Gone West
Reading time: 6 minutes
Themes: Nature, travel, spiritual exploration
“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”
introduction
A wave of relief washed over me as I placed the last item in the back of my car and turned on the ignition. I was embarking on a five-week journey filled with uncertainty, touching nearly every state West of Colorado. The specifics of what I sought remained elusive, but when the familiar pangs of my soul whispered to me, I listened. There was something to be uncovered beyond the edge of where I've been before while stateside.
While I didn't know why I felt this draw toward rugged mountain passes and the embrace of deep green forests, I trusted that clarity would come, as it always had. Memories of a week spent in the Utah desert with cherished friends during springtime resurfaced. We hadn't known what the trip would bring, but past experiences on the edge of uncertainty taught us that it was not the details but the leap of faith that mattered most.
The yearning for another adventure like that spring trip lingered, but this time, solitude was my companion. Travel had been my metamorphic tool, marking the end of one life chapter and the start of another. But unlike my 2016 flight to London, I wasn't looking for an escape from my current chapter; my quest sought a deeper understanding of it. With clarity in my intent, I took the exit from my familiar surroundings, beckoned by the West's call: "Come, and see what lies beyond the horizon.”
i. perfect peace
Death Valley, California
Almost a week into my journey, I set my cruise control and merged onto Route 95, heading toward California. The fleeting time spent with my brother in Las Vegas was still fresh in my mind, and an unexpected pain of longing gripped me. The challenge didn't just lie in missing my family and friends but also in facing the internal demons that were beginning to resurface now that I found myself alone again. As minute by minute passed, I found myself bored and amidst uncertainty. Before long, a hard-fought struggle with nicotine began to creep into my awareness and demanded acknowledgment.
Memories of the self-destructive habit, a shadow that had followed me since I was sixteen, suddenly threatened my peace. In my quest to break free of my vice over the years, I've realized that knowledge alone doesn't equal liberation. Like the Israelites in the Exodus story, escape from such oppression is a long, arduous journey through the desert of temptation and trials. While recent strides had been made toward my freedom, the battle was ongoing. That day in the car, rather than finding immediate relief through prayer, I was instead given patience. I was reminded that by sitting compassionately with the lows rather than seeking to be free of them, I might emerge wiser.
With each passing mile of asphalt beneath my tires, the raw beauty of Death Valley unfolded. Every grain of sand, the immense heat, and the vast, endless landscapes spoke of nature's contrasts. Amidst the dunes and with each captured photo, joy and gratitude began to replace the earlier day's pain. My first glimpse of the Sierra Nevada mountains marked an early milestone of my journey, and by dusk, I found refuge in a stunning campsite within the Alabama Hills near Lone Pine. As gusty winds playfully interfered with my dinner preparations, a smile found its way onto my face. The words from Isaiah 26:3 echoed in my heart, "You keep them in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you because they trust in you." Only after patiently sitting with my internal battles could I peacefully meet the external wonders. What an impactful first day.
ii. dragonfly messengers
Lone Pine, California
In my earlier years, my rational mind often outweighed spiritual intuitions, leading me to dismiss experiences I couldn't scientifically explain. I vividly remember a moment when a dear friend spoke of butterflies serving as messengers from her late father. Despite the poignancy of her belief, my younger self dismissed it, putting reason and control above emotions, sometimes even at empathy's expense. Though I didn't realize it then, her heartfelt sentiment planted a seed, and after years of growing, the tree has begun bearing fruit.
Waking up surrounded by the captivating beauty of the Alabama Hills, I initially decided to stay an extra day, trapped by the landscape and eager to capture its essence. But then, an unexpected turn: recalling a conversation with a friend's father about the almost-mythical Half Dome hiking permit, I whimsically applied during a quiet moment in a quaint Lone Pine café. To my astonishment, I was granted the elusive permit within mere hours. This unexpected fortune meant reconfiguring my entire plan, but such once-in-a-lifetime opportunities were impossible to overlook. The news of my acquisition forced me to adapt and pivot my schedule if I were to experience the fullness that lay in store for me in only two short days.
Before setting off on my journey northward, I sought tranquility atop a scenic arch with Mount Whitney looming majestically in the backdrop. It was here that past and present converged. Memories of my friend’s butterfly story merged with my own prior mystical encounter with a dragonfly years before, and as time has gone on, numerous other instances have only further reshaped my view. As dusk approached, the skies above me suddenly filled with dragonflies — at first only one, and then suddenly too many to count. As I sat atop a scenic arch with the messengers dancing above me, I was whispered a familiar affirmation: “when you're receptive to life's magic, nothing is impossible."
iii. methuselah
White Mountains, California
It's a unique thing, really, the human experience - or any experience, for that matter. The complexity of existence is both captivating and confounding. While every living entity, from microorganisms to mammals, charts a unique path through time, the singularity of our human journey fascinates me the most. We navigate a unique realm of reality, intersecting with countless others but remaining singular in our experiences. This sense of isolation, this inability to fully comprehend another's journey, lends an ethereal beauty to existence, despite its inherent solitude.
