Because It's There

In this purpose-driven culture in which we live, all efforts without a defined outcome are scorned as a waste of time. And so, one does not just go out for a run; one is training.  One does not just sit on a porch;  we ought to be be doing something - conversing, writing, or reading with intent in mind.  In one of my last conversations with my dad, his eyes were closed as I entered his room.  "Are you sleeping?" I asked him.  "No," he replied with his eyes still shut. "I'm thinking."

And so, with no grandiose objective in mind, my husband and I went for a little hike yesterday in the mountains.  The last time we had ascended Gregory's Bald, I had deemed the grueling route "the Death March."   But here was a different trail to the summit that we had never trekked before.  It can't be as bad as last time, I thought.  Famous last words.

It was an adventure just getting to the trailhead, literally off the beaten path, driving from an asphalt road, to a gravel road, and finally turning onto a narrow dirt passage.  We were greeted by a congregation of massive trees that appeared to touch the edge of heaven.  We moved deeper and deeper into the forest, navigating a path just wide enough for the car.  Enormous potholes took up residence where what was civilized had been washed away.

We parked the car in a clearing, donned our hiking shoes and poles, and headed into what appeared a different dimension.  The trail rose slightly.  No problem, I thought.  I can do this.  Within the first 1/4 mile, we passed a group of four young women on their way down.  "A little muddy," one of them advised.  I looked down at the trail.  Not too bad at all, I thought.

A little further, the trail steeper, and the mud, well, it was bad.

As we ascended, we ceased talking, just to keep breathing, the hill rising continually before us.  The mud had progressed into the status of a miry bog.  At one point, the mud was so deep it attempted to swallow my shoe in a single gulp.  But if I lifted up my eyes, the beauty of the trees was astonishing, forming a canopy of green over us.  At one point, we passed through a tunnel comprised entirely of rhododendrons, their blooms like the huge hairbows worn by little girls in the South.  All we could hear was an orchestra of birds and the slurping sound of our boots in the mud.

I knew that the trail was 4.5 miles to the top, but as we climbed I had no conception of time nor pace.  I dared not ask how much further.  I didn't want to know.  Each bend of the trail revealed another rise, moving deeper and deeper, steeper and steeper.    Almost there.  Almost there, I lied to myself.

And as I have experienced so many times in life, when I am moving along a mysterious trail of  "what am I doing here?"  God pulls out a surprise.   Quite suddenly, the trail turned, and there was a meadow on the top of this mountain crowned by flaming orange azalea bushes as far as I could see.

Our two-year-old grandson Howie is continually asking, "What dat called?"  And all I could think was the splendor of God.

We were motivated to head back down the trail by the rumble of an impending thunderstorm.  Downhill always promises to be easier, but it is in our comfort that we are most at risk of falling.  A steep ascent is always followed by a treacherous descent.  I know.  I once had a bruise on my hip the size of Nebraska to prove it.  We crept down the trail, our hiking poles kept our balance, the mud thick and sticky, as if reluctant to let us go.  We trudged onward through streams and navigated around tree roots that reached out to trip us.

I suddenly noticed that the songs of the birds had been replaced by the sound of applause, rain hitting the thick canopy above us.  As the rain became heavier and louder, we stopped only long enough to slip on our rain jackets.  Bill leaned down to look at something on the trail.  The rain was puddling in a very distinct pawprint of a bear.  Another twenty feet down the trail, I saw two more fresh prints.  And somehow, I gained new energy to pick up the pace.

The parking lot appeared in the midst of the downpour.  We made it.  Nine miles of mud.  We shed our muddy hiking shoes in the back and headed out.  Before we could reach a main road back to civilization, we stopped and bathed our muddy feet and legs in the chilly waters of a creek.

Few ever see this kind of grace.

In 1923, as George Mallory was preparing for his third and final expedition to Everest, a journalist queried why he would want to climb Mt. Everest.  Mallory responded, "Because it's there."

And why would we again trudge up the muddy side of this mountain -- or any such peak?

There is something in physical exertion, in stepping beyond complacence, to stand in the middle of creation surrounded only by the sky and birds, that gives my brain room to breathe, and my soul the space to stretch out and get a glimpse of the enormity of God.  It fills my lungs with fresh air and my heart with hope.

Why?  "Because He's there."

I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From whence does my help come?
My help comes from the LORD,
who made heaven and earth.

                          Psalm 121.1-2