by Jim Ginn

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound...

One shining morning in August, 1997, Jim Segaar and I confidently set out with ice axes and heavy backpacks to conquer the summit of Washington's second highest mountain, 12,280' Mt. Adams.  How hard could it be? We had summited the much more challenging Mt. Rainier the previous August. On this adventure we wouldn't traverse treacherous glaciers. We simply had to climb the volcano's south flank through remote coniferous forest and alpine meadows to the timberline, and then continue up a steep snow field to the summit. It was the same snowfield that, during the first half of the 1900's, miners had traveled with pack mules carrying sulphur from pits on the summit.

Our adventure began well.  Almost before we knew it we had climbed to the 9000' rocky plateau known as the "lunch counter".  Here, over the years, climbers had fashioned semi-sheltered camp sites amongst the boulders. We chose one of the best sites, and lightened our loads of any gear not required for the 3000' push to the summit. It was a great relief.

We laboriously stepped our way up the snow field, and hours later dragged ourselves to the summit, exhausted, but victorious.  As we arrived, the only other climbers that remained high on the mountain were heading down. We enjoyed our peaceful solitude relishing the views and snapping selfies in triumphant poses above the surrounding wilderness stretching in every direction far below. The only thing that tarnished the experience was a slightly sick feeling that we attributed to the stench of sulfur fumes from a volcanic vent nearby.

Soon we plunged in broad steps down to the 11,500' false summit where we paused for a rest. When the time came to move on, Jim Segaar didn't feel well enough to get up. He was seriously suffering from altitude sickness. In the waning hours of the afternoon, our situation had turned. And we were alone. With some anxious coaxing Jim mustered the mental and physical strength to resume our descent. With each foot of decreasing elevation the effects of his illness gradually diminished, and my anxiety faded.  By the time we saw the setting sun reflecting off the roof of our tent we were practically leaping across the boulders.  We had made it!

Later as we lay on our sleeping pads gazing up at the Milky Way galaxy, we both felt a humbling sense of gratitude and awe...and for me an increasing ache that signaled the existence of a stress fracture. By morning I could scarcely bear weight on my bruised and swollen foot.  Our remaining descent would be slow and painful.

I can't remember when it finally dawned on us that we were off trail.  Perhaps it was atop the rocky cliffs that we hadn't navigated on our ascent. Using my ice axe as a crutch we carefully lowered ourselves through the rocks to an unfamiliar, unmarked plateau. Lost.

For the first time in my life fear overcame the Whiteaker restraint in me, and I let fly with long-repressed, visceral curses mixed with earnest prayers for deliverance.

"Bring us home!"

"You must change your life."

"But how?"

Silence.  There are times when you can hear your own heart.

With no map, but with hope and a compass, we pressed on. We came upon a trail. We chose the correct direction. We found our way. And we forged ahead to even greater adventures.

Life's inner wilderness experiences, even more than actual ones, provide profound challenges and opportunities. Through it all, I would like to believe that the weathered varnish of my smug religiosity is gradually stripped away freeing my soul to sing with ever clearer resonance those beloved familiar words. "I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see."  Because, for me, this Grace is less about a one-time miraculous act of deliverance, and is more an open-ended, often gritty becoming.

"Dear God, what the #%&@ just happened? Please help me learn to see. Amen."

by Justin Elder

During the time my wife, Hannah, and I taught English in southern Japan, several colleagues and their wives took us on a weekend hiking trip. This was the second time we had all gone hiking together and Hannah and I kind of knew the routine: stay the night at a quaint mountain hut, go hiking the next morning, sightsee in the afternoon, then drive home.

 We arrived at our hut late that Friday night and ate a hearty dinner of plants and mushrooms that grew wild in the region. The next day we had breakfast, went on a rain-logged hike and then piled into the car for the sightseeing. Our first stop was a pottery-making village hidden deep in the forested mountains that had preserved the same ancient production practices for thirteen generations. But this, apparently, was not the highlight of our trip.

After leaving the pottery workshop, we drove for hours and hours through circuitous mountain roads. Hannah and I were exhausted and ready to be home, but our colleagues promised that our next stop was more or less on the way. Finally, we stopped at what looked like a gift shop cum highway rest area. The rain that had dogged us all day had cleared and we could see that this gift shop was on the top of a high cliff, with views all the way to a large, semi-active volcano in the distance.

There was no obvious reason we were there, and I thought someone had to use the toilet or the driver needed some coffee, but it turned out that this gift shop was our destination. I asked the history teacher what we were here to see and he said, “the view.” So I looked. It was kind of hazy with brown hills, and in the distance was a brown volcano. It wasn’t a particularly impressive volcano, just brown rock. Nothing like Mt. St. Helens with it’s apocalyptic grandeur or the fiery show of Hawaiian volcanoes. Only some hills and brown rock. We had driven for three hours to look at some hills and some brown rock. I was unimpressed. Of course I was too polite to say so, but I was very disappointed. Our Japanese friends were oohing and aahing at the view, so I asked them in the politest Japanese I could muster, “what do you like best about this view?”

“Take a look, Justin. You can’t see any towns. You can’t see any roads. You can’t see any people,” said the gym teacher’s wife.

“This is very rare in our country and this spot is one of the few places in Japan where you can see such an expansive view and see no evidence of humanity,” added the history teacher.

And then I understood. We had driven this far to leave civilization. To enter into a precious wild place. A place made all the more special by its singularity on a crowded island. Having grown up taking annual family vacations to the Black Hills, Ozarks and Rockies, I had acquired a deep love for remote places, but true wilderness had evaded me in Japan until then. I had forgotten how much my soul craved it.

My own relationship with the wilderness is hard to define. I know, simply, that I need it. Being alone in the wild is a form of prayer to which I do not know the words, but my spirit knows the rhythm. This need to be in a wild place does not go away just because of the absence of those places; it must be satisfied.

Even if we do it with our backs to a gift shop.