The second week of September also found me preparing the first sermon in a new series, "Be the Church," focusing on the roles and fundamentals of the church, and ultimately pointing to a new vision for FRC. I was anxious. Preparation did not come with any measure of ease or confidence. It was an anxious week leading up to Sunday morning. Furthermore, I was busily trying to prepare for the following Monday consistory meeting, which also promised significant, and sharp, dispute. By Friday, sermons for both Sunday morning and evening were drafted, and the agenda for Monday night was set. Reading the paper (the Tribune, of course) Friday morning, I suggested to my wife that I was in a dark place, close to cracking--I was tired, anxious, and a little hopeless. A window had emerged following the Tuesday evening classis meeting, and I was tentatively planning to spend the next four days in some form of retreat--in silence and solitude at area coffee shops or natural space. These were, in my mind, going to be day-trips only, perhaps venturing only so far as Inspiration Hills (a Christian camp twenty miles from our home). As Julie and I sat reading the news and sipping coffee, she asked about my intentions for this retreat time. I told her that I was less-than-inspired to venture out, suggesting that I perhaps just spend some quiet days near home.
This is the very kind of thing that exasperates Julie to no end. I had just spent most of the late-summer and early days of fall encouraging our staff to take time for self-care, that this is a discipline, and that their health, the health of their families, and the health of the church depended on them exercising such discipline in spending time in silence and solitude with God, to hear his voice amidst the busy-ness and breathlessness of intense ministry. Julie looked at me with a combination of sympathy and frustration: "Why on earth would you not get away?" She asked what would inspire me to get away? My response: mountains. "Then go to Colorado!" Easy. Hope stirred within my breast. I dared to dream for a moment. What if? I had been pressing (based on the counsel of Pastor Bill Hybels) four days of silence and solitude. What if I spent a day driving out to Colorado; two days in the mountains; one day home. All in silence and solitude. It would be a discipline. It would be life-giving. The words of Isaiah 30:15 echoed in my mind: "Thus says the LORD, 'In repentance and rest is your salvation; in quietness and trust is your strength.'" Yeah, I could do this. I would do this. I was exultant. Grabbing my backpack from the basement, I began to lay things out for the journey, hoping against hope that this might actually happen. And yet, there was so much to do and think about before I could go!
By early Saturday morning, in the wee hours of the night, I had convinced myself that this was an exceptionally poor, unrealistic idea: irresponsible, subject to critique if not ridicule, expensive, and...lonely. And the mountains are, at night, a dangerous place to be. And cold. I staggered out of bed and went downstairs for my daily time in the Word and prayer. The lectionary psalms for the morning:
"Hear my cry, O God, listen to my prayer. From the ends of the earth I call to you. I call as my heart grows faint, lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe. I long to dwell in your tent forever and take refuge in the shelter of your wings" (Psalm 61:1-4).
"Truly my soul finds rest in God; my salvation comes from him. Truly he is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will never be shaken" (Psalm 62:1-2).
High rock and rest for my soul--silence and solitude in the mountains. These psalms echoed in my soul as I set out for my weekly long run--a 19 mile slog on this particular morning, set to blue skies and perfect temps. My spirit soared as I thought about time alone, in the mountains, rejoicing in the theater of God's creation, exulting in his glory, his presence, his Word. I was convicted. I would go.
Sunday came and went. It was a hard day, but it went okay. Monday came with all of its busy-ness. While concerned, I was not anxious as I anticipated the evening's meeting. The meeting was indeed intense, but resulted in rather spectacular resolution. Tuesday was filled with meetings, and ended with a long classis meeting. I was home by 10:00 p.m., in time to kiss the children goodnight, pack my bags, pack the car, and write a letter to each of the kids. By 1:00 a.m., I collapsed into bed, setting my alarm for 4:45 a.m.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Up at 4:45 a.m. Ablutions. Coffee. Van.
