In the desert

Last night at Stations of the Cross, I mourned the end of Lent. I need more time! I am not done with the work yet. Forty days have not been enough to break habits developed over years of palliating the hunger of dissatisfaction. Candy, wine, meat, good coffee - all of these physical crutches have been relatively easy to set aside.  Tonight is the great Vigil, but I am not yet tempted by the bags of candy in my closet or the champagne for tomorrow's brunch. My real struggle has been detaching. I have been unable during this Lent to disconnect from all the distractions.

On the positive side, this is one of the few years we have made it to almost every Friday stations. Our parish serves a soup supper afterwards, so the social event draws the kids, who crave the warm-and-ready macaroni and cheese and lipstaining red fruit punch. We lingered over brothy concoctions and slices of cheap French bread while talking with friends from church or getting to know some of the old folks, who also come for the free dinner.  One night a man who might have been homeless but had stories of his family from the area, joined us and complained about how the Protestant church where he was baptized locked him out.  He asked about the meaning of Lent, praised the soup, a Thai flavored broth that night, and headed out into the night without asking for five bucks for the bus.

The fellowship kept the kids from complaining about spending Friday nights at church. Each week, the Church set out a different pamphlet of prayers for the devotion. This variety provided fodder for reflection on these reflections. Sometimes they were written in first person, as if Jesus were narrating his journey. Others were written as a letter to Jesus. I prefer the ones that ask questions, a type of examen, that goad me into a recognition of the ways I am like Simon, having to be asked, or forced, to help someone in need.  It is easy enough to sign up to bring meals to the sick or new mothers, but I find plenty of excuses to avoid the dirty work of serving drug addicts on the street or even the real denial of pleasures and pastimes or the ability to give until it hurts. Writing a check, dropping cash in the basket, picking and choosing who gets what I have to give are all too easy. I think about the command to help the widow and the orphan, and think, if we have space why don't we open our house to someone? I admire a friend who does foster care, but I have never even called for information from our local organization. I haven't even walked the few blocks to check on my old lady friend lately.

If I have the willpower to deny myself sugar and drinks, why don't I have the strength to deny myself the mind-numbing activity of reading the internet, be it social media or "news?" How many hours have I wasted reading online or researching options for whatever it may be? I failed miserably in my resolution to turn off the computer at 10 in order to read and pray before bed. And while I limited social media connection, I certainly didn't succeed in fasting from it, only in coming to see how little miss when I don’t read it. It is just a handy crutch to fill an empty moment. But I turned to its noise and distraction plenty. And how much energy have I wasted on worrying? This week's worries were news of our oldest son's knee injury, indecision about pre-school for next year, a house option that fell through, and plans for spring break, then Easter, then Confirmation, then graduation. All good things to think about, but I toil over decisions.

What do these weaknesses reveal? A lack of trust? An inability to turn away from entertainment and vanity? An inability to detach from the world and surrender my will? I want to live a life of faith, but am not willing, capable, to do so radically.

Late on Holy Thursday, we left the Altar of Repose in silence. Our eleven year old wanted to stay. As we left, she started to cry. "Why did they have to do that to him?" she cried. Early I had been frustrated because it seemed like none of the kids were really paying attention at church. But she had heard and entered into the narrative in a deep way. I wanted to run back into the church and sit longer with her in adoration. But we had to go forth.

Last weekend we went to the desert to camp for spring break. This destination was no one's first choice. I wanted to make the drive to the canyons of Utah, but no one wanted to be in the car for 8 or 10 hours, and I hadn't found anyplace with space available at the last minute. The kids wanted to see the cousins (which we did for the weekend, but they had school.) My husband suggested Big Bear Lake, where people go to ski, but cottages in our price range were booked, and it was going to be 19 degrees - too cold for camping. The desert was the only place with space available for last minute campers. At this location,  you can camp basically anywhere, but we found a spot at a developed campground because reluctant campers at least want toilets.

This time of year the desert comes to life with blooms. But limited rainfall this winter meant that the show that sometimes takes place was minimal. From the road the terrain looks sandy, brown and rocky, spotted with cactus and agave. Dry, dry, dry. How anything green survives is a mystery.

But once you exit the car and get out and walk on a trail, the little details spring into focus.  Succulents sprout from dirt caught between rocks. The ocotillo were waving red flags. The barrel cacti sprouted yellow flowers. Hummingbird bush provided a weak showing of red trumpet shaped flowers.  Lizards darted over and under the boulders. At the visitor center, where water was provided, the brittle bush had bright yellow daisy shaped flowers and a deep purple bloom covered another shrub. A hike to a slot canyon revealed a secret passage carved by water. The passage was completely hidden from the road. Did some desperado discover it?  The desert is home to people who exist off the grid in RVs and shacks. People who sculpt with scrap metal and scruffy jeep aficionados, most with stickers about being a veteran, like the guys who told us we were heading off in the wrong direction, off into the nowhere, on a hike. We turned back and eventually found the trail to an ancient settlement, perhaps just a camp for a group of Native Americans traveling to more hospitable land.

