Witness

One thing I reflect on at this point in my life is a feature that, though I truly treasure, feels like a major failure in accomplishment. 

Fact is, as much as I wanted to be a mountain hiker/backpacker/scenic river rafter, it never really happened.  

I dreamed about it often enough, though, and did a few things to reach those goals.  I can remember buying my first pair of Vasque boots, complete with heavy Vibram soles, in the early ‘70s at the old Wilderness Outfitters in Eastown shopping center.  Then there was the shedding of the canvas tent for the 4-person one made of rip stop nylon -- a portable dwelling that would house the whole family and still be light enough to carry up a mountain trail.  And, of course, there was my first borrowed backpack built on a metal frame that promised to carry everything we needed, even if we had to tie stuff higher than my head.  Balance was the thing. 

And I did backpack.  A bit.  The first big event was the 1977 trip up the Roaring River Trail in Rocky Mountain National Park followed by a night a few days later in the backcountry at Grand Teton.  Jennifer was 4 years-old then while Chris was a tough and spunky twenty-something.  

And, yes, I did raft on the Clark’s Fork in Montana and on the Colorado near Moab.  I expect some summer soon Cindy Lou and I will take grandkids rafting the Arkansas in central Colorado for a day trip. 

Still, I don’t get the sense that my personal spirit drives me to explore and go and move out into places I don’t know for the sheer adventure of it.  I really thought the spirit of adventure would be more of a guiding force in my life.  Never really got there, though. 

Life seemed to get in the way.  Family.  Kids. Responsibilities.  That kind of stuff.  And now I sit on my back porch where the extent of wildness is cardinals bathing in the birdbath and hummingbirds challenging each other for ownership rights of the sweetwater feeder.  A barred owl swings through Wild Grace now and then, stirring up the worries of mom and dad birds.  I don’t mean to say there is no danger out there, just not for me.  

As disappointed as I might be about a road taken that diverted me from wilderness expeditions, I still feel mighty good being in the presence of wild Nature.  I love walking along the Little Miami in John Bryan State Park for its rugged beauty.  Getting to the Sangres the last few years was amazing.  Pop-up trailer camping with my grown-up girls at the Smoky Mountains has proven to be really good.  All these experiences, though, seem pretty tame in comparison to the real-life adventures I read about first in Mariah magazine, then in Outside.  

So where does that leave my dreams of being a modern-day John Muir or a Jerimiah Johnson?  Long gone.

Still, though, I love being in the presence of moving water, rugged mountains, and a sky that fills an imagination.  I love to just be with such energy.  I love to just be present and feel what wonders Nature has stirred up for the day or for that hour.  

Such behavior is pretty zen, after all.  I am beginning to accept that just being aware is enough.  Being witness to Nature as it moves through its myriad mysteries is a lovely and rewarding practice that is, in essence, a practice of mindfulness.   When all is said and done, serving as witness to Nature doing its thing sounds true, good, and beautiful to me.  

And as different as all this might be from what I once dreamed, I’m still looking damned forward to hiking to South Crestone Lake next time we’re at the Sangres.  The dream is alive and well in my heart.  

Today’s Elder Idea:   It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door.  You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s not knowing where you might be swept off to.  

Bilbo Baggins

from J.R.R. Tolkien’s writing

image:  On the Rio Grande Scenic RR / by Cindy Cooke (summer 2011)