R. Mark Liebenow's Blog: Nature, Grief, and Laughter, page 14

Frost

There have been frost warnings the last two days, not that I’ve paid much attention because we did not plant a vegetable garden this year. But the news sank in and I realized this morning, as I looked into the intricate green lace of the woods behind the house, that soon it would all be gone. Half of the leaves have already turned and fallen. One solid freeze and the remaining green would turn yellow overnight. Then, with any kind of wind, all the yellow leaves would drop, leaving the brown and bare trees sticking up on the hill in the sun.
Poet Edward Hirsch spoke of the change of seasons this way:  We suddenly “feel something invisible and weightless. … It is the changing light of fall falling on us.”
Perhaps I should wake up each morning excited to see what will be different today, instead of wanting everything to be the same.

Falling Leaves

My neighbor Jackie stopped in and exclaimed how beautiful the yellow leaves were on the maple tree in my backyard. I downplayed it and said that she should have been here a week ago when all the trees were vibrant with fall colors. Then I turned and saw the yellow filling up the entire window and I was stunned. Knowing how much was gone, I no longer saw what was still here.
When leaves drop in autumn, I am sad for the loss of all the life that has buzzed, flown, grown, and trotted through the woods. Colors become muted, trees go bare, and a chill clings to the air. I turn away from the windows thinking that life has ended outside and there is nothing more to see. Yet when the leaves are gone, I will be able see deer moving down by the creek, a barred owl sitting on a branch, feel the contours of the land, and watch the sunset’s rays moving through the bare trees.
I do not like dying. I became used to the glory of summer and do not want it to end. The coming of autumn is a time of transition, when I learn to let go of what has been and start to prepare for what is coming.

Harvest

Driving through the Illinois countryside last week, I realized how happy I was seeing the golden cornfields being harvested, the soybeans turning from green to yellow and rust, the warm sun shining in a deep blue sky with a cool breeze touched with hints of autumn’s crispness. The new crop of apples were being picked at Tanner’s Orchard, and everything looked, smelled, and sounded as if the season, and the year, had reached the fullness of life, what we have been working for since spring.
As I helped Jim and Peggy on their organic farm, shucking and sorting the ancient Oaxacan green corn, I gave thanks for how good it felt to be outdoors and physically active in a world of such variety and beauty. The crop was larger than anticipated because the deer and raccoons hadn’t found it. I rejoiced in getting my hands dirty and celebrated the harvest being brought in, as people have done with corn for thousands of years. We celebrate many events throughout the year. Some are personal, some cultural or religious, and some are national. Many have their origins in the changes of the seasons as people sought to be on good terms with the powers of the natural world, to honor nature and to give it thanks. In autumn we renew our spiritual rootedness in the earth, feel the delicacy of life on the breeze, and realize that some lives will now end among the plants and animals, while other lives will continue on.
What we do today goes deeper than simply bringing the harvest in before the cold and snow of winter arrive. There are reasons why we feel so alive outdoors, and why we feel so vulnerable. Autumn reminds us that we are part of the earth, and that we’re not the ones in control. We need to be reminded of this now and then.
Today I feel these physical connections of being nourished and fed by the earth, by its food and by its spirit. There is a sense of coming home. I am still a child of Mother Earth, even though I live in the city. At harvest I remember to return to her table to honor and give her thanks.