The kids climbed boulders and set up housekeeping at the camp. They cradled hot cocoa around the fire. Again, I was reminded that sometimes forced fun can turn into real peace, once the distractions and better options elsewhere are eliminated, and here is the only space left to inhabit.

But it is a lonely space. The night sky is wide, populated by thousands of stars, some dimmed by a bright moon.  Many people come to the desert just to look at the night sky.  But my mind has never grasped a map of the stars. Periodic attention to astronomy hasn't established more than a rudimentary recognition of familiar constellations. Even the plants I can only name by finding a helpful trail guide.  How much there is we don't know.  How many places remain hidden.  

No wonder Jesus went to the desert to pray. It's a vast space, seemingly empty but filled with unlimited details, a place most people avoid. But God left his fingerprints everywhere here in the design of these tenacious survivors. But even without crowds, without the world pressing in wanting more, Christ experienced temptations. There is no place to hide from the reality of the restless human soul.

I long for Lent to be a time of spiritual growth, a time to flower in grace and self-control, a springtime of the soul, when I can focus on and show forth the desire for God, instead of losing my attention to a thousand demands. Instead, my soul remains a dry place, a rocky soil. But here and there, like the moment during the Stations, when I let my eyes wander around the sanctuary and I see these people I am growing to know, people who are all seeking water in the desert, who are all following the way of the cross, their voices united in the Stabat Mater, a bit off key, a bit out of syncopation, a spring of love for all these imperfect souls bursts forth, washing away the discouragement. We all gather with our weaknesses to grasp at His cloak in hopes of being healed.

And tomorrow we will celebrate that healing. Although I wish for more time to uproot these sinful tendencies, I look forward to the Gloria, to ringing bells with my neighbors, knowing that my family far away will be celebrating also, united in the joy of the season. And that joy surpasses the regret, pulls us out of the desert into the extravagant beauty of spring, new life, and redemption. 

Hoppy Easter, Everybody

Grand Canyon Hike

I had thought that for Lent I would try to be more reflective and post at least once or twice a week.  But that didn't last long.  I've been distracted by many things over the past month, but one of the best things was this past weekend. Three friends and I hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back. The trip provided the opportunity for reflection and conversation that a vacation always stimulates, and reminded me of the restorative power of spending a few days in nature disconnected from the to do list.

Our family has camped a lot, but I have never been backpacking. When the friend who organized the trip first asked if I wanted to go, my first thought was that I wouldn't be able to get away. But my husband knows I have always wanted to backpack and camp and walk all day, and here was an opportunity for me to go without everyone else in the family having to go along with my vision of a good time. One of the friends, another mom of six, almost didn't go because she has a nursing toddler at home, but she, too, has a supportive family. All of us are blessed with husbands who don't fit the stereotype of the bumbling dad.  We've finally reached a point in life when we can go away for a weekend, and everyone at home is fine. The three-year-old has been especially clingy since I returned, but she was fine while I was gone.

This trip was a good first backpacking trip. We only covered 16 miles altogether - 7.5 down the South Kaibab trail, and 9.5 miles back up the Bright Angel trail. (At least 2 miles were relatively flat along the Colorado River.)  And we only camped one night, so we didn't need to carry much food.  We left San Diego on Friday and drove to the National Park, where we spent Friday night at Maswik Lodge, the low-end hotel on the property, before getting up early Saturday for our hike.  

We did get scared when we arrived because first we were given a new weather report that called for rain and snow, and then we found out that the National Park was experiencing a water shortage because a pipe had burst. Suddenly we thought we would have to carry water for 2 days instead of being able to refill at the bottom of the canyon at the campground by Phantom Ranch. My friend had a water purifier, but we did run to the camp store at the visitor center to buy a pair of ice cleats and an extra tarp. And I stuffed my extra polar fleece into my backpack instead of leaving it behind in the car. Our backpacks were heavier than they needed to be.  I don't think any of us slept well Friday night in anticipation.

But Saturday dawned bright and beautiful. It was chilly in the morning, but we quickly warmed up once we began walking. We were quiet on the shuttle ride to the trailhead, but once we began hiking, worries melted away under the bright blue skies and in the awe of the canyon. This was a beautiful time of year to hike - not too hot and not too cold and not too crowded, although definitely not isolated.  Travelers from around the world were hiking along with us.  I was initially worried about bathrooms because I remembered from our previous visits that there aren't many hiding places along the trail, but there are actually pit toilets at strategically placed locations. 

