by Kim Meeder
I didn’t ask Sarah for an answer or a commitment. It was a time to simply share truth with a child.
In the sweet and silent moments that followed, I couldn’t help but reflect on all the loss that I, too, have known; my parents, my grandparents, and my friends of both the two-legged and four-legged kind. It occurred to me that love really is a bridge that can cross any span of grief … no matter how wide … love builds the bridge … it is we … who must choose to cross.
Will, age 17, wrote these words:
“Dust into dust … time to reverse the lies … this ranch
is where sorrow endz … and hopes arise.”
Cheyenne, age 7, when being led on a horse by
one of the staff: “Can I let go with my hands? …
Can I also let go with my feet? … Hey Mom … look! …
I’m ridin’ with just my cheeks!”
As often as I am able, you will find my tracks leading toward the mountains. This love of the high places was instilled within me by my dad. When I was five, he patiently towed me, with my hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, up my first mountain. I remember noticing how the whole world seemed to turn into stone. A cold wind kept whipping wild strands from my self-imposed “haircut” across my face.
After climbing up to the very summit, we discovered that someone previously had stacked rocks in a low-walled semi-circle that we snuggled up against for shelter. There we sat, scrunched together, looking down on the entire world below and the entire sky above. My heart was never the same. I was hooked.
Only a few short years later, my parents died. It was not an “accident”… it was a murder-suicide. It was the end of everything I once knew. Fed by shock, bewilderment, and debilitating sorrow, a gaping vortex ripped open before me, and I fell screaming into its black center as my entire life was swallowed whole.
Gone … all of it.
All that I had once loved vanished … forever. Everything within my life changed.
My once brilliantly colored world had been stripped down to pure black. Like a blind soul groping through the darkness, I searched for something … anything … that was familiar. I desperately needed a handhold to grip, something to embrace with all my might, to keep from being sucked further down.
Over time, my world of black began to yield dark shades of gray. Gray relaxed into a thousand different colorless fragments. Slowly, light, color, hope began to peer from a distant horizon. It called me to fight … fight for my life.
Armed only with the pliable heart of a child, I started climbing again.
From the day my parents died, the high places continued to call me with a conifer voice. Carried on a fragrant breeze, my soul could hear its silent whispers … the voice of the mountains was stirring within. My driver’s license hadn’t even cooled in my wallet before I was gone. I drove as fast as the law would allow toward a cherished place called Castle Crags. Through my years of climbing-drought, its granite towers remained a fortress of stone once enjoyed long ago with my dad. Located close to the northern rim of the California border, it remains hallowed ground within my heart to this day.
From that time on, I always envisioned everything that weighed my heart down as being just too heavy to follow me into the mountains. The higher I climbed, the further I distanced myself from all the pain that threatened to destroy my peace of mind. Whether my heartaches waited for my return to the valleys, I did not know. For my focus was riveted on what I knew to be true: In the mountains … I was free.
Still foundational within my heart today, the high places are where I feel the closest to the Lord, where I hear His voice within my heart clearly, where I am restored by His grace from the inside out. Either by skis, hiking boots, horses, snowshoes, or mountaineering crampons, the method really doesn’t matter to me as much as just exploring this amazing world. The deeper I go into the wilderness … the better. The longer I get to sleep in my tent … the better. The higher I am in elevation … the better. The longer I get to wear my same dirty shirt … the bet— Okay, my friends might have a different view on that one!
Thankfully, I have been blessed with a handful of women in my life who share a measure of this same passion. Together we have experienced many pack trips into half a dozen different wilderness areas. In varying combinations of women, backpacks, horses, horse packs, skis, and a myriad of gear, each trip has yielded its own irreplaceable moments of intense friendship. More often than in all other places combined, it is within these cherished wilderness areas that my close friends—with timing, grace, and respect—are able to share with me perhaps not what I would like to hear … but what I need to hear. When founded on the bedrock of loving truth, friendship can become the stone by which we, as individuals, are made sharp.
On one such trip, the trailhead of the Marble Mountains wilderness area in Northern California was the gathering place of our group of four women and three horses. Our team was comprised of a farrier named Sue—the trip leader and “map master”; a human and animal chiropractor named Kris, who possesses a truly sparkling smile—she has a diamond imbedded in one of her teeth (no kidding!); plus a horse trainer dubbed “Kate the Great,” whose trademark laughter was always the best way to find her in wide open spaces.
Preferring to carry my own backpack, I usually bring up the rear. It is a wonderful vantage point to partake of the company of such fun and capable friends.
After driving down the night before and rising early, we laid out every item we would need for the next week on several large tarps. We began by accounting and carefully condensing our supplies into horse packs called panniers. Each pannier was weighed and reweighed to ensure that they would be exactly equal and ride comfortably balanced on one of the three horses we brought. The panniers contained supplies for ourselves and the horses, with additional food and shelter. The horses would pack all the gear so my friends were free to walk in front of them carrying a lighter day pack.
