Near Apache Junction, AZ
The Wave Cave. We have a thousand-foot ascent in 90-degree heat over a lot of loose rock. Toward the top, it gets really steep and I find myself high-stepping like John Cleese doing his Minister of Silly Walks routine. I'm compelled to take numerous breaks. My legs are rubber. The air I breathe seems devoid of oxygen. Those last 50 feet to the cave seem like 50 miles. When I finally reach my destination and cast off my pack and plop onto the sandy surface, I feel as if I will never get up. Then a funny thing happens. I spot a kid about three years old, wearing a “Good Vibes” T-shirt.
This is too good to pass up. Next thing—don’t ask me how—it’s like I haven’t experienced the rigors of the hike. Next thing, with the kid by my side, I’m blasting away on my didgeridoo. Next thing, I’m putting on a show. Today, my didge really wants to play, and the sound fairly resonates off the cave walls. Good vibes. The kid and his family love it. So do I. Other hikers in the cave burst into applause. Ah, my fifteen seconds of fame …
Down below, I just happened to remember it was International Hug a Cactus Day. In case you’re wondering, I noticed that a certain big boy possessed no pointy bits. Big hug. I think Leanna is getting used to me, by now.
The Wave Cave. We have a thousand-foot ascent in 90-degree heat over a lot of loose rock. Toward the top, it gets really steep and I find myself high-stepping like John Cleese doing his Minister of Silly Walks routine. I'm compelled to take numerous breaks. My legs are rubber. The air I breathe seems devoid of oxygen. Those last 50 feet to the cave seem like 50 miles. When I finally reach my destination and cast off my pack and plop onto the sandy surface, I feel as if I will never get up. Then a funny thing happens. I spot a kid about three years old, wearing a “Good Vibes” T-shirt.
This is too good to pass up. Next thing—don’t ask me how—it’s like I haven’t experienced the rigors of the hike. Next thing, with the kid by my side, I’m blasting away on my didgeridoo. Next thing, I’m putting on a show. Today, my didge really wants to play, and the sound fairly resonates off the cave walls. Good vibes. The kid and his family love it. So do I. Other hikers in the cave burst into applause. Ah, my fifteen seconds of fame …
Down below, I just happened to remember it was International Hug a Cactus Day. In case you’re wondering, I noticed that a certain big boy possessed no pointy bits. Big hug. I think Leanna is getting used to me, by now.
Cathedral Rock, Sedona, Arizona. Nature is a cathedral. No walls to separate me from my God. Two days before, I got halfway up the rock before the bad weather rolled in. Now on a clear day, there is nothing to stop me but my fear. Part of me tells me I’m a heart patient, I shouldn’t be doing this. The other part of me says I’m a heart patient, I really need to be doing this. The source of my fear is a chimney formation that I have to scoot up. One miscue and gravity will efficiently dispatch me to the bottom. It's now or never. I make my leap of faith. The reward is exultation.
But the sheer splendor of nature also induces a state of profound humility. In the total scheme of things, we are but mere specks. Somehow, though, in my cathedral, to be humbled is to experience sublime exhilaration.
Reason #739 why you always take at least one didgeridoo on a hike or climb—you never know when you will run into a tall Dutch blonde woman with a hula hoop.
Now who would be so crazy as to tote a hula hoop 750 feet up over highly vertical terrain to the top of Cathedral Rock? I hold up my didgeridoo. Next thing, the summit jam is on. In Katie’s hands, the hoop becomes ballet. I'm laying down some funk.
Yes, didge-funk-hula hoop, you heard that right. I am so far out of my normal that I'm suspecting I'm occupying a crazy dream, one where I will wake up in a soft bed, with a roof over my head and a toilet to pee and poop in. A predictable and comfortable life, but one where the laws of entropy have gained the upper hand. With a failing heart and failing finances, my old normal was no longer working for me—I was about to be evicted from my own reality.
Nearby …
I've pitched my tent in a spot near the end of a Forest Service road. I'm up some 4,500 feet in elevation. I wake up to a cobalt blue sky and frost on the ground. The water in the jug I left outside is frozen. Nevertheless, I slept as soundly as a hibernating bear. I manage to get a tea going, and wrapped in a blanket over layers of clothing I warm myself to the rising sun.
Life has offered me a new deal, with new terms and conditions and benefits, but one where I'm still looking for an escape clause. I dream of the day when I will pull into a driveway, unpack, and not pull out. But that day, I realize, lies way off in my future. In the meantime, I need to adapt to my new reality. If I were the man dreaming he was the butterfly, now I'm the butterfly dreaming he is the man. But I need to go a lot further, to just be the butterfly.
But the sheer splendor of nature also induces a state of profound humility. In the total scheme of things, we are but mere specks. Somehow, though, in my cathedral, to be humbled is to experience sublime exhilaration.
Reason #739 why you always take at least one didgeridoo on a hike or climb—you never know when you will run into a tall Dutch blonde woman with a hula hoop.
