Musings on a Dying World

And the world is passing away along with its desires...

-1 John 2:17

Very quietly
The world loses blood overnight
Without a fight
And in the morning
The sickness will hide in the light
Out of sight

-Mark Heard

The world is dying. Little by little, moment by moment, the vigor of the planet is draining away into the channels of space, never to be regained. Time is a hard master, carving even rock and stone with its inexorable weight.

The world began in a place called Eden. Eden means pleasure and delight. It means joy, color, beauty, virginity. Some people say Eden is still out there somewhere. I don't know. All I know is that the world isn't virgin anymore.

The scriptures describe the promised land as a land flowing with milk and honey; the spies harvested a cluster of grapes that was so large it had to be carried on a pole between two men. I traveled to Israel last year, and I can say pretty confidently that it isn't like that today.

Driving through the America southwest, I can't help but wonder if the rest of the world was at one time more Edenic - full of green oases and roaring waterfalls. The first time the word desert shows up in the NIV Bible is Genesis 14:6, so I don't suppose my little theory has much meat on it. Still, it's interesting to speculate about how all the people groups of the world ended up living where they did. Was there a lushness in the ancient world that attracted them to an environment that later turned harsh and austere?

I wonder.

Image "Barren Fields" by Vincent Van Gogh, courtesy of vangoghgallery.com

Giving Thanks For Skunks

I was driving home the other night over Chepo Saddle when I suddenly ran into the unmistakable odor of skunk. After a brief moment of automatic disgust, I found myself overcome, quite spontaneously, by a genuine thankfulness for the creature, and the smell, and everything.

When you love the mountains, you love everything that is the mountains. That means pine forests, thunderstorms, rocky crags, the sharp, cold air of autumn, and the sound of chain saws. It also means icy roads, expensive gasoline, and skunks.

To truly live in a place means being immersed in its character and identified with it's peculiarities. We learn to value and even admire the quirks in things we truly love, whether persons, poems, or places. Until the foul smell of a skunk's scent gland can serve as a symbol for all that we love about life in the mountains, we're not loving life in the mountains at all; we're merely loving the nice parts of life in the mountains, and anyone can do that.

(I owe these thoughts, in the main, to Wendell Berry, who in his book A Continuous Harmony does a masterful job of unpacking the idea of "place." Developing a sense of place is vital, because a place ought to be somewhere we Live with a capital L.)

As I drove on, I realized I've developed a respect and appreciation for the unpredictable unpleasantness of nature. I've been pommeled by High Sierra hailstorms, scorched by the merciless Texas sun, and caught in freezing temperatures in New Hampshire. I've encountered bears, rattlesnakes, and countless thousands of mosquitoes. (Don't underestimate mosquitoes. They are entirely capable of turning an otherwise idyllic wilderness excursion into a perfect nightmare.)

The point is this: as much as we might like to, we cannot separate the undesirable aspects of nature from her beauty. It's all a part of who she is - rugged, grand, and mysterious. She is herself: rewarder of all, respecter of none. So for my part, I will give thanks. For sunsets, for steep trails, and for skunks.

Though I still rolled up the windows.

Image courtesy of karthik3685.files.wordpress.com

Sky Ranch Wildflowers

To see a World in a grain of sand
And Heaven in a wild flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour

-William Blake

Mariposa Lily

A delicate perennial, the Mariposa Lily displays a demure white exterior that belies the kaleidoscope of color inside. It grows along the roadside, about a foot tall, and seems to thrive in the warm afternoon sun.

Twining Brodiaea

The Twining Brodiaea is a solitary leafless vine with a purple firework on the end of it. It wanders along patiently, attaching itself to whatever support is handy: Manzanita, metal address markers, mailboxes, or Poison Oak.

Snub Pea

These unique orange bells, reminiscent of Foxglove or Monk's Hood, are in fact Snub Peas, part of the Sweet Pea family. The leaves are large and lush and there are curly tendrils on the ends of the stems. Also known as Brewer's Pea, Sulpher Pea, and Dubious Pea, this perennial dicot is confined to the Western U.S. and, sensibly, seems to prefer shadier places.

Pundit Profile: Thomas Merton

"Those who love solitude have a special claim on Providence and must rely on God's love for them even more blindly than anyone else."

