The Log and the Stars - Spirit Emerging in the Wilds

I loved my new backpack.  I had purchased all the right things for my wilderness adventure, and would carry that loaded red and black pack on my back.  I’d figured out the lotions, wipes, sunscreens, and other items that I felt would be invaluable for this trek into the Mount Jefferson Wilderness.  My friend Scott, a wilderness coach, was taking me on a journey into the forest under the mountain to teach me how to be in the wild and pristine beauty of Oregon’ forest land.  I had my Keen hiking boots and thick hiking socks.  I wrote about my upcoming journey on Facebook and had a host of “likes” and “You go girl” comments back.  I was all ready to step into the unknown, because I trusted Scott.  I saw it as an opening event, opening me to places in myself. 

About a week prior, Scott asked me to write him about my fears and concerns.  I wrote that I feared that I would not learn anything, or that I might learn too much, and that I would be vulnerable.  Above all, I was very unsure about bodily functions and how those inconveniences were handled in the wild.  He made no reply, I figured he was logging that information as part of his education to me.

Driving to the entry to the wilderness area, I told Scott that I was also concerned about nefarious strangers who prey on defenseless people in isolated areas.  I based those fears not so much on actual experience, but on my own fears and vulnerabilities (and a few movies that I would just as soon forget).  Scott assured me that he has tramped the terrains of Oregon public lands for many years, and has seen no evidence of criminal mischief.

 We parked the car and as we began to organize our things.  A pickup passed us and the driver waved as he drove passed us up the dusty, gravel road.  Within minutes he was back and parked along the road shoulder behind our car.  He got out of his pickup and we saw the pistol clearly affixed to his hip.  He asked where we were headed.  He said he was trying to find opportunities to locate a man who had been missing for over two weeks and could possibly be in the area where we were headed.  Scott made it clear that our destination was significantly further away from where the man was last seen, so the chances of finding him nearby were not good.  The man smiled and returned to his truck, drove it a few feet away, stopped it and did not move from that time until the time we entered the woods.  “Well, how’s that for a great way for you to face your fears?” Scott smiled.  I scowled.  I think I even muttered.

Scott emptied my nifty new backpack and evaluated every item for its utility, benefit and weight.  About 25% was removed and put back in my nifty new backpack.  The rest was transferred to something about half my height, with straps and pouches and a folded item on top that looked like a long, folded yellow waffle.  I bid my wipe and dipes, my face wash pads, my comb (kept a brush) and other items goodbye as they returned to the car  in that nifty backpack and I locked them in.  I left my comfortable car wearing my Capelli hat (supposedly filled with sunscreen), my designer sunglasses (Dolce and Gabana), Chico’s kahki shorts and my “Grow Peace” t-shirt to display my spiritual leanings. Of course, my water bottle was a designer bottle that said “I am peace” on its charcoal covered canister.  That was also left in the car.

 I was ready to get started on the adventure I had imagined.

Scott set the compass using the coordinates from the wilderness map and deemed me leader.  As long as I was able to keep the red pointer in the “doghouse”, we were headed to the lake.  My job was to use the compass at obvious turning points to ensure that we were headed toward our destination.  “Always seek the paths of least resistance,”  he advised me.  I learned that orange or red marks on tree trunks or rocks helped guide us along the right direction. 

 We began to walk through a forest of fallen trees, plant life so strong that it could curtail your journey via “bushwhacking”, large boulders and other varied items that forests rely on but are not built for easy walking.

Then I met the log.  This long and massive trunk was deemed the only way to continue the journey.  It was the size of a large tree, with some parts filled with bark (good traction) and some smooth (not so good in the traction department.)  I estimated that the log bridged a creek that was about twenty feet below.  Scott took my backpack and his own and flitted across the log as though it was a small bridge close to the water.  I knew that others had traversed the log by sitting on it and moving their bodies forward, one scoot at a time.  I also knew that neither was an option for me.  It wasn’t a deal breaker, but I was not going to put myself on that log.  I had to find a way.  It had to be through the creek.

