David White, MD
The canopy of tree branches and leaf buds faded as the sky darkened, and faint sparkles sharpened into distinct lights revealing familiar patterns. Nate broke the silence speaking softly, “There’s the Big Dipper.” My eyes traced outward from the forward rim of the dipper-pan, “And that is the North Star,” I responded lazily, pointing invisibly into the darkness. Memories began to stir as Matt mused, “I used to love laying in the grass of our yard at night, looking into the stars—just thinking.” Nate and I harmonized in whispers, “Yeah.” Then quiet—our weary bodies melting into our sleeping mats, laid out over the leafy ground, the smell of earth filling our noses. The stream on the border of our camp giving way to a gentle waterfall invited the calm of repeated deep breaths and signs. A conversation of life, longings, and love seemed to meander without obvious connections. When conversation ceased, we said goodnight, limped quietly to our tents—savoring the aches that reminded us of the day’s travels.
My two brothers and I spent the weekend hiking the 30 mile West Rim Trail along the steep walls of the Pine Creek Canyon over a period of three days. It was a timely opportunity to step away, strip off our masks (physical and emotional), and together enjoy the wonder and beauty of the outdoors. I was insistent though, “We are hiking slowly this time, and spacing the distances out so we don’t overdo it on any day. I don’t want to hurt.”
A late start and the threat of an evening storm, however, required a hard 8-mile push on day one. We agreed, we had to get to camp before dark and ahead of the rain…we just made it. Day two was a beautiful day and our plan was to casually cover 15 miles and find a suitable camp. No camp at mile 15; just a little further then…”Is this entirely uphill” I grumbled…16, 17, 18, 19 miles; our strides degrading into something more akin to limping. We finally arrived at a “crowded” camp, our bodies demanding that we stop and make it our camp—too noisy (voices) and no water— we all needed water. “There is an old camp with a stream and waterfall a 1/2 mile off the main trail over the next hill,” one of the campers mentioned as we inquired as to what was ahead. He described how to get there— something about following a faded-cut off the main trail ahead. My brothers and I looked at each other, decided to press on, hoping that between the three of us we would recall the directions to this hidden camp.
Venturing Down a Different Trail
“Is that it? It looks like a faded trail.”— “I don’t know, maybe.”—“Let’s try it.” The trail continued to fade with brush grabbing my ankles—now branches slapping my face. “This can’t be it.” I closed my eyes and leaned forward against the resistance of the branches, suddenly recalling the description of Lucy pressing her way through the coats of the wardrobe into the forest of Narnia (C.S. Lewis, Chronicles of Narnia). “What a strange thing to recall,” I thought. Then, there it was, 40 feet down a steep embankment to our right. A series of waterfalls fed a stream that provided a protective border to an obvious clearing before disappearing over the lip of another waterfall…our camp.
The delight of the evening that followed was partly intentional, but also part discovery. My brothers and I had set aside this time to be together. For us the context intentionally involved a specified period of separating from our usual routines and responsibilities, surrounding ourselves with the sights, sounds and smells of the outdoors, and choosing a path that required sustained physical exertion and risk. The discovery was that the journey did not go exactly as planned. It was harder than intended and at times stirred irritation rather than joy. But “getting off track”, feeling true hunger and thirst, wrestling with turbulent emotions, and pressing through fatigue and injury all set the stage for an evening of true physical and emotional quietness— to rest, recover and relate in a way that is hard to manufacture.
Stopping Time Thieves in Their Tracks
The wonder of natural beauty, the joy found in the freedom of movement, the delight of creative expression, and the satisfaction of true relational intimacy have become so elusive. Technology, social media, virtual friendship, and digital entertainment compete for our attention, stealing the few and precious hours of our lives. Many of us have resolved to live life only vicariously, through social media images or the fictional characters of online series.
But it’s not too late my friends! My encouragement to you is that you throw off passivity and pursue life intentionally. We would all be wise to heed the words of renowned American painter Harry Lieberman who took up painting at the age of 76.
“I do feel that time is so precious; that no money in the world could pay for it. Because money, if you lose it, you are bound to get it back. But if you lose time, you can never get it back, especially at my age, 102. It’s almost 90% behind me. In front of me, I’ve got very little. Now, therefore, time is more precious than any gold or silver.”
So what are you waiting for? What have you always longed to try? What do you need to do to get there? Are you willing to risk the journey? Trust me, it won’t go as you plan, but the hidden treasures of beauty, experience, and relationships are there to be discovered.