"There is a time to listen, in the active life as everywhere else, and the better part of action is waiting, not knowing what is next, and not having a glib answer."

"At moments one gets a flash of Zen in the midst of the Church! There should, in reality, be much more. But we frustrate it by reasoning too much about everything."

Thomas Merton was a 20th-century Catholic who wrote profusely about social justice, Christian spirituality, and particularly the contemplative life. He died in 1968, having lived the last 26 years of his life as a Trappist Monk at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky.

Whatever your opinion may be of Merton's Catholicism, it must be admitted that his work constitutes a profound analysis of the human condition. His ecumenical humility leaves him open to the charge of universalism, but at the same time reminds the attentive soul of the danger in preferring Christianity over Truth. Whatever Christianity is, it's certainly much more than loyalty to dogma.

I am presently reading Merton's Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, a loosely organized collection of his thoughts during the early 1960's. The book is arranged in the form of a journal, without any topical structure. Comments on nature, solitude, theology, spiritual literature, and living in a fallen world tumble over one another with all the exuberant ecstasy and inexorable serenity of a waterfall, inspiring and challenging us to step into the current and be washed away - to allow God to unscramble the mess we've made of life. Purity involves purging, and purging involves pain. The Gospel is the greatest dare-double-dare ever.

Writers such as Merton, Mariani, Berry, and Abbey - men who differ enormously in terms of their spiritual outlook - seem to share a common romantic impulse to observe and describe nature fresh, raw, unadorned, uninterpreted; purely for the sake of herself. To put it another way, they understand the joy and beauty in freeing experience from the shackles of explanation. If we are constantly fretting about having something meaningful to say, we will end up squeezing blood from stones and talking nonsense and drivel. Sometimes it is enough to just watch the clouds and absorb the cleansing and concrete abstractness of reality. If we can break the habit of trying to make a metaphor out of every molehill, we may begin to discover meaning in unlikely places.

Merton's work sparkles with this simple beauty, and is packed with the irresistible candor of a human being. Personality is inimitable, and therefore all the more invigorating when you encounter it in its more developed state, as in the case of a man who has voluntarily chosen to lose his life and ends up finding it.

Image courtesy of michaelkrahn.com

Alone in Big Bend

It's Saturday morning, and I'm up before dawn to get on the road to Big Bend. As I drive out of the campground, the sun is just breaking over the horizon. The sunrise is a singular ceremony in that it may be performed a million times but is never the same and never gets old.

On the way to the park I am pulled over on two separate occasions by Texas Troopers who don't exactly appreciate my California driving habits. Apparently, you don't add anything to the speed limit in Texas. Thankfully, both officers only gave me warnings, upon receiving which I gulped down my pride and impatience and slowed down.

Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll confirm that I've talked about visiting Big Bend for years. It is remote, wild, and lonely: a veritable backpacker's paradise. This was to be the hardest, hottest hike, and serve as the closing chapter and the grand finale of the whole venture.

Last night, Paradise Springs Campground (in Guadalupe) being full, I wound up sharing my campsite with an Indian doctor from Houston who came in late and was headed into the backcountry the next day. We enjoyed some friendly and animated conversation into the evening, and he gave me some pointers about the hike I was intending to take in Big Bend. As in Guadalupe, there is no water available in the backcountry, and when hiking the 32-mile Outer Mountain Loop, it is necessary to cache water ahead of time at a certain location where the trail passes near the road.

Accordingly, I purchased several gallons of water from a gas station and once inside the Park proceeded directly to the cache location. From there I drove up into the Chisos Basin to obtain a backcountry permit and begin my hike. Had I not known about the cache strategy ahead of time, I would have wasted valuable hours in preparing for the trek.

Inside the Visitor's Center, I explain my plans to the Ranger on duty. As soon as she learns I am going solo, she becomes rather grave and goes into the back room, returning momentarily with a special form and a camera. In addition to the normal questions regarding where I would be staying each night, etc., I have to provide detailed information about my physical characteristics, level of experience, and even the color of my clothing and tent. The ranger then takes a picture of my face, my pack, and the bottom of my boot, all the while clicking her tongue and generally insinuating that if I've never drawn up a formal Will and Testament, now might be a good time to do so.

