Then it looked to her as if the valley were full of little white lambs; they stood as close as in a fold, they crawled and climbed, trying to get up both sides of the ravine. But when she came nearer she saw they were little children; there were many thousands of them; they were quite naked and newly born, but their faces were old, and some were bloody and horribly mangled, and some were wet. They tried to climb out of the valley on both sides, but they rolled back again at once, for they were so small and weak. This seemed to Tora such a sorry sight that she began to weep; she asked him in the cloak what it was and how the poor little things had come there. 'Their parents have left them here,' said the man. 'They willed it so.' 'I can never believe it,' said Tora.
The children had the power of speech, and they said: 'It is true, and now we must lie here. Gladly would we come up and see the world, and gladly would we see the other world on the far side of the valley; but we are so small that we must stay here, and it is so bare and ugly, and we are so cold.'
Then Tora took of her cloak and tore it in pieces; she wrapped the nearest ones in it. Now they all crowded about her, so she took off her outer garment and shared it among the children, and so she went on till she was left as naked as they. And yet there were just as many who had received nothing; there were many thousands of children in the valley. All this time they went forward, and the children swarmed about her, begging her to carry them up, that they might see how the world looked. 'Oh, there is indeed no delight in seeing it,' she said. 'Yet they are so loath to be rid of life, those who come hither,' said the children. 'They all wish to go back again - and so do you.' 'I only wish to go home to my children,' said Tora.
Now they came to the water, the man and Tora. And it too was full of little children; they stood with the water up to their necks, as thick as a shoal of herrings, and they shivered with cold and caught hold of Tora. She felt so sorry for them that it made her weep, and she gathered them up in her arms, as many as she could carry, and she asked the man if she might not take them with her to the golden castle. She might indeed, the man answered. Soon she could carry no more. Then she asked the man to lend her a cloak that she might wrap them in it. He took it off, and then she saw that under it he wore a splendid armour of gold with a cross of precious stones on his breast and a gleaming crown on his head. But his face shone even brighter, and it seemed to Tora she had never thought any man could be so handsome and kingly.
Then he said: 'Here the slope is so steep that you cannot come up it unless I carry you. Shall I carry the children first, or you?'
'Take the children first,' she said. 'If you cannot carry them all together, I can sit here and wait meanwhile.'
'That will be a long time,' said the knight; 'you see how many there are here - and more are coming all the time. You wished to see my golden castle, and after that you wished to go home to your children. But here you may sit till the end of the world, before I have brought all these children home to me.'
'Then I must wait, however long it may be,' said she; 'I have not the heart to leave these poor little children here; mine are well at home, so these have greater need of our help.'
Then said he in the golden armour:
'It is your eldest son, Tora, who is now lying next against your breast - all these are children who have been robbed of life before they could live in the world or learn the way to my house.'
Tora fell on her knees and asked in terror:
'Who are you, chieftan, and what is your name?'
'Christ is my name,' said the King. And now a radiance went out from him, as though the sun had risen upon the valley, warming all the children. But Tora had to shut her eyes before the glory of it. And when she opened them she was at home, lying in her bed.

-Sigrid Undset, Gunnar's Daughter, (Harrington Park, NJ: Ampersand Associates), 161-165

Image courtesy of sflifeandjustice.org

Southwest Slalom

Over the past 8 days, I have taken over 900 pictures and hiked over 87 miles in 5 National Parks, most of that distance with a fully loaded overnight backpack. I visited Zion National Park and Bryce Canyon National Park (both in Utah), Saguaro National Park (Arizona), and Guadalupe Mountains National Park and Big Bend National Park (both in Texas). I saw wildlife, wildflowers, plenty of rocks and cactus, and ate a lot of ramen, LARABARS, and chocolate. As usual, I have grandiose plans for recording my experiences, sharing some of my best pictures, and writing about the flora, fauna, history, and character of each park. We'll see.

Pausing for photography slows my normal hiking pace a bit, but I find it to be a worthwhile endeavor. I have noticed my capacity and appreciation for beauty and detail, and beauty in detail, has been increasing over the last few years. Of course, I still have a long way to go. A very long way.

On the logistical side, I'm still getting used to carrying a larger camera around my neck. I haven't quite mastered hiking without it banging around all over my chest, which is uncomfortable and embarrassing. Unlike the National Senior RV Squad, I have no handily protruding stomach to rest said camera on. So I have no choice but to simply let it bounce where it will and try and keep my stride as even as possible.

This southwest fling has been a dream/personal goal of mine for some time, and I was thrilled to finally be able to do it. I am grateful to all of you for your support and prayer cover. It reaches farther than you know. Thank you.