Sometimes I worry about group events because you never know if you are going to have a complainer or a straggler, but we were a well matched group. We weren't in any rush, so we stopped often to admire the view or to sit and eat a snack. It took us about five hours to reach the bottom (while it took a couple runners who passed us going down and again heading back up just an hour and fifteen minutes to run the seven miles).  That gave us plenty of time to visit the ranch at the bottom of the canyon (where hikers can stay if they reserve a year in advance) and get a cold glass of lemonade and write postcards to be mailed by mule.  

The campground is nestled in a cottonwood grove planted by prospectors at the turn of the twentieth century along Bright Angel Creek. (Mentioned in Marguerite O'Henry's Brighty of the Grand Canyon, which I reread in prep for this trip, which I was glad I did. Sites have more significance when linked to a story. Here was the suspension bridge that Brighty led President Teddy Roosevelt over!) Soaking our feet in the creek felt incredible. The camp didn't have running water, but the ranch did have a station to refill our water bottles.  There we met a couple young men who had run from the south to the north rim and were now running back - a total of 46 miles with an elevation change of at least 5-6000 feet each round.  That puts our little trek in perspective.  (While I am not interested in a lot of extreme sports, or even downhill skiing or skydiving, I could be tempted, if I were 35 and had the time, to want to do something of that magnitude. Running all day through a beautiful location appeals to me more than sitting on a beach with a cocktail.)

Hungry after our hike, and with nothing else to do, we ate dinner early. A park employee - the facilities manager who was overseeing the pipe repairs - sat and chatted with us while we ate. He lives for eight days in the canyon, then hikes out and spends eight days with his family before returning. When his kids were younger, they sometimes stayed with him and went to the school in the park, but now they were grown. He has lived that life for 20 years. An interesting career. He shared some funny stories about hikers who exhausted themselves or came unprepared and about people being heliported out. We obviously were not going to be one of those statistics, but it made us realize why the park issues so many dire warnings about hiking the canyon in a day. 

Happily, it was warm enough to sit and chat for while at the table, enjoying some hot cocoa with an ounce of Bailey's in honor of St. Patrick. We all marveled over the quick heating Jetboil my husband sent with me and over the relative tastiness of the dehydrated dinners we packed in. Dried pineapple and mango were our tasty dessert. But once darkness fell, all of us were ready to turn in for the night.  I don't think I've ever stayed at a quieter campground, even though most of the sites were full. 

But before we fell asleep, the wind and rain started. The wind between in the canyon walls sounded like a jet plane, and I began to imagine the fly being whipped off the tent, and me having to jump out of the tent and get cold and wet trying to tie it down. But I had secured it well enough, apparently. And the rain wasn't torrential. The extra tarp came in handy; we didn't get soaked. Only the ends of our sleeping bags were damp. 

At five a.m., it was still raining lightly, but we needed to get an early start to hike out in time to drive back to San Diego Sunday night.  We did take a minute to heat some water for coffee, but ate nutition bars on the go instead of eating instant oats in the rain.  Within an hour, the rain abated, and the haze began to burn off.

Our packs were heavy, but I never felt so uncomfortable that I wanted the hike to end. In fact, I had several moments when I slowed down because I wasn't in any hurry to reach the end.  Every turn in the trail revealed another beautiful vista. The friend who had set the trip up had worked at the park after she finished her geology degree, so she had interesting information to share. And we ran into some older gentlemen who showed us some pictographs we wouldn't have noticed.  The only annoying people on the trail were a couple of young guys, one shirtless, the other playing "Girl on Fire" loudly on his idevice.  Shirtless guy was throwing snowballs at his friend, who looked exhausted and annoyed. At first we waited for them to pass us, but then we caught up to them again, and decided to pick up our pace to get away from their music. We never did see them again, although other hikers seemed to keep our pace. 

Even though I wasn't any hurry to finish, I have to admit, reaching the summit was a relief. Our feet and shoulders ached, and we were all ready for real food.  We took the requisite happy photos at the finish, before schlepping our bags a little farther to the car park. One of my friends was feeling light headed and nauseated on the drive home - probably a combination of altitude change and not eating and drinking enough. After a hamburger, she felt a lot better. 

The drive home, all eight hours, flew by with company and conversation.  We reached our driveway a little after 1:30 in the morning on Monday - so we weren't gone more than 72 hours - but it seemed like we had been somewhere foreign. Even with sore calves and quads, I'm looking forward to planning another trip. 

Good-bye, dads!

Ready to start down. One friend brought everyone green bandanas in honor of St. Patrick.

About a mile down

Here come the mules.

Getting close to the river

Switchbacks

Tunnel to the bridge

The Colorado River

Bright Angel Creek to the campground

Mule parking at Phantom Ranch

Beautiful blue skies

Sunday morning drizzle

Can you see the big horn sheep in the scrub?

Baby yucca clinging to the rocks

Blue sky peeking through the clouds

Following the creek through the cottonwoods

Can you see the redbud blooming? Makes me homesick.

Looking ahead at the climb - snow at the top.

Snow line

Snow covering the buds

We made it!