Finding Peace on a Mountain
Just what is the relationship between geography and demographics? Moreover, what is the relationship between the natural characteristics & topography of a place and its inhabitants? These are the kinds of questions one might begin to ponder in an attempt to understand the forces that shape Missoula's culture and the politics and beliefs of its population.
Mountains can be catalytic, when climbing them. They can easily put the trivial, day-to-day minutia of our seemingly big and important lives into perspective in relation to geologic time and the scope of the universe. They provide solitude--room to breathe and reflect. They can change our thinking, rearrange our priorities, and bring us closer to what's truly important.
For the last several weeks I had been wondering just what I was doing living in Missoula. On top of being somewhat broke, there'd been no sunshine and the valley had been covered in a torpid air-inversion that refused to let up. The sky seemed to hang low and was like a gray blanket that separated the valley from the sun and clouds and fresh air. There was a stagnant smell of garbage and wood smoke and exhaust that had nowhere to go. The wind did not blow and the haze lingered on.
After a while, this begins to grind on people. I noticed my coworkers calling in sick more frequently, unable to find the ambition to get out of bed. I could tell that it was affecting me too. I'd often come home after work, during this time, and spend the rest of the evening on the couch, finding it hard to do anything more than read or watch movies.
Finally, last week, the inversion let up. There were patches of sun here and there, but no real signs of clear blue skies. It was still cloudy, but at least you could now see the clouds--no more haze. I started feeling better, but it wasn't until today, when I peered out the curtains at 8:15 to find a blinding sun and clear blue skies, that I felt inspired.
I hadn't been in the mountains for months, much less taken any other form of exercise, as my wife noted by pointing out my growing waist line. As I peered out my window, still blinking from sleep, I decided that today was the day that I'd start hitting the trails again.
After breakfast and coffee and a farewell to my wife who'd just come home from working a graveyard shift, I put my shoes on and got my dog, Reuben, ready by attaching his harness and leash.
"This is going to dramatically improve your mood," my wife said as I stepped out the door. It was about a quarter after 10:00 as I drove past the university. It seemed that everyone had been waiting for a day like this to get outside. Although it was still early on a Saturday, there were many people out on bikes and walking down the sidewalks on the outskirts of campus. I pulled into the parking lot at the base of Mount Sentinel and unloaded Reuben from the backseat.
The trail was still dusted with snow near the base of the mountain, but the earth was exposed enough to provide ample traction. As I climbed a little higher the snow began to thicken and I wasn't able to get a good deal of footing, though I wasn't paying much attention to my feet. The city was beautiful and white from last night's snowfall, and I had a hard time diverting my gaze from the surrounding mountains, peppered with snow-covered evergreens.
The sun was warm and, having literally not felt it for over a month, seemed unnaturally bright. I had to squint to look out across the valley. There was no doubt that I'd fallen slightly out of shape over the winter. When the cold and snow finally put an end to my trail running last November, I had been able to jog the switchbacks of the trail up to the "M" without stopping; now I was considering taking a breather at the top of the forth turn.
After reaching the "M" I sat down on one of the old railroad ties below the giant concrete letter. I took off my hat, which was soaked in sweat, and felt the wind and sun on my face. A familiar meditative thought process began settling into my conciseness, a result of the deep breathing demanded by steep-grade hiking and the gained perspective that accompanies any dramatic increase in elevation.
I let my heart rate settle. I recently went to a seminar entitled "Managing Stress From the Heart" where a cardiac specialist stressed the importance of allowing your heart rate to periodically return to normal during intense physical activity. He talked about an Olympic gold medallist who ran pentathlons up until the day he died of a heart attack. His problem wasn't his heart's adjustment to fast-paced workouts; rather it was his non-adjustment to normal activity levels. The athlete would work out all day and never allow his heart rate to come down to its regular level of functioning, thus his lack of heart rate variation made it as dangerous for him to sit on the couch as it would be for a couch-potato to get up and try to run a marathon. He died shortly after finishing a long workout session.
Looking down Hellgate Canyon, where cars on Interstate 90 wind through the country like modern day adaptations of westbound wagon trains on the Oregon Trail, halfway between the prairie and the pacific, I realized how slow 75 miles an hour can seem. From this perspective, nothing down there seemed urgent enough to drive that fast, or to drive at all, for that matter.
I closed my eyes and faced the sun, creating a red glow behind my eyelids. After a few minutes I opened them and looked across the canyon at the top of Mt. Jumbo. At this heightened state of awareness, the rolling, snow-capped mountains to the north seemed to glow with a vivid truth that can be understood only by people who've felt it.
A familiarity with this level of consciousness is common to many Missoulians. I have a friend who moved to Missoula from Addison, Alabama, a small farming community near the Appalachian Mountains.
"Would you ever consider moving back to the Appalachians?" I asked him one night over a beer.
"No," he assuredly replied. "I'm too connected to the mountains here. They're a big part of my spirituality."
I inquired as to the difference between these mountains and those around Alabama.
He mulled over this for a while and, after much thought, replied: "They just speak to me differently."
I didn't think much of it at the time, but that line has stuck with me. What I was experiencing at that moment, there on the side of Mount Sentinel, was, at a very basic level, communication--a connection to something bigger than myself. I took a deep breath and continued on up the trail, a rejuvenated sense of purpose flooding my thoughts.
Perhaps this sort of experience is a key contributor to Missoula's progressive culture. The Environment is important to Missoulians because many of them have very personal relationships with nature. This relationship translates into a broader value system, one that makes for a socially-conscious community. Those who choose to stay and make lives for themselves in this town certainly don't do it for economic reasons; maybe they do it for spiritual ones.
This revelation was confirmed when I reached the summit. It had been a hard climb, and towards the top I debated turning back. My thin trail runners were no match for the three inches of snow I encountered on the particularly steep final stretch. I was a little surprised to find another set of footprints in the snow, meaning that I wouldn't be the first person to reach the summit that morning.
The grade finally leveled out and I found myself on the top. I unleashed Reuben and he took off at an excited run, following his nose to a nearby tree.
I walked a little farther before spotting it--proof of this inexpressible experience that I've been trying to convey. There it was, imprinted in the snow at the end of the footprints: a giant peace sign, large enough to been seen by passing planes. I stared at it blankly before realizing its significance.
Everything I'd been struggling to articulate now seemed clear. I had the answer in front of me.
The equation is simple: Man + Mountain = Peace
Selah.
