“Dude, this place is epic!” exclaims the guy next to me in the parking lot of the dune field at Great Sand Dunes National Park.
 
“Man..oh man! This looks like the Sahara!
 
My new friend eagerly takes out a sand board and begins to scan the behemoth hills of sand.
 
“Hey I’m Austin!” reaching out to shake my hand.
And this is Caitlyn and Tracy..Come on out girls! He exclaims as he peers into the doorless and sandy jeep.
 
Out pop Caitlyn and Tracy and they smile as we all change into study hiking boots.
 
“Nice to meet you guys! Wow what a perfect day. I eagerly add as I look at the stickers on the back of their van.
 
“Are you guys from around here?” I ask.
 
“We’re from Boulder!” The trio says in almost unison as Austin interjects and says Colorado in such a way as to suggest that Boulder was a state all to its own.
 
“Whoa…New Jersey!!!!” We have been doing the license plate game over the last few weekends and we definitely don’t have New Jersey so yay!” “Hey, I was there once! Do you know where Morristown is?”
 
“I live about 20 minutes from there!” I add in shock that someone in the middle of absolutely nowhere has heard of New Jersey, let alone Morristown.
“That is so cool! Tracy adds. We were there for a Christian Ministry Program.
 
“Wow awesome! I smile while looking down at my pack.
 
Tracy follows my lead and turns to the rest saying” Hey let’s get hiking!”
 
We begin to walk out onto the warm soft sand.
 
“So what brings you here?” Austin says as we begin to walk up the huge hills of sand.”
 
Not immediately sensing the depth of his question, I answer; “I’ve been to every park in Colorado, and this is my last one I’ve yet to hike!”
 
Looking a bit let down by my answer, he says; “This place guides my ministry and helps me let go. I mean look around; isn’t this incredible?
 
“It sure is….are you are a minister then? I ask inquisitively.
 
“I hope to be if that is my calling; both Caitlyn and Tracy are called too. We are part of Impact Colorado and we work with the students at Colorado State to bring Jesus to everyone we can.”
 
We continue to walk in silence for a moment as I contemplate how in the middle of the Colorado desert, I could find a way to run into three evangelists! Even the landscape, for all practical purposes, looks biblical. As we walk on ridge after ridge of sand, I fully expect to see a camel train. As I walk, it is as if I am in a completely different place or time. We begin to become separated by several hundred yards as we hike at our own pace up the cresses of Star Dune, the tallest sand dune on the continent. Perhaps due to exhaustion or higher spiritual powers, I begin to hallucinate. The rolling hills of sand in the distance become a vast sea with giant waves crashing upon the mountains. Heavily in thought, I keep up my pace thinking I will be swallowed up by this vast sea. At times, the sand sinks me down well over a foot, and I crouch down to regain my balance, not willing to give an inch to the impending ocean below. I have glimpses of a vision of large numbers of people fleeing the water filled valley below and climbing with me up the sand. Some seem to fall into the great watery abyss while others continue up along the sand. My depth perception changes to such an extent, I see what looks like the top of the ridge and bolt up a few yards, only to see another ridge, even taller and steeper. On a short semi-flat incline, I find the group waiting for me.
 
            “Hey wow, you look like you just saw a ghost!” Tracy says as she hands me water. Drink drink! You look dehydrated!”
 
I gulp the water down as we rest and it begins to occur to me that I completely forgot to drink my water heading up the sand dune. Could I have climbed the tallest sand dune in North America with no water? I try to shake off the image of the vast ocean below me, but it lingers for quite a while and then slowly fades into my thoughts.
 
We all rest and share some snacks while looking at the vast landscape before us. In every direction for miles, rolling hills of sand cover the landscape and create shadows in what appears to be a vast abyss in ever valley. The parking lot where we parked our cars is completely hidden with the only sign of where we came from being a faint green line of trees on the edge of the sand to the south. How easy it would be to get lost here; I ponder.
 
After lunch, Austin preps his sand board and with a quick wave and a loud “woohoo!” he starts sandboarding down the sand. He flies down the sand and hits an embankment, goes 5 feet flying into the air and lands face down in the sand. After a few seconds of panic, we all see him get up give a “thumbs up” and start heading back across the base of the dune.
 
“Well I don’t know if I can beat that but here goes!” Tracy says excitedly as she prepares her board on the sand.” “Oh my gosh, I’m nervous!” She says peering over the sand ledge into the vast abyss. Caitlyn jumps in; “You can do it you can do it!”  Tracy takes a breath and with a “waaahoo!” she rides down the waves of sand. She slides more gracefully than Austin and ends up on her stomach in the sand and starts laughing.
 
“Hey where’s your board!” I ask Catelyn who is now sitting in the sand next to me and eating a banana. “Oh, I am just their moral support! she smiles. They will be here all day! I just want to journal a bit and take all this in...I cannot believe God has made all this.”  She takes out her journal and I leave her be for a while, as I take out my camera and begin taking pictures of the sand dunes and Tracy and Austin as dots in the distance. They both now are on opposing sand dunes and I capture a picture of them high fiving each other as they fly down in opposite directions across from each other. I think about how incredibly in love with life they are.
 
I return to where Catelyn is sitting and she has her journal out and a small, tattered blue bible. On a small papyrus journal she has written;

You, God, are my God,
    earnestly I seek you;
I thirst for you,
    my whole being longs for you,
in a dry and parched land
    where there is no water.
 I have seen you in the sanctuary
    and beheld your power and your glory.
 Because your love is better than life,
    my lips will glorify you.
 I will praise you as long as I live,
    and in your name I will lift up my hands.
 I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;
    with singing lips my mouth will praise you.

