Silence & Solitude 2017

Introduction

            Several years ago, I took the advice of a mentor-friend to incorporate some form of spiritual renewal into my yearly routine: several days to unplug and be refreshed with silence and solitude in a place of retreat. Upon the gracious encouragement of my wife, I began a yearly sabbatical to Colorado to spend time in quiet and the beauty of God’s good creation. This was in 2015. That year, I hiked to Pawnee Lake in the Indian Peaks Wilderness Area and made an impromptu ascent of Grays Peak. Finding that the high places are my most favorite playground, last year I made a more focused attempt to spend time above the tree line: I ran up Quandary Peak (actually, did a slow shuffle up and a pretty good sprint down), and hit the DeCaLiBron over the course of two days. My routine has been quite simple: Day 1—drive from Iowa to Colorado, set up camp; Day 2 & 3—hike and climb; Day 4—drive home. All of this done in as complete silence and solitude as is possible in 21^st century America.

            To understand my joy in this is to understand where I come from and a bit of who I am. First, I am husband to Juliana and dad to Ian, Sophia, Annie, and Isaiah. I serve as senior pastor of a large (1,200 souls) Christian congregation in the under-rated beauty of Northwest Iowa, which of course is decidedly one of the flattest places on earth. I teach theology as adjunct faculty at a small liberal arts college in my community. I am a sub-three hour marathoner and four-time Ironman finisher. And I really, really love the mountains.

            My family began coming to Colorado in the 1980’s when extended family moved to the Denver-area. I learned to ski at Breckenridge (when you could still get discount tickets at King Sooper for $28!), “discovered” Lake Isabelle, and loved nothing better than Pearl Street Mall on a Saturday night. Thirty years later, the state has changed a lot: Boulder is no longer “quaint,” Lake Isabelle is operated by a private enterprise, and I cannot afford to take my family skiing for even one day.

            In the busy-ness of pastoral ministry and raising a family, my twice-annual odysseys to Colorado (autumn-climb; winter-ski) have become something almost akin to rescue: saving me from the urgency of the now, helping to fend off depression and anxiety, reaffirming my identity in Christ, creating necessary space to listen and pray, and re-instilling in me the joy and goodness of God’s majesty as written in the “first book” (creation; the “second book,” of course, being the Bible [The Belgic Confession, Article 2]).

Monday, September 18

            The weekend leading up the trip was typically (and ridiculously) busy: lecture prep Friday morning; wedding Saturday afternoon/evening; Sunday morning and evening preaching (we are one of the last evangelical churches to kick it old school with Sunday evening worship). I got to bed later-than-desired Sunday night, setting my alarm for an early Monday departure.

            Bono woke me up at 2:30 a.m. Monday morning (“Trying to Throw Your Arms Around the World”), and after a quick shower pulled out of the driveway at 3:04 a.m. It was rainy and warm, and I tried to stay alert with coffee and NPR. Hitting Interstate 29 a little before 4:00 a.m., I started my “Movement to Silence” playlist on Spotify to gently bring me to complete quiet. This, along with significant rain, brought me to Lincoln, NE and welcome quiet.

            Western Nebraska and Eastern Colorado hold for me a special mystery and beauty—kind of like a Georgia O’Keefe painting come to life. The sun came out around North Platte and I hammered through the remaining few hours to Denver. After a quick lunch in Golden, I followed I-70 west to Dillon. There, I picked up a few supplies at REI and City Market before heading on to the Half Moon campsite west of Minturn. Tigiwon Road was long and bumpy, but the aspens were popping and my trusty Ford Escape managed without difficulty. Arriving at the trailhead and campground, I picked out a site (#3) and set up camp to serve as home for the next couple of nights.

Looking up from my hammock at the Half Moon Campsite west of Minturn.

My home for the next 48 hours.

Tuesday, September 19

            I slept pretty poorly, but woke generally refreshed at 6:30 a.m. After coffee and breakfast (oatmeal, peanut butter bagel), I packed up and set out to climb Mt. of the Holy Cross. It was a beautiful morning, the sun rising quickly in the eastern sky as I made my way up Half Moon Trail. In/on my pack: trekking poles, microspikes, shell pants, Arc'Teryx Gore-Tex jacket, map, compass, basic survival gear, water, Gatorade, several Clif bars, my Bible, and journal. On my body: Columbia hiking pants, Garmont boots, Nike base layer, Patagonia down vest, Marmot fleece, Smartwool beanie, 180s gloves, Oakley sunglasses (a walking REI ad!), and iPhone.