I dressed simply: Kuhl pants, v-neck cotton tee-shirt, Chaco's, Marmot fleece jacket. The back seats out, I had a large area in back with sleeping pads/bag (for an impromptu nap) and gear. Pulling out of the driveway at 4:57, I headed south on Hwy. 75 to Sioux City, then south on I-29 to Omaha. By the time I reached the I-680 overpass north of Council Bluffs, it was a beautiful, cloudless day. I stopped at a Starbuck in west Omaha for coffee and a breakfast sandwich, also quickly filling up with gas. By 7:30 a.m. I was heading due west on I-80. I set the cruise and rested alone with my thoughts and the word of God he has etched in my heart. It was a lovely morning which soon turned into afternoon. I stopped in North Platte for gas and a Clif Bar, and grinded out the final three hours to Boulder. Time slowed down considerably at this stage, and the final hour was rather gruesome. Hungry, disoriented, a bit taken with the lack of oxygen, I staggered into Boulder, marveling again at how much the area between Denver and Boulder has changed over the last 30 years.At approximately 2:15 p.m. (MST) I pulled into the parking lot of REI in east Boulder. I sucked air, felt feint from lack of food, and felt in my bones the overwhelming cacophony of voices, music, and people after 10 hours alone and quiet in the cocoon of my vehicle. It was unnerving. Trying to focus, I stocked up on food (freeze dried meals, Clif bars, Honey Stingers, gels, chocolate, etc.), toiletries (TP, soap, etc.), and propane fuel for my stove. What should have been fun was rather anxious and loud, but I survived and proceeded to the nearest King Sooper for water, plastic baggies, and Coke. Stocked up with ample supplies, I drove to Pearl St., parked, and walked the mall before settling on a spot for an early dinner. Famished, I settled in West Flanders brew pub on Pearl St. It was a beautiful day to watch people on Pearl St. I ordered a burger, salad, and tea. Feeling refreshed, I leisurely made my way back to the car and headed up Boulder Canyon Road to Nederland, Ward, and ultimately the Long Lake Trail head in the Indian Peaks Wilderness Area. It was beautiful evening and the aspen trees were popping in autumn brilliance. I parked, went for a short hike, and then settled into the back of the van (my personal RV) for reading and sleep. I was exhausted, and sleep came easy.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
I slept well until about 2:00 a.m., at which point I awoke cold and dreaming of pulmonary edema on the west side of the Continental Divide, with nowhere to go and no one to help me. It was unsettling. I slept fitfully the rest of the night, and finally awoke, shivering, at 6:00 a.m. Still wrapped up in my sleeping bag (though rated to 20 degrees, it seemed to be failing in the 35 degree temps) I fired up the stove and made breakfast: Starbucks Via coffee (dark roast), Quaker instant oatmeal sweetened with a packet of peanut butter Gu gel, and water with dissolved Emergen-C. After quick ablutions, I packed up to accommodate an overnight on the west side of the Divide, at pristine Pawnee Lake: Eureka tent, REI sleeping bag and pad, blanket, Snow Peak stove, meal kit, Arc'teryx Gore-Tex shell, water, and toiletries. I was dressed in Columbia climbing pants, Raab base layer, Kuhl shirt, Marmot fleece, Smartwool sox and stocking cap. My 40 liter Black Diamond backpack was severely tested with this load that surely weighed in excess of 50 pounds.
I set off west along the Lake Isabelle Trail, delighting the warmth of the sun as it slowly rose over Long Lake, to my left. As the path rose and I huffed, the quiet of the morning settled in. I was rapturous. The trees whispered in the wind, the aspen popped brilliantly in various shades of gold, and columbine swayed gently as the sun continued its ascent. Over several streams, the path finally diverged two miles in: left to Lake Isabelle and Isabelle Glacier, or right on the Pawnee Pass Trail. I stayed right. As the trail began a serious ascent, I met up with a fellow hiker, the first of the morning. After passing each other several times, we settled into a slow rhythm together. My solitude was broken, but gently. We shared few words initially, besides comments on the beauty of the morning and basic introductory information. His name was Jim Wheeler, a retired physician from Boulder. We continued on together, and my appreciation for the company increased commensurate with the gain in the altitude: I was struggling. Winded, tired, and increasingly nauseous, I was feeling the affects of the altitude, exertion, and poor night of sleep. I was very glad to have a guide who also happened to be a doctor! We continued on, well above the treeline, to the towering Indian peaks as storm clouds rolled in, the wind picked up velocity, and the temperature dropped. I was cold.