Now who would be so crazy as to tote a hula hoop 750 feet up over highly vertical terrain to the top of Cathedral Rock? I hold up my didgeridoo. Next thing, the summit jam is on. In Katie’s hands, the hoop becomes ballet. I'm laying down some funk.
Yes, didge-funk-hula hoop, you heard that right. I am so far out of my normal that I'm suspecting I'm occupying a crazy dream, one where I will wake up in a soft bed, with a roof over my head and a toilet to pee and poop in. A predictable and comfortable life, but one where the laws of entropy have gained the upper hand. With a failing heart and failing finances, my old normal was no longer working for me—I was about to be evicted from my own reality.
Nearby …
I've pitched my tent in a spot near the end of a Forest Service road. I'm up some 4,500 feet in elevation. I wake up to a cobalt blue sky and frost on the ground. The water in the jug I left outside is frozen. Nevertheless, I slept as soundly as a hibernating bear. I manage to get a tea going, and wrapped in a blanket over layers of clothing I warm myself to the rising sun.
Life has offered me a new deal, with new terms and conditions and benefits, but one where I'm still looking for an escape clause. I dream of the day when I will pull into a driveway, unpack, and not pull out. But that day, I realize, lies way off in my future. In the meantime, I need to adapt to my new reality. If I were the man dreaming he was the butterfly, now I'm the butterfly dreaming he is the man. But I need to go a lot further, to just be the butterfly.
Near Mt Baker, Washington State ...
So it was that putting in a request for my power animal—or totemic spirit—appeared to make a lot of sense. Your new buddy is your guide and protector, there for you in all realities and dimensions. As the trees closed in around me, my path opened up into new possibilities. Under several layers of protective clothing, against a gentle drizzle, my body felt warm and snug. My tread over the spongy earth was light, my being buoyant.
Wouldn’t it be cool, I thought, if my power animal were to suddenly appear to me. I reflected on this for a bit. Couldn’t just appear, I decided. Anyone can sight a deer in the forest, for instance. But a deer who decided to walk next to me, to accompany me for a few feet of my hike—ah, now that would be special. That would definitely be a sign.
A bear might be even cooler. The ranger back at the station told me she had yet to sight a bear, so maybe just a snout poking out of a nearby thicket would be enough.
My mind parsed the usual candidates and their qualifying criteria: Eagle—one low swoop will do. Raven—a more lengthy song and dance. Chipmunk—type Hamlet on an old Underwood.
Up to you, nature. You don’t get to pick your totem, your totem picks you. In due course, you will know. Then I stopped thinking about it. The woods had heard enough from me. It was time to listen.
It was late in the afternoon when I returned back to my campsite. Dark fell early, and after a quick meal, I retreated to my car to read my book. I heard a faint rustle from the back. Nothing to worry about, I decided. Objects have a way of shifting. My toothbrush, for instance, is proficient at jumping out of one bag of stuff and into another. My two spoons are real pros—they can teleport themselves from a Ziploc bag inside a box in the front of the car to somewhere in my trunk without leaving a forwarding address.
The rustle now moved to the front, then transformed into a skittering. Oh-oh. Then up through the cup-holder, a head, a tiny one—a mouse!
Shit! I had found my power animal.
So it was that putting in a request for my power animal—or totemic spirit—appeared to make a lot of sense. Your new buddy is your guide and protector, there for you in all realities and dimensions. As the trees closed in around me, my path opened up into new possibilities. Under several layers of protective clothing, against a gentle drizzle, my body felt warm and snug. My tread over the spongy earth was light, my being buoyant.
Wouldn’t it be cool, I thought, if my power animal were to suddenly appear to me. I reflected on this for a bit. Couldn’t just appear, I decided. Anyone can sight a deer in the forest, for instance. But a deer who decided to walk next to me, to accompany me for a few feet of my hike—ah, now that would be special. That would definitely be a sign.
A bear might be even cooler. The ranger back at the station told me she had yet to sight a bear, so maybe just a snout poking out of a nearby thicket would be enough.
My mind parsed the usual candidates and their qualifying criteria: Eagle—one low swoop will do. Raven—a more lengthy song and dance. Chipmunk—type Hamlet on an old Underwood.
Up to you, nature. You don’t get to pick your totem, your totem picks you. In due course, you will know. Then I stopped thinking about it. The woods had heard enough from me. It was time to listen.
It was late in the afternoon when I returned back to my campsite. Dark fell early, and after a quick meal, I retreated to my car to read my book. I heard a faint rustle from the back. Nothing to worry about, I decided. Objects have a way of shifting. My toothbrush, for instance, is proficient at jumping out of one bag of stuff and into another. My two spoons are real pros—they can teleport themselves from a Ziploc bag inside a box in the front of the car to somewhere in my trunk without leaving a forwarding address.
The rustle now moved to the front, then transformed into a skittering. Oh-oh. Then up through the cup-holder, a head, a tiny one—a mouse!
Shit! I had found my power animal.