            The hike to Half Moon Pass was pleasant, and I quickly worked up a sweat, shedding layers as the day warmed and the incline increased. My Iowa lungs were getting acclimated to the high altitude! Hitting the pass at fifty minutes, I started down the northwest side of Notch Mountain. Mt. of the Holy Cross came into view suddenly and magnificently.

The mountain comes into view.

What a spectacular peak! The hike down to East Cross Creek was surprisingly rigorous—nearly 1,000 feet I would of course need to ascend later in the day. Arriving at the creek, it occurred to me that spending the night at an ECC campsite would be wise, breaking the trip up into manageable segments. Alas, the logistics of packing in and my annual concern over the possibility of getting AMS far from the trailhead made this prohibitive. Stopping for a brief rest at the creek, I knew that the real climb was just beginning.

            The trail bears west and ascends pleasantly through a series of switchbacks to the treeline. My goal was the ridge to the south (aka the North Ridge), well marked by cairns. Attaining the north ridge, I continued to ascend, the trail becoming increasingly hidden and rocky. There was no one else on the mountain. At 13,000 feet, the climbing became pretty real. I was tired. The wind and sun were beating me up. The summit seemed light years away. Fatigued and slightly discouraged, I sat down against a boulder and assessed my situation. My goals, in descending order, of every climb are as follows: 1) survive; 2) enjoy the day; 3) summit. As I considered my situation, confident that goal #1 would be met but finding that goal #2 was on the brink, it occurred to me that I was likely closer to the top than it looked. Consulting my iPhone (to my wife’s consternation, I do not carry a SPOT receiver or PLB…that will change next year) and delighted to have a signal, I checked my altitude app and found that I was right at 13,800 feet.

Two hundred feet was manageable! Encouraged, I hammered on and found the summit quickly and joyfully. The vistas were magnificent!

The stone hut! Bowl of Tears! The Sawatch Range stretching out to the south; Quandary and, in the distance, Grays & Torreys to the east; Longs to the northeast; the Bells southwest! Most of my thoughts drowned out by the relentless wind, I soaked in the beauty of my surroundings, rested, said a prayer of great thanks, enjoyed a snack, and hit my descent feeling rather triumphant.

            Gravity is a helpful partner on the hike down, and I made good time to the treeline. By that time, I was thoroughly fatigued. Cross Creek got closer and closer: too close, in my estimation, as I didn’t recall such proximity on the way up. As the trail continued on relentlessly, my mind became fixated on Gerry Roach’s stories and warnings about people getting lost in this area. Had I missed the appropriate cairns? It felt like I was veering too far north and west, when I knew I should be trending east. As the trail kept on (it wasn’t this long on the ascent, was it?), my mind raced and I tried to fend off impending panic. I began to think of contingency plans: if I somehow ended up at Cross Creek, I suppose I could find my way to East Cross Creek and work my way up a thousand vertical feet (through what?) to where the trail crosses it, right? But I’m on the trail, right? I never left it! I was running woefully short on water, I was tired, and my imagination was going nuts. This is exactly how it happens. I consulted my map no less than a dozen times: I had to be on the right path; why don’t I feel like I’m on the right path?!!!

            Praying, breathing, drinking, and doing my very best to keep it together, I continued on, my concern growing with each turn. Finally, quite assured that I was badly off the route despite all evidence to the contrary, I started preparing my speech to Julie: “No, nothing to worry about, honey, but could you please call SAR? I’m lost in the Mt. of the Holy Cross Wilderness Area…” My prayers took on a new level of urgency, “God help me…” and I was just about to turn around and retrace my steps (which would have been a tremendously arduous and fruitless exercise) when, GLORY!, the small signpost marking campsite #10 of the East Cross Creek campground appeared. I stopped, looked up into heaven, and prayed, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Lord…”

            What went wrong? My imagination took over. Fatigue, altitude, Roach’s warnings, and primarily my own lack of attention and time-keeping resulted in a far more stressful descent than necessary. Completely irrational and ridiculously humbling. I drank, ate a little bit, and then soldiered on the ascent to Half Moon Pass.

