A Place Apart: Nature

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.

John Muir and the End of the World

(notice the two people standing at the base of the tree)

John Muir is one of my patron saints. He said, “Creation was not an act, it is a process, and it is going on today as much as it ever was.”

When we go to natural places like Yosemite (or Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons, etc.), it looks like it never changes. Yet if we go often, and pay attention to the details, we notice that everything is a little different than it was the last time we were here.

Mirror Lake has gradually filled in with sediment brought down by the river and becomes a meadow. Flakes of rock the size of houses have broken off the valley walls and fallen, leaving white spots behind on the gray granite. A meadow in the west end of the valley that was completely open now has quite a few trees. The spring flood carved a new path through the valley and shifted the river 500 feet.

Everything is continually changing in nature. Lesson number 1.

Refuge in Nature

Your place of refuge may be different than mine, but it’s necessary to go there when something has twisted your life into knots. It could be grief, loss of a job, a health diagnosis, a relationship coming apart, or a crisis of faith.

Wherever you go for renewal, to feel comforted, accepted, and inspired, it’s likely to be a place or an activity that brought you pleasure before trauma struck. Now it becomes therapeutic.

For one person it may be carpentry or gardening, for another it may be working with horses. Maybe it’s going to the movies, the ocean, or the golf course. Whatever it is, this is where you can step back, focus on something else for a time, while at the same time, work your way through the problem in the back alleys of your mind.

Being in Community

I’m a rugged, individual American. Every American is.  (This probably holds true for whatever country you belong to.)

Or at least we think we’re expected to be this. And that’s a problem as our cities become larger and we have to drive to the grocery store rather than walk. We don’t sit on our front porches anymore and talk to people walking by because the houses in new housing developments don’t have porches, or sidewalks, or grocery stores.

We’ve lost our sense of belonging to a community of people. When we do gather together, it tends to be for national celebrations like July 4^th or for sporting events. The crowd is large and anonymous, and we don’t share on the personal level. We talk to the people we came with, and that’s about it.

The Spirit Land

Sometimes we hear the voice of a family member who has died, or we feel their presence. Is it real?

Out of the blue, I think to send something nice to a friend in another state. When it arrives three days later, it’s exactly what she needs. Is something more going on than coincidence?

We are more connected to each other than we think, both the living and the dead.

Soon after I arrive in Yosemite, a coyote always appears, either sitting along the road to welcome me in, or trotting across the meadow with a glance. Molly says Coyote is my spirit guide. She might be right. Some people say they never see coyotes. I see them all the time.

As I hike, I feel the companionship of Nature’s spirit, and let it guide me where it wants. The wind comes near and advises me about tomorrow’s weather. Taking a break, I fall asleep along the river, feeling I have come home.

We are not limited by what we can see.

The Seasons Within Me

I used to think that, for the most part, summer progressed smoothly into autumn, and autumn into winter, each day taking the next step on the way. Then I began to pay attention. Each season often has a pause, as though the earth is having second thoughts and is reluctant to let go of what has been.

A few days of unseasonably warm weather in autumn is often called Indian Summer, and yet it doesn’t feel like summer or autumn, but something that is all its own.

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Thunderstorm in the Mountains

from an October a few years ago

            *

As I come out of Tenaya Canyon in Yosemite after a hike, the skies darken and it begins to sprinkle.  Then thunder crackles and bangs through the sky. The wind increases and blows branches and camp chairs across the Upper Pine campground. I love rolling thunder, especially the type that I can feel rumbling deep in my chest. Hurrying back to camp, I grab my rain gear and head for the meadows so that I can see what the storm is doing to the surrounding mountains. 

A white cloud is forming just below the lip of Upper Yosemite Fall. It's the only cloud this low. The color of the water in the fall matches the white of the cloud so it looks like the fall is pouring into the cloud like a basin, and it seems that more water is pouring into the cloud than is coming out.

I wonder if the atmospheric conditions are such that the fall is creating the cloud? Maybe the cool air flowing down the Yosemite Creek canyon behind the fall is mixing with the humid, warmer air rising from the valley floor and forming a cloud at the junction. Lightning flashes and unhitches the cloud from the fall to float up the valley.

Hiking in the Rain

Today is a day of rest for my body. The physical exertions of yesterday's dawn-to-dusk hike wore me out. Generally the day after any hike longer than 10 hours is a rest day, or a day of a few short hikes, time to let the body recoup and stretch its muscles. 

So far I detect no serious tightness in my legs or hot spots on my feet. Although my mind wants to go on another long hike and see more mountain scenery, today’s sporadic rain dilutes my drive and encourages me to saunter around slowly and observe the details of nature more closely. 

This is also a good time to catch up on housekeeping chores in the tent, as I tend to dump things in when I return late from one hike, reset my backpack for the next day’s activity, and take off at daybreak.

Brother Sun, Sister Moon

The feast day of Francis of Assisi is October 4. In this harvest season, as I drive through the countryside past golden fields of corn, I think of Francis and his great love for nature.

I see him running through the fields of his scenic Umbrian countryside, robe flapping around him as he shouts his words of praise — lyrics about glorious flowers, singing birds, and the glowing fields of wheat. In what would come to be known as his Canticle of Creation, Francis praises the beauty and presence of the natural world and all its creatures, and gives thanks for his companions, brother Sun and sister Moon.




Sweetness of Living

Native life in the barren Arctic is a constant battle to survive. To the Inuits who live there, the brutal struggle to stay alive is balanced by the sweetness of living. A long life is never assumed, not even an additional year. There was gratefulness for what each day provided. For them, it was not enough to survive if they did not also find something to celebrate.

My great grandparents felt the same way, I think. Life was hard when they moved to Wisconsin in the late 1800s and created a farm in the prairie wilderness. Yet the physical life and the fresh food they grew helped them live long lives.