"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..."
