Unknown Journey

I live in Northern Arizona at the base of the San Francisco Peaks.  The peaks are all that remain of the rim of an ancient volcano.  The highest is Humphreys Peak, 12,633 feet (3,851 m).  For eight years I have lived against the backdrop of these majestic sentinels watching over Flagstaff, but I knew little more than my gleanings from casual conversations.  For example, they are considered sacred by the Hopi, Navaho, and other local first nations.  Another time, two friends recounted the harrowing story of being catch above the tree line during a lightning storm.  With hair charged with static electricity, they crawled through the boulders to the tree line while static electricity snap at their dog’s tail.  Still others reported about the incredible view from the summit.  After years of second-hand stories, I thought I had a pretty good understanding the mountain.

In the fall of 2006, I felt that God wanted me to climb Humphreys and pray over Flagstaff.  I set a day and prepared for the hike.  Fortunately, I asked for some pointers from Jeremy who had previously made the climb.  He looked at me with care and concern.  “Are you sure you want to do this?  It’s pretty strenuous hike.”  I assured him that I was sure and continued to press him for any advice he could offer.  “You need plenty of water, a coat, food, flashlight…”  As I listened, I was embarrassed by my ill conceived plan.  With forged confidence I thanked Jeremy for his suggestions, and scrambled to gather my neglected supplies.   Then with new confidence I anticipated the journey.

I drove up to the trail head at Snowbowl, parked and headed across the meadow toward the trees.   I look up at what I thought was Humphreys Peak trying to convince myself that it wasn’t that high or far.  Unfortunately, when walking a new trail, the pictures we form and cling to can be more fantasy that reality. 

The trail was well groomed, but random roots and rocks were rude reminders to watch my step.  The steep descent softened by switchbacks inviting me to settle into the journey.  The sounds of town life, iPods and cell phones gave way to wind blowing through pines, an occasional jay warning of about my intrusion,  and twigs snapping under feet of escaping creatures.  For an hour or more, I enjoyed the solitude.  At eleven thousand feet a sign was posted informing hikers they were at the tree line. Encouraged by my progress and feeling that I had enough strength to complete the trip, I quickened my pace.

Breaking out of the trees I saw my destination above me and to the right.  As I climbed, I studied the mountain.  I was baffled.  I could see the place where the ski lift stopped at the base of the peak, but no clear trail past the lift.  I passed it off, figuring the trail would emerge when I got to the base of the peak.  I continued to climb.  Soon, an older man passing me as I lost energy and my pace slowed.  I don’t remember how long I scaled the treeless mountain, but I do remember that the internal dialogue changed from peaceful reflection to an argument about whether God had really told me to make the trip, and whether I needed to go all the way to the top to pray.  Wouldn’t God hear my prayers from any place on the mountain?  But I just kept climbing.

Finally, I reached the saddle.  At the saddle, I could see the familiar peak off to my right, and a smaller peak to my left.  In front of me was the volcano’s crater reclaimed by pines and aspens.  Behind me was Flagstaff, Williams and the descent to the desert floor—it was truly an amazing view.  It seemed like a good place to pray; fueling the debate about the need to go all the way to the top.  Especially, since I still could not see a trail to the peak on my right.  As I pondered what to do, the energetic man from earlier appear from behind the peak on my left.  While I did not want to show my inexperience, I seriously needed some advice and directs.  “How do I get to Humphreys from here,” I asked.  He told me that it was about 45 minutes from where we were.  Pointing to the left he said, “Follow this trail around this peak you see.  Humphreys is the third peak from here.”  “Third peak… to the left,” I was stunned.  Truly a paradigm shifting moment if there ever was one!  Still trying to hold onto some dignity as a hiker, I asked him what the name of the peak to our right was.  “Agassiz.”  Years of assumed knowledge evaporated… I had been totally wrong!  My guide said his good-byes and wished me well on the final leg of my journey.  Pushing off my embarrassment, I decide to finish the trip.  45 minutes wasn’t that bad.  Little did I know what lay ahead of me!   With renewed hope that I could complete my pilgrimage, I headed off with new directions and a new picture of my journey forming in my mind.

 For several hours I had climbed a trail cut, carved and groomed by skilled human hands, but now the trail was shaped and determined by the whims of the mountain.  Boulders refused to allow any human built trail.  Rather, a thin boot trod ribbon worn its way between the boulders and then would disappear when the rocks covered the dirt.  The best that those who had gone before me could offer was to place rustic poles eye distant apart showing the general direction of the path.  Even with these markers, several times I found myself totally off the path and having to retrace my steps looking for the trail markers.

In addition to struggling with the rugged trail, I was beginning to feel the effects of the altitude.  I could only walk a few hundred feet before having to stop and gasp for air—time was running out.  If I was going to complete my journey by dark, I needed to quicken my pace.  Difficult trail, unsure goal, gasping for air, and fear about my time table gave power to the voices calling me to turn back.  Besides, how did I really know if God spoke to me!  Spiritual promptings and eagerness gave way to plodding—one step after another, mind numb, duty not passion moving me on.  The promised 45 minutes passed and then an hour before I saw Humphreys ahead.  It wasn’t more than 1000 feet ahead, but my pace had slowed to a few feet before stopping for air.  It took me five hours from car to summit—no record. 

I refigured my time and decided I had 45 minutes before starting down the hill.  I settled in to listen for the Lord.  I took a few pictures, sign the log recording my achievement, and found a place overlooking Flagstaff.  With no one else at the summit, I read several Psalms of worship and interceded for the area.  The solitude engulfed me and I believe that God talked to me about the area and the spiritual battle that raged over it.  But just like my naive ignorance about the climb, I was equally surprised by what the Lord told me.  I had come to the mountain with a preconceived idea of the conversation I would have with Him.  I was sure that I knew the enemies and the issues that needed addressing.  I was wrong.  In silence, I walked down the mountain:  stunned by my journey, embarrassed by my ignorance, and overwhelmed by my faithful God.

This journey has come back to me in the last several months as a metaphor for how I travel through life: confident about my destinations and then shocked when the future is not as I expected.  When we closed the Vineyard August 31, 2008, I felt I had a pretty clear picture of the future.  While I didn’t have another church to go to, or a new ministry to dive into, I was confident that a season of grieving and refreshment would prepare us for the next great adventure in ministry.  I have been very wrong.  The grieving has been long and agonizing, and refreshment has been minimal and quickly dissipated.  There have been some great sights along the way along with meaningful experiences.  I have even been able to minister to a few individuals.  But the peak was not where I thought it would be, and I plod through each day without a clear picture of my destination. 

This last week I made it to a saddle.  I actually thought it might be the summit I have been seeking for two years, but it wasn’t.  It appears that the next leg of the journey is through a boulder field to another unknown place.  My sinking heart has given way to a new plodding.  Someone might say, “why not turn around?”  There have been times I would have, if I knew what turning around on a metaphorical trail looks like.  Unlike my mountain trek, there are no u-turns in life.  I can wander around this place or take off in some random direction, but that doesn’t seem to be the best choice, so I gave myself a few days to experience this moment with its pain, confusion and frustration.  Now I am back on the trail heading toward a destination know only by my God.  I am motivated by a tenacious determination to trust my God.  I am a little numb and have given up forming pictures of my future:  A step at a time, one foot in front of the other, gasping for air, determined more than exuberant.

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