In Search of Higher Ground

							L. Addison Diehl
                                  In Search of Higher Ground

I wake up in a city in which I am a foreigner. At first, I stumble across the room to adjust the

thermostat that ensures absolute control of climate. More sure of my surroundings as a world of

dreams recedes into dim memory, I look out the window of my second-floor room to this view:

gray clouds form a seamless canopy over the entire metropolis. I discern the city skyline in the

distance—a sharp peak here, the singular shape of a sphere atop a tower there—and, as I stare,

the dreary canopy of clouds meets the silhouette of the skyline. Distinct lines dissipate as the two

merge into one. This interminable cloud cover teasingly promises rain but rarely delivers more

than an oppressive blanket of wet heat. Long avenues lined with silent houses and rows of neatly

pruned trees are all that mark the distance between the cityscape and me.

July 26—Sangre de Cristo Mountains, Colorado

I come down from the mountain where I have been hiking today. At first, I stumble across the

moraine, or glacial rubble, that comprises the shore of a mountain-top lake by which I earlier

sunned myself. Surer of my footing as I descend from the rocky path, I look out to this view:

dark storm clouds, hanging low in the sky, reach far to the west. I discern the outline of a distant

range, and, as I stare, rolling clouds meet the rolling silhouette of the San Luis Mountains.

Distinct lines dissipate as the two merge into one. Golden yellow stretches out across the valley

floor, beneath the dark canopy threatening to release its summer rain. Dark outposts of lone

trees and silent houses, and perhaps an unseen farmer are all that mark the plain.

I recall this view not only in reading the pages of my travel-worn diary but also in my mind's eye.

By the time I am done reading, I realize I inhabit one of the silent houses that marks the distance

of the city from one end to the other, and the trees just beyond the window in the yard are as




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regimented as those next door. And, in a way, the house, the trees, and I are no different than the

dark outposts on the plain: the lone trees, the silent houses, even the tiny farmer. I identify with

them in their solitude. At last, I become them in my mind as I return to the page.

July 27—Crestone, Colorado

On the western horizon, a great, fiery ball descends slowly, igniting the valley with its scorching

glow. Every ridge and peak is bathed in endless blue as the sun dips behind the distant

mountains. The familiar silhouettes are all I can see as the day's last shafts of light pierce my

eyes. The now-amber fields pulse with the last breaths of day. It will not be long until twilight is

upon the scene. And, as though it is not enough that night creeps on, a mass of storm clouds

issues forth from the east, blanketing the valley and its lone trees and silent houses, suffocating

daylight. The blue mass of mountains becomes indigo, then black. The valley floor becomes

deep and dark. I can see only dimly as the great cloud hangs across the sky, conspiring with

dusk, so that night soon envelops me.

My eyes adjust to the dark—that is, the dark of the vast canopy around me now that dims even

the indirect sunlight. Does the mind awaken to darkness, though? Can it adapt to, or find its way

out of the morass of city life? Perhaps all I need do is look around me—to take in the exhibition

of survival skills demonstrated by those who prune the regimented trees, inhabit the seemingly

vacant houses, and till the soil with the latest garden tool. A lone tree or a silent house on the

plain has little with which to compare itself, and the solitary farmer has far to go before he finds

company. Such a vast landscape promises freedom but invites loneliness. Still, company can be

difficult.




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July 28—La Garita Wilderness, Colorado

My companion and I have had a long day hiking. We pick our way carefully on a path that is

little more than a barren slope of rock. The fields of sharp stone—scree, are the only evidence

left of a violent scene of a glacier's tearing its way down the mountainside in an age long since

past. It is a struggle to cross this terrain with heavy packs, and the wind seems to blow

ceaselessly. Finding shelter in a high alpine canyon, we look for level ground on which to pitch

the tent.

        "This. Here," I insist, pointing to a patch of ground at the edge of a piney grove.

        My companion insists otherwise. "Under the trees." We are deadlocked.

        Weary, I accede, and we fall asleep on rocky ground under the protection of the pines

that tower above us.