Once the panniers were loaded on the horses, they were secured with a diamond hitch. After a final check of every knot, with every cinch retightened, my backpack was hoisted into place and we were finally ready to head out into the glorious unknown. With full understanding that most day-hikers do not usually travel more than ten miles a trip, we know that once we pass the five-mile marker into the wilderness, we will see few others. Because our base camp was going to be almost twenty miles in … we were nearly assured that we would not see another human being until we came back out a week later.
After joining hands in a simple prayer of thanksgiving, gratitude, and safety … we set off.
Always researching areas to bring my staff and kids, I took notice of how the trail began by a beautiful yet crushingly cold river. I had filtered water from it the evening before and was astonished at how clumsily numb my hands were by the time I had finished. We were going to vaguely follow the river up through the mountains to one of its main sources, which was a small, alpine lake. For the next several hours we hiked, completely immersed in the ever-changing forest. What started out as majestic oaks and lower-elevation pines slowly transitioned into towering ponderosa that gradually intermixed with soft, deep-green firs and a few richly fragrant incense cedars.
When we finally pulled up for lunch, we discovered that every pack trip—just like every wedding—has its “hitches.” Because I had hopscotched up in front of the last horse, no one noticed that a piece of our vital gear had worked its way free of the last horse’s pannier and was somewhere behind us. Everyone turned and looked at me and started laughing. “You’re currently training for a marathon … a few extra miles will only make you more tough, more leathery!”
“Okay, okay … uncle!” I replied in mock protest. I was more than happy to get out from under my pack.
Because it is not wise to travel alone in the mountains, good-natured Kate joined me. Together we found our errant item of gear lying in the middle of the trail nearly two miles behind us.
Once reunited with the others,
we loaded up again and set out to finish what we had started. The trail took an inspiring but heavy upswing. The mighty forest began to shrink in stature with the apparent heavy snow loads of winter. The earlier firs were looking more stunted and began to intertwine with gnarled, high-altitude white pine.
After several hours of stair-stepping up the steep, rocky trail, we began to breathlessly joke about the true meaning of the lyrics to the song “Stairway to Heaven.” Finally, the trail crested on an intersecting ridge, and the lake came into view far below on the other side. By the time we reached the timbered shore, darkness was fast approaching.
In nearly fluid harmony, we unloaded, fed, and watered the horses, stretched high-lines to secure them for the night, set up a makeshift kitchen, and started dinner.
The next task at hand was for each individual to pitch her own tent before total darkness. I strapped on my head lamp and, because I am a very light sleeper, began scouting a small distance away from the kitchen and horses. Quickly locating a perfect spot, I kicked aside a few pine cones and bear “piles” and set up what would become my home for the next week.
Once dinner was consumed, we “bear-proofed” all of our food by hoisting it up into the branches overhead. As much as I appreciate the “neighbors,” I am a bit saddened when they raid my camp, and I’m downright grumpy when they eat my food!
As quickly as the night fell, so did our eyelids. A black, moonless cape enveloped the mountains in total darkness. After such a full and wonderfully strenuous day, my pillow—which was nothing more than a fleece shirt stuffed with clothing—was calling.
Slowly waking in the early gray light, I could hear the soft rhythm of rain on my tent. How could we be so lucky, I thought. Perhaps for most, rain in the wilderness equals a closed-in, abbreviated, soggy trip. As hard-driving as my life is, the pattering sound on the roof of my tent sounds more to me like a mountain lullaby. “Girl, one of your big chores today … is to take a nap!” For those in need … no sweeter words were ever spoken! No radios, cell phones, message boards, sticky notes, paper piles, or lap tops … wet nylon walls never looked so good!
During a bite of breakfast under a suspended tarp with my friends, I couldn’t help but ponder how incredible these women really are. They see me at my absolute worst … yet they insist on loving me still, ugliness and all. Truly they are my “balance beam.” With incredible stability, they hold me up. During the times when I struggle and flail, they remain strong and stable; always the same … bearing me upon their straight backs until I once again find my center of balance. Beneath a soaking, dark gray sky, I marveled at my friends. What a remarkable gift, I thought, as I watched them share hot cereal, stories, and laughter.
After breakfast I took my own advice and went back to my tent. Especially for those whom rest does not come easily, I am completely convinced that one of the greatest privileges known in the entire world is to simply sleep … until you wake up. Manna from heaven could not be as sweet! The wilderness will still be there when you wake up … just waiting to be explored.
For now … hush, tired heart and thirsty earth … pure water is falling from the sky.
The storm broke the following day. Sunlight began to filter down through the tall stand of fir that bordered the rim of the lake where we were camped. All the world sparkled in radiant glory as billions of suspended raindrops hung heavy from every branch, needle, and blade of grass. No human-carved diamond could ever match even a single drop as it hung suspended, casting intricate rainbows from its liquid center, completely free for any eye to behold. Incomprehensible “wealth” sparkled from every surface … as far as the eye could see. Awe-inspired silence followed us as we set out from our sodden, steaming shelters to experience the wonders of the world around us.