I was so happy to be alive and not lost that I didn’t mind the climb at all, fatigue or no. I put it on cruise control to the trailhead, dumped my gear, and collapsed into my hammock for a much-needed rest. Total time: 7h30m. Even in consideration of my thirty minutes or so of near panic, it was a magnificent hike.

Wednesday, September 20

            After another restless night of sleep (I’m getting old), I woke to another glorious day. Breakfast and ablutions completed, I set out on a slow recovery hike on Fall Creek Trail. What a beautiful trail! I had no destination in mind; only a desire to stretch my legs and enjoy the scenery, solitude, and silence. It was a perfect morning. Just over an hour in, I rested on a rock outcropping, opened my Bible, and read aloud Psalms 61 and 62 (read these psalms…they are, in many ways, the impetus for my outings).

            Back at camp, I packed up and headed out. My next destination: Rocky Mountain National Park. The drive back to civilization was fine, however busy and loud. I made a brief stop for food (I’m a sucker for Smashburger) and information on trail conditions at Longs. First, a brief word about my history with Longs Peak…

            The summer of 1987 (the Year of Joshua Tree) my twin brother and I took the train from Iowa to visit my relatives in Denver. The day after our arrival, my uncle and cousin decided we needed to climb Longs Peak, which of course inspires awe in every flatlander arriving to Colorado from the east. On said climb the following morning, all was going well until both my brother and I came down with serious altitude sickness just before the boulder field. I’m not entirely sure how we got down the mountain (as the story is told today, my uncle and cousin carried us down, which I have a hard time believing). In any case, it was a crushing blow to both my 15-year old body and pride.

            So, in this great Year 30 of Joshua Tree, it occurred to me that it would be fitting to give Longs another go. Arriving at the trailhead Wednesday night, I inquired of the rangers regarding trail conditions and weather. They indicated that there was some ice on the ledges and a bit of snow in the trough, but the greater concern was the wind. Spectacular, relentless, freight train-like wind. As long as it was dry, I reasoned, I would give it a go, always prepared to turn around if the wind got to be too much or if getting blown off the side of the mountain became a distinct possibility.

Thursday, September 21

            I slept miserably in my car—perhaps top-five all-time worst night of sleep, although I’m not sure it could even be categorized as resembling “sleep”—and hit the trail at 2:15 a.m. It was relatively warm, the stars were out with authority, and the wind was a gentle conversation partner. Where I should have been freaked out, solo in the wilderness, on the side of a massive mountain, I was peaceful. Walking through Goblins Forest, I felt I was on a movie set.

It was too perfect. I made good time to the treeline and, eventually, Chasm Junction. By this time, the wind was a force to be reckoned with. It was punishing. I made a long, cold, windy pull to Granite Pass, and there assessed my situation: I was cold, tired, wind-beaten, and generally discouraged. Three poor nights of sleep were catching up with me, and my body was responding accordingly. I reasoned: if I continue to feel worse over the next ten minutes, I’m turning around. I walked on, and within a few minutes determined that I was moving quickly towards “I am miserable.” This feeling was exacerbated by my sense that poking my head through the Keyhole would result in great discouragement, as in, “There is no freaking way I am going to step out onto the ledges with wind like that.” Was a tired slog up the boulder field to Agnes Vaille shelter worth the time and energy? Hot breakfast and a warm bed were sounding better and better. I have grit, but there are limits.

            Just as the switchbacks towards the boulder field were beginning, I decided to abort. I began the long walk of shame—everyone else, of course, was coming up. I admired their tenacity, and at several points considered turning around yet again to join the procession up the mountain. Reason prevailed, however, and I continued down. While it was not the Bataan Death March, it was not the most fun I’ve ever had. As the sun came up, I regretted not turning aside to Chasm Lake, to at the very least watch the sunrise onto the east face. It was generally just a major disappointment.

            Delighted to be back at the car in the now lonely parking lot, I dumped my gear, jumped in the car, and cranked up the heat. I made the drive (very pretty, but somehow depressing) to Boulder, and went directly to The Buff for a consolation breakfast (the “Two Step”…wonderful) and copious amounts of coffee. The staff was remarkably nice, especially considering that I looked and smelled like I’d been sweating it out on mountains for the last several days. Refreshed and sated, I drove to Pearl Street to find additional consolation at Boulder Books—one of the great independent bookstores in the lower forty-eight. I bought a few: a hard-bound David Foster Wallace Reader (half-price!), Gary Shteyngart’s Absurdistan, and J.D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy. With my prizes, I retreated to the hotel for a shower, bed, and afternoon of reading.