On my journey from Lone Pine, after a semi-restful night in Bishop and before venturing over Sonora Pass, a call from ancient sentinels beckoned me. I had recently discovered that my path would lead me near the world's oldest non-clonal forest. Amidst this primordial expanse stands Methuselah, a Bristlecone Pine with a life story spanning nearly five millennia. I've been privileged to witness some of the world's wonders — the vast desolation of San Pedro de Atacama, the serene beaches of Costa Rica's Nicoya Peninsula, and Iceland's rugged eastern coast, to name a few. Each has whispered ancient tales, urging introspection. It's as if the Earth calls out and says, "Stop, be still, and look where you are. Think of all that has taken place here, and all that is to come. Feel the power; feel the magic.”
Stepping into Schulman Grove, Methuselah's home, felt like entering an animate cathedral. Walking amongst these ancients, whose existence predates some civilizations and revered prophets, I felt overwhelming gratitude for my fleeting human journey. While Methuselah stands testament to millennia, witnessing the rise and fall of empires, my brief sojourn amidst these titans was but a fleeting whisper in their long tale. Their enduring presence, rooted firmly in a land safe from nature's ravages, starkly contrasts our human journey. Unlike these steadfast giants, we roam and evolve, soaking in diverse experiences and continuously reshaping ourselves. Walking amongst the grove, I felt a profound realization. Our ephemeral existence, constantly changing and adapting, is a gift. We might not stand tall for thousands of years, but we have the ability to live multiple lives within one — learning, evolving, and embracing impermanence. Among these ancient sentinels, I found affirmation: our fleeting dance through time is no less magical.
iv. john of the mountains
Yosemite Valley, California
As I beheld the majesty of Yosemite Valley, its sheer cliffs piercing the sky and cascading waterfalls dancing in the early dawn, I felt a connection to the land that far transcended mere appreciation. The grandeur before me carried tales of pioneers whose names I had yet to understand truly — pioneers like John Muir. Admittedly, my initial encounters with the name "John Muir" had been fleeting. The Muir Valley of Kentucky echoed his legacy during a prior climbing trip, and the Muir Trail leading up to Half Dome's summit only deepened the mystery of this man. Yet, my proper introduction to Muir's brilliance came not through mountaintops but through the pages of history.
Described as a "naturalist, author, environmental philosopher, and botanist,” John Muir was a visionary who championed the preservation of American wilderness. His passionate writings inspired leaders to protect vast swathes of natural wonder, setting a legacy that would continue for generations. That morning in Yosemite, I began my trek well before the sun had painted the landscape, driven by the adrenaline of anticipation. Covering 17 miles with a staggering 5,500 feet of elevation gain, I was greeted by ancient Sequoias and thundering waterfalls. Reaching Half Dome's summit, the world below felt both vast and distant, a surreal panorama stretching out beneath me. But while I reveled in the vast natural wonder, I wasn't thinking about John Muir or his contribution that made it possible for me to enjoy such a protected and wild place over a hundred years later.
As I later delved into Muir's impact, I was awed to learn about the immensity of his role in establishing Sequoia and Yosemite as National Parks and the spiritual quality of his thoughts in doing so - a true testament to his vision and groundedness. Pioneers like him safeguarded the verdant expanses and towering peaks that had left me breathless. Looking back, it's humbling to recognize that my reverence for nature, an ever-evolving passion, is built upon the groundwork laid by luminaries I had once overlooked. John Muir's legacy has paved the path for countless adventurers, including myself. My journey through Yosemite, though personal, was intertwined with the echoes of Muir's dream. It's among those hallowed grounds that I truly grasped the essence of his vision — that nature's grandeur should remain protected, accessible, and celebrated by all generations.
v. america the beautiful
Redwood National Park, California
I often liken my personal memory consolidation to the process of cultivating a garden. In the vast landscape of my mind, some plots remain barren, while others spontaneously sprout wildflowers, vivid and unforgettable. The first stage is akin to planting seeds; it's the actual moment as it transpires. Some moments, like radiant wildflower seeds, find their way into the fertile soil of my mind, urged by external circumstances, my overall health, or deeply held beliefs. These seeds germinate, taking root in the depth of my psyche, while others may blow away with the wind, forgotten by the next dawn.
The next phase is the growth and blossoming of these wildflowers. Just as a garden evolves, with some plants overshadowing others and certain flowers changing colors with the seasons, my memories, too, evolve. They're influenced by the narratives I tell myself, the rain of new experiences, or the sunlight of newfound wisdom. Journaling has become my tool for tending this garden, allowing me to prune, water, and admire the beauty of the wildflowers that have blossomed from past experiences.
This evolving garden of memories has shaped my perception of my homeland - the United States. Transitioning from Yosemite to the ancient giants of Redwood, with stops at Lake Tahoe, Lake Almanor, and the Lassen Volcanic National Park, each place planted a distinct wildflower in my memory. Especially on the Fourth of July, beneath the towering Redwoods in the renowned Grove of Titans, I felt like I was lying in a meadow of memories. While physically under the weather, the vibrant wildflowers of my journey through California invigorated me. Instead of the usual Independence Day festivities, I reveled in the realization of my privilege to witness and immerse in such natural wonders. As I moved on to Oregon, leaving behind the magnificent garden that was California, one sentiment was clear: America is many things, but the characteristic that most stood out in that moment was beauty.