Scott identified the best place possible to ford the creek.  The slope was very steep and slick; the other side was covered with Rhododendrons that guarded the ground against the best of human marauders.  Using ski poles, I slid down that vertical and slippery slope with as much of a foothold as I could muster, and I walked resolutely but quickly in the mid-calf deep water on loose and wobbly rocks.  My shoes and socks soaked up the water like dry sponges, and my feet hailed a huge “thank you!” for the coolness of the water.  “I’d found my way around logs that scared me,” I thought, “that’s how I roll.” 

The pack on my back was cumbersome and heavy.  I found myself hunched over, trying to ignore the weight.  Climbing over logs and scaling slippery slopes was more difficult as the pack weighed me down.  My hips hurt from the burden, my back felt like fire.  I became frustrated and angry, partly at myself for being so out of shape, partly at this heavy, unwieldy mass that was attached to me.  As I tried to find a way to comfortably traverse the rough terrain, I felt my face begin to burn, my legs begin to weaken and my breath become shallow and rapid.  “What the hell is an unfit woman my age doing out here?” I said to myself.  It was the first time I’d questioned myself as someone that was maybe too old.  As those thoughts entered my head, my breath became shallower, my back pain more severe. 

 For most of my life, physical exertion was something to think about, try once in a while and discard to the wiles of thought and plan.  If it got too hard, I had good reasons not to continue, work being the best of all justifications. This situation put me in a “no choice” position that I wasn’t used to. 

“Do you want me to take your pack?” Scott asked.  I hesitated, feeling the failure and the relief.  I weighed martyrdom versus failure.  Then I looked at him with all the resoluteness I could muster in that beet red face.  “Get it off me” I said.  And he did.

As I lumbered through the woods using my ski poles for balance, I watched Scott move ahead with one very large pack on his back, carrying the other in his hand.  My heart sank as I watched him shoulder more than his share of the burden.  I’d let him down.  Coming on this trip was a very wrong decision.  Once in a while Scott would move so fast that he disappeared from my sight.  I figured he just wanted to hurry up and get to our camp so that he could loosen his load.  Abashed, I kept to my journey, seeking ways to speed up and finding none.  I would finally see Scott again up ahead, waiting.  I abashedly forged on.

We entered an area that was less wild, with small scrub pines and tufts of grass along hard ground.  “We’re almost there”, Scott said, and I don’t know which one of us were more relieved.

The camp was amazing, a very wide open area with a smooth rock surface.  Small trees surrounded the perimeter; larger trees provided small oasis spots just a few feet beyond.  A fire pit built inside boulders had been well used.  It was surrounded by stools made from large boulders; a flatter stone provided a comfortable seat.  Other boulder chairs adorned the site.  There were nooks of respite where large piles of rocks gave way to an open space for sitting among small stands of scrub trees.  The ambient noise of the rushing creek gave it the perfect feel of the wilds, yet the peace of the water noises.  Overhead, Mount Jefferson loomed in its black wonder, small patches of snow adorning crannies that held on to the coat of winter.

 Scott set up camp.  I sat in silence, feeling very sad and disconnected.  I was especially sure that Scott was regretting this trip.  My inner being was hunched over in shame.  I should have been stronger.  I should have been faster.  I should have been lither, more svelte and limber, all those attributes that would have made forging the forest effortless. 

 Regardless of how quiet and withdrawn I felt, I could not have kept quiet about the bodily functions that were becoming an important topic to me.  Scott gave me a primer of how to use the outdoors respectfully and I ventured off to find my own place of relief.  I found a beautiful nook in a set of trees about ten feet from camp.  A circle of rocks had just the right décor of brush, the smaller rocks lined around the trees.  It was beautiful.  It became the perfect boudoir.  It was mine.

Once the camp was set up, Scott invited me to visit the lake, explore other creeks and we would return with our water.

We walked to the creek closest to the camp, divided by ground into separate tributaries.  Once again I was able to splash my feet in the cool water.  Beneath the water were masses of earth toned pebbles.  I wondered how such a beautiful array of hues can happen with those lovely rocks.  The water had white hues similar to tiny whitecaps that indicated something was swimming within its depths.  Scott explained that it was the silt from the mountain.