We finally made it to the Continental Divide at 12,650 feet. My spirits were quite low, however. I was agonizing over the decision of whether to keep on going over the divide to Pawnee Lake. Jim was turning back at the divide. The weather was not encouraging, I was not feeling well, and my dreams of pulmonary edema haunted my thoughts. I decided to press on, if only to look down into the valley west of the divide and appease my curiosity of what lay ahead. Donning my shell and tightening my pack, I began towards the great gulf that emerged west of the divide: it was a striking, rather intimidating vista, straight down, easing into a straight path to the lake.
The walk down looked great (however scary). However, my concern was not so much in getting to the lake and setting up camp, but rather in how I might be feeling at 2:00 a.m. The path back to the vehicle (should I fall ill and need to get to a lower altitude) was a long hard slog that took much longer than I anticipated--around 5 hard miles--including a hard trek back up and over the Divide. To go to a lower elevation west of Pawnee Lake brought me to...nowhere. I would, in fact, be further into the wilderness in hopes that a mere lowering of elevation (itself a long slog through unfamiliar territory) would alleviate the suffering. Again, all of this was purely speculative, but being by myself, in unfamiliar territory, and particularly in light of how I was feeling presently and the thoughts that occupied my dreams the night prior...I decided to turn around. I actually made it about a third of the way to the lake, and waffled several times on which way to go. Was this an act of trust? Was this fear part of the discipline of silence and solitude? Or, was I to do the responsible thing, especially in consideration of a wife and children back at home? I deferred to the latter, however attached to various misgivings. I turned around, climbed back up and over the divide, and began my descent back to the trailhead at Long Lake.
It was a lovely, however long, hike down. While it always goes much easier and faster when gravity assists, it was still a tiresome walk home. It took forever, and by the time I got back (hallelujah!) to the car, I was cashed. Hungry and tired, I ate a protein bar, drank some Gatorade, and congratulated myself on a good decision. It also afforded the opportunity for me to drive out of the Four Lakes Zone (where I had no cell phone reception) into Ward and a weak signal by which to call Jule. All was well at home, blessedly refuting my overactive and pessimistic imagination of all that could have gone wrong with me out of contact.
On Hwy. 72 heading further south to Nederland, I determined that I would spend the night at Gordon Gulch, a free campground just off the highway. I found what appeared to be a relatively suitable, however uninspired, site amidst the pines of the sprawling, disturbingly arid campground. I staked out the site, and quickly found two concerns: 1) there was broken glass strewn throughout the site, and b) it seemed the cars that drove by eyeing my sight (and settled into neighboring sites) revealed homeless people and scary rednecks. Perhaps this is the type of people the free campgrounds of the eastern slopes attracted. I bolted, unsure of my next steps. I continued south of Nederland, trying another free campground that this time seemed to attract most of the cannabis dealers of the Nederland area. After a long search of various potential campsites (all surreptitiously taken), I aborted as the sun began to set. The idea of another night in the back of the van was not terribly attractive. I continued south, with I-70 as my southern border, and finding nothing in Blackhawk or the vicinity, decided to try St. Mary's Glacier. A hotel was not an option, at least in my own mind, and I ended up following Fall River Road to what my GPS suggested to be the trailhead of the glacier trail. I found only a small area to pull over to the side of the road, and in light of increasing darkness, decided to make it my camp for the night. I fired up the stove, made dinner, and settled in for the night with my books, prayer, and some disappointment (I should be at Pawnee Lake!) mixed with relief (I am close to civilization!).
