Call Of The Lover

Trembling, I felt unable to move. An eight-hundred foot drop on either side kicked into gear my existing fear of height. Crouching down on the saddle that separated arduous switchbacks from five-thousand-foot peak, fear had me frozen. Having twisted up three-thousand feet of elevation gain I had two choices. Retreat back to safety or finish the climb?

How was it that I ended up there anyway? The answer to that question lies inside of another question; where does it go? Where do those roads in every Dr. Seuss book lead? What does that line on a map look like in the flesh? A confluence of events led me to Cub Scouts. Cub scouts led me farther outside the city. Nature led me into beauty and adventure.

There are premises hard wired into us that when pursued lead to peace, ignored they lead to our detriment. Anxious and fearful in my teens, I felt no fear in the outdoors. No fear of snakes, bugs, or bears---and a limited fear of heights. Scouting was the vehicle God used to move me from sea-level walks to glacier high climbs.

My first major purchase; a dark blue, external frame backpack. My second purchase, a pair of hiking boots. The pack leaned against my wall, being filled or emptied, unloaded or made ready.  Short trips every other weekend. Long trips every vacation break. From rolling coastal walks in the Santa Monicas, to craggy climbs in the Sierra. An Easter trek down Hermits’ trail in the Grand Canyon, summer solstice in the the Bob Marshall wilderness of Montana. That backpack fit like a glove, those boots broken-in, part of my body.

Like the gentle feel of a lover’s finger on your cheek, are the feelings stirred by the outdoors. The sense that you can fly when the backpack comes off after an eight-mile hike. Your shirt wet with sweat; spreading yourself out on a large shale boulder for warmth. Feeling the world spin as the sun goes down and that first star climbs into the sky. That first band of sunlight warming the camp after a frigid cold night. A place to sleep that smells of pine and not like cigarettes. Gurgle and crash of ice-cold water over rock as you fill your water bottle for the day. Your lover keeps calling you back.

When friends bid you, come with us to hike the Virgin river and trails of Zion, you say yes. Celebrating your final day in the park you go all in for a day hike to Angel’s Landing. A straight-forward path to the top brings you to the final half-mile portion, bordered by a chain which you can grab hold of to navigate the trail. Hopefully avoiding the steep drop offs into Zion and Refrigerator canyons. This is where paralysis set in. So my friends encouraged and prayed me through the saddle. To the top of the landing where I sat in the middle, far from the edge. Having made it to the top it was easier to make the trip back down the trail. A trip which I would make again some years later. Same trail, same quaking prayers, same positive result. I knew somehow that straddling that precipice was central to who I am. Nature would always be a place I found self. The hard wiring is the call of the lover.

Photo by Gregory Brainard on Unsplash