Catelyn smiles and says; this simple little book has everything we need. We all thirst for God and he is right here-all surrounding us and quenching our thirst-filling our hearts with His unconditional love.
“That’s so true!” He’s everywhere. I answer with a joyful tear in my eye.
Catelyn senses my need for a hug and gives me a long hug and then playfully says; “I love giving free hugs!”
I start chucking to myself and smile over at Catelyn; “This is too awesome! I can’t believe we’re doing a bible study on top of a remote sand dune in the middle of the desert. We definitely have to keep in touch. Mind if we trade contact information.
Definitely; Catelyn smiles back as she hands me over the bible and writes her name and contact information in it.
“Here take this bible with you too. It has a special story with it and it will protect you on all of these hikes.”
“Aww thank you so much!” I smile as I look over the tattered water logged pages of the bible.
“What is the story?” I ask inquisitively.
“This Bible has been my protector in all of these wilderness hikes. Just last year, I was hiking alone up Mt Elbert, when I got caught in a thunderstorm above tree line. I thought I was okay when I went below tree line, so I did not think too much of the storm overhead. No sooner did I let down my guard, than I saw a huge flash in front of me and a tree literally explode down its trunk. I must have been only 100 feet away and pieces of bark went everywhere and the tree started smoldering. I mean if I was just a foot or two closer to that tree…” “I stopped so quickly when I saw that flash that the bible in my pocket went flying out and into a puddle. I picked it up, threw it in my pack and continued down the mountain. Everyone’s been telling me how lucky I am but I know God’s protected me that day. I want you to have it.”
Thank you so much and I’ll always carry it in my pack; I respond nervously as I think about how miraculous her story was.
“Hey, it looks like Tracey and Austin want to head down for lunch at the van. Want to have some hot dogs?
“Sure, but let me take some pictures around here for a bit. I’ll definitely meet you down there. Does around 3pm work?”
“Sounds great! I’ll meet you down there Sean.” Catelyn excited replies as she gathers her journal, puts back on her hiking shoes and gives me another hug.
Within a minute, she was a small dot upon the landscape, waving and playfully hopping through the sand on the way down. I put the water logged bible in my pack and cross the ridgeline of Star Dune to get some panoramic landscape pictures across the horizon. I follow the three disciples with my eye for a while as they walk through the sand, but soon they vanish and I am in the vast wilderness of sand.  I continue hiking amongst the sand dunes for over an hour, taking a roundabout way down up and over the huge hills of sand. I think about my chance encounter with Catelyn and her friends and the meaning of Psalm 63:1, she so happily shared with me.
“I thirst for you.”
With a tear in my eye, I realize that God provides us all of the spiritual water we need. He is ever present waiting to quench our thirst. In the middle of the Colorado desert, I felt a peace that the Creator has nourished me with His life-giving water. Not only was I provided with this life giving water at the right time, I found a friend that could share the Creator’s love with me. She was radiant with God’s love and I felt purified by her friendship and presence. Isn’t that what being a follower of Jesus is all about? We need to rise out of the sea of our own thoughts and see the spiritual realm of God’s eternal love. If we allow God to work through us, we will radiate and others will notice. It happened to me with three hikers and a bible in the Colorado sand dunes.
            As I return to the parking lot, to my surprise I am the only car left. The van and the three evangelists are gone. I look at my watch and it reads 3pm and begin to feel sad; why haven’t they waited for me? Then I realize that I forgot to change my watch from Arizona time, an hour earlier. It was now really 4:05pm. I had missed them by just over an hour. As I reach my car, I notice a note on the front left windshield wiper. I open the note and it reads;
“I hope you have a wonderful and blessed rest of your trip! We left you some dinner on top of your trunk. It was so nice meeting you today. If you get a chance, we’d like to welcome you up to Impact Colorado’s music night. We are having some music and fellowship this upcoming Friday night. We’d love to see you again! Peace out and enjoy the drive back!”
I open the lunch bag and there are two perfectly warm hotdogs inside aluminum foil and a box of animal crackers. Written on the box of animal crackers is another note which reads; “do not worry these are actually still good!” I eat my dinner and then begin the long drive back to Colorado Springs. I roll down my windows and let the breeze roll past my face. My mind races in thought and I think about how different the day would have been, if I had not met my hiking companions. I’ve always believed that everyone that comes into your life comes for a reason- but the reasons always seem so superficial. I was not prepared for God to bring three disciples. I came thirsty and was provided with the essential water of life. I was not judged and my three friends even let me walk at my own pace; sometimes a hard thing to do when you are hiking in a group. They simply took the time to share the Creator’s unconditional love with me. I was unprepared, but was loved anyways. In the radiance of my new friendships, I found God guiding me to a new life; with Him. My spirit was reborn that day.   
            Less than a week later, and after preparing mentally for over five years, I started the climb up Longs Peak, one of the tallest and deadliest mountain peaks in Colorado. The weather was calm and unusually sunny-perfect weather to summit this mountain in mid-August. There was no wind and it was mild-two other factors contributing to a perfect climbing day. After a 1am start, I reached the Keyhole, a promontory point less than 1000 feet from the summit at 7am. From this point, the trail becomes technical through a feature called the Narrows and then levels off into a homestretch. Based on timing and perfect weather, I could summit within 90 minutes. I was feeling well hydrated and rested, and had strong energy to continue on. Yet, something was tugging at me. I felt an irresistible urge to stay put and admire the scenery from the Keyhole. I started to hike up a 100 feet from the Keyhole into the Narrows and the urge got suddenly stronger. Without even thinking, I turned my body around and started hiking back down. My mind could not come to grips with why I was not feeling ready to climb through the Narrows. When I returned to the Keyhole, two hikers came frantically running down and said that someone had slipped off the ledge and plunged to their death off the mountain. There had apparently been a rock-fall just moments before, caused by the melting ice on several huge snow cornices above the Narrows. The hikers were able to get cell reception and call 911, but the grim reality set in that there really was not any urgency. No one has survived a fall off of Longs Peak to this date. There are sections of the narrows with near half a mile vertical drops. It was the first hike where I carried Catelyn’s water logged bible with me. I have carried it with me ever since.
            I had to return to work the following week, so I never had the chance to meet the group from Impact Colorado. Eagerly opening the front page of the bible to get Catelyn’s contact information, I found that the page had completely fallen out. I searched my backpack for weeks after trying to find the loose page. It must have fallen out somewhere on the hike or in my travels. I have thought about gifting it to some random hiker on my next adventure, but part of me keeps opening it up hoping to find the lost page. Am I ready to be a disciple; to do what Catelyn did? Am I ready to tell my story through biblical principles and share it in such a way as to be the spiritual guide of others? Can I be Catelyn to someone else? Part of me really wants to call her up and say how do you do this...I need help!
            We read a lot about Jesus going up a mountain to pray or to a high place in the village. Yet, all of his work took place in the valleys and towns-away from the contemplative solitude of the mountain. He took time to receive His spiritual water and then brought it to all he came in contact with. Jesus places a great trust in us to do His will. We each are given specific gifts by God which can impact the lives of others Fellowship is a very important part of the journey.  

 
            It is hard to describe how the simplicity of a mountain stirs the soul. Perhaps it is the gentle flicker of lights in the valley, seemingly so distant, but just bright enough to rekindle memories of days gone by. Perhaps it is the firm gust of wind, dancing between the pines and whisking the nighttime clouds rapidly away. Perhaps it is the stillness of time on a mountain, the rocky peaks ever so content to reach toward the heavens. Even the soft flicker of stars appears much closer here. Perhaps it is the solitude; the veracious escape from the appendages of life which burden the soul. It is a place where the soul is renewed; where the cleansing power of life is well at work.
           
            The mountain indeed simplifies our very existence. It is a place where the Creator’s beauty reaches into the depths of our hearts. It is a place where the mind is clear, the heart is open and the soul is cradled. It is a place of calling and a place of the called. Those who seek the mountains rejoice to receive its solitary song of the winds and return to the valley in an ever so brighter flicking of light.
 
            The mountain breathes life, but at the same time is one of the harshest purveyors of life. There is a sense of melancholy on a mountain.  Perhaps, it is the sudden emotional release of life in the valley. Perhaps it is the lonely separation from time, a measure which grips every place and experience with its overreaching tenticles. Yet, each breath of mountain air, chilled as it may be, warms my lungs with simplicity and positive energy. Perhaps, it is simply the position of a mountain that is difficult. It forces you to climb beyond your own understanding and look back upon the flickering meaning of your life. It is as if you are in two places at once; a tiny flickering dot and high upon a rocky outcrop. When I am in the valley, I see myself on the mountain and when I am on the mountain, I see myself in the valley. It is a difficult separation of self.
           
            Change is readily apparent on a mountain. Very often, the first winds of fall chill the mountain air months before they reach the valley. A changing Earth can be seen most drastically on a mountain, as evidenced by rapidly melting glaciers in the high-country and the periodic rock fall. Yet, at the base, the mountain appears virtually unchangeable. It is seen as a rigid and constant landscape; a landscape with both extremes and stability. Perhaps it is the change, which stirs the soul.  
 
            In In the Spirit of Happiness, the Monks of New Skete, New York describe a custom they have with the new noviates. All of the monks and nuns gather on an evening to watch slides of the early days of the monastery. For the younger noviates, it is a time to see the tradition they are becoming a part of as they make a major life decision. The older monks are able to comment on a number of “remember when” moments. Some are happy moments such as “remember when the cows got loose in the pasture and ended up in parking lot.” Then, some are more somber, such as “That was Bob’s last Christmas before his heart attack.” For the older monks, the slideshow is very powerful in that it shows the constant reality of change. We all too often are so close to ourselves-we see ourselves as a flickering light-but do not see how bright or dim we have become because we are surrounded by our own light. We, in essense, are not conscious on how we are changing until we see ourselves back at another time. For the monks, they could recall the moments, feelings and attitudes in the slides, but as one monk so elequantly described, it really brings home how much everyone had changed in growth with the Lord.  
 
            Thinking about change in the mindset of a monastery is though-provoking in the sense that monasteries are perceived as places of similarity, tradition, constancy, and lasting sameness. Monastaries are to prayer and reflection as communion is to a church. They are seemingly places which do not bear the echoes of change. This is much like the mountain. Yet, as the monks see themselves through the photographs and fellowship, they see a collective journey of spiritual growth, self-reflection, philosophical wisdom, and prayerful reflection. Their lives are in constant flux much like the rest of us.
           