At a Wandering Pace

I remembered a John Muir quote incorrectly. I thought he said that nothing could be seen of nature when we’re moving at 40 miles an hour because everything becomes a bewildering blur. 
When people arrive in Yosemite today, after driving 60-70 miles an hour for four hours across the Central Valley, up through the foothills of the Sierra Nevada and into the valley, they do tend to stagger out of their cars dazed. At those speeds, the landscape has been a blur. Trees flash by the windows as we focus on staying on the winding road. We would be able to see much more if we slowed down to 40, but Muir didn’t think this is enough. 
I thought Muir was berating people who arrived in the valley by stagecoach, zipping over the new dirt roads, or taking the train to El Portal at the breakneck speed of 40 miles an hour instead of taking their time by riding horses over trails. Muir himself took things even slower by taking several weeks to walk the 200 miles from Oakland. (Wendell Berry wrote an insightful essay on adjusting to the pace of the nature in “An Entrance to the Woods.”) Yesterday I ran across this quote again. It doesn’t say 40 miles an hour.  What the quote really says is 40 miles A DAY. 
Harkening back to my time as a Boy Scout, I know that a good hiking pace is 4 miles an hour over gently rolling terrain. Ten hours at this pace would make a full day. You can see a great deal more of nature going 4 miles an hour rather than 40.
Yet even at this pace, if you keep to it hour after hour, especially in the mountains, you have no time to explore what is around you, what catches your eye. You can’t investigate the open patch of sunlight 100 yards off to the side in the forest, or check out the sound of running water to see if it’s a creek, a waterfall, or a pool that would be ideal for cooling your hot feet. If you are trying to get somewhere, moving at 4 miles an hour, hour after hour, you are still moving too fast to experience the landscape you’re traveling through.
So where does this leave us?
When you find yourself outdoors in a beautiful place, take your time. Savor what is there. Do not hurry on to get to some place else. Do you want to experience the transcendence of nature or get to some destination? Linger in places that get your attention. Stay in the moment until it’s over, and then go on to the next. This is also important for what we do in the rest of our lives, like taking time in the conversations we have with others and letting them deepen.
Life is not a linear experience. Our goal is not to get from here to there, with the there being death. Life is a collection of experiences we have along the trail, places where we linger and explore, places that we come to cherish.
Not all who wander are lost. — Tolkien

Getting Close to Nature

Yosemite Valley is a place of solitude, a place I go to make sense of the tragedies and horrors going on in the world.
Before dawn, I stand by the river to get a feel of its movement through the valley, then head off on a hike through the wild beauty of Creation. After a day of walking meditations with the mountains, the listening conferences at the waterfalls, and the conversations with chipmunks on trails through the forest, I return in the evening to the river. I sit with the day’s experiences and discover the threads that tie them together.
Looking at the bottom of the river in front of me, I see seven dark rocks in a line and a series of the light-colored sand ridges on the bottom like a sand garden in Kyoto, with flowing water replacing the movement of the air. The ridges and the different colors of pebbles on the bottom create patterns that occupy my mind while my spirit is free to wander.
A boulder rises above the surface of the water, and I can see its entire being because the peacefulness of the river allows it. I know that the flow of the river is strong, but I barely perceive the undulations on its surface, and see nothing of the boulder’s struggle to hold its position in the riverbed. So it is with people.


The surprising response is the one I need to pay attention to because it comes from an unknown place, a place not controlled by me. It calls me out of myself and into a relationship with nature. It calls me into intimacy. It feels like there is no boundary between nature and me. I open myself to it and share all my thoughts and feelings, as well as the longing that rises from somewhere deep within. Like the I-Thou relationship, I hold nothing back and try to set my preconceptions about nature aside so that I may fully understand. Yet I sense that there is much before me that I do not perceive.
The day spent hiking has been the prelude to this moment. All day the feeling has been growing that I am experiencing more than just the beauty of the wilderness. I feel the valley’s presence around me. Everywhere I look glimpses and sparks of wonder surprise me. Overwhelmed, I close my eyes, lean back, and let this presence soak in. I listen to the thrum of the mountains, and feel the power of the river as it flows on and nourishes the world.
As the sun begins setting on the other side of the mountains, the valley disappears into darkness. I let my thoughts rise and drift among the wonder of the stars.