Packing my Osprey on the tailgate in the parking lot takes longer this time, because I will be out for two nights, in unfamiliar country, alone. Finally, all the necessary equipment is properly stowed in the pack, sunscreen is applied, truck is locked up, and everything I'm bringing has in some way or another been strapped on to my person. Stopping at the sign at the trailhead, I note the time, say a prayer, and psyche myself for the climb. From here, it's 3-1/2 miles and nearly 2,000 feet of gain to the crest of the ridge, which is about halfway to the open camping zone in Juniper Canyon, my destination for the night.

I set an aerobic pace up the trail, concentrating hard and pushing myself forward over the steps and inclines. The afternoon sun is hot, and the pack is the heaviest it's been so far, with upwards of 6 liters of water - enough to get me to my cache sometime tomorrow afternoon. Before long, however, the sweat and stride pay off, and I'm at the top.

After consulting the topo map I purchased at the Visitor's Center, I stow my pack in a conveniently located bear locker and dash up the spur trail to Emory Peak, the highest point in the park at 7,825 feet. It's a little over a mile and another 800 feet of climbing, but I don't think I'm going to be this close anytime soon. Jog up, snap some pictures, run down. I always find trail running mentally and physically exhilarating: flying over rocks and obstacles, making split-second decisions about foot placement, keeping your momentum and balance under control. On the way down I misjudge one step and fold my left ankle under slightly. I slow down, remembering that I need to be careful. Fortunately, it's not serious, and will feel fine after a few miles.

Retrieving my pack, I notice one of my water reservoirs is leaking slightly, and has dampened my sleeping bag. I tighten the lid on the reservoir, and folding my sleeping bag in half, strap it to the outside of the pack, and let it hang behind me to dry - not particularly fashionable, but it sure beats crawling into a wet bag.

After another few miles, some beautiful Texas Rainbow Cactus, and a young Whitetail buck in the trail, I locate a nice campsite in Juniper Canyon and set about preparing a belated supper. Following that, I gather my food into my empty tent sack and tie it near the top of a small juniper. It won't protect it from the bears, but it should require them to make enough of a ruckus to wake me up and give me a chance to scare them away.

As it happens, however, there are no bears, and the night passes quietly. I'm up at dawn, eating my breakfast of oatmeal and fruit and preparing for a long day on the trail. A few more miles brings me to Texas Shoe campground and the start of the Dodson Trail - a 14-mile trek through the desert on the south side of the Chisos.

Most people picture the desert as hot, desolate, and interminably flat. I suppose the origins of this stereotype are honest enough, but in reality it falls far short of describing the depth, complexity, and variety of the real thing. As I grind out the miles on the Dodson Trail, cross gullies, walk through washes, and scale ridges, I am amazed by the diversity of the landscape. Dozens of different species of flora decorate the hillsides and brush past my bare legs. It is hot, yes, but decidedly un-flat, and very much alive.

I've been carefully gaging my water consumption to ensure that I will not run out before I reach my cache at Homer Wilson Ranch. I have enough, but no more, and I'm obliged to drink less than I would normally, especially given the heat and distance. Around 2 o'clock I reach the Ranch, retrieve my water from the bear locker, and head up to the Ranch overlook along the highway.

Though the water is rather warm, I'm glad to have it. I drink my fill, replenish my reservoirs, and pour the rest over my head. Some motorcyclists stop by, and lacking anything better to do, take a few minutes to question me about my adventure. Mentioning nonchalantly that you've just hiked 16 miles through the desert and you have 4 more to go before the day is out is one of the best ways I know of to impress a big, tough, tattooed biker.

Since I don't have that much farther to go today, I decide to take a couple hours in the old Homer Wilson Ranch house to rest, do some reading, and have a little church. This way, I can take advantage of the shade (something of a rarity in the desert) and avoid hiking during the hottest part of the day.

Starting up the Blue Creek Canyon trail, there's a warning posted about an aggressive mountain lion in the area, advising against taking small children up the trail. Great. According to the Park literature I received at the entrance, there are about 150 lion sightings reported annually. Though 90% of these sightings occur along roads, not trails, I would venture to suggest that this figure is somewhat misleading, because most people who visit Big Bend never set foot on a trail. As a matter of probability, then, you're much more likely to see a lion along a trail than you are along a road, because fewer people hike the trails and more people drive the roads. Have I confused you yet?