That night we indulged our senses even further by carrying our sleeping mats out into a clearing. Finding grassy carpets of earth, we laid down under the night sky. Beneath the wonder of a purple blanket of stars, with “glitter” reflecting in our awe-filled eyes, we contemplated how truly good it is to be alive.
As with every adventure I have ever participated in, each day bears its own unique, intrinsic rewards. After several days of much exploration and discovery, it was time to spend a day scouting toward the highest lake we could find … and take a bath. Packing our biodegradable soap, lightweight towels, food, and any clean clothing we had left, everyone set out together to scale the ridge to our north.
We followed a rising trail carved through gray granite formations that looked more like rows of gigantic whale-backs than extrusions of stone. With moderate effort, we finally reached the ridgetop. Unable to find a trail leading to the lake, we counseled with our maps, compasses, and each other until we agreed on the correct direction to hopefully come out where we believed the lake to be.
Our toil and sweat was greatly rewarded when we finally located the lake. As with other extraordinary finds in the wilderness, this lake was a true gem. Grass intermixed with granite lined nearly half of its meandering shore. The other half was divided between a large talus flow that looked as if it had once thundered ominously into the lake, filling its depths with truck-sized boulders, and the rest, which finally soared upward, with equal grandeur, into a dramatic rise towering into what looked like heaven itself.
Before swinging down my pack, I glanced at Sue and pointed with the top of my head in the direction of the mountain. Her returned smile reflected my thoughts exactly: “The bath can wait … because up we must go!”
Only moments later we were bushwhacking up its eastern spine. Every switchback rewarded us with a new appreciation of our freshly gained altitude. The view continued to reveal itself like flood-waters receding from a precious treasure. Every time we raised our chins, we realized how much “richer” we had just become.
At one point during our journey upward, Sue and I scaled through a region of rock that was heavily laden with what looked like silica. From pebbles to boulders, all the rocks were shimmering with enormous streaks of silver glitter. Virtually every stone beheld its own work of art. For over thirty minutes we carefully picked up one masterpiece after another, handing them back and forth in complete wonder. Truly at a loss for words to describe the astounding beauty we held in our hands, we always exclaimed something completely insignificant like “Wow! Look at this one … here’s another … check this out.”
Together we felt as if we had discovered a lost and priceless treasure. Looking back … in this age of superficiality … I realize that we actually had.
As we rounded up to the summit, I took a deep breath as I once again realized that it is here, within these forgotten fortresses of stone, that my heart leans into the wind and begins to soar.
I have learned that if friendship is my kite, it is the winds of the wilderness that draw it upward toward heaven.
Looking down upon the lake far below us, I noticed that the surface of the water was moving … as I have never in my life seen before. I was completely fascinated. It appeared as a brilliant, living thing. Lit by the blazing sun behind us, down-drafts of wind ruffled the lake into patterns that looked very much like wing strokes from a giant bird. As the wind blew, swirling the water in nearly equal radiating patterns, the sun reflected back this remarkable design in a myriad of golden, gleaming prisms. Though my head could almost explain it, my eyes simply marveled in awe at the astounding beauty that filled them.
I couldn’t look away. With full understanding that I cannot actually see the wind, I can really see only the evidence of its existence—I was reminded that faith, like wind, is invisible … but what it moves is not.
At first glance, the surface of the lake appeared to be reflecting only what my mortal eyes could see. Moving in brilliant honey-colored sparkles was a presence skirting over the surface of the water, spinning in every speed and direction, mirroring the shape of repeated unison wing-beats. Yet with the eyes of my imagination, I smiled with the realization that these amazing patterns looked very much like the
joyful down-strokes of angel wings as they danced over the waters.
Dear Lord … how could heaven be any more beautiful than this? I wondered within my heart. No palace walls or gilded thrones created by the hands of men throughout all of history … none … not one … could compare to the glory of sitting in this wind-washed place of stone.
While trying to comprehend the enormous splendor stretching around us, Sue reached silently for my hand. (Having now become an unspoken pact between us, we both agree that there is no better place to thank the Maker, than on top of what He has made.) As real, true and immoveable as the stone we sat upon, was the friendship that bound our hearts together. Thankful to once again view such glory, hand in hand, we prayed together. Each of us asking God to show us how to better shoulder, mirror, and encourage the other. Each giving thanks for another moment of life.
Steeping in the moment, I could not have been any more full. It is here, in times like these, that my heart unfurls like a flag, whipping over all creation … while held secure by the roots of pure friendship.
We need friends … all of us. No person or creature can survive alone. Nor was any person or creature meant to. Real friendship does more than just make us feel better; truly, it makes us better. True friendship is strong, purposeful, honest, compassionate, and steadfast. A real friend gently reveals our weakness, while cheering for every step toward our newfound strength.
It holds us up when we are weak.
