Elevation Ink

Curious Connection Between Myself and Nature

There is hardly a way to distinguish whether I actually recall my early memories or if I invented fables based on fables themselves pictures and the like. Regardless, some of my most fond and vivid memories are colored and scented by impressions nature has left on me.

“I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.”

          - Frank Lloyd Wright

I was young, a little more than two, when my family relocated from Chicago to Denver. To say my parents had their hands full is a gargantuan understatement. I was rambunctious; a misstep here and I would topple down the stairs, turn your back for a moment and I’d go tearing off down a hill far too steep for a toddler on a big wheel. I made it unscathed, as the story goes, my father chasing behind me yelling “steer Jay!” laughing as hard as I was.

I grew up in a time when television was capital punishment imposed by parents on misbehaving children. We played outside under the expansive sky until that glowing ball fell below the pencil drawn Rocky Mountains—so vast, yet so real, they sat as a backdrop that cut the world distinctly into Earth and Heaven.

The sun bids Colorado farewell in sporadic Aurora Borealis—darting rays in pink orange and red shown brilliantly through silvery clouds before a deep purple canvas speckled in trillion cut diamonds replaces the daytime sky.

Night settles in. Ever deeper and calm, the peace only cut short by my hometown “creature comforts.” Bedtime stories and lullabies end with a cricket chorus that fades into the mellow buzz of silence. Foxes test their cunning on housebroken dogs barking proudly through screen doors and windows. Jasmine wafting into my room soothed any fears aroused by grasshoppers and jackrabbits astir in the bushes.

Each star was familiar. Moonlight cast roofline shadows that made perfect hiding places in our 11 family cul-de-sac. Cassiopeia outranked the street light. Its pale glow was a chaperone watching over the blur of giggling children panting and darting from bush to planter trying to avoid the outstretched arms of a pursuer eager to yell “you’re it” triumphantly.

We had plenty of sleepovers. Backyards were completely transformed into tent cities. Rations of S'mores and milk and cookies were delivered lovingly to our sleeping bags where we lay nestled side-by-side, clutching flashlights and telling ghost stories while our parents drank and played cards inside.

We tasted every moment. Lived each so fully that we completely choked the air from it—in Buddhist beliefs, our unbridled desire to embrace the great outdoors and each other is easily explained as a harmonious interaction between humans and nature.

Agreed!

©2009, Elevation Ink, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

Made It, Ma! Top of the World!

I am no outdoorsman. My father hiked the Front Range with me on his back and what he got in return is a son whose idea of “roughing it” is a fully furnished condo in Aspen.

Yet given the opportunity to broaden my horizons, as a child and apparent today in fleeting hobbies, I’d step from my comfort zone into another persons’ pastime. This willingness to embrace adventure led me to a hazy peak above Lake Dillon where my preconceived notions about camping and hiking spun on a dime.

Entrusted to a friend’s older brothers we drove up the night before. Our base camp extended from a maroon VW Fox wagon; heavily coated in mud, the wire wheels were rust brown and flaking like sun burnt skin.

The largest of the tents was affixed to the hatchback making the VW a one bedroom efficiency with a view of the gravel parking lot. Our guardians took residence there. But the “gold coast” real estate was by the stream.

My walk slowed to a soft heal-toe. Scanning the ground I found a nice patch of freshly fallen Aspen leaves atop ground cover where I pitched my tent—six hardly straight relatively flimsy connector rods draped with a patchwork canvas over a hand-me-down sleeping bag.   

The creek ran calm, a soft rumble over rocks smoothed by thousands of years of spring runoff added a soothing bass to the cradle of beauty we’d found just 400 meters from civilization.

I didn’t sleep as much as I rested. Having never experienced the outdoors like this I listened the night through. The scenery that greeted me by day faded to black and blue. I found myself under the star scattered sky wondering what took me so long to arrive, so long to embrace Mother Nature fully. And miraculously when I escaped the concrete jungle of our community I found myself at peace—an intriguing state of being. My normally rambunctious personality ground to a halt and I exist as just another one of God’s creations, just the same as the leaves rustling in the breeze all around me.

It was coldest just before dawn. Birds chirped in agony as much as delight for the rising sun. The sky was backlit pale blue like a bulb behind a wall of cotton candy. Eagles played in the rising air currents. Their outstretched wings acting as kites while they surveyed the land for morning prey.

Daybreak came in a ruckus like a crowd gathering in a subway station. Rodents scurried through the brush while elk nibbled on shrubs and wild mushrooms. Water bugs skimmed the surface enticing trout to jump and splash. The whirring “zizzz” and rolling tick of rods and reels in the hands of casting fly fishermen was the only manmade chatter.

