Living in fear - April 19 and 20

I have often struggled against my mind's desire to over-analyze every detail it can latch on to. This struggle has caused me far more pain than elation, and though I have tried to calm it through various remedies, as far back as I can remember I have always been bombarded with images of plane crashes, of giant spiders inhabiting my bed, and of broken bones from dastardly falls. It seems my imagination loves to conjure up thoughts of events so dire that I become focused on their remote possibility and forget to enjoy the view.

One of the main goals of this journey is to stop fearing the worst and start living in the moment so that I can see as events and beauty unfolds before me. I have found that if I focus on the laws of probability I am calmed, as my mind cannot dispute percentages.

It is with this perspective that I entered into Joshua Tree.

The sounds of campers setting off for day hikes through the trails of Cottonwood roused me from my sheets and I groggily stuffed my backpack to join them. Walking down the dusty path towards a grove of giant palms miraculously living off but a trickle of water, I was met with a sobering reminder of the true inhabitants of this valley. Placards illustrated how the Indians, much like their plant life counterparts, once carved - literally, as seen by the foot deep bean masher holes painstakingly worn into the granite - an existence out of this desolate rock before settlers killed them off or created a dependency to an unnatural drink before marching them through tears to reservations.

I believe that in one of my past lives I lived as an Indian and that my days were spent bounding over hills and boulders tracking after game. This would explain my love of straying from beaten paths and it was through this joy of climbing and exploring that I was led to the highest point within view, a 120 foot climb over boulder and cacti to a perfect sitting spot atop a blustery hill.

Listening to the gales atop this outcropping of rocks I found peace knowing I was sitting in a spot touched only by a few souls, where no intervention other than nature resides. Sadly, my battle with an innate need to constantly move raged, and I was off on a pedestrian 3 mile hike to Palm Oasis.

The trail's paths and cliffs were too small to warrant any real adrenaline rush and so I hoofed it back to Bessie and drove off through Joshua Tree in search of more challenging terrain. Rounding a corner I was amazed to witness heaps of boulders, some upwards of 300 feet, resting peacefully in little piles. It looked as though an inquisitive God had just spent hours collecting and piling rocks, stone piled upon stone, and placing them in beautifully balanced stacks. Their place amongst the desert sand and brush made it look like they had been forgotten about, some cosmic calamity drawing attention away from their beauty.

I stopped to climb twice, each climb attempting to boulder as high as possible while avoiding death. At one point I climbed 40 feet wedged between two rocks and propelled myself to a point that caused my whole body to experience the spin my head felt.

Climbing these boulders I was struck with realization that much of what I was doing was for validation that it was possible, that I was capable of things the average person was not. All my life I have attempted to prove my worth, and climbing between those two stones, wedged like a brace, inching my way up between 3 feet of separation and 40 feet of height, validated that worth a little.

After a peaceful late afternoon drive north on route 66 I arrived at Navajo National Preserve and Mitchell caverns and fast fell asleep.

Invigorated by the climb the day before I woke determined to continue along my path of self challenge. I knew I wanted to see the caverns that made this area famous but was informed by a kind, middle aged couple from the Yukon Territories - like me traveling the US to see what the country has to offer - that the hike was a "guide only" tour. Hearing this I decided instead to climb to Lost Springs Oasis, a mile and a half trail that cut steeply into the mountainside.

After a half an hour of hiking I came to an area of dense vegetation that I could only guess to have been the oasis and lowered myself in. The tree's limbs and thorny cacti grabbing at my shirt, I crossed over a seep to see the path vanish up the hill and, since no sign had told me of the trail's end, I decided that I would continue on.

Climbing over boulders and cacti, up cliffs and across little switchbacks, I came to a spot where the path's clarity ended and broke off in two directions. I had already climbed over 1500 feet of elevation but desired to reach the peak, and though the true path had vanished, my innate sense of trails led me upwards into the cliffs.

During my climb up I was able to stand over various outcroppings - their views opening up my mind to the country below - until I finally reached a point that necessitated a hard decision: to go on meant to risk death as, if I had fallen, I would have surely been killed - or at least died a slow death from a broken, unmovable body - or stop here, 300 feet from the summit and 2300 up, and fail in my quest.

I decided on the surety of life and half climbed, half fell back down the mountainside trying unsuccessfully to avoid the numerous cacti grabbing at my clothes and providing resting spots for my weary hands. Chatting with the ranger back at the campsite I was disheartened to learn that the summit held on it a ledger and, had I made it up that last cliff, I could have signed added name to an achievement a select few could claim to share.

Twice now I have chickened out in favor of safety.

It has dawned on me though that perhaps being able to tell a tale of failure is better than having a tale of accomplishment told about you posthumously. Perhaps fear is just the mind protecting itself. Or, perhaps it is okay to push yourself to whatever limit you feel is challenging enough to elicit growth and awareness.