            Every essence of our being craves the sameness and security of understanding life. It is a natural human desire to seek out the familiar; both places and faces which remind us of comforting sameness. Yet, the Creator does not like us remaining in our comfort zone. Spiritual growth is constant-at times very uncomfortable-and the more we seek of God’s will for our lives, the more God will challenge us to draw close to Him. Just at the point where we say to God; “I think I understand this-I know your will”, we will find ourselves on the mountain again looking at the flickering lights.
           
            Recognizing the need for change is one thing, but how does change actually occur? We need to reorient our thinking from ourselves to that of God. We need to break our habits of complacency and move towards habits of spiritual fulfillment. Perhaps this begins with taking a different trail up the mountain and not being afraid of seeing the flickering light change in the valley.

 
 
There is something special about a morning sunrise. In the quietness of the morning dew, the sun silently places its arms around the landscape; drawing rays of light between the pines and warming the crisp autumn air. The quick change in temperature causes small eddies to form on Sylvan Lake and the clear reflection dissipates into a flurry of activity. A small trout jumps in the water and causes a ripple to float outward towards the shore. A small deer walks along the shoreline, periodically disappearing in several large bushes which are beginning their transition to winter. I take a deep breath of mountain air and the smell of Ponderosa Pine enters every reach of my lung. A soft breeze chills my back as I begin to take my morning walk along the west shoreline of the lake. I think about what a wonderful morning it is.
 
“The Joy of the Lord is your Strength” Nehemiah 8:10
 
            I am at Sylvan Lake in Custer State Park, South Dakota; a small recreational lake at the base of Harney’s Peak. At times during the summer, this lake is filled with hundreds of people enjoying the outdoors. Yet, as the season turns to fall, there are just a few early morning fisherman and the occasional photographer.  Many of the tourist shops are closed for the season and the parking lots are empty. Yet, nature still abounds.
 
            As I walk around the perimeter of the lake, I have joy in the fact that I do not have any plans for the day. Should I set up my camera and take some photos of the lake? Should I climb up Harney’s Peak?; the tallest mountain between the Rockies and the Alps. Or perhaps hike down Sunday Gulch; a trail which traverses giant boulders through a narrow canyon. As I walk and breathe in the sweet smell of pine, I begin to think about how wonderful having no set plan really is. Throughout many of my trips, I plan the routing maticuliously on how to get to a certain place, but then leave open the entire experience at a place. In this way, I become very open to  the experience and have the option to see where the pines take me. It is pure joy.
           
 Psalm 118:24 has the well-known verse; “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
 
This celebration of life occurs every day when the sun rises.  How often do we put off the joy of the moment? Our mind tends to think like this; “If we finish all this work this week, then I can enjoy Saturday doing the things I love.” Then Saturday comes and we find ourselves doing laundry, going grocery shopping or getting everything in place in order to have a few hours of “joy.” There always seems to be the sense that joy is something we must prepare for or order our life in order to make a place for it. Yet, joy is not something we must aspire too. Rather it is it the everyday experience of living. Finding joy allows us to recognize that every day is a gift from God and every day is a unique memory in the fabric of our lives. True authentic joy occurs in moment. It is recognizing the simplicity of beauty.
 
I stop for a moment and watch the sunlight cast shadows over the northern side of the lake. A few popcorn Cumulus clouds cross the horizon and I decide today is a great day to slow the pace down and take a hike down Sunday Gulch into the pine forest. The temperature outside is a crisp 54 degrees-my favorite temperature for hiking. Many people laugh when I say my favorite temperature is 54 because it seems like such an arbitrary number. Why not 60 or 55? 54 is cool enough for a light sweatshirt, but perfect for hiking because it is rare to work up a sweat. 54 in complete sun feels warm enough to even take off the sweatshirt and leave on a simple long sleeve ¼ inch ziptop. In the shade, it feels cool and refreshing and in the sun, 54 degrees feels vibrantly crisp. It is the perfect outdoorsman temperature.
 
The trail begins through a steep section of boulder scrambling; perhaps the steepest on the entire hike. The morning sun disappears and I notice ice on the edges of the river which follows the trails descent to the bottom of the canyon. 54 degrees feels suddenly very mild. Looking at how thick the ice is on the edges of the flowing stream, it likely must have fallen at least 10 degrees below freezing last night. A 30 degree rise in temperature in merely a few hours seems unbelievable in a way but the presence of the ice verifies that this is indeed the case. The rise in my spiritual contentment is very similar.
 
It is hard to describe how much the senses come alive in a pine forest. The chilled autumn air comes in contact with the branches of the pines to create an aroma of pure joy. It is beyond the smell of a fresh cut Christmas tree or air freshener. The smell makes you want to walk slower, breathe deeper, and experience the moment ever so more intently. It is what John Muir so aptly described as the path to a new world lying in a pine forest. It reinvigorates the gift of life.
 
I reach the bottom of the canyon and the trail narrows into a mix of pine forest and aspen. It is noticeably cooler and darker and the bushes along the side of the trail periodically drape a coating of light dew on my arms and legs. The trail crosses a few small streams which are dotted with thin little yellow leaves of the aspen trees above. The water level is relatively high, even for the dry season, and I hop and skip over a few small rocks crossing each stream. In the midst of looking at scenery I miss one of the rocks and step into a cold puddle of spring water. My socks quickly soak up this new refreshment and my feet sudden feel like they are in an ice chest. But it is ok. I feel nature now has come to me.
Not long after my baptism into the river, I reach a field of wildflowers, somehow still intently growing despite the recent frosts. Dancing between the wildflowers are hundreds and hundreds of butterflies. Green, blue, yellow…almost every color combination of a butterfly is flying between the wildflowers. As I walk, the trail sinks down into a ravine low enough to see the flowers and butterflies at eye level; about 6 feet up. The butterflies are happily dancing amongst the flowers and basking in the sunlight which has now revealed itself even more from behind a few cumulus clouds. These butterflies appear so content with life. Biology tells us that the average butterfly will live only a month and the smaller ones often only live a week or so. But in this field, the butterflies are in pure joy.
 
I continue to walk taking in the joy of the present moment. The trail crosses another field and then rises again into a small canyon where the sun disappears and the icy river edges return. I walk up and down for several miles and then begin to slow down when I reach the last mile knowing that I want to experience as much joy in the moment as possible. As I slow down I begin to hear a new noise other than the constant flutter of the water in the river; birds! As I listen more intently I hear screeches and cawing and almost every known sound of a bird known to man. It is mid-September and many birds are in the process of migration so there is a plethora of new sounds. Out of the corner of my eye I see a large raptor gliding through the canyon-likely a red tail hawk. The sights and sounds of life in the forest give my spirit needed replenishment and rest.
 
In our spiritual journey, we must take the time to build joy amongst the pines. Every morning the sun rises so silently, but the day is a gift from God. Life abounds around us and a walk in the woods encourages us to build joy in the moment. As I hiked this trail, the scene unfolding in front of me always changed. At times, I had a river to my side with bits of ice on the water’s edge. At times I walked through dense cold forest with little sunlight. I walked through two distinct meadows, each with different wildflowers and different kinds of butterflies. Even with all this joy while hiking, the trail did end after 5.5 miles. James 4:14 tells us “You do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.” Our lives are but a mist. We must redeem every minute in joy. We are delicate like the butterfly and every minute, every decision and every walk counts. When we walk out the mist, the moments where we had joy in the pines will matter most. So go ahead and do not be afraid to put away the schedules and the watches. Joy awaits your next sunrise.