Friday, September 18, 2015
I slept amazingly (surprisingly) well, waking only at about 2:00 a.m. to a brilliant night sky and the starry host in spectacular array. I said a word of thanks and fell back to sleep until around 5 a.m., at which time I drove further north to the true trailhead of St. Mary's Glacier, finding it to be very touristy, costly, and not accommodating to camping. So I drove back to the interstate to fill up on gas and water. At the station, the attendant told me that it was not really possible to camp off the trail at the glacier, so I decided to proceed with a plan that had germinated on my drive the day before: I would drive up to the trailhead of Gray's Peak, a place I knew relatively well, and a suitable place for both silence and solitude.
West on 70, I turned off onto the familiar Bakerville exit, and followed the fire road south towards Gray's Peak. I was met by a spectacular red-summited Torrey's peak, set off in sharp relief to the azure sky. It was shaping up to be a gorgeous morning. I pulled into the parking lot, assuming it to be full, but finding only a half-dozen cars and no campsites taken. I set up camp quickly at the best site on the mountain, cooked breakfast (oatmeal, coffee), and crawled into my hammock for devotions, peace, and quiet. I was finally relaxed. It was cold, but comfortable. I read, I prayed, I rested.
Around 9:30 a.m., I decided to go for a short hike up the trail. My first thought was simply to walk and stretch out tired legs (the hike to Pawnee Pass wore me out). I thought that, at the very best, I could ascend to to about 12,500, where I knew there to be a spectacular outcropping of rocks overlooking Stevens Gulch in the valley below. There, I could stretch out and restfully enjoy the grandeur of the Rockies. I set off with my pack--filled with my shell, some energy bars, a bottle of water, my Bible and journal. It was sunny, but rather cold and windy. At 12,000 feet I donned my shell. It was a leisurely walk, though as I ascended, summit fever began to settle in. I non-anxiously decided that, depending on how I continued to feel, I could make a push for the top of Gray's. I found my outcropping, about blew off, and decided to press on.
I made the summit of Gray's at 11:45 a.m., about a two hour ascent over 4 miles. Not bad. I was exultant, but cold. Taking off my pack, it quickly blew out of my hands, and I envisioned it going over the edge. As it contained my billfold and car keys, this would have been something of a disaster (though far better than me going over the edge). I found a cairn, pulled out my bottle of Gatorade and an energy bar, and opened my Bible to Psalm 61. As the wind blew and sun shone, I read the Word in the presence of the Lord at 14,270 feet. It was the highlight of my trip. While the wind made it something other than silent, and the other climbers made for something other than solitude, I was yet alone with God. It was a joy.
Refreshed in body and spirit, I quickly decided to forgo Torrey's Peak and head back down. The walk was quiet, much easier, and much less windy. I made it back to the trailhead at 1:30 p.m. (at four hours a new record for me on Gray's). The final half-mile I was hot and rather fatigued. Back at the car, I dropped my pack, grabbed my journal, and went to the stream to soak my feet and gives thanks to God for the beautiful day and safe climb. It was glorious.
As I settled into camp to rest, the climbers cleared out. By 5:00 p.m. the entire lot was empty. I had found complete solitude at 11,280 feet. It was quiet. I was alone. I rested in my hammock, read, tried to sleep a little, and simply enjoyed the time, beauty, and solitude. I also came up with a plan for the evening: I would rest for the remainder of the afternoon, make dinner, and then settle in for sleep before breaking camp and hitting the road at midnight.
So I rested. Then I made a fire. Then I made supper. Then I settled into my bag for a short night. By 8:00 p.m. other campers had arrived, most of them ready for a big party to start the weekend. It was quickly becoming loud and crowded. I made a decision to break camp and head for home. As the stars came out, I loaded up the car and made it back to the interstate by 8:30. It felt good to head for home. To Denver by 9:30, I stopped for dinner at Chick-fil-A, then continued on into the night and home. By 1:30 a.m. I had had enough, and settled in again for a short sleep in the back of the van. I slept hard until 5:00 a.m., filled up on gas and coffee in Ogallala, and settled in for the long trek home. I arrived safely at 12:00 p.m. Saturday, September 19, 2015. With the exception of The War On Drugs and a little sports radio in the wee hours of Saturday morning, I maintained complete silence along the way. It was a very good trip!
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