There have been two lion attacks during the last 20 years, although neither of them proved fatal. The Park brochure offers the standard tips about making yourself appear larger and never under any circumstances showing fear, and concludes by advising the visitor to "Avoid hiking alone, or at dawn or dusk."

I locate a campsite for the night, in a sheltered glade just off the trail. Nearby there is a long branch overhanging a dry wash, over which I throw my parachute cord for a nice high Sierra-style bear hang. Following my dinner of ramen and beef jerky, I spend some time reading before turning in.

Alone, with the wild night noises all around, statistics somehow become less comforting. My small L.E.D. headlamp throws a whopping ten-foot beam, and that not very brightly. While I'd still like to see a lion during the day, on level ground, I'd just as soon not meet one in the dark, thank you very much. As is my habit, I lay my trekking poles outside my tent door, and also pile up a few good-sized rocks for good measure. If any lion decides to jump me during the night, he's going to have a surprise.

Brave talk aside, the lion threat makes for a wakeful night. I am glad for the morning, and waste no time in breaking camp and hitting the trail. I have a thousand feet of climbing before I crest the ridge and drop back down into Chisos Basin, but it doesn't take long. When I reach the top, though it has been light for some time, the sun is just beginning to break over the mountains in places. Rich, heady wildflower scents come wafting across the path, laden with the memory and promise of the day's warmth, contrasting with the delicious coolness of the desert morning. It's a fine day, and though I'm tired, hungry, and more than a little dirty, I'm thankful to be alive and thoroughly at peace with myself and everything else.

Into the Guadalupes

Wednesday night I put Tucson several hours behind me, enjoying listening to a book by George MacDonald and stopping once to fuel up and grab a quick Subway - a little real food before I head back into the wilderness. Sometime before midnight I pulled off at a rest area in New Mexico and slept in the back of the truck.

Now it's morning and I'm closing in on Guadalupe National Park, located in the extreme western tip of that monstrously large state known as Texas. The day is clear, warm, and windy, and though I'm beginning to feel tired, I'm wide awake and ready for a new trail.

After obtaining a permit in the Visitor's Center for an overnight trip, I drive over to the trailhead and set about packing my Osprey once again. I'm headed up into the mountains, and unlike the Sierras back home, there is no water available. I must carry all that I will need.

There is a quote from Wendell Berry on a plaque near the trailhead, and I pause to read it and take a moment of reflection and reverent awe as I cross the threshold into the wilderness. Over the last several years I have come to greatly appreciate that fading strain of practical, thoughtful, independent men: Wendell Berry, Colin Fletcher, Edward Abbey - these are the types of men that embody America's soul, if she has one.

I work my way up the mountainside, enjoying the wind gusting across the grasses. The wind accomplishes three things: firstly and most obviously, it has a welcome cooling effect that somewhat mitigates the intensity of the desert sun. Secondly, it greatly diminishes the mobility of certain unfavorable insects. And lastly, it lends to the landscape a wild and savage look, which in turn makes it all the more beautiful.

As I ascend higher, the distant eastern horizon widens below me. When I reach the top of the climb, I slip off the pack and lean it against a large juniper, jogging the 1-mile spur trail to the top of Hunter Peak with just my camera.

Returning to the main trail and shouldering my pack, I finish the last few miles to the campground. Up here, several thousand feet above the surrounding desert, the air is cool and the terrain is mostly forested. The Guadalupe highlands are, in many respects, much like the Sierras. Several times I have caught myself imagining I was hiking some trail out of Clover Meadow in the Ansel Adams Wilderness, or along the Kern River in the Golden Trout Wilderness.

My evening in camp is leisurely. There's no one else around, though sometimes I fancy I hear voices or even conversations on the wind. It's a strange thing, being alone. I cook dinner, spend some time experimenting with the camera, and turn in for an early night.