 After crossing the creek, another log came into view that moved across a deeper stream .  It was unavoidable.  I thought of the scene from dirty dancing where Johnny and Baby practiced dance steps on the log over a river.  Suppose Scott and I did the same thing? It was a wonderful thought, and ridiculous.  Instead, I held on to Scott’s shoulders as we cautiously used baby steps along the log.  One part of the log turned out to be a compacted piece of dirt.  It broke off when I stepped on it.  There was a bush in the middle of the log that had to be flattened a bit as we teetered through it.  We were soon off the log and facing the lake.

The lake was a deep green and still.  Small waves of sun sparkle floated in parts of its body.  Along the edges, curry colored earth gave a colorful contrast to the greens.  Around the lake were stands of old trees, once alive with foliage and now gray and smooth from the years of wear.  I called it “the neighborhood”. 

 Further down to the end of the lake were more members of the neighborhood, but they stood tall and proud within the lake itself.  The trunks were the warriors, the guardians.  They made age look beautiful.

 “Notice the entry to this next area” Scott said, pointing to a length of land that was a myriad of brush, fallen logs, stumps, scrub and unyielding limbs.  It was vastly different from the meadow lands by the lake, dotted with lush green plants and brilliantly pink Indian Paint Brush.  “This is called a transition area” he said.  The land where change begins is the land of the most challenge. If you can get through the transition, you can find the beauty beyond.

We scrambled through the messiness and walked along another creek.  This one was clean and pure.  It raced noisily over rocks and babbled its way into pools along the shore.

Scott left me to journal next to a tree trunk covered with moss in the creek.  I was mesmerized by a patch of wood that stood firm alongside the trunk, stopping the flow of water from perfectly cascading through the spaces of the trunk roots laying sideways and re-entering the creek below.  As I scooted closer to the trunk, I noted that the wood had an etching on it that resembled a face.  It looked to me as though it was a feminine face with large eyes looking upward and a hooked nose separating the eyes.  On the top of the trunk was a wood sculpture with a square base and a single pinnacle on top – all covered with moss.  The face looked to me like me.  The structure on top looked like the state capitol, and in that etched wood I was focused on it with a rapturous look.  I equated it to my life over the past two years, my strict attention to the capitol and how my singular focus had stopped my own flow.  I had been hanging on to an imperfect place, stopping the good for my life in order to attach to the political world that had me held with fascination. 

I grabbed my journal and realized I had no pen.  So I reflected on the change of life I had given myself by leaving the world of politics and now sat in a wooded area with clean pure water undulating by me, feeling the presence of wood spirits and again knowing I had done the right thing.  I will work through the grief of leaving twenty-eight years of juicy life, and I will create a new juicy life that flows without strategy and Machiavellian moves.

Scott came back so that we could return to camp.  As we walked by the meadow he showed me coyote and bear tracks, and I thrilled at knowing that they had this wonderful place to enjoy their fall and winters.  We traversed the log and gathered water in the creek.  We filtered the water and boiled it.  We sat in the shade and relaxed.  At one point I asked Scott how long it had taken us to get from the road to the camp, and he said it was approximately two and one half hours.  The total distance was three-quarters of a mile.  Scott said it usually takes him thirty minutes.  I was again saddened and ashamed.

Scott laid a fire with the care and respect given to nature.  He used alternate means of lighting the fire besides a quick swipe of a match or lighter.  He gently laid pieces of the forest within the twigs and built the fire from there.  Then he turned to the practices of the Native Americans, using sage and tobacco and special stones.  It was done in reverence as the sky began to turn an indigo blue and the flames crackled and lit the area with gold and copper hues. 

