Going to the mountain to find life again

It was the last of my 2015 resolutions: "I love living in Arizona and enjoy being outdoors. Hike at least twice a month." Almost an afterthought to the other six, and certainly no stretch. That's just 24 hikes a year.

Has my life come to this? That I have to resolve to hike? That I have to clear my schedule to do what I love?

That I have to lose my job to be myself?

Valentine's Day, 2015. I've dropped my husband at work. Six and a half hours until the end of his shift, and I'm headed for Granite Basin Lake and Trail 261. Destination: the mountaintop.

Granite Mountain has always seemed like sacred space to me since I moved to Prescott Valley. As one orients to a new community, some landmarks are necessary, and mountains are visible boundaries. Granite Dells, Thumb Butte, the Bradshaws, Glassford Hill,Spruce Mountain, Mingus Mountain, the San Francisco Peaks in the distance. And Granite Mountain.

Rugged, bare Granite Mountain, where water and wind and earth and fire collide. I hiked it in April 2007, on a day with nary a care in the world, blue sky, artistic clouds providing a backdrop to the sand and rust blends of the earth and lush green vegetation.

Today was different. As if allegory for my life was necessary, the trail provided it.

The descent from a trailhead crosses from the real world into a mystic place, a wilderness where I could disappear forever if that was my intent. And today that thought lingers. Lots of people would know and care, but at this juncture, would it make that much difference? I resist the impulse to actually think through the answer.

Juniper and ponderosa pine, scrub oak and mesquite scents mingle to fill my lungs with the final border that my eyes and ears already have accepted. I am as alone as I will be today, and I am grateful.

Snow melt continues to create little water crossings through and over the trail. As the vegetation thins, bare winter trees turn to bare blackened trees. The fire zone. Here the Hotshots fought, just two weeks before their deaths in Yarnell. Here the fire blazed out of control, but storm and wind created no confusion or trap. Alligator junipers became charcoal monuments to a wilderness in a cycle of death and life. At one tiny rivulet, eroded granite soil shows a line of baby ferns, a fragile and unique ecosystem that will last just a few weeks.


Surrounded by burned trees,
Death.
But not quiet.
There a bee buzzes, a bird sings.
And in the distance, a mountain.
Granite. And water. Life begins again.

Out of darkness, light
Out of death, life.
The cycle continues.

The trail turns and steepens. Past the barrier fence that leads to Little Granite Mountain, and a certain alligator juniper. The one that serves as a monument for the Yarnell 19 (or is it 20 -- certainly the remaining young man's life is altered forever).

My last major hike didn't go so well. Heat, pollens and pace combined to set off my asthma. I pause for water and my inhaler before I start the climb. I write some notes, let two groups of hikers pass.

I lift up my eyes to the hills—
    from where will my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
    who made heaven and earth.

The opening two verses of Psalm 121 bury themselves in my head, an apt thought. Where does my help come from? Mike's surgery and my joblessness have left us reeling...what a strange transition. Will I find something better? How long before our finances will force my decisions?Will I have to grasp something for income and then look for a meaningful, fulfilling job later? How soon before Mike will return to work? When that happens, will he want to return to this or something more?

Back on the trail. Switchbacks and rock hopping to the top. I pass a group of local hikers, headed back down, hear a snatch of conversation about their weekly trek. Today is madness, they're saying, the Presidents' Day weekend free public lands crowd. One of them knows me from somewhere and stops to note, "If a few more people were on the top, Granite Mountain would fall over, making it much easier to reach the summit." I chuckle. I'm one of the not-so-often hikers who is cluttering up the trail today.

I make the decision not to climb around the summit to the trail's end, where the crowd will be. Instead, I will climb to the saddle and take a less known short hike to the back face, looking out over Williamson Valley rather than the lake. Hopefully, I will have a little more solitude.

Charred trees continue to surround the trail, occasionally seeing one that only took half a hit. One side dead, the other side still struggling and green. Is that me? Dead on one side, still struggling on the other? I take a broad view and realize the fire claimed everything in my view. The Valley of the Shadow of Death. Can I still recite the entire Psalm from memory. Yes. Because the valley part is a bit too close right now, literally and figuratively. What's next?

...I will fear no evil for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

I can't find any, but I know the burned soil and trees will give way to seedlings soon. It's the cycle of life in a forest:

Where there are trees, there will be fire;
where there is fire, there will be ashes;
where there are ashes, there will be seedlings;
where there are seedlings, there will be trees.

I'm tired, and my poetry is gone. I'm focused on reaching the top, and it's just a couple more switchbacks away. Oddly, the charred trees give way to bright white ones. The fire was hottest here, at the top, and all the bark is gone, but the fire raged past without charring the timber. Like a handful of transfiguration statues, the trees mark the turnoff to the north face. I drop my backpack and grab water and an energy bar.

The fire didn't completely claim this face. While some blackened trees are

evident, I'm surrounded by healthy green ponderosa, brimming with pinecones. Grassy hillsides and moss. I've passed through.

I'm alone for approximately five minutes before seven teenagers find the same turn. The main trail is the other way, I tell them. But one girl says she doesn't care -- this is beautiful. Music blares from their iPhones, laughter and friendly chatter surround me. For a moment, I am irritated. Then I realize -- it is the noise of life. I am surrounded by joy and life and humanity. The valley is gone. Celebrate...you are new again.

It is time to come down from the mountain. My eyes stray away from the dead trees surrounding me, and I keep finding signs of life. New prickly pear cactus. Tiny wildflowers. The bright mahogany branches of manzanita.


Through the dead parts, through the darkness,
Through the regrets, through the emptiness,
Until one by one, you find the living again,
And you move on.