Late in the fall one year, I
hiked up steep switchbacks for two hours from the valley floor to Glacier Point
in Yosemite. The wilderness was surprisingly quiet and still at 8,000 feet.
A forest of sugar pines was
behind me. In front was Half Dome and a view that stretched over the gray granite
peaks and domes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains
No one else was here. The
summer crowds had gone home months before. A few tiny people walked around on
the valley floor far below. Except for a few squirrels and one Steller’s jay,
no other creatures were letting their presence be known.
The breeze hummed lightly as
it twirled the needles on the pines. There was a hush as the wind flowed over
the nearby mountains on its way east. Now and then when the breeze shifted, I caught
the sounds of Nevada and Vernal Falls.
Sitting on a boulder, this felt
like home. I couldn’t stay here, of course. There was no shelter, food, or
water, yet I felt connected to something authentic, something real in a primal
sense, something eternal.
Was it awe of the landscape
that pulled me away from my ordinary preoccupations and made me think of
mystery? Was it reverence for a place that was sacred to the Ahwahnechee, as
well as to John Muir? Or was it respect for an ancient wilderness that had existed
and looked like this for thousands of years?
It was probably all of these.
I didn’t really need to know the why. Whatever it is, every time I come here, the
burdens of life slide off and I feel centered and renewed.
Standing alone on top of a
mountain, longing rose for something deeper than what everyday life has
brought. It was longing for honest community, enduring hope, and unfettered
joy.
In the wilderness of our
hearts, the holidays are rooted.
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