Lingering in Wonder

                                             (photo of the Royal Arches and North Dome)

When I go hiking, it’s not to get somewhere. It’s to exist somewhere, fully present in the moment. This is not easy to do because most of the time we have monkey brains and we’re thinking about everything and not about what’s in front of us.

When I’m hiking alone on a trail through territory where bears and mountain lions live, I don’t want to be preoccupied with what happened yesterday. I want to be aware of my surroundings, what I am thinking and feeling right now.

It’s easy to carry concerns about home with us. On the trail I remember who I am because hiking moves me out of my head and into the wisdom of my body, and then my heart shows up.

What we discover on the journey is what matters. This is where we grow, and if we listen to the guidance of nature, our lives can be transformed.

I know, you’ve probably heard this way too often about the journey. While we love the scenic viewpoints because they take our breath away, it’s the step-by-step journey of traveling there that prepares us to appreciate the ah-hah! moments.

And in wilderness areas like Yosemite in California, the Beartooth Mountains of Montana, and the Tetons in Wyoming, we can stop on any trail, look around, and see a view, creature, plant, or natural formation that leaves us amazed that such a thing exists.

In Yosemite, for example, there is a natural pillar of quartz by Sentinel Dome. By the Ahwahnee Hotel, a large, flat slab of rock has grinding holes that the Ahwahnechees used to grind acorns. On the wall near the Three Brothers rock formation, there are long grooves that glaciers made as they flowed by.

When I take my time and linger on the trail to North Dome, I learn the details of its environment, and how the land builds up to the dome. When I see an abandoned path, I push through the brush, find a small meadow, and explore its landscape — the wildflowers, chipmunks, and the specific birds live there. Later, when I notice a small opening through the trees, I go off trail and find a creek flowing over the edge of the canyon in a foot-wide waterfall. The details begin a relationship with the land.

The hours on the trail help me work my way though the Big Questions pounding on the door. When I reach the scenic viewpoint, I often have an answer.

Looking up at North Dome and the Royal Arches from the valley floor, I see how molten rock bubbled up for thousands of feet to form them, and how the pressure trapped within the stone as it cooled is causing them to exfoliate their outer shells.

By the time I’ve reached the top of North Dome, I have learned how North Dome fits into and rises from the land around it. I also see the tension in the rock being released in foot-thick sheets of stone pulling away from the dome on the sides.

The view from the top is spectacular, and I confess that it gives me a thrill to stand where John Muir stood and see what he saw — Half Dome and Glacier Point rising majestically across the way, and two canyons coming down and opening into the valley. When he was standing here, Muir visualized how glaciers came through, The weathering of wind and rain have softened the edges, and the Merced River has created a place where people have lived for thousands of years.

Yet the wilderness is not just a place of raw beauty. It’s also where animals and birds are trying to stay alive. Along the trail I notice the bones of dead animals, a pile of feathers that used to be a bird, and a habitat that once supported a community of wildlife that was destroyed by a forest fire.

The beauty of Yosemite Valley exists because of massive trauma. It was a nice mountain glen before the glaciers came through, broke apart and ground up the rock, and left a mile-deep valley with vertical granite walls.

In the lives of many people, traumas have redirected their dreams and changed the course of their lives. Spending time on the trail gives us hours for our usual flurry of surface thoughts to settle so that we can hear what is going on underneath. In the deepening solitude, feelings rise up to where we can deal with them. We remember who we are, and re-ignite our spirit. Our hiking becomes a walking meditation.

I want to be open to this moment, to everything it is. I want to laugh with people when they are happy, and cry when they are struggling to hold on. Every day I want to notice the wonders that appear on the side of the trail, and linger in their mystery.

People and nature become real when we know their details.