I’d slept in my clothes so a dry box of corn flakes was a fitting breakfast. The valley was surrounded by thirteeners—the peaks only visible through hazy cloud cover.

We set out on foot at first light. Everyone within sight seemed to be headed towards the same trailhead in an awkward single file. Rather than join the masses we rolled up our pant legs, tied our shoelaces together, threw our shoes over our shoulders and stepped into the moaning stream at the ford without thinking how chilling the first step would be.

We waded through the icey water; pins and needles pelted my legs making every step a painful affair, yet invigorating just the same. The current was stronger than I expected. Senses that lay dormant back home were wildly in tune. I shaped my feet to match the algae covered stones with a sudden adroitness. Each step was a journey of its own until soggy bank squeezed beneath my toes and wet grass blades wiped my feet clean and dry enough to put my socks and shoes back on.

We were headed to Ptarmigan Peak Trail. By now we had replaced delicate strides for a soccer walk pace as the terrain became less predictable—loose gravel sliding beneath our feet on a sharp incline. We were headed swiftly towards tree line. The caffeinated morning air was refreshing.

Our chaperones outmatched us in sheer strength, but we met their power with agility and youth too young to know what going all out meant. We jogged at a pretty good clip ducking tree limbs and trying not to get tripped up in the underbrush. It was an obstacle course to rival all others.

The meadow sprang into sight. Blinded by light I raised my forearm as a visor and saw a vast open space that would nicely accommodate three hundred for Shakespeare in the Park. Only then did I hear myself gasping for air or feel the burning in my lungs and chest. My zest for our trek showed as perspiration above my brow. I took in the scenery like my first breath.   

No one was around. We caught a glimpse of a mountain lion and were happy there was space between us. Being at the top of the food chain didn’t feel as secure as it did parading around the supermarket. We probably looked delicious!

The climb started without promulgation. Gradual, I suppose, but the burning in my calves, quads and hamstrings told a different story. We went silent with isolation—thin air and the sneaking suspicion that with every step we lost part of ourselves, fed it directly to the mountain in pain and admiration.

Something unheralded kept us marching. Not pride or the promise of victory. There was no purse. Hell, we left that morning without water or food foolishly. But we kept on towards that peak, still enveloped in dissipating clouds, with nothing more ahead than the potential gratification of goal completion. We were just out for a walk, as far as we were concerned.

“Dry” can’t begin to describe my mouth after more than two hours of climbing. It was so hot and arid at high elevation that sweat evaporated as quickly as it surfaced. The thought of turning back was self defeating. Descending the path at our backs would be dangerous—hopping zigzags at high speed, landing with both feet, leaning into the mountain praying the earth beneath us wouldn’t give way sending cantaloupe sized rocks hurling at the heads of our friends below us. We were forced to continue.

The brook trickled at barely a crawl and merely two or three inches deep at its widest point. One of our chaperones was a med student, but I didn’t need him to tell me the water was pure, fresh as the driven snow. I dropped to my knees in the barren vegetation and slurped the best water I had ever tasted from my cupped hands.

All was right in the world.

The summit was visible from our watering hole—or so we thought. We felt the elation of success twice only to be disappointed by false peaks. My energy was fleeting. We had long since stopped marveling at the painting unfolding before us in delicately detailed water color brush strokes. Trudging along, our feet scuffing the surface, leaving a trail that would confuse an Everest Sherpa, the air was so thin it tickled my nostrils before under nourishing my lunges. I didn’t think I was going to make it. Then all at once the ground ended.

The drop was sheer. Another step would have been fatal. We froze. No one uttered a word, our eyes collectively focused on the expansive horizon—it seemingly went on forever. Had I reached for the sky I’m sure I would have felt Heaven. I know beauty. But Ptarmigan Peak redefined “vast.” The world seemed so small before this moment, no bigger than the block I lived on.

We stood there a long while reveling in our victory. The pain once resonating through every possible nerve ending had faded into a mellow buzz of fervent exuberance—happiness, for having accomplished something I never dreamed, like mastering my grandmothers’ pancake recipe.   

I am better for having taken that first step, better for traversing that mountain and allowing it to broaden my perspective, better for pushing myself to physical and mental limits—challenging myself to reach the point I once referred to as my wits’ end.

Umpteen people have climbed thirteeners. I am not special for doing the same. But by conquering Ptarmigan Peak—even when no goal was apparent—I opened my minds’ eye to the possibility that maybe, just maybe I wasn’t limited to that which I can see or what I was told to believe by society. Rather, I am free to dream as big as my imagination.

©2009, Elevation Ink, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

Jump In, With Both Feet!

