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January/February 2002 Spirituality
Silent Skies

by Jesse Wolf Hardin

A trip into the wilds has always been healing for the heart and soul, but never more so than since those events of Sept. 11....

An inexplicable quiet can be more disturbing than a loud noise. On the trail the sounds of jays and other birds is so commonplace, even constant, that one doesn’t always notice them— and yet we immediately go on alert anytime the forest chatter stops. It’s as if there were an ancient self awakened within us, an instinctual being that equates sudden silence with imminent danger, aware that the hushing of the squirrels most often means there’s a predator moving stealthily through our midst.

It was indeed an ominous quiet that brought me to a halt on that fateful morning, not an interruption of bird songs but a great silencing of the skies. It hit me as I sat leaning against my pack: for the first time in memory there were no aircraft crisscrossing the Gila sky. No buzz of small planes loaded with hunters searching for game. No distant roar of airliners to disturb the nesting of Eagles in the San Francisco canyon, or disrupt the reverie of hikers traversing the Hummingbird Saddle. No D.E.A. Cessnas on official backcountry flyovers, and no sonic booms from F-18’s practicing their maneuvers. On what proved to be a day of horrendous violence, life on the trail was strangely more peaceful than ever.

Coming “off the mountain” is seldom easy, returning to the expectations of family and friends, the responsibilities of making an income, the radio and newspapers announcing the latest threat to those forest ecosystems we thought would be there for us forever. Nor was there anything easy about descending to a deluge of images from the Sept. 11th attacks, and it was devastating to realize our reprieve from the annoyance of busy air traffic had been bought at the price of so many lives.

Pain, of course, is meant to be a helpful wake-up call. Whether it’s a blister where a boot collar rubs an ankle or a lover’s wounded heart, pain calls on us to identify the threats to our well being and the sources of our problems, to soothe where it hurts, to heal and repair what we can. And it’s the same with this ongoing national tragedy, as the pain of it grabs our attention and helps us focus on what we need to do or change.

People who have gotten lost and come close to starving, survived falling down a glacier or had some other kind of “near death” experience report how enlivened they felt right after. Water tastes sweeter, food seems infinitely more magical, and nothing is taken for granted. The girlfriend or boyfriend who worried while we were out, seems like an angel again. Grudges and riches feel less important, the disappointments and trials of existence less daunting. For a time I think our whole society will be like a family dealing with a common threat, walking hand in hand through a particularly dangerous river crossing, or struggling to stay on the trail at the onset of dark.

Wildlands come with their own dangers, but as recent events prove, neither is there any such thing as complete “safety” at work or at home. What a relief it is for us to voluntarily face innocent risk instead of an intentional evil. Or to be allowed to survive our minor mistakes and thus learn from them, and one day tell their illuminating story over the campfire to others.

The third week of September found me once again following a pinon-topped ridge— not to escape but to reengage, to measure the capacity for redemption against the yardstick of towering mountains and unfathomed lakes. I felt impelled by events and powers that were beyond me, enticed to leave the relative security of established routes, drawn past the last dated and faded Forest Service signs to where the forks are never marked, and the choices always mine.

In the confusion of these times, our hours in the wild offer us unparalleled clarity. No matter which path we take, the view is inevitably better after several hours of busy feet and a resting mind. Even at the lowest point of a Southwestern canyon, in a way we’re able to see further than ever before. This has always been the gift of the land: the widening of our creature eyes, and the further opening of our human hearts.

“It’s not the same world it was before the attacks,” we’re heard the commentators say. But it is the same world we’ve always known: informative and challenging, precious and imperiled, inspirited and wild. Endangered wildlife still need us to find ways to protect them from forced extinction. The places we love are under more pressure from developers and despoilers now than at any time before. And the unpaved mountains and deserts still need our presence and praise, our laughter and our love. Among all our other personal and communal duties, we owe it to ourselves and the living land to continue getting out and hiking it. Helping it. And learning from it what it means to be so connected and responsive, grateful and alive.

 Jesse Wolf Hardin is an acclaimed teacher of Earth-centered spirituality, and author of Kindred Spirits: Sacred Earth Wisdom (Swan•Raven, 800-366-0264). Wolf offers intuitive counsel, wilderness quests and retreats, and resident internships at their riverside sanctuary. Contact: The Earthen Spirituality Project, Box 516, Reserve, NM 87830 www.concentric.net/~earthway.