"The 1st of December was covered with snow
And so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston
Oh the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frostin'
With ten miles behind me
And ten thousand more to go"
One year ago today I bid farewell to my mother, older sister and future brother-in-law at the John F. Kennedy International Airport outside New York, New York and got on a plane bound for Delhi, India. I didn't know exactly when I would return or where I would go in that time, but I knew I wasn't coming home for seven months.
A year later, I recall the first page of my new journal for that amazing adventure, which said something to the following effect:
"Just said good bye to my mother and sister for seven months. The next time I see them, Emily will be getting married at our farm. Who knows what I will know then? Who I will know? What I will have seen? Who I will be? The challenges, the triumphs, the doubts...the bliss?"
I set out on that journey because I felt it in my soul that Joseph Campbell's idea of the "hero journey" was the best way to "follow my bliss", and that "following my bliss" was the best way to live a good life and get the most out of the rare opportunity of existence. On top of that, I could exercise the "Indiana Jones" in my soul that had been bubbling beneath the surface since I was a child in suburbia.
It is now December 1, 2010. I am sitting at an internet cafe just outside of Zion National Park in southern Utah. I have been on the road for 46 days, this time traveling across my own country. I took 3.5 months off between journeys, living at home in upstate New York. That means I have spent 256 days of the past year traveling on the road, going from one new place to another, mostly on my own, sometimes with friends, sometimes with pain, often with pleasure.
As usual, my current mind state is caught in a balancing act. I am trying to figure out if I should hitchhike to Bryce Canyon today or tomorrow, and also trying not to think or get anxious about the future at all and simply enjoy the NOW, since I am in ZION, after all. I'm leaning toward taking it easy today and simply meditating on the fact that one year after I officially decided to sing the song of the open road, I find myself in Zion, on the heels of a spectacular week in the Grand Canyon. These two places were my main destinations for this journey, not counting the whole "the journey is the destination" philosophy. I have been dreaming of coming here since I was in college.
I will eventually make my way up to San Francisco within the next two weeks and fly to Mexico to satisfy some lingering pyramid lust. Even so, I feel like I made it. I feel free. Even though I have been living in a snow-surrounded tent ten nights in a row, haven't experienced a night above freezing in that time, just lost my beloved hei-tiki talisman from New Zealand in the Arizona sands and the park has closed down most major facilities so that I have to walk very long distances to do anything interesting or get basic amenities, I am very blissful.
In fact, I am experiencing higher levels of bliss than usual. You see, I almost died two days ago. Not almost as in "it was really so close I should be dead" or on the other end of the spectrum, "I almost die every day because the world is a dangerous place", but somewhere in the middle. I tried to traverse Angel's Landing, the essential poster viewpoint of Zion, and one of the main reasons I was drawn here in the first place. It's only a five mile round trip and a 1,000 foot ascent, but very strenuous. Unfortunately, since I arrived the day before the shuttles stopped running for the year and there was a severe snowstorm the only day I could have made use of the free transport, I found myself walking an extra five miles just to get to the start of the trail head. It was below-freezing all day, so none of the snow or ice had melted. The beginning of the trail specifically noted that it wasn't recommended to go during the winter. But I walked up anyway and passed countless hikers coming back the other way. Most had decided the final stretch was too dangerous, but some had done it. Apparently the last half mile involved holding onto chains and trying not to notice that there really isn't anything between you and a one thousand foot drop to your immediate right and/or left, depending on which part of the trail you were on.
When I finally got close to the chains, I passed a couple from Indiana who had just been to the top, and when I asked if the view was good, all the woman would say was, "Very difficult". I started out on the chains, and immediately became aware of just how insane this undertaking was turning out to be. There was a foot of snow, I didn't have crampons on my boots because I'd lost one while hitchhiking here from St. George, I had a very full satchel slung around my shoulder with any number of important things that could fall out, and my gloves were already icy and snow-covered, making gripping the chains a less-than-reassuring exercise. I also had my bamboo walking stick with me, which I am totally in love with now and may just owe my life to. On the other hand, it made holding onto the chains with both hands all the more difficult. I think I made it about 0.25 miles when I saw a flat opening and thought I had reached the end. After all, the view had gotten pretty stellar. Then to my dismay I noticed that I wasn't finished at all, and that there was a huge ascent before me, lined with chains. "You've GOT to be kidding me," I yelled aloud. But I had already come this far...