 
 
              Less than five million of the Earth’s seven billion people will see the Grand Canyon this year. Of these tourists, less than one-third of one percent of these will make it below the rim. Even less will reach the bottom. From a very early age, I dreamed of hiking the Grand Canyon. I remember standing in awe of the vastness of the landscape and the small winding trail that I could trace with my eye zigzagging down to the river bottom. I remember clearly holding my fisher price camera as a scruffily looking hiker with a large pack made his way up the final stretch of the South Kaibab trail. He stopped for a moment and looked up and waved at my parents and I as well as the small crowd of his family members gathered at the top. He walked slowly and methodically, but would disappear now and again amongst the rocks. Soon, I saw him again but he was much closer. I could see the beads of sweat pouring down his face and his shear look of exhaustion. The top of the Grand Canyon looked to be just within his reach. As he climbed the final feet of trail, he bent over and kissed the ground. His family came rushing up to him and hugs were exchanged and high fives. He made it all the way to the bottom and back in the largest canyon on Earth. He felt like a celebrity to me and I took his picture surrounded by family and friends. Little did I know that over 20 years later, that would be me continuing in the footsteps of those who are drawn to the canyon.
 
            It is 44F at 4:45am at Yavapai Lodge as I rise out of bed to a slight red glow on the horizon. I gather my pack and take time getting ready before heading down to breakfast at the cafeteria bright and early at 5:30. I am the first one to walk in the door and the food station is already manned and steaming with fresh eggs, sausage and French toast sticks. I grab my plate and gorge myself with nearly a dozen French toast sticks, eggs, sausage and potatoes. By 6am, the first group arrives in the cafeteria as I am just completing my meal. By 6:15am, the entire room is filled with multiple bus groups. What a difference an extra hour in the morning makes.
 
            I head back to the car and gather my pack and head out to the shuttle stop to catch the morning bus to the trailhead. The shuttle arrives and I grab my seat next to another hiker in an already packed bus. As we all ride over to the trailhead, it is mostly quiet but as I look around, everyone seems to have a happy glow about them. It’s going to be a day of hiking! Several hikers are reading trail maps and one is working on changing an intricate camera lense. I look at the lense for a while thinking; “Man I’d love to have one like that!”  Everyone else is chewing on bits of trail mix and other morning snacks. Then out of the corner of my ear I hear;
 
            “Hey, where are you from?”
           
            “New Jersey!” I exclaim as everyone looks over my way with an inquisitive stare.
           
            “Wow cool mate! I’m from Australia!”
           
            “First time here? I ask as I forward the conversation just to hear her accent.
           
            “First time! I’m going to the bottom and back up, I hope.”
 
            “You hope?” As I look back over laughing.
 
            “Well I had two plates put in my leg from that sky diving accident a few months back. But it was still awesome! Ever go skydiving?”
 
            “No, well not yet! But it’s on my life list for sure!”
 
            And that is how I met my hiking companion Cate for the first several hours of the trip. She intrigued me from the start. There is a passion about hikers that is hard to describe. They enjoy life. They have an incredible wanderlust. They live in the moment. They are observant. They are incredibly excited to share their adventures. They like hiking alone, but at the same time want company. In the quiet sunrise of an October morning, I found a connection with someone who understands.
 
            Soon the bus is unloading and I walk out with Cate out to the trailhead. Thinking that she will be heading off on the trail, I motion to say goodbye but before I can wave she says;
 
“Hey this is so exciting!!! Are we ready to get started!?”
 
“Absolutely! I think I am.” I smile not knowing what I just signed up for!
 
And we were off before we knew it walking down a dusty path of dreams together.
 
            We talk all the way down through 400 feet of limestone, a 200 foot layer of fossils and over 300 feet of sandstone.
 
“I can’t believe we are actually doing this! We’re hiking the Grand Canyon!! This is so awesome!” Cate exclaims as she snaps a few pictures as we talk.
 
            I’m amazed at Cate’s energy. Her smile has not erased since we met on the morning bus. She truly has a wanderlust spirit. But, beyond that, she enjoys the moment. In the first few hours of our hike, I never paid attention to my 30 pound backpack or the glue of red dust that was beginning to cover my leg. We just walk; happy and content in each other and just being in the moment. Time stands still. Before long we reach Skeleton Point through another half a billion years of geologic time.
 
            “Hey want to rest a bit.” Cate exclaims as she puts down her backpack.”
           
            “Definitely!” I take out a bottle of water and look over the canyon rim.
 
            As the sun’s rays fill the canyon, Cate turns quiet for a moment as we look out across the vast landscape in front of us. It is as if there is a secret code for hikers on when to talk and when to take in nature. This was certainly one of those times. It is silent, except for the “scree-caw” of a hawk flying below us.
 
            “Can you believe that!?” He’s flying below us.” Cate takes out her camera and snaps a few pictures. “Wow Sean this is incredible!”
 
As we look out towards the horizon, I relish the fact that I can share this moment with someone so passionate about life. From two souls over 10,000 miles away in geographic distance, we find ourselves sitting next to each other on a ledge in the middle of the Grand Canyon. All because I decided to have another plate of French toast sticks and arrive at the bus stop exactly 5 minutes after the bus I originally was going to take. Timing is a funny thing.
 
            “Well it was nice meeting you!” I hope you have a wonderful rest of your hike.”
 
            “You’re heading off!!!??? I look over in surprise.
 
            “I wasn’t expecting to make it this far.”  She starts to readjust her leg brace.
 
            “Oh that’s right; your leg!” I exclaim, momentarily feeling a lapse of forgetfulness about the broken leg discussion earlier in the morning.
 
“Oh the leg is fine. Everyone just thought I was crazy for hiking the Grand Canyon.” Thank you Sean. This was so much fun! By just walking with me, you made me believe I could do this. I mean look, I’m hiking the Grand Canyon! Gosh I’m sure going to feel this tonight!
 
            For a moment I was lost for words. “You’re definitely not crazy. Well hey maybe we’re both crazy!”
 
            “Nah man have fun, ok!? Hey don’t forget sunscreen! And take lots more pictures!!! You’re going to have so much fun!” She exclaims and gives me a wink.
 
            She gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and starts back up the canyon. Before my thoughts move away from the beauty of the canyon and what a wonderful hike we had together, she is hiking hundreds of feet above me on the ledge. I wave and she waves back. She takes out her camera playfully and takes a picture of me with the canyon in the background. Before I get a chance to look up again, she is completely out of sight. It doesn’t take long for the silence of the canyon walls returns. I feel suddenly alone. The trail lays in front me, but I sit there for 30 minutes thinking about whether I should continue the hike. Do I have enough water? Will my legs hold up for the climb back up? Will I slip? What about the weather?  The energy of companionship goes much further that just experiencing life together.
 
            By now my feet are dusty so I take off my shoes and empty a soft red dust out of my boots. It is almost midday so I snap a few pictures at Skeleton Point and start down the vast ledge that will make up my final two thousand foot decent into the canyon. The sun is now warm and I take off my parka from earlier this morning. In a matter of a few hours and 3000 vertical feet, the temperature has risen from 44F to nearly 80F. The microclimates of the Grand Canyon are nothing short of amazing. I am still walking forward, perhaps a bit slower and more cautious on my feet.
           
            As I approach a set of steep switchbacks, it begins to sink in that with every step I take, I am walking back through a million years of earth history. Like a vast video rewinder, I am walking on rocks that are progressively older. Humans have been in the Grand Canyon for roughly the last 12,000 years, a mere geologic blink. If there is ever a place to feel small in the world, this is it. Time as we know it is a simple grain of sand in the history of the Earth. How long humans will remain here is up to us, nature, and ultimately God. We do know that there will be an end. The sun, like all stars, will use up all its available hydrogen and become a red giant, effectively erasing away Mercury and Venus in perhaps 5 billion years. The temperatures will rise to the point of being inhospitable, much like Venus today. Yet, in the perspective of the universe, the life of a star or a planet for that matter is just an astronomical grain of sand. This time scale is impossible for us to grasp. Time as we know it is seemingly irrelevant. 
 