The day dawns clear and cool, and I don my jacket and locate a sunny spot to eat my breakfast. By 8:30, I'm back on the trail. Hiking along with the morning to myself, it occurs to me that my chances of seeing a cougar are somewhat improved by several factors. One, I am alone, and can avoid making an excessive amount of noise. Two, it is a fine morning, there is little to no breeze, and the backcountry is by all appearances largely deserted. Maybe I'll get lucky. Still, I am aware that I am at a wide disadvantage. I know few of the animal's general patterns, and none of its local haunts, and I know that a mountain lion can generally avoid being seen if it chooses. Besides, I have never mastered that delicate Mohican art of walking through the forests and meadows without creating a cacophony of snapping twigs, which of course plainly announces to the entire local animal kingdom that there is a blundering biped in the neighborhood.

What had begun merely as a casual interest yesterday has now become an obsession, and I continuously scanned the ridges and vales around the trail, in search of that elusive slinking shape. I pass some scattered bones of a deer lying just off the trail, bleached and sterilized by the sun. This is encouraging: Mr. Cougar has hunted here before. Still, these skeletal fragments could be several seasons old, and it's possible the predator has moved on to other areas. Seeing a live deer on the opposite slope of the canyon doesn't tell me much either; lions follow deer, and deer do their best to avoid lions. A lion may be nearby, or it may be nowhere in the vicinity - either inference is equally valid.

We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth. -Henry Beston, Guadalupe Mountains Visitor's Center

Compare this with Romans 8:19-22:

For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now.

I return the trailhead, again having seen no one. My plan was to drive to Big Bend this afternoon, but after a bit of thought and prayer I decide instead to stay the night at the campground here in Guadalupe and do the drive to Big Bend in the morning. This gave me some time to relax and also to take the 4-mile round trip hike to Devil's Hall, which is the hike we did several years ago when we stopped at this Park briefly with the Lindvalls and I privately vowed to come back.

It is very interesting to return to this trail after several years and notice how different it looks. The change, I believe, has been mainly in myself. I feel I am observing (and absorbing) much more of my surroundings, and my thoughts are quieter, more reflective, less commercial. I want to experience the place, and all the intricacies and varieties of life within it. I do not want merely to get to the end of the trail.

Sun and Saguaros

After pulling out of Bryce Canyon in the late afternoon, I turned south towards Arizona, stopping briefly in southern Utah for dinner and later getting a hotel in Flagstaff for the night. I'm now on my way to Tucson on Highway 17, enjoying a light breakfast of diced fruit, a granola bar, and coffee from the hotel lobby.

Ever since visiting the Grand Canyon six years ago, Arizona has held a special mystique for me. It is a colorful state, full of deserts and mountains and rivers and flowers. Driving this stretch of highway between Flagstaff and Tucson in the bright morning hours is particularly striking; the wildflowers are in bloom, the air is clear, and as I progress farther south, I begin to see saguaros.

Saguaros - the classic symbol of the American Southwest - are beyond doubt one of the great wonders of the plant kingdom. Growing to heights as great as 50 feet and weighing up to 9 tons, these huge silent sentinels of the desert are as majestic as they are mysterious. They can live for as long as 150 years, and their pleated exterior enables them to expand and contract like an accordion as they gain and lose moisture. In May, their great green limbs are festooned with delicate white blossoms - the state flower of Arizona.

Saguaro National Park is divided into two parts, one on either side of Tucson. I follow the brown signs off the highway to the western half of the Park, arriving around 11 AM. After studying the maps and obtaining some information from the Visitor's Center staff, I elect to take the Hugh Norris Trail to Wasson Peak, a 10-mile round trip with some moderate elevation gain.

The trail is excellently made, and though the temperature is a good deal warmer than it was in Utah, the miles count off easily. The better you get at hiking, the better ratio of inspiration to perspiration you can achieve. Honestly, it's not much fun if you're working so hard that you can't enjoy yourself or take in the scenery. Get toned before you go, because a National Park is no place to be getting in shape; there's too much to see.

The sign at the beginning of the trail warned of Africanized honeybees, so I'm keeping a sharp eye. I'm not afraid of much, but there are a few things that will freeze my blood and stop me in my tracks, and bees are one of them. Many years ago, our family was attacked by an angry hive of big, mean, hairy bumblebees, and as a result of that traumatic experience I developed an irrational fear of buzzing flying things, which I carry to this day. I personally think that some bees take a sadistic delight in dive bombing me just to see me duck and cower. Suffice to say that I avoid bees as much as possible, and thankfully the few that I met in Saguaro were content for the most part to leave me alone.

