Take being out in nature, for instance--you know, hiking, camping and the like. It's good for the soul. It's good, free, homeopathic medicine. But I kind of hate nature, kind of the way I hate fasting; it's a deprivation of what I am used to. What I like is what follows the deprivation, because it gives me a new appreciation for what I take for granted: hot showers, meals not eaten on a log, water from a tap, not sleeping the ground. Whenever I come home from some time in the woods, I feel like a King!
But being alone--it's hard, and necessary. It's hard because I love people, and I struggle with myself. It's necessary because I love people, and because I struggle with myself. It gives the time and space to work out the kinks and come face to face with the defects and weaknesses that become oh-so-apparent when there is no one around to distract you from or conceal them.
The first thing that became painfully apparent as I crossed the railroad tracks across from the banks of the Susquehanna and started up the mountain to spend a mini-retreat night in the woods was how very hard it is to dis-connect from technology, and just how much of my life is voluntarily and compulsively self-documented. I uninstalled the Facebook app on my phone when I arrived at the trailhead at the good advice of a friend, and instantly felt kind of...adrift. As an 'undocumented' sojourner left to just live the moments off-grid without capturing them, it was unnerving to think, "if something happened to me right now (fell, died, etc), who would know?" If a tree falls in the woods and you don't post about it, did it really happen?
Of course there was a kind of refreshing novelty to just existing (walking, taking a break, appreciating the sunset) in obscurity and without fanfare, if only for an afternoon and a night. This was what life was like before social media and Instagram, and how I remembered growing up and taking extended trips like this. As a teenager it was exhilirating to be hundreds of miles from home, miles from your parents and the nearest payphone (payphone!), with only your legs to carry you and pen and paper to get messages to friends once you reach a post office (hardly a form of 'instant' messaging). Each day was filled with those hidden moments you kind of just hold in your heart and your subconscious--the joy of a cheesesteak when you get into town, the morning fog hanging over Boiling Springs, the grandeur of being above tree line.
The second thing that became apparent, in a small way, was the dreadful feeling of complete responsibility for my well-being based on the choices I made and their consequences. It reminded me of a sign I saw once: Liberty = Freedom + Responsibility. If I got thirsty and drank all my water during the hike, I would have none leftover to cook with that night. If I took a steep section down with too much speed and sprained an ankle, there was no help-desk to call and no one to carry me out. If I wasn't paying attention and veered off-trail, I had to be able to find my way back (without a map). I don't watch much TV but there was a show called 'Alaska: The Last Frontier' that I really liked watching because it showed the reality of frontier life--the possibility of falling through ice while fishing, being mauled by a bear, having to chop wood constantly to keep from freezing, making sure you get the vegetables planted at the right time of year, etc.--that we often forget living, as I do, a domesticated, pampered existence.
Thirdly, I never realized how very distracted I am, how I surround myself with distractions to shield myself from the hum-drum ordinariness of everyday existence. When all that is stripped way or minimized, you're left with the basics--cooking, eating, washing, reading perhaps, prayer, sleeping, and rising. Rinse and repeat. It's refreshing...and eventually gets to be kind of, well, mundane. When you are alone, and no one else is around--well, it can be uncomfortable to sit with yourself. When I arrived at the shelter around 4pm I cooked, ate, washed the dishes, read a little, prayed a little, built a little fire...and climbed into my sleeping bag around 6:30 because there was nothing else to do. I ended up falling asleep before the sun set and slept about eleven hours. Which is where the next, slightly dicier, leg of my retreat commenced--two hours before dawn.
I had to be at a work event in Harrisburg by 7:30am Friday morning, which meant I had to make it to my car by 7am. There was just one problem I hadn't really considered at the time: the sun didn't rise until 7:30, which means I would be making the descent down the mountain in complete darkness.
Now, when I say mountain keep in mind this is Appalachian range-level peaks, not 10,000ft+ Snow capped monsters in Colorado. Still, the hike up was rocky and followed a ridge line and required squeezing between boulders, not super demanding, but no walk in the park. To boot, a recent rain and leaves everywhere made the path slow-going and slippery. And this was during the day. When I rose at 5:30 and packed up the rest of my food out of the bear box, it was pitch black, save for a dull yellow hue from the moon. I had bought a $7 headlamp at Walmart right before the trip, and I was glad I did--it was the only thing that separated me from complete darkness in the middle of the woods.
As far as wilderness hiking trails go, the Appalachian Trail is pretty domesticated and well maintained, and so the path is somewhat worn by the thousands of thru-hikers and weekend warriors that had trod this way before. White blazes marked on the trees every few hundred yards help keep you on the path. As I made my way slowly down the mountain in the pitch black, though, I could only see a few yards in front of me.
It was weird--I knew that if my headlamp went out, I would have no clue whatsoever where I was, and would be essentially blind. The darkness became for me an analogous existential blanket in which life was reduced to the only things that mattered at that moment: the light of my headlamp (faith in Christ), the white blazes on the trees explicitly marking the way (Holy Scripture and doctrine), and the subtle trodden path (Tradition, and the way of the saints who have gone before us).
Every now and then my light would catch a glowing set of eyes in the darkness and I would freeze. A black skunk or some other animal would scamper off after our standoff, the way demons flee for cover when the name of Christ is uttered.
When my mind would wander, I would occasionally look up and find myself off the path, which is no big deal in the light of day, but when you can only see a few feet in front you and you are relying on blazes to get you home, it becomes an issue. At those points I would backtrack until I reached a blaze I had already passed. It reminded me of the gracious gift of the sacrament of Confession and Reconciliation, that saves us from forty years of wandering in the wildness, lost in sin, and restores us to grace so we can get back on the path and continue making our way home.
And in the dark, it was easy to lose the path--its not paved, there's no guardrails, only a subtle tamping down of leaves and soil that is almost indistinguishable in the dark from the surrounding woods. It is easy to get off course. If it weren't for following those who had gone before (the saints), I would be lost.
At certain points on the descent, the trail was a sheer drop off, to the point that I got dizzy if I looked down to the specs of cars on the highway below. With wet leaves and skree, I needed to keep my eyes fixed on the path to keep from taking a spill and tumble that would probably break my back. To keep our eyes fixed on Christ when the world draws our eyes away from Him is a matter not only of focus, but of steadfast survival. The words of Fr. Lazarus El-Anthony, a modern anchorite in Egypt, came to mind: "Out here, no one speaks my language. I have no countrymen...I have no one, no one to help me. If I take my eyes off Christ for one moment, I am completely lost." In our domesticity, we tend to lose sight or forget the intensive spiritual battle for our souls going behind the scenes. Moments like these, which force me to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and nothing more, remind me of this.
When I came upon sign junctions--in this case, where the obscure blue-blazed side trail shortcut I took met up with the white blazed main trail, I was reassured I was on the right path and could gauge how much farther I had to go. These reminded me of the consolations of the Holy Spirit, the people and situations which confirm our decisions when we are in doubt. Like the memorial altars of the Israelites, they strengthen our resolve and bouey our doubt, another gift of grace.
Finally, completing the hike down in tact, and coming to my car as the sun was rising above the river, I was grateful--grateful for the undistracted time, grateful for the sweat soaked t shirt and sore ankles and aching back, grateful for a cup of coffee, grateful to be able to see my family, grateful for my faith, and grateful to be alive. Which is, I suppose, the fruit of retreat.
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