            I periodically find myself looking over the ledge at the vast drop offs to the Colorado River. This is certainly not a place to misstep. Littered alongside the trail next to the cliff are boulders that look so precariously balanced on the ledge that even a wisp of dust might knock them half a mile down through the air. The trail narrows and in some sections hugs right against the canyon walls. The ground is parched and every footprint disturbs a clump of red dust that whisks away over the cliff edge as I walk. Under one ledge, I find the methodical drip of water trickling over the rock, creating a muddy seam down its face. This life water is the reason the canyon looks as it does today. I sit for a moment and watch the water trickle trying to grasp a sense of the time scales involved in creating the canyon. It seems I can relate to the rthym of the water much better than that of the rock. The rhythms of this place are coming alive in front of me.
 
            Mules!! As I round a bend, I hear the methodical clump clump clump of a mule train heading back up the canyon. I move off to the far side and nod as the wrangler and group of pack mules clops on by. One of the mules has a leather sack which reads “outbound mail, carried by mule.” Not much has changed here in the last 150 years. They continue their slow march up the canyon, carrying a slow whirling clump of dust into the dry October air.
 
            Before long I reach the suspension bridge over the Colorado River. The river looks surprisingly tame to have carved such a great canyon and it is very muddy with silt from the monsoon rains last month. I stop over the bridge and take out my binoculars and scan downriver and then back up through the canyon. As I scan along the canyon rim I can see little dots walking along the rim trail over a mile above me. Somewhere way above me, thousands of tourists are getting out of their cars and snapping pictures of the Grand Canyon. The view along the rim is certainly breathtaking, but the view standing over the Colorado looking up is nothing short of amazing. Every panoramic camera in the world could not capture the view from this bridge. Layers upon layers of deep colored rock surround me in every direction. The water moves in a seemingly tame way below me. As I look up, I decide to wave up at the canyon rim, hoping Cate is watching me make the descent. In the majesty of one of the greatest wonders of the world, I feel seemingly alone.            
 
            It is now just before 4pm and it has taken me over 8 hours to descend the canyon; a hike that normally would take closer to 4 or 5. As I reach Phantom Ranch, I am welcomed back into civilization with a flurry of hikers, and the sweet smell of steak cooking over the fire. A few hikers are talking on their cell phones and one has his iPad out and is taking pictures of himself. I chuckle for a moment thinking that if man could somehow hike over the surface of the moon, the first thing he would do is take a selfie and call a friend. I’m not convinced technology will replace the experience Cate and I had for those short few hours this morning.
 
            The Phantom Ranch dining room feels like an oasis in the middle of the desert. I guess technically it really is. There are vending machines, telephones and even a small gift shop. Dinner is served promptly at 5pm. It is a hearty meal of steak, baked beans and potatoes. I am surprisingly not too hungry but devour all that is on my plate. I meet a group that is hiking rim to rim and we chat about trail conditions, sunsets and snakes.
 
            After dinner, I set my pack down in my dorm and go through its contents. Outside of water, some granola bars and my camera, I largely didn’t use the other 28 pounds of gear. Much of it is survival gear and emergency first aid; things that fall to the back of your mind but resurface every time the trail narrows to as wide as your waist. The Grand Canyon is not a hospitable place for the unprepared. The National Park Service reports 282 search and rescue missions alone in 2012; nearly one a day during the busy season. Separate to this is over 1000 “emergency medical service incidents” involving minor to moderate medical concerns. On average, there appears to be one fatality a month. Most are falls. For the most part, one slip will land you air-born over hundreds of feet of rock. There have been miraculous survivors though. In 2010, an 18 year old man fell off the canyon rim nearly 75 feet, succumbing to only moderate wrist, ankle and neck injuries. The very next year, another man mysteriously drove 200 feet over the cliff and his car lodged in a tree over a 500 foot precipice. He walked out of the car, onto the trail and hiked back out. A year later, a man hiking fell 200 feet-the height of a 20 story skyscraper-and survived; albeit with severe injuries. There must be something to the fact that we all have a designated time on this Earth and a purpose we must fulfill before leaving.
 
            It is now 8pm and outside of Phantom Ranch, the shadows of a late evening storm can be seen in the far distance. A deep dark cloud- perhaps 75 miles away- reveals the occasional flash of lightning as it fans out across the canyon. A soft echo of thunder can be heard but the storm is weakening rapidly and succumbing to the colder air penetrating the canyon. A soft wind picks up and the outline of the setting sun illuminates the upper walls of the canyon. Before long, the sun disappears but the light on the canyon walls remains; an echo of beauty in transition to the canyon night. I walk back out to the Colorado River Bridge alone. As the light begins to fade across the canyon, I see the flicker of lights on the canyon rim of El Tovar and Bright Angel. Somewhere up there Cate is spending the evening alone looking down at me; 10000 miles away from her home. I wonder for a moment if I should have hiked back up with her. We could have talked some more, perhaps over dinner. Between our talks on Kaibab limestone and photography and travels, I thought I had heard her say she was planning to move to New York City.  I have always wondered why people enter my life quite randomly and seemingly disappear. It is as if we were two books meant to be placed next to each other at the library. But both are checked out at different times, and only return to find the other long gone in the arms of another reader. Perhaps somewhere in a Barnes and Noble coffee shop, she will pick up a copy of my book and read this story about her. What a “how did we meet” story that would be! Or perhaps our chance encounter was just to motivate each other to achieve our dreams of hiking the Grand Canyon.  I wonder if she thinks of me. Our souls radiated that day.
 
            One year later, I returned to the Kaibab almost to the day in October. I passed a young Australian girl I talked to for a few minutes who looked and talked exactly like Cate. For a moment, I thought it was her and eagerly asked if she happened to have been in the Grand Canyon exactly a year ago.  It wasn’t her but she had the same wandering spirit and excitement. We continued in opposite directions chasing the same dream. Perhaps the biggest tragic flaw in free spirit personalities is just that-the free spirit aspect. So many of us solo travelers remain alone when there are so many entering their lives which share the same dream. If only the timing could be the same.
 
            As night falls, I retreat to my dorm and talk with a few of my roommates for a while. One has somehow brought a banjo all the way down the canyon and he proceeds to play with reckless abandon. We laugh, smile and enjoy good company. In the heart of the largest canyon on Earth, the human heartbeat is strong.
 
            Morning comes quickly and early. At 4:45am, a staff member knocks on the door and as I pear outside, the sound of mules can already be heard along with the scent of fresh eggs. We all arise and walk over for breakfast at 5am sharp. It is much quieter this morning as most of the hikers intently eat their breakfast. Perhaps a bit of nerves have set in; all will be climbing a 5000 foot stairway to the canyon rim. As we finish our breakfast, I rush off to take some early morning sunrise pictures. The light slowly rises through the canyon piercing a thick fog one thousand feet below the canyon rim. If there is ever an image of heaven this is it. The fog slowly scatters across the deep canyon walls and the sun shines through warming the ambient morning air. With my eye, I trace the path of the trail up as it winds up through billions of years of rock. It will be an invigorating day.
 
            Like a military convoy, we all grab our packs and set off on the massive stairway up the canyon. I cross the Colorado and begin the first set of switchbacks. Within 5 minutes, beads of sweat appear on my forehead and I look up at the vast scale of what lies in front of me. Imagine climbing stairs for an hour straight while carrying a 30 pound lead brick. That would be the first of over 8 hours.
           
            With every step, a cloud of dust rises and blows off the ledge, disappearing into the vast canyon below. No matter how lightly I tread, the dust finds its way into my shoes and covers my leg with a fine red coating. It finds its way into my pack and I periodically stop and pat myself down of this annoyance. Yet, years later, I would go through my old pack and find a coating of this deep red dust at the bottom of an inner pocket. It is amazing how just a little dust can reinvigorate your desire to return to a place year after year.
 