The storm woke me from sound sleep playing a rousing percussion melody as it hurled large raindrops through rustling leaves, onto shingled roofs and tin gutters on its way to my bedroom window. I rolled to my side, scrunched the covers up close around my neck and watched water distort my familiar view. The swaying maple trees disappeared into cascading sheets of water lit brilliant sparkling silver and gold by nearby street lights. It was beautiful. But something about it frightened me. I was a teenager at the time, way too old for the Boogie Man. This felt more like claustrophobia, like the world was no bigger than my room.

The torrent did not relent until just before daybreak. I pulled myself from bed, still wrapped in a blanket, and went to the window to assess the damage. Curiosity seemed to have stirred the entire neighborhood. There was a head bobbing in every window. It didn't rain long. But the light of dawn revealed a battered neighborhood. There was standing water everywhere. Streets and yards were not discernible from one another. Leaves and branches cluttered the current like fresh cut trees in logging channels. Street corner drains gurgled and spit as the city sewage system was pushed well past its limit. The neighborhood was a waterway.

I stood on a heating vent. The warm metal and soft breeze soothed my aching body. Soccer two-a-days had begun. The fall semester would shortly follow. I looked towards my desk, saw my early season training schedule and quickly decided that there was no way my masochistic ex-Army Ranger, ex-professional futbol player head soccer coach could find a way to hold practice in these conditions. My transparent crystal neon phone illuminated in flashes of pale blue light. The team manager confirmed the cancellation.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" I hadn't.

Nor could I explain the gripping anxiety that had come over me. I love water, which I partially attribute to astrology. Although Aquarius is an air sign, the water barer symbol offers some explanation for my love of long showers. But it was the ocean that spoke to me and cemented my love for water on a family vacation to Pajaro Dunes, just south of Santa Cruz on the California coastline.  

My uncle, an early riser and avid runner, took long runs along the beach each morning. I joined him one day. Two strides for each of his left me exasperated. I called, "I'm through, see you at breakfast," plopped down in the soft, damp sand and stared out over the water until I exist as just another one of God's creations—no different than the grains of sand beneath me. I sat there for a long while, gazing over the open water to that point where it and the sky come together. There, on the horizon, is where I first found peace and where I recognized the unmistakable interconnection between all living creatures.

The tide woke me from my meditative state as it inched towards my crossed legs. I walked back to bluff where our villa sat perched just above the sea, shoes in hand, kicking the foamy sand left behind as the water receded. The world seemed as vast as the ocean then. It presented infinite possibilities.

Yet somehow the driving rain barred my imagination and left me inexplicably constrained to my neighborhood. The thought of spending eternity in my small suburban community scared me senseless. I quickly dressed and fled the house on bike. The water was well above my bottom bracket. My feet disappeared as I turned the crank. People were out wading through the water, pushing aside the occasional garter snake feverishly swimming towards dry land. Stranded cars sat stalled in intersections while SUVs made their way down the street through traffic consisting of rafts, canoes and floating chairs. Everyone wanted to take part in this phenomenon before it disappeared.

I rode towards Exposition Park where I found a group of friends hell-bent on traversing the bike path. It was completely submerged. The park is a runoff for excess rainwater. The path runs around the perimeter. We'd ridden it a thousand times. But I could barely distinguish the top of the jungle gym from trees in the distance. Before anyone could raise a sensible objection, the alpha male took off. The rest of the pack followed, some in trepidation, namely, me!

The water was murky, muddy brown with fresh cut grass and leaves floating on the surface. We pedaled, often against the current rushing towards the drain. It was cool; both the temperature as the sun ducked behind clouds, and figuratively speaking. This beat the hell out of lying side by side with my teammates, heels six inches off the ground while our coach walked across our abdomens. 

We turned from the outer path and made our way towards the center of the park. We laughed and yelled and splashed as the water inched above our handlebars. In hindsight, this was unbelievably stupid. One wheel off the path could have sent us careening into the ravine. We didn’t care. Fun had completely overtaken reason.

We headed for higher ground and lucked into a spot that offered a panoramic view of the park. No one spoke. No words could describe the calm.

The world seemed to pause.

The sun had come out and was doing its best to dry my drenched clothes. Cars had returned to the street as the water abated. Neighbors gathered in force to clear debris and share stories. I rode a leisurely pace taking in the aftermath. Everyone was smiling, including me.

I may never fully understand what triggered the response that left me feeling trapped and isolated. But from what I gather, today, the storm taught me a valuable life lesson: when things look bleak, when the universe seems to be aligned directly against you. Don't fret. Some worthwhile experiences are not clear at the onset. Yet, still, these experiences make life worth living.

©2009, Elevation Ink, LLC. All Rights Reserved.