September 2004
On the Trail Find the Path
by Stephen Altschuler
Odd to think of a hiking trail as a friend and guru, but for 20 years, one such wilderness place has been that for me. For six of those years, I trekked Sky Trail four or five times a week, all year long, in rain, fog, sun, wind, under moon and in total darkness. I came to it depressed, angry, sad, buoyant, down with cold, wounded in knee, sore in back, sick with anxiety, juiced with excitement, and joyous. Human friends, preoccupied with their own lives, sometimes shunned me during the harder of these times. My angst stirred them too much, I guess, so they were no more available to me than the distant Farallon Islands, visible out in the Pacific on clear days from Inverness Ridge. The trail, though, was always there, whatever the trouble, whatever the time, steady as stone, alive to the beat and swing of my body, receiving my monologues, offering refuge from a busy, noisy world.
Like Zen masters I’d practiced with, this trail did not absorb my sufferings but rather showed by example the possibilities inherent in being total. It showed how to lead with heart and see soul in every moment, in every activity, in every perception. The Zen master could do this because he truly knew himself, and, knowing himself, decided to take the Bodhisattva fork in the road — choosing not to use this knowing just for his own salvation but also to help others. Entering his chambers was like being in a room with mirrors on opposite walls, like being in my parents’ bedroom when I was young and, looking into one mirror, seeing image after image of myself receding into infinity. Looking into the Zen master’s eyes, I could not escape myself. This is true of the trail as well.
Sky Trail. A name that I’m sure someone thought reflected its altitude, with panoramic views of the bay, estuaries, and Pacific Ocean from the highest points. But to me, the name Sky Trail is more about boundaries and limits, and specifically the lack of these. In human terms and conventions, Sky Trail has a beginning and an end — but it truly has no limits. Trail signs measure its distances from point to point, and lines on maps delineate its topography and boundaries, but the true nature of this trail is connoted by its name.
...The trail is Earth itself, and it has a language all its own — a language ripened after millions of years. But it has more than a language, more than something that changes and evolves. It has a core, an essence that does not and never will waver. That marrow draws me to this trail and gives me hope that my own essence, sequestered somewhere inside me, may someday blossom in full light.
On Sky Trail, I’ve seen glimpses of this core that connects me so completely to all of life. There, the thinking mind often quiets enough that I begin to notice my feet walking and supporting my upright body (a great blessing to be aware of such an ancient and decidedly human activity!). I notice my breathing on the uphill sections. The weight of my body is less burdensome on my forward momentum as my arms swing like pistons powering me upward. As I sustain the connection with the trail, time stops. Real walking begins....
Sky Trail is a place where I trust myself. I don’t have to check on myself there and ask myself if I’m being myself. I just am who I am — a walker who at that moment in time is a part of the trail. I can never be as much a part of the trail as the lupine, or iris, or coyote bush, or fence lizard, or lumbering stink beetle, but I can live without being a burden to myself, without all the time wondering how I’m doing. Few places allow me to be as much myself as here. Perhaps one or two people in my 50-plus years fit that unique bill, offering safety, trust, comfortableness, acceptance. And as with those people, I return often to Sky Trail.
At times, I walk the trail slowly, like Thoreau’s “Sainte-Terrer, a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander.” In “Walking,” from his Natural History Essays, he goes on to say, “They who never go to the Holy Land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds: but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean.” At these times, I am unafraid, regardless of storm or wind or torrent or darkness. Without fear, I am hopeful, peaceful, loving, and full of interest and passion. I am not consumed with myself — my worries, my shortcomings, my successes, my failures. I am aware of not feeling as burdened, of not creating suffering for myself in that moment, of being present, without even defining it as “being in the now” or, indeed, “being present.”
Without “my story” to preoccupy me, I can see the trail more completely. A monarch butterfly sips nectar on a thistle flower on a midsummer’s day. A family of quail crosses the trail like harried commuters in Grand Central Station. The palette of rich greens and browns and blues gathers after a winter storm. The tiny tick on my leg, planning a juicy meal but not yet embedded and engorged (yes, seeing can save one from suffering at times)....
With that embrace of selfless seeing, death is obliterated and life reaffirmed. Quietly, like the final stitch in an elegant embroidery, life is affirmed. The trail appears the same, as does the sky, the distant ocean, the forest, the flowers and mushrooms, yet the view is a wider and deeper one. Everything has changed....
Excerpted from The Mindful Hiker (DeVorss Publications) For more information, visit www.mindfulhiker.com or www.devorss.com
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