            It is not long before the line of hikers disappears as everyone begins to find their pace ascending the canyon. Soon I am all alone. I think about Cate for the next mile, my mind drifts away from my sweaty brow, dusty feet and increasingly painful leg muscles. As my mind begins to calm, I find myself walking with more purpose and rhythm. I have found my pace, at least for now, but still periodically check my watch to make sure I am on time. Like it would matter if I reached my car at 5:10pm instead of 5pm. Constant motion always seems to draw you to the present and away from the rhythms of the canyon. Even in a vast wilderness, it is hard to stay in the present. The loud beep of my lightning detector reminds me it is midday in October and I am 300 feet below Skeleton Point.         
 
            Within minutes a large thunderstorm fans out on the western horizon. The echo of thunder seems to reverb back and forth between the canyon walls.  I put my pack down and crouch against the canyon wall as the rain begins to fall.  For a moment, I think about moving to a less-exposed corner of the trail, but water is already running down the middle of the trailhead. I stay put for a good 10 minutes until the storm fans out towards the east. As soon as it appears, it is gone and the sun returns. A deep red mud coats the middle of the trail and a thick fog appears and rises from the depths of the canyon. I get back up and continue on to Skeleton Point, roughly half way up the canyon. The rest the storm brings is refreshing.
 
            As I walk, I pass through sections of deep fog that seem to temporary hide the canyon floor and much the landscape below me. At times, I pass right through the fog on the trail and I can see it fanning out in all directions into the vast abyss. There is a mystic about fog that is hard to describe. Bethany Hanlon in her travel memoir Toilet Paper for Peanuts has one of the best characterizations of fog I have seen. She sees fog as a lense which allows us to focus on the details without overwhelming the psyche with sensory overload. In her vivid description of her visit to Leeds Castle in England, the fog brought the castle’s details to life and framed the essence of the place. Likewise, this image of fog was very true this day. For the mile through Skeleton Point, I focused on the deep colors of the rocks around me and the outline of the trail which danced in and out of the fog. As I hike up, it is as if the fog softens the terrain and makes it easier to climb.  When I climb out of the fog bank, I find myself wishing for another thunderstorm. But I am only half way up, and without the fog, the landscape returns to its rugged form.
 
            Beyond Skeleton Point, the trail levels off and becomes surprisingly easy as it crosses a wide plateau. I begin to see several day hikers who have made it half-way down the canyon by midday.  Fearing another storm, I keep pace and soon reach the first of a series of switchbacks that will take me back up the canyon.
The wind begins to pick up and periodically whirls the red dust of the trail into my face and throughout my pack. It does not take long to hike back into a dry landscape. It is as if the storm dumped out all of its rain just below Skeleton Point. Within an hour the sky has completely cleared.
 
            As I continue walking, the landscape around me becomes more vast; more encompassing. Not only is there a 360 degree view below me, but the depth of the canyon can fully be appreciated from the half way point. It is a place on the trail where Edward Abbey of Desert Solitaire might describe as the point where the tangible meets the mythical.
 
            The last few miles of the trail go surprisingly easy. My heart rate seems to have found its uphill rhythm and I am not overly sweaty. After a day and a half, I seemed to have found a good hiking speed but I am certainly moving slowly. The inner canyon disappears and the landscape begins to transition back to the Junipers and occasional Ponderosa Pine of the high plateau. Before I realize it, I am back on top in a flurry of tourists and day hikers. Before I even had a chance to think about taking a few pictures right below the rim, the hike abruptly ends. I look at my watch and it is 5:45pm. In a world so content to count time, I relish the fact I was 45 minutes late.
 
            As I walk back to my car, my mind races back to my chance encounter with Cate yesterday half way down the South Kaibab trail. I wish we had traded contact information. Perhaps she is staying in the park another week like I am, and we will meet another day on another trail. In the brief hours we spent together, we connected on a level I have never experienced for someone so seemingly random. In the midst of hiking solo, I found the importance of connecting trails.
           
            I have hiked in the Grand Canyon three times since meeting Cate. Every time, I can feel her vibrant energy as I walk down the first several miles of the trail. When I feel pain, I think about her leg and the pain she might have experienced hiking those miles with me. Yet, she never let me know. As we started our hike together, she trusted me to help achieve her dream. We made it-together. Our fears disappeared through a simple “We can do this.”  If this can happen with a complete stranger, why is it so difficult with the people we love and are closest to us? Too many relationships end because both partners believe their dreams are seemingly different. But are they really? Perhaps what is really missing is the trust, love and support that anything is possible when you walk together; hand- in- hand. You don’t have to share the same exact dream.
 
            Very often as well, the greatest barrier to our own dreams is us. We spent so much time doubting our abilities both physically and mentally. We worry and overthink and listen to negative thoughts from others. We are scared to share our dreams with others on the fear that they might be too crazy or too unrealistic. We are afraid no one understands what drives us. So we walk alone with walls. Yet, dreams are not achieved solo. You do not need someone that shares all of your dreams. But, you do need someone to walk with you who believe they can happen.
 
            When I dreamed of hiking the Grand Canyon nearly twenty years ago, I imagined a feat of endurance focused on physical stamina and ability. Later on, I dreamed of seeing the canyon from below the rim; a scene that a small fragment of the world’s population will see. I wanted to take photographs and reflect on the Earth’s geologic history. Yet.as my footsteps met the sand, my dream changed. It became the walk with Cate through 500 million years of geologic time. It became the shelter of an unexpected storm. It became the walk to the Colorado River under the setting sun. Let life happen and find a Cate to walk with you. Your dreams will take care of themselves.

The Oldest One in Camp
"Come let us sit in a circle and rest." We all sit down underneath a large cottonwood tree on the bare earth. We all watch as our camp guide sits on a tree stump in front of us, our faces dripping in sweat from near 110 degree heat. He is wearing a long sleeve plaid shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, a bandana and a dusty brown cowboy hat. Not a bead of sweat appears from his brow. "Stand still and think of ice cream" He says. We all bicker and chuckle, wondering if it’s close to lunch time and a secret stash of ice cream will appear.

"If you think you will be hot, you will be hot." He says." If you think you will be cold, You will be cold. Feel the cool breeze on your face and ignore the warm breeze."