            Much later, again in need of food, I retired to the Renaissance Boulder Flatiron Hotel for food (they do a wonderful cheese board) and drink (Avery Brewing’s Ellie’s Brown Ale was an epiphany). Slightly distracted by the fifty-year old woman who was slamming white wine and (I think, though I’m not very good at discerning these things) hitting on me, I ate and ran, forgetting in the process to tip my delightful waitress (Sarah) and barkeep (Brice). (I did rectify this situation the following night, on my way out of town.) I returned to the hotel and collapsed.

Friday, September 22

            My hope was to sleep until 10:00 a.m. Alas, I was up at my usual middle-aged-guy-routine of 6:00 a.m. It was delicious to simply lay in bed, read the paper, and continue in my books (I think David Foster Wallace and I would have been good friends). Finally getting up and cleaning up, I made my way back to downtown Boulder for coffee and breakfast. I ended up at "galvanize" (evidently an intentional lower case “g,” though I’m not sure what that intention is), which was fine (the breakfast burrito was inspired) but somehow disappointing; I was looking for more of an old school coffeehouse instead of a tech-focused, “let’s meet and talk about our latest tech IPO”-styled gathering place. Actually, it worked out pretty well, because it afforded me the environment to start this report (I wanted to look busy and tech-y…a contributor to the national economy and so on and so forth…not that I really care). Upon further exploration, I wish I had spent the morning at Trident…old school and musty.

            At noon, I headed for Eldorado Canyon State Park. Why have I never been there before? What a wonderful place! The day was beautiful and sunny, the clouds to the west providing some scale and background to the beautiful foothills. I hiked up Eldorado Canyon trail and eventually to Rincon Wall.

It was a joy to simply explore. The rest of the afternoon was devoted to resting in my hammock by South Boulder Creek, reading Vance and watching, with some degree of anxiety, the free climbers rising above me. It was a spectacularly beautiful day.

            For dinner, I headed back to Pearl Street for West Flanders Brewing. Why a gastro-pub would have The Golf Channel on television…I don’t understand. Golf? The rest of the evening I spent shopping on Pearl Street—it was buzzing. I bought the kids and Jule some gifts and finally headed east for my hotel. It was a good day.

Saturday, September 23

            My hotel in Brighton was actually quite nice. I slept well. In the morning, I made a horrific cup of hotel room coffee, packed up, and headed out. My 6:00 a.m. departure assured a mid-afternoon arrival home. The drive was without incident, for the most part, aside from me growing increasingly hostile towards fellow drivers as I-80 pressed on into central and eastern Nebraska. Nebraskans cannot drive. They don’t understand the concept of passing, changing lanes, establishing a consistent speed, etc. I don’t know if it is simply too much to handle intellectually or what. They just struggle. Where I needed to be patient, like a parent with a small child, I instead grew increasingly incensed. It culminated in something akin to “road rage” just west of Lincoln, where the masses of red-clad Huskers (“Go Big Red!”) were on pilgrimage to the Most Holy Place (Memorial Stadium) for worship (football as liturgy). I don’t know how many people I flipped off or how many invectives/expletives/”f@#&-you!”’s I yelled, but it was a little messed up. Where did all that come from?

            There is really no excuse, but I think that was probably my come down from five days of silence and solitude (yes, while I was in Boulder my last two days, surrounded by people and noise, I was still in my cocoon of anonymity and quiet…I could evade the people and the noise; here, I could not avoid the moronic drivers of Nebraska who could not seem to manage the 80 mph rockets they were “driving”). Re-entry never goes particularly well for me, so…yeah, this was not my finest hour, and thankfully no bodies or feelings were hurt except for my own. Seriously, the whole incident said a whole lot more about me than it did about the drivers of Nebraska. (To all of you…I’m truly sorry. It’s not you; it’s me.)

            Finally, the Missouri River was beneath me, and I rocked out to The War on Drugs’ new album, which put me in a slightly better place. I hammered the last couple of hours home, arriving, finally and triumphantly, at 4:00 p.m. (CST).  It was very good to be home.