I have recently been growing more and more interested in finding out the names of things in order to appreciate them more fully. I used to think that I could enjoy a burst of butterflies or a riot of wildflowers just as well without knowing their name: I see now that I was quite honest, quite idealistic, and quite wrong. There is character, information, and identity in a name that allows one to appreciate a specimen as something unique, something with it's own peculiarities, something alive. G. K. Chesterton, in The Napoleon of Notting Hill, observed that "in proper names themselves is half the poetry of all national poems."* It is the specificness of this thing or this flower as opposed to some other thing or some other flower, and the only way to fully enjoy this precise personal connection is to know the name.

Toward this end, I purchased a book in Saguaro that briefly describes 100 Desert Wildflowers of the Southwest - a small beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. At the very least I wanted to be able to identify the most prominent flora in the desert parks, and in this I have been largely successful. By the end of my desert tour, I was greeting the Ocotillo, Teddy Bear Cholla, Strawberry Hedgehog, Prickly Pear, Barrel Cactus, Staghorn Cholla, Texas Madrone, Alligator Juniper, and Soaptree Yucca like old friends.

Atop the peak, I sign the register, chew on some beef jerky, apply some duct tape to some hot spots, and enjoy the view of Tucson. After a few minutes I gather my gear and head back down. The sun is beginning to cast eastward shadows, and my thoughts are turning eastward with them, to the Guadalupe Mountains of western Texas.

*G. K. Chesterton, The Napoleon of Notting Hill, (New York: Cosimo Classics, 2007), 69

Bryce Canyon

Out of all the parks I visited, Bryce Canyon was unequaled for sheer scenic beauty. It's a 2-hour drive from Zion, leaving Zion via the east entrance, driving up Highway 89, and passing through Red Canyon and Dixie National Forest on Highway 12.

First I drop into the visitor's center to get oriented. Following my normal procedure, I look for the longest, steepest dayhike, talk to a ranger about the trail conditions, and go for it. Here at the northern end of the park, there's an 8-mile loop dropping down into the canyon called Fairyland Loop. Perfect.

It is with difficulty that I restrain myself from gushing about this park. I would say the entire place is a postcard, but I think that would be giving postcard companies too much credit. It's just beautiful - dramatically, exotically beautiful.

There's snow on the ground here, and where there isn't snow there's mud. The elevation is several thousand feet higher than Zion, but the weather has been warming, and the temperature in the sun is comfortable.

I descend into the canyon, gaping like a tourist from California, transfixed. Over the centuries, the sandstone here has been sculpted into an endless variety of shapes, including isolated columns called "hoodoos." As I hike, the camera clicks away madly in an utterly futile attempt to capture the magic of the place.

I turn the corner, hoodoos rising above me like the ruins of an ancient temple. Out here, that hardly seems like a metaphor. This is a temple. These are ruins.

Observing the stones and branches scattered around the trail, I am reminded of how nature is so effortlessly random, while man remains, by and large, doomed to symmetry. Even man's attempts at randomness are defined in terms of the absence of symmetry (a-symmetry). Nature's randomness is not defined by anything.

Man is a part of nature, but he is not the same thing; they exist in a sort of parallel symbiotic relationship. God grants life to man through the processes of nature, and God grants life to nature through the words of man. One could hardly maintain that the animals fully existed before Adam named them, and in the same way nature does not exist apart from the delight and observation of man. If there was no man, there would be no nature, for there would be no one to enjoy it and give it a name.

The leaves of the low-growing manzanita here are a brilliant yellow-green, almost giving the shrub the appearance of a wildflower. When the leaves die, they turn a rusted copper color,* falling from the branches and lying in the path like old pennies. Unlike old pennies, I do not pick them up, because they belong where they are - crunching under my muddy boots and decaying into the sandy soil - a million microscopic molecules that will eventually be drawn into the roots and veins of future manzanita bushes, reaching for the sun and reveling in the profound ecstasy of photosynthesis. Life goes on.

*I know: copper doesn't rust - it oxidizes. But I'm a writer, not a metallurgist.

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.