God put out his jewelers cloth as a canopy over the earth and then filled it with glistening white gems.  There were incredible groupings, the familiar constellations, a planet that seemed to have found its own place right above me in a field of concentric circles, and once in a while faint satellites floated by.  I laid there in my sleeping bag covered with protection garb and watched the sky watch me.  I could hear the wilderness, small crackles, rushing water, the silence only found when the earth is still and all of it, including me, looked up at that starry sky.

I woke to a clap of thunder and then felt the rain splatter on me.  I pulled the gear over my head and listened to the rain hit the tarp like material.  The rain would stop; I’d peek out and see that stars had come forth through the black hole that was the rain cloud.  On through the night, the sky doused me with pure water, and then shone its light on me.  I slept intermittently, not once caring if I got sufficient sleep.  I was ebbing and flowing with the earth’s movements – sometimes decorating with the stellar diamond sky, sometimes cleansing with the pure rainwater. 

As the sun began to rise, I asked for help.  “Scott can’t have to carry my pack back” I said.  “Please help me make this work.”

 I was up the next morning disassembling my bedding and laying it out to dry.  I visited my boudoir and then visited the terrain around the camp.  Scott offered me granola and blueberries and I ate it down.  I was ready to face my demons.  I told him that I was embarrassed about my actions yesterday, and about how much work I’d put on him.  He told me that I had naturally expected trails and facing wild country wasn’t something I could ever have been prepared for.  We talked about my need to learn to be physically fit, now that I’ve left a world where I worked on being mentally fit.  I agreed with him, and admitted that I don’t push on through physical challenge.  It was time I did.

Scott helped me put the pack on my back and strap it at the hips and then the chest.  It was heavier on the right side.  Instead of resisting that heaviness, I leaned into it.  I grabbed the ski poles and put my hat on and followed Scott out of the camp.

There were logs that I had to sit on and swing myself over to traverse.  I would ask Scott if I did those yesterday and he said, “Yes, you didn’t like them”.

There were places of dead wood, moss, and steep places with no foothold that I had to negotiate using my poles and Scott’s suggestions.  I asked if I had done those yesterday and he said “yes, you didn’t like it”. 

Again Scott disappeared and this time I knew that it wasn’t because he wanted to hurry, it was because he wanted to let me find my own way without dependency on him.

We reached that danged log.  I clamored down to my special place through the fibrous trunks of the Rhododendrons and slippery banks of moss and rock.  “Don’t trust the poles” Scott said, “trust your feet”.  And I did.  And I slapped my feet with relish in the cool water once I reached it.  I gratefully accepted when Scott helped me up the other slope. 

We continued our walk, I felt light and wonderful.  I was still beet red; I was still struggling with my breath, but that pack never left me.  And then Scott said, “Look over there.”  And there was my car.  We made it in 55 minutes.

And now I knew what it was like to push through the fear and the hard stuff.  I knew that my body could do so much more than I thought it could.  I was not the pathetic person struggling plaintively the day before, I was an energetic and tenacious woman determined to do the right thing.  I felt lighter, more at peace.

My night with the stars, my time with that piece of obstinate wood determined to stay glued to a place that no longer served, the grace of the guide who understood and showed only compassion and no judgment – gave me the gift of awareness of my connection to the Mother earth that I’ve taken for granted for so long.

It is no accident that I drew a card from a Wisdom Deck named “Earth Song” the day before we left.  It encouraged me to hear the earth, feel the earth and honor the earth.  A friend sent me a poem that turned out to be the embodiment of my experience:

Sleeping in the Forest

I thought the earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.

© Mary Oliver

I returned home and walked out into the woods behind my house.  I saw them differently, and vowed to offer them to others for respite and meditation.  I saw a sign I purchased at a local art fair last week:  Let your soul hear the earth song.  I sat in the chaise lounge in a special part of the garden to read, and looked up to see an eagle fly gently overhead. 

I received another email before I left:

So Long its been good to know you ---------   because you will come back a different person. I admire your courage and determination.  You touch my heart with your willingness to find the truth.  Go Girl!!!!!!! 

The only item I inadvertently left on the mountain was my Dolce and Gabana sunglasses.  I figure it is because I needed to see things differently. 

It is a very good start.