As we began to wipe the sweat off our brow, the group of us in our early teens did not know what to make of Chief One Feather or our week in the Jurupa Mountains. We had spent early Monday morning in a quite strenuous hike overlooking the valley. It was hot and expected to flirt with 120 degrees all week, without an ounce of a fan or air conditioning. Yet, from that moment on, I did not feel hot. It would be over a decade and a half later while on the brink of heat exhaustion on a hike in the Utah desert, that I would remember my time under the tree and sit down to reframe my mind and adjust my body temperature. They say survival is 10% physical action and 90% mental. I didn’t realize it then, but this early lesson in survival was likely one of the most important lessons learned throughout generations of ancestral people. The rest of that week, through no extra-ordinary effort on my part, I began to learn to pace myself between walking and resting. I purposely listened to my heart beat and slowed down when it was starting to beat faster. Every day right before lunch, we would sit under that cottonwood until all of us, as a group, were no longer hot.
The Jurupa Mountains Nature Center was owned by Ruth and Samuel Kirkby, an older coupled married for over 55 years. Instead of sending each other cards and flowers, they exchanged rocks, minerals and a love for the Earth. They started a center which catered to educating children, a passion they carried through without pay for over four decades. Ruth became known as a world renowned Paleo botanist, with several rare plant fossils named after her. Yet, much of her day is spent sitting in the dusty room in the education center preparing specimens for the afternoon lessons. Sam (One Feather) runs the educational programs and became as much a part of our summer camp as the very trees themselves.
"How old do you think he is?" My friend Cynthia whispers over in my ear." I don’t know, he’s got to be up there", I exclaim.
After lunch, we return to the cottonwood where only earlier we had our first lesson in staying cool. We all put our backs against the large tree, probably four feet in diameter.
"How old are you?" I hear one of my campmates ask? Chief One Feather sits a while and asks us to all turn and look at the tree behind us.
How old do you think this tree is?
"Oh, 100 years or so", Cynthia exclaims.
"Older than all of us, that’s for sure" a voice in the back says.
"Now what do you see on the ends of those branches?"
One Feather says as he gets up with his cane and slowly walks to the tree.
"They look like seed pods to me." I answer as I think about some of the ecology courses I have taken in high school.
He reaches over and pulls a few seeds off the tree and scatters them around the ground. He continues with his lesson as we now are in deep thought about the age of the tree.
"If this tree could talk, he would not like being called old because he has on every branch a seed that was not here yesterday. Someday this tree will succumb to the power of time but before then, they’ll be new trees all around producing seeds of their own. This is the way of trees. As long as they bear seeds, they will never get old."
One Feather walks around the tree and returns to his stump, taking his time to sit down. We have a brief siesta and return to the day’s scheduled events. As the week’s events unfolded, my mind slipped away from the fact that Chief One Feather was over 80 years old and leading hikes into the California desert. When I saw him as a teacher, he no longer was old.
Once we arrive at the botanical gardens, Ruth Kirkby is awaiting our arrival. She has neatly placed two dozen trilobites in egg cartons on two picnic tables. She invites us over and we quickly find our spot on the table. A lizard makes his presence known and quickly scampers into the dense forest of yuccas.
During the course of the afternoon, we spend time in groups, cleaning and preparing several small trilobites. These are from one of her new finds in Arizona and we learn what we are holding is half a billion years old. It is hard to fathom that length of time. But, imagine if every year of this time is represented by one foot. Assuming we walk in one foot strides, we could walk to the moon and back twice in the distance represented by half a billion years. It is much easier to think about time when we can relate it to something we are familiar with.
Ruth Kirkby gives us small tweezers and encourages us to watch her as she methodically removes little grains of dirt between each section of the Trilobite. She tells us about its history as a species, why it is important that we know about Trilobites, and how to properly label our specimen. She gives us a small hole puncher and some glue to neatly place a white dot on the specimen.
"Label this number 1", she says after we are finished.
"For most of you, this will be the first specimen in your fossil collection." Be sure not to lose it, and if anyone asks you about it, I want you to remember what you did here and carefully
describe how you prepared this specimen, what you learned about trilobites and why they are important in the grand history of the Earth. It would be twenty years later, at the Franklin Mineral Show in Franklin, New Jersey 3000 miles away, I would engage a PHD from Princeton in a conversation about how Trilobites are preserved and prepared. I never realized the importance of learning out of an egg carton.
It is now Tuesday morning at 8am. It is already 94 degrees as I greet Cynthia good morning. We all are expecting a morning hike and quickly fill our water bottles in the faucet against the building. The water appears to be anything but clear. Yet, before I can fill my bottle I hear the voice of Running Bear, our other camp leader, exclaim; why are you getting water!?" "We are writing today!"
Writing!? We all look in amazement as he takes out several dozen paper shopping bags and some scissors. Our job this morning will be to cut the bags into paper strips, pile the paper strips together in order, fold them neatly into pages, punch two holes on the left most side, and tie a string between the holes to bind our new book. We pass around a few number 2 pencils with aptly named species of dinosaurs on them.
What do we write about? I ask contemplating my new 20 page book with blank brown pages. Ruth walks over and then addresses the class.
"I want each of you to write about your favorite memory in nature. What did you see, or hear or smell? What made you remember it? Be descriptive and write freely.
We sit in the quiet for a good 30 minutes writing. I can see several of my classmates doodling snakes, cactus and airplanes over their books. Some write and others stare at the blank brown page. Ruth opens up a large journal and starts writing in prominent cursive motions. I start to write about some of my earliest hikes not far from my old neighborhood in Riverside, California where I grew up. I become lost in thoughts and memories as I start squeezing in more and more lines on the rough brown paper.
"Does anyone want to share their story?" Ruth rises out of her chair to peer over at what we are writing.
There is silence as a soft breeze passes through the garden canopy.
"We’ll I’ll start." Ruth says as she picks up her notebook.
"I started writing about taking a morning walk, but then this beautiful butterfly landed right next to my journal. I believe it is a Yucca Giant Skipper and it just sat there looking at me. It soon flew away and showed me two others of its kind that were flying amongst the flowers on the Yucca. Look, there are 4 or 5 now."
Over twenty heads lean to the left to see the butterflies now flying all over in the garden.
She goes on to say; "Butterflies have an important role in nature. They are nature’s pollinators. Yuccas rely on pollination by butterflies and moths such as these for their continued existence."
As we all listened intently and began to share our stories, we learned that writing was not just a means of describing what we see and hear, but rather a means of learning. Each day for the rest of the week, we took 30 minutes to write in our journal about the day’s events as well as what we perceived and experienced. Yet, very often, like her butterfly landing on the table, I too would be disrupted in writing by a gust of wind or a passing lizard. For years, many professors and teachers sat with Ruth to learn her teaching methods. It simply appears that the best lessons are those that are not planned. Nature provides many lessons at just the right time for those who are willing to listen.
We eat lunch and return to the familiar setting of the large Cottonwood for our siesta hour and talk with One Feather. I feel myself getting hot, but remember what I had learned yesterday. He brings with him a box and one by one opens the contents. He has samples of the various native plants to the California desert. We take turns passing around samples of desert sage, buckwheat, Jurupa plant and prickly pear.
"The prickly pear is the lifeblood of the desert." He states as he begins to cut a piece with his knife until it is a soft juicy blob without thorns. He passes small pieces around and we try small bites. It is surprisingly tasty, perhaps a blend between a watermelon and a pear. We then examine each of the other plants in details as we learn about their uses by native people.
Walking through Walnut Canyon National Monument in the Arizona desert nineteen years later, my mind goes back to that afternoon with One Feather learning about native plants. As I pass native ruins on the hillside, I take out my trail guide and note that over 100 species of plants grow in this hidden canyon. The native people used nearly all of them. I can identify prickly pear, sage and perhaps a few others, but nowhere near the knowledge of our ancestors. We have lost this vital connection to the plants of this Earth in less than 1000 years. The fields of botany, medicine and agriculture are vibrant with scientific inquiry, yet this knowledge is largely held captive in the scientific community. Walking through the gift shop later that day, I see a government guide to the Flora and Fauna of Walnut Canyon gathering dust on a bookshelf. I open its dried pages and see references to "unknown use" over the last several pages of text. I hope someday, the echoes of our ancestors will resound loud enough in our hearts that we reclaim what we have lost. If we do, we will understand why it is important to preserve and protect the variety of life on this Earth and we will tread lightly in all that we do.
Ancestral View at Walnut Canyon National Monument, Arizona
Early the next morning, Ruth greets us with a smile and over a dozen pails of red Earth. We partner up with a buddy as One Feather slowly wheels a pile of dirt on a squeaky wheelbarrow. This morning, we will learn how to build a stone fireplace. We take our pails and wait our turn to mix the red dirt with water. One feather walks around with a pail and sprinkles several handfuls of sand in each bucket. We fill up with water and begin to turn the red mush with our hands until it becomes a pulpy soft mud. It sticks to everything and my arms have turned a crimson red. The heat of the sun begins to dry some of the mud on my arms and it mummifies my arm into lizard-like scales. We start taking rocks from the wheelbarrow and begin to line a circle, methodically placing the larger stones on the bottom and consecutively smaller stones on top. The clay is mixed on top of the rocks and dries quickly in the warm desert heat. Before long, we have a structure two feet high and three feet wide. We smooth out the sand at the base and within less than an hour, we have built a fireplace.
Twenty years later, I walk into Sand Canyon in Canyon of the Ancients National Monument. As I stop to rest and take a sip of nourishing water from my canteen, below me lay an earthen fireplace, neatly lined with bricks and adobe. It appears intact, likely for 9000 years or more when the Anasazi lived here. I touch the stones and adobe, remembering the feeling of wet red dirt in my hands and the weight of the round warm rocks. Not far from the fireplace are what appear to be the tops of several small bowls. I imagine life 9000 years ago and a vibrant community living amongst the rocks. Much of what I see now is the same the ancients would have seen. There are tens of thousands of archeological sites here and most have not been documented. In fact, it is the densest known section of ruins known in the US. Not far from here, is Mc Phee reservoir which likely buried thousands more during the building of a dam in the 1960s. 3.5 million Artifacts were recovered and are sitting in storage at the Anasazi Heritage Center. Less than 20% have been cataloged over 50 years later. 9000 years from now, will all of our belongings of this century end up in some vast warehouse of artifacts? What will our ancestors think of us?
Back at Jurupa, One Feather brings out his guitar during siesta. We join him in singing several old cowboy songs under the large cottonwood tree. A soft breeze blows the tips of the branches and provides a much-needed relief to the heat. It is pushing 110 degrees, but with the breeze under the garden canopy, the warm air feels good against my skin.
The very next morning, Ruth asks if I would like to help with the morning flag ceremony. I take one end of a faded US flag and clip it to the drawstring. One Feather grabs the other end and clips it to the higher clamp and pulls the drawstring down as the flag slowly begins its ascent to prominence. It’s a big flag pole—perhaps 80 feet or so and it takes a good five minutes of pull-yank-pull to display the flag. As soon flag -raising is completed, I return to my spot very militaristically. We then aptly exclaim;
Yo prometo lealtad a la bandera de los estados Unidos de America, y a la Republica que representa, una Nacion bajo Dios, entera, con libertad y justicia para todos."
Spanish. Today is the day we all learned the Pledge of Allegiance in Spanish. We all listen to One Feather talk about the importance of understanding another language.
The key to communicating is language. And in language comes understanding. With understanding comes peace.
There are thousands of languages that have been spoken throughout human existence. Many are extinct. The last known speaker of the native Serrano language of Southern California died in 2002. Many languages, such as Serrano were never written- they were typically passed from generation to generation. Today, fewer than 15 members of the tribe have an understanding of the language. There are classes offered, mainly funded by the elders and a few others. A few attend once a month or so. It is an academic exercise. The elders are dying. This is happening all around the world. We are losing our identity.
Donald Steinmetz, the cousin to my mother was a professor of languages at Augsburg College in Minnesota. I never had the chance to meet him, but my recollection comes from hearing countless accounts of his ability to engage people all over the world in their native tongue. For students who spoke a language he was not familiar with, he asked to meet with them and learn. He was unpretentious about his ability to speak close to a dozen languages. He taught many of them. But it was his ability to engage his students on the importance of language to culture that defined his work. Language is a nexus of understanding which bridges cultures together. We must invigorate our desire to communicate.
On our last day of nature camp we listen to Ruth Kirkby and One Feather talk about everything we have done over the course of the week.
"When you look at a rock, I want you to think about the great history of this earth. Think of the Grand Canyon and the moon, and remember why rocks are important. When you think of water, think of their relationship with rocks and with life. Understand that everything in this life is connected and forms a vast circle. Remember to always ask questions and learn. There are never any dumb questions."
"When you are older, I want all of you to return here with your children." Tell them what you experienced here and show them the rocks and cactus. Let them get dust on their hands. When they bring their children a generation later, they will remember as I did."
One Feather walks up to each of us and gives us a small piece of paper with a Navajo prayer. Handwritten across the prayer, he writes; "Walk in Beauty." I put the paper in my pocket as Ruth guides us near the front entrance of the cultural center to meet our families at the end of the day. I watch as One Feather slowly walks back to the rock and mineral discovery center with two buckets of red clay.
Walking along the Jenny Lake Trail in Grand Teton National Park twenty years later, I come upon a moose gracefully walking along the shoreline. It walks slowly with rhythm and purpose, periodically looking at the alpenglow and its own reflection before continuing on its journey. I slowly find that in the process of looking for moose, I found a beautiful sunset, a clump of Douglas fir trees and some fire ants. I see my reflection in the water. I sit and watch the sunset, breathing in the chilled Wyoming air. A soft glittering of stars begins to appear. In the valley, the glisten of Jackson, Wyoming is just as bright. So is the sound of a passing plane. In the silence of the rippling waves, I begin to write in my journal much in the way Ruth had taught me. Major segments of this journal became this book.