So I started on the trail until I came to a narrow stretch about ten feet long and at most 3-4 feet wide, totally covered in snow...and no chains or railings of any kind. Yet there were footprints leading on. People had actually gone over this! It was then that the voice in my head started saying, "Turn back." But I couldn't let it go. I had come this far. And I couldn't cower. So I crawled across the stretch and made it to the other side with chains. Then I remembered that I was going to have to go back that way. "Damn it," thought the voice in my head. "I TOLD you to turn back."
But I continued just a little further until I came to a spot where there was only one way to place my feet, and one of the footholds crumbled away and turned about to be loose snow. There was no room this time. Only a sharp fall into the abyss. I would have to swing with one hand and jump off with one foot if I was going to make it. And then the voice in my head knew its time had come.
This is as far as I went
I don't care how this sounds, but this is exactly how I experienced it. I really wanted to get to Angel's Landing, as part of my "poetic living" or what not, and say a prayer at the top or who knows, as some valuable step in my quest. But as I sat in the snow contemplating the very real possibility of losing everything that I am and might ever be simply to get a good view that I had already seen on Google images, I was transported in my imagination to a cave in the Near East. Maybe it was triggered by hearing that the previous couple was from "Indiana". I was reaching for the holy grail, which was lying on a rock just above a dark abyss as the cave around me crumbled. My father, Henry Jones Sr., was holding onto my one hand as I reached for the grail with the other. Henry smiled at me and said, "Let it go." But I kept reaching and said, "But I can...almost...get it...I'm so close!" And then he said, "Let it go. Let it go. Let it go, Indiana." And then I realized something very important about my life, my quest, my everything. And I let it go.
I prayed to life, the universe and love, re-crossed the ten foot stretch with no chains, and then slowly returned to the safe pre-chain area, happy to be very alive, but still very shaken. At first I felt like a failure. I had just given up on possibly the best view of my life. After all, that's the leading reason I go all of these places. I let the Holy Grail, the view at Angel's Landing, slip away, just like that. On top of that, plenty of people who didn't look that athletic had just done it anyway, but I had been too afraid. Even worse, the idea of letting go of a view because you could see it on a computer was completely depressing, as I had encountered a German economist in the Himalaya almost a year before who had excused his lack of determination to hike closer for a good view of Mt. Everest by saying "you can see it on Google Earth". It was exactly that type of "technology and vicarious living solves everything" attitude that I had been rebelling against with my unconventional living, and here I was using the same excuse not push on. Then again, last time, death had not been such a pressing concern.
I guess there's a fine line between the risks of uncertainty and discomfort versus a high likelihood of death. If you go to Egypt, chances are you will not be kidnapped by radicals. If you attempt to traverse a narrow icy path one thousand feet in the air without proper equipment, there is a decent chance you will fall to your death.
But then I realized I had won the Holy Grail. I had learned to let it go. It wasn't important. Nothing like that was important. I didn't have to DO anything. I didn't have to prove anything, to myself or anyone else. I just had to BE what I AM, and nothing more. And if I could enjoy the constant view atop the perch of my own eyes with their unique and beautiful angel's view of the universe on a daily basis, then I would truly possess the holy grail, the waters of eternal life, seeing them constantly flowing around me.
I realized I had won the treasure. It was learning to let it go. Before I left on my journey, I had read Moby Dick and feared that I was just another Captain Ahab, madly chasing his white whale until it dragged him to his doom. But now I didn't care about the white whale. Screw it. Hell, if another white whale comes along, I'll do it for the adventure, for the thrill, for the fun of it, but I don't care if I catch it. That's not important.
So one year after getting on a plane to India and fearing I wouldn't come back alive to tell my story, I sit in a place that someone thought beautiful enough to name Zion. I look forward to two more weeks on the road in America, camping and hitchhiking, trusting strangers and shaking off the cold in my cozy sleeping bag. Gazing at the brightest stars I've ever seen, enjoying the uncertainty of where I'm going and how I'll get there, and simply feeling free. I will continue to take risks, to quest, to go on adventures, to do new unexpected things that involve the possibility of sacrifice. But I also know that I don't have to, that I can let it go whenever I want, and that the only reason to do anything is to be blissful in the moment so that you realize the wondrous miracle of being alive.
There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
A song that they sing for their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep
But singin' works just fine for me..."
