Weathering

From a summit you can usually see the wide expansiveness of a region, you can gaze across, looking back across the path you came and also, everything else as far as the horizon. It is typically stark on a lookout like this. The wind has swept away any excess, the remaining plants extremely stubborn, refusing to cower and disappear, but typically they pay for that in oddly shaped forms, stunted growth. This is not a cozy area, no serene restfulness even with the awe inspiring views. The sun beats down upon most of it. Again, it is beautiful, and for a traveler it comes with that sense of accomplishment of attaining a broader perspective, but that unobstructed view comes with a harsh environment.

The first time I reached the top of San Jacinto Peak it was before sunrise in October of 2003. As we took in the view from that summit, we could see not one, but two fires burning in different parts of the valley below, the clouds of smoke billowing up in the distance. They had started after we had left our cars and headed into the wilderness, but now we could see that beyond the blue sky and large, lazy white clouds over the trails we had traversed the previous day, there was destruction and chaos that had been brewing in the distance, now clear in our early morning summit.

As I take a moment to look around at my past and future, it is not so different. Yet, I am familiar with the fog of remnant smoke and fire-scarred wasteland that I have so recently passed through. I look toward the alternate path, the sun is rising and blinds me. I’m sure it would have been brilliant, lined with deliciously challenging steep sections that would have engaged my whole body in a way that makes you feel in tune with the landscape. I would have been strong, quick, alert. There may have been injuries that occasionally dampened my spirits and caused me to have to slow my pace for a period. There may have been sections where I was briefly stumped with how to move forward and had to forge a new path. But I would have reached the summit, and may even have gained company along such a path.

I instead found myself entering the forest, confident, happy, strong, well-stocked. As I got further along the path, the crackle of flames, the dropping of limbs, the heat began to close in on me. Would I make it? Would I lie down and allow the fire to pass over, the smoke choking my lungs and taking my life? I looked for shelter, for a safe haven. There was none. Alone. Stranded. Only the fast moving, erratic threat storming through the forest, coming for my life with recklessness. No reasoning with fire. No sense in the chaos. My attempts at fire breaks and redirecting its path, fruitless. Somehow I passed through the terror and survived, maybe dragged out unconscious by some merciful force, but I am changed. At this point in my life I wonder if the warps from this period will result in something interesting, wonderful. There are oaks that I’ve seen that grow in response to available light- stretching out their limbs in a way that is graceful, breathtaking. It is too soon to tell if I will be like the battleworn small scrub that persists on the summit or the beauty and elegance those oaks gain through growing and aging through various seasons of stress and plenty. As I move forward I only hope there was a reason, that it could result in something interesting or useful.

As I look to the future, I know I am traveling toward a sound, a section that looks like it could be verdant and lush. I lean forward, trying to be sure that is the joyful peals of laughter I hear in the distance down the path. But it may just be the sound of water bumping and burbling between rocks. That would be good enough.

— slowjamr