As I breathe in the crisp morning air, the rest of the world remains asleep, at least for another hour or two. The sky is beginning to lighten, but through a canopy of twinkling lights from other worlds millions of light years away. The only sounds I hear are the ones I am awkwardly making as I set up my camera for a sunrise picture. The trees are still, cradled in the protective blankets of white and a soft mist is rising from the earth. Time seems to stand still but this place is breathing as heavily as I am. The soft tracks of an elk are right in front of me heading into Moraine Park, in the valley below. I follow the tracks with my eye and they lead me first to a deep orange Ponderosa, then back into a cluster of aspen before heading off towards the river. The wanderings of the elk distract me from the bitter cold, my breathe now taking its time to dissipate amongst the trees. A soft alpenglow arrives and I prepare my camera in anticipation of the sunrise. It is now much lighter and the twinkling canopy has vanished. Slowly the sun rises between the trees and a sudden gust of wind turns the forest undergrowth to a collidoscope of white. I try snapping a picture and my camera battery dies. Rather than take the 5 minute walk back to the car, I continue to watch the wind rain snow down all around me, as the sun rises and heats up the Earth. The sun slowly rises through the canopy of trees, bringing with it much needed warmth. I stayed with my mounted camera for 2 hours, until the first early hikers of the day could be heard driving to the Bear Lake parking lot. On my drive back to Cascade Cottages to make some breakfast, I came to the realization that that was one of the best photographs I have ever taken. In the silence of that early October morning, a thousand windows were opened. The landscape danced in its morning ritual of darkness to light and a new day was born. And I could just be. Look, listen, breathe and be. They’ll be time for pictures.

In the rural mountains of eastern Pennsylvania, lies Hawk Mountain, a ridge along the beautiful blue mountain chain. During the fall and spring, thousands of raptors fly overhead on their migration route between Canada and the southern United States. It is a crisp September morning and a layer of frost can be seen on the grass leading up to the trailhead. In many of my hikes, I always find I am one of the first ones at the trailhead, perhaps several hours before families and children explore this nature’s playground on an early Sunday morning. The trail begins on a ridgeline and follows it north to several promontory points with a full 360 degree view of the rolling hills of oak, maple and hickory. I walk down towards the woods to get out of the wind and sit down on a rock ledge overlooking the valley. A small fluttering comes from the top of an Oak and I see a red tailed hawk fly off into the sky. I hear as loud “screeecaw” as it soars at a 45 degree angle several hundred feet into the sky. It soon dive bombs into the trees and disappears, yet its echo continues to be heard in the early mountain air. Not long after, I hear a high pitched whistle a few trees to the west and look up. Peering over a 100 foot ledge are three baby hawks in a prominent nest in the crease of the uppermost limb of the oak. They continue to whistle for several minutes and eventually calm down and return to the comfort of their nest. I see the large hawk return and fly in powerful strides around the valley, at times soaring and at times gliding. Then, it would disappear into the clouds and vanish without a sound. At times the babies would whistle and at other times they would remain still and quiet. Occasionally, they would peer over their nest and see me, but mostly it seemed like I was invisible. About five minutes later, the large hawk returned out of the cloud and glided into the nest with a mouth full of food for the youngsters. They ate, still seemingly unaware of my presence. After what seemed like a short period of time, all four fly away, some gliding, some flapping intently, and one awkwardly bouncing in the sky. They fly up and down between the clouds and vanish into the sky. All four fly in different directions. The little ones appear so young, yet with a morning meal were flying in rhythm with their parent. Later that morning, I returned to the visitor center to check the raptor count for the day. There are people with binoculars looking at trees in the far distant horizon. Some have radio frequency systems to help locate raptors. Yet, a few hundred feet down the trail, up an old weathered Oak, four hawks return and stand silent, waiting to teach the lessons of the heavens. They have returned full circle and are patiently waiting for those who will listen.