And so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston
Oh the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frostin'
With ten miles behind me
And ten thousand more to go"
One year ago today I bid farewell to my mother, older sister and future brother-in-law at the John F. Kennedy International Airport outside New York, New York and got on a plane bound for Delhi, India. I didn't know exactly when I would return or where I would go in that time, but I knew I wasn't coming home for seven months.
A year later, I recall the first page of my new journal for that amazing adventure, which said something to the following effect:
"Just said good bye to my mother and sister for seven months. The next time I see them, Emily will be getting married at our farm. Who knows what I will know then? Who I will know? What I will have seen? Who I will be? The challenges, the triumphs, the doubts...the bliss?"
I set out on that journey because I felt it in my soul that Joseph Campbell's idea of the "hero journey" was the best way to "follow my bliss", and that "following my bliss" was the best way to live a good life and get the most out of the rare opportunity of existence. On top of that, I could exercise the "Indiana Jones" in my soul that had been bubbling beneath the surface since I was a child in suburbia.
It is now December 1, 2010. I am sitting at an internet cafe just outside of Zion National Park in southern Utah. I have been on the road for 46 days, this time traveling across my own country. I took 3.5 months off between journeys, living at home in upstate New York. That means I have spent 256 days of the past year traveling on the road, going from one new place to another, mostly on my own, sometimes with friends, sometimes with pain, often with pleasure.
As usual, my current mind state is caught in a balancing act. I am trying to figure out if I should hitchhike to Bryce Canyon today or tomorrow, and also trying not to think or get anxious about the future at all and simply enjoy the NOW, since I am in ZION, after all. I'm leaning toward taking it easy today and simply meditating on the fact that one year after I officially decided to sing the song of the open road, I find myself in Zion, on the heels of a spectacular week in the Grand Canyon. These two places were my main destinations for this journey, not counting the whole "the journey is the destination" philosophy. I have been dreaming of coming here since I was in college.
I will eventually make my way up to San Francisco within the next two weeks and fly to Mexico to satisfy some lingering pyramid lust. Even so, I feel like I made it. I feel free. Even though I have been living in a snow-surrounded tent ten nights in a row, haven't experienced a night above freezing in that time, just lost my beloved hei-tiki talisman from New Zealand in the Arizona sands and the park has closed down most major facilities so that I have to walk very long distances to do anything interesting or get basic amenities, I am very blissful.
In fact, I am experiencing higher levels of bliss than usual. You see, I almost died two days ago. Not almost as in "it was really so close I should be dead" or on the other end of the spectrum, "I almost die every day because the world is a dangerous place", but somewhere in the middle. I tried to traverse Angel's Landing, the essential poster viewpoint of Zion, and one of the main reasons I was drawn here in the first place. It's only a five mile round trip and a 1,000 foot ascent, but very strenuous. Unfortunately, since I arrived the day before the shuttles stopped running for the year and there was a severe snowstorm the only day I could have made use of the free transport, I found myself walking an extra five miles just to get to the start of the trail head. It was below-freezing all day, so none of the snow or ice had melted. The beginning of the trail specifically noted that it wasn't recommended to go during the winter. But I walked up anyway and passed countless hikers coming back the other way. Most had decided the final stretch was too dangerous, but some had done it. Apparently the last half mile involved holding onto chains and trying not to notice that there really isn't anything between you and a one thousand foot drop to your immediate right and/or left, depending on which part of the trail you were on.
When I finally got close to the chains, I passed a couple from Indiana who had just been to the top, and when I asked if the view was good, all the woman would say was, "Very difficult". I started out on the chains, and immediately became aware of just how insane this undertaking was turning out to be. There was a foot of snow, I didn't have crampons on my boots because I'd lost one while hitchhiking here from St. George, I had a very full satchel slung around my shoulder with any number of important things that could fall out, and my gloves were already icy and snow-covered, making gripping the chains a less-than-reassuring exercise. I also had my bamboo walking stick with me, which I am totally in love with now and may just owe my life to. On the other hand, it made holding onto the chains with both hands all the more difficult. I think I made it about 0.25 miles when I saw a flat opening and thought I had reached the end. After all, the view had gotten pretty stellar. Then to my dismay I noticed that I wasn't finished at all, and that there was a huge ascent before me, lined with chains. "You've GOT to be kidding me," I yelled aloud. But I had already come this far...