I have had a long day traversing the city in search of company. The land is full of empty smiles

and even-emptier eyes, the only evidence of a people once vibrant but now dull, made so by the

slow, grinding process in which not only everything but also everyone becomes mechanized. It

is a struggle to avoid this relentless march of progress. It occurs to me that the skyscrapers of the

city rise up, from a human vantage point, much the same way as the towering pines. In the city

of such tall buildings, the conditions are rocky in a different way, though. I struggle to traverse

the territory not in search of a place of rest but a source of fellowship. The lone trees and silent

houses of the plains are laid out in multitudes here in the city. Yet I feel I have few with whom

to compare myself and seemingly far to go before I find company. This vast landscape promises

freedom but invites slavery.




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July 29—La Garita Wilderness, Colorado

The sun is up. I finish making breakfast on the small backpacking stove. My body is warmed by

the food and drink, and I begin to move about, picking up camp. I fill my bowl and cup with

stream water from the canteen, rinse them carefully, and drain the water in a small hole I dig

and then cover over. I relieve myself in a similar hole, away from camp and further away from

the stream, and cover it over. I take care to see the ground of the camp is clear of any litter, then

strap on my backpack and canteen. I tie a bandanna around my neck so that I don't become

sunburned. This is how I prepare to set out hiking each morning.

In this silent house, sitting among multitudes of similar houses, a different companion, a far more

foreign one, walks into the room, looks at me, drops the daily paper and then an empty soda can

in the garbage can and leaves the room.

       "Hey!" I say.

       There is no answer.

       I rise from the kitchen table at which I am breakfasting, cross the room, remove the

newspaper and aluminum can from the waste bin, and set each in one of the adjacent colored bins

provided by the sanitation department. It is a small offense, really. I write a short note, a terse

reminder, and tape it above the bin. Having eaten, I carry my dishes to the sink, eschewing the

convenience of a dishwasher in favor a less wasteful method. No hot water runs from the tap,

undoubtedly due to a luxuriously long shower the foreigner is presently enjoying. I leave the

dishes unwashed and assume my place as the one person waiting in line to use the bathroom.

When the opportunity finally arises for me to relieve myself, I do so taking care not to flush the

toilet. It seems to me that water, now becoming scarce in the long, dry summer, is a resource in

more need of protection than the sanitary disposition that arises from quickly removing from


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sight any trace of human waste. The moment I leave the bathroom, the foreigner returns to finish

a job he thinks I left unfinished. Behind me, I hear water whirl around before gushing through

unseen pipes. I steel myself for further, major offenses to a natural system that is characterized

by delicate balance. I burn with the angry knowledge that I am a part of a terrible imbalance.

This is how I start each morning in the city.

July 30—La Garita Wilderness, Colorado

The warm season, when the melt drains into creeks and only a few snow packs dot sheltered

slopes, is preciously short. It is long enough only for the few plants hardy enough to withstand

the winter climate to grow, blossom, and seed before being buried again by the ice that will

blanket the land for nearly nine months. I have some idea of the brevity of the summer season,

even in the midst of it, as the sun dips behind clouds, and I don a jacket. The snow packs, distant

relatives of glaciers that once moved across this land, are further reminders of how cold it can

be. I join the few hardy plants that survive above tree line in a brief summer sojourn.

Like plants that root in rocky ground and struggle to beat the calendar of winter snows, the mind

can blossom and seed after a long, dark season. The plants have little company up so high in the

mountains, but the few that persist in their lonely struggle have a natural will to survive. The

mind also has a will to thrive, even in lonely pursuit of a distant dream; it realizes it must take

advantage of every opportunity to blossom, to see potentialities—both good and bad—and seize

any potential for change. The winter of the city is fast approaching, when the multitudes of silent

houses, rank-and-file trees, and lonely city dwellers will blanket the earth, a frozen shield of

civilization that intends to insulate humankind from the ravages of nature. Scattering caution to

the wind, I leave the empty city, struggling to beat the calendar which marks innumerable lonely

days representing an unthinking march toward a vain promise of victory over the natural world,


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which sees humanity for little more than it is: a very brief candle. I set out for the valley that

invites freedom and even company.

July 31—The Great Sand Dunes, Colorado

Sunlight beats down on my shoulders. I have been walking the endless dunes, shirtless, feeling

the stinging sand blow across my back and legs. I am trying to make my way back to the

trickling creek from where I started my journey, but every hill I climb seems to bring me no

closer. Dune after dune looks the same, and the only living things around me are scattered