If You Have One Day in Yosemite

Right now, early October, is the best time to hike in Yosemite – day hikes, long hikes, one hour hikes in the morning or afternoon. For the next ten days, temperatures are expected to be in the high 70s during the day and in the mid-50s at night, although both will start sliding a couple of degrees cooler every few days. It will be dry because the rainy season hasn’t yet started, and I’m hoping for a really wet winter because there’s been a long drought. There aren’t many people in the valley now and it’s really quiet.
You could hike for several weeks and not cover all the trails in and around the valley, but if you only have one full day in the valley, and you want to see a lot, this is what I’d recommend. 
Start off before dawn in Leidig Meadow and watch the stars give way to the orange and yellow colors of dawn. You will see deer and probably a few coyotes. Sunrise is at 7 a.m. and sunset at 6:30 p.m. so you have a maximum of 11 ½ hours to hike. As soon as it is light enough to see the trail, maybe 6:30-45 a.m., head for the top of Upper Yosemite Fall, pausing at Columbia Rock halfway up the wall to take in the view, as well as to catch your breath. 
One optional sidetrip at this point would be to walk to the base of Lower Yosemite Fall and view it from below. In spring you’d be pummeled by water hitting the rocks and shooting off horizontally. It probably won’t be doing much now, but you can see how the force of falling water has polished the rocks at the bottom.
Hike across the meadow to Sentinel Bridge, pausing to look at Half Dome to the left and Sentinel Rock rising up straight ahead. Continue on to Curry Village and follow the path to Happy Isles and head up the John Muir Trail toward Vernal Fall. It will now be around 12:30 p.m. A short way up, a bend on the trail has a clear view of Glacier Point and reclusive Illilouette Fall. Shortly after the footbridge with its great view of Vernal Fall, the trail splits with the Mist Trail going left and the John Muir Trail going right. Take the Mist Trail to the top of Vernal Fall and look for rainbows. Notice the Emerald Pool and the Silver Apron just above Vernal, and continue on to Nevada Fall. At the top of Nevada, have a late lunch in the sun, look carefully at the jointing in Liberty Cap and Mt. Broderick and wonder why the glaciers didn’t break them down and carry them away with all of their fracture lines. Notice how different Half Dome looks from the backside. At 2:30 p.m. head back down, taking the John Muir Trail this time with its view of Nevada Fall from a higher elevation.
Arriving back in the valley around 3:30 p.m., take the shuttle or drive your car and head for El Capitan. From El Capitan Meadow let the grandeur of this granite monolith overwhelm you. Look for climbers on the rock; they are the colored dots. You can drive around the bend to Bridalveil Fall and walk up to its viewpoint, as well as drive up to the Inspiration Point parking lot and gaze up the length of the valley and take in the wonder. But by all means, make sure you drive to Glacier Point in time to watch the sunset color the mountains in the rose and purple of alpenglow. Half Dome will be right in front of you.
You do have to prioritize what you do, and if you want to linger at certain places, by all means do so. This trip is for you. You may only want to do one hike and then drive up to Glacier Point. Or just walk through the meadow, sip coffee at Degnan’s and drive to Glacier for sunset.
The best single hike is the Vernal/Nevada trail. And if this is the only hike you are doing, you will have time to explore the area behind Half Dome. When you come back down, walk across the valley to the Indian Caves. A large flat rock near the main cave has holes worn deep into it where the Ahwahneechees ground acorns for food. Walk on to Washington Column and the Royal Arches, looking for climbers going up, and visit the grand Ahwahnee Hotel. Another grinding rock is along the trail by the parking lot. If you want to watch deer, the meadow by the Church Bowl is a good place to sit.
A quieter alternative to the rush of all this activity is to find a couple of natural settings that appeal to you (like Happy Isles, Mirror Meadow, and the bend on the river by Rixon’s Pinnacle) and stay in each place for a couple of hours, watching the valley change around you as the sun moves over the mountains. Discover what animals and birds call each part of the valley home. Feel yourself drawing close to nature.
And really, just to be in Yosemite and breathe the pine and oak-scented fresh air, is worth the trip. There is nothing that you need to do but sit back and let the majesty soak in.

How Not to Die When Hiking

            The most important decision I make when hiking in the wilderness concerns how many risks to take.
            If I stay on the trail, odds are good that I will survive. And I’ll survive if I have enough water for the trip and I’m physically in shape to hike up and down mountains for hours on end, and if the trail is clearly marked even when it goes over bare stone so that I don’t go off in the wrong direction, and the weather doesn’t change and turn beastly hot or frigidly cold, and it doesn’t snow and hide the trail, or freezing rain makes everything so slick that it’s impossible to continue on or go back over the ice. And I’ll survive if I don’t surprise a hungry bear or mountain lion, don’t trip and sprain an ankle, or fall down a ravine and have a boulder pin me down so that I have to cut off my hand in order to survive, like Aron Ralston, the guy portrayed in the movie. These are the common, everyday cautions.
            But I ratchet up the risk by pushing on the limits of my luck and doing things like hiking alone, which the rangers say never to do. Yet I do because I haven’t found anyone willing to get up before dawn, hike for twelve hours, eat fistfuls of nuts and raisins, and come back to camp at dusk. And I’ve discovered that I relish the quiet of a long hike by myself.  Forgotten matters rise to the surface from my subconscious that I think about, and I listen to the woods, the rivers, the birds, and the wind flowing through 200-foot-tall Sugar Pines, making them sing. When I’m in nature’s world, I like to pay attention to it. If someone were hiking with me, we’d talk and I would be thinking about what to say next. We’d be listening to each other, not to the outdoors. While this is valuable, it’s not what I go into nature to find. 
            There’s also part of me that likes to see if I can survive by myself in the wilderness, even if it’s essentially just walking through a strange forest filled with unsocialized animals for a really long time. Sometimes I take a shortcut between two trails, end up in a place that isn’t on the map, and have to figure out how to get back. Sometimes a bridge over a fast-moving creek is gone, and I have to find a way to get safely across. I like to sit quietly for an hour and see what animals show up.  Coyotes often come by, as do chipmunks and red-tailed hawks. I also like to stand on the edge of mountain peaks and look straight down below my toes, and to do things like hang from a tree that is leaning over the canyon just to have a better view of a waterfall because experiences like this put the taste of death in my mouth.
            What I want to find is what life is made of and to see how I react when I’m challenged and there’s the possibility of death if I make a mistake. I want adventures that remind me how glad I am to be alive.

River Reflections

In a favorite area of Yosemite, I like to sit by a bend in the Merced River and watch the reflection of Half Dome glow on the water. A slight breeze causes the surface of the slow moving river to ripple slightly, making Half Dome flicker.  A line creases the river’s surface where an underwater sand bar ends and the river drops down to a rocky bottom. The trees reflecting on the surface of the water shimmer with the water's movement.  Looking deeper, I see leaves fluttering on the river's bed, moving not to the movement of the air but to the current of the water.
Is the reflection of Half Dome on the water more real than the reflection of light on Half Dome?  Without the light, I would not see Half Dome at all.  When I see love on the smiling face of my beloved, is that a reflection or real? 

Chew the Gum

Anne Lamott tells the story of having her tonsils taken out as an adult.  After two weeks her prescription for painkillers ran out.  She called the doctor’s office to get a new prescription.  The nurse said No and told her to find some gum and chew it vigorously, which is the last thing that Lamott wanted to do with a painful throat.  The nurse explained that when we have a wound in our body, the nearby muscles cramp around it to protect it from any more violation, and that Lamott would have to use those muscles if she wanted them to relax.  She got the gum and she said that the first chews felt like she was ripping things in the back of her throat, but in a few minutes all of the pain was permanently gone.
For some people the death of a loved one is so traumatic that they never want to deal with the grief.  This freezes the one who died in a perpetual state of unresolved dying, and prevents survivors from taking the risk of loving someone else as deeply again.  They think this protects them from ever feeling the pain of grief, and it partially does, but it also drags shadows over every good thing that happens.  If we take no risks, we will experience no wonder.
Reality check.  If we love someone deeply, the benefits of this love outweigh the grief that we will feel when she or he dies. 
Reality check.  Life involves death; that’s part of the package.  It doesn’t matter if you like this or not.  The people we love are going to die, some by accidents, some by health problems, some by old age.
After the shock of a death wears off, we need to take our grief and chew it.  We have to exercise our muscles for life again.  The death is never going to go away, and we won’t ever forget the one we loved, but we need to eat, and dance, and love because life is about celebrating and loving others as much, and as deeply, as we can.
Also, the one who died would want us to be happy again.  Unless, of course, they are one of the demented few who want us to keep them on a pedestal and pay homage for all time.  In this case, now would be a good time to step away from this.

Alone in Nature

We aren’t alone when we hike by ourselves.  If we respect nature, it will be a companion who walks alongside us.  It will share itself with us, sometimes conversing so loudly in a waterfall that we can’t hear ourselves think, and sometimes murmuring so quietly in a creek that we have to get down on our knees to hear what it is saying.
We don’t have to hike very far to feel nature’s presence.  We can sit and let nature come to us.  After half an hour, the birds and animals will set their caution aside and resume what they were doing.  As we watch them go about their daily lives, we discover the many ways that we are kin. And when I am tired and silent, I lean back into nature’s arms and listen to the world we share.
We can also hike on and on without ever stopping until our senses overload from all the beauty and the endless discoveries and we fall mute in ecstasy.
When we begin to hike, we head off on a trail eager to discover what it will show us.  When the trail starts to head up a mountain, we take another trail to stay under the trees, or along the river, or in the meadow, unless, of course, we want the challenge of going up the steep side of the mountain.  We pause when we want to linger in a setting where we feel a presence, then move until we feel drawn to stop again.
Nature meets us where we are and guides us further down the path into our thoughts, feelings, and beliefs.  Nature also challenges us by bringing mysteries for us to ponder by the campfire at night.
When we listen to nature, we hear our own wilderness respond.