So I started on the trail until I came to a narrow stretch about ten feet long and at most 3-4 feet wide, totally covered in snow...and no chains or railings of any kind. Yet there were footprints leading on. People had actually gone over this! It was then that the voice in my head started saying, "Turn back." But I couldn't let it go. I had come this far. And I couldn't cower. So I crawled across the stretch and made it to the other side with chains. Then I remembered that I was going to have to go back that way. "Damn it," thought the voice in my head. "I TOLD you to turn back."
But I continued just a little further until I came to a spot where there was only one way to place my feet, and one of the footholds crumbled away and turned about to be loose snow. There was no room this time. Only a sharp fall into the abyss. I would have to swing with one hand and jump off with one foot if I was going to make it. And then the voice in my head knew its time had come.
This is as far as I wentI don't care how this sounds, but this is exactly how I experienced it. I really wanted to get to Angel's Landing, as part of my "poetic living" or what not, and say a prayer at the top or who knows, as some valuable step in my quest. But as I sat in the snow contemplating the very real possibility of losing everything that I am and might ever be simply to get a good view that I had already seen on Google images, I was transported in my imagination to a cave in the Near East. Maybe it was triggered by hearing that the previous couple was from "Indiana". I was reaching for the holy grail, which was lying on a rock just above a dark abyss as the cave around me crumbled. My father, Henry Jones Sr., was holding onto my one hand as I reached for the grail with the other. Henry smiled at me and said, "Let it go." But I kept reaching and said, "But I can...almost...get it...I'm so close!" And then he said, "Let it go. Let it go. Let it go, Indiana." And then I realized something very important about my life, my quest, my everything. And I let it go.
I prayed to life, the universe and love, re-crossed the ten foot stretch with no chains, and then slowly returned to the safe pre-chain area, happy to be very alive, but still very shaken. At first I felt like a failure. I had just given up on possibly the best view of my life. After all, that's the leading reason I go all of these places. I let the Holy Grail, the view at Angel's Landing, slip away, just like that. On top of that, plenty of people who didn't look that athletic had just done it anyway, but I had been too afraid. Even worse, the idea of letting go of a view because you could see it on a computer was completely depressing, as I had encountered a German economist in the Himalaya almost a year before who had excused his lack of determination to hike closer for a good view of Mt. Everest by saying "you can see it on Google Earth". It was exactly that type of "technology and vicarious living solves everything" attitude that I had been rebelling against with my unconventional living, and here I was using the same excuse not push on. Then again, last time, death had not been such a pressing concern.
I guess there's a fine line between the risks of uncertainty and discomfort versus a high likelihood of death. If you go to Egypt, chances are you will not be kidnapped by radicals. If you attempt to traverse a narrow icy path one thousand feet in the air without proper equipment, there is a decent chance you will fall to your death.
But then I realized I had won the Holy Grail. I had learned to let it go. It wasn't important. Nothing like that was important. I didn't have to DO anything. I didn't have to prove anything, to myself or anyone else. I just had to BE what I AM, and nothing more. And if I could enjoy the constant view atop the perch of my own eyes with their unique and beautiful angel's view of the universe on a daily basis, then I would truly possess the holy grail, the waters of eternal life, seeing them constantly flowing around me.
I realized I had won the treasure. It was learning to let it go. Before I left on my journey, I had read Moby Dick and feared that I was just another Captain Ahab, madly chasing his white whale until it dragged him to his doom. But now I didn't care about the white whale. Screw it. Hell, if another white whale comes along, I'll do it for the adventure, for the thrill, for the fun of it, but I don't care if I catch it. That's not important.
So one year after getting on a plane to India and fearing I wouldn't come back alive to tell my story, I sit in a place that someone thought beautiful enough to name Zion. I look forward to two more weeks on the road in America, camping and hitchhiking, trusting strangers and shaking off the cold in my cozy sleeping bag. Gazing at the brightest stars I've ever seen, enjoying the uncertainty of where I'm going and how I'll get there, and simply feeling free. I will continue to take risks, to quest, to go on adventures, to do new unexpected things that involve the possibility of sacrifice. But I also know that I don't have to, that I can let it go whenever I want, and that the only reason to do anything is to be blissful in the moment so that you realize the wondrous miracle of being alive.
There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
A song that they sing for their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep
But singin' works just fine for me..."
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