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"The sun burns in a lovely, perfect sky;
the day is very hot. I pause when necessary beneath
pinyon pine or juniper for rest and shade and for
a precious drink of water. Also, I will admit,
for recreation: to admire the splendor of the landscape,
the perfection of the silence."
--Edward
Abbey, Desert Solitaire
Okay, you've caught me. Here I am cowering in
a tiny spot of shade at the bottom of a 600-foot
deep canyon. It's the only shade that I could
find in the last 6 miles of hiking back up to
my truck at the top.
The temperature is 105 degrees F. Well, okay,
I admit that a thermometer would say that it's
a mere 80 degrees. But thermometers have no feelings
and I do, so I added 25 degrees to represent the
fact that the sun is caroming off the canyon walls
like a fiery cannonball.
You, reader, are likely thinking that something
is wrong here, that were I John Muir, Henry Thoreau,
or Ed Abbey, I'd be likening this place to the
eating of a succulent peach.
And, sure, when I squint through the undulating
heat waves, I can see that twisting cottonwood,
its yellow leaves back-lit like a roman candle
for just this one moment in the cottonwood's year,
and just for me as it turns out.
And, likely you are thinking, "Whimp! It's
a privilege to be there to see these wonders." I
can't help but ask: "Is it your shirt that
burns the skin? Is it your hair that is on fire?
And, where exactly are you while calling me a whimp?
Likely sitting in a soft chair enjoying a cool
beer."
Damn it, I'm not Ed Abbey. But, give me this much
credit--at least I'm being honest. Can we say the
same of Abbey, Muir, Thoreau? Did they have only
quasi-religious experiences while on their outdoor
quests? Did they never cower, never fill up with
self-doubt, never question the value of pure wilderness,
never liken the desert to Satan's bowling alley?
Could they actually have enjoyed these biting gnats
that are so happy to have me sharing their shade?
Who knows? John, Henry and Ed are in their graves.
All that we have to go on is what they left behind,
their writing, those psalms to nature that lured
me here in the first place.
"Why does it matter?" you ask. It matters
because there is more than heat, gnats and lack
of water beating me up down here. My ego is hurting.
Because my spirit isn't filled with the joy of
nature, I'm asking myself, "What's wrong with
me?" Perhaps it would help if, like a marathon
runner, I could anticipate a group of bystanders
cheering me as I step over the finishing line.
But, when I finish late tonight, there will only
be darkness and an empty truck.
Ed, John, Henry, why not let me feel good about
those few brief moments of wonder during my 11
hours on the trail? That single scarlet penstemmon
glowing like a candle; the unexpected glimpse of
an Anasazi ruin abandoned 1000 years ago; a petroglyph
depicting a hunter's celebration of a successful
sheep hunt.
Issa, a Japanese monk who lived in the 18th century
offered a different view of the human psyche. He
tells us that the world is a mix of harshness and
beauty, that the pilgrimage is a difficult undertaking
at best, that in wilderness we are as likely to
find gnats as not, that we may as well do our best
to laugh off our struggles.
listen, all you fleas...
you can come on pilgrimage, okay...
but then, off you get!
--Issa, trans. D. Lanoue
Issa, mentor-friend, your words nurse my spirit.
a fresh breeze
sweeps away the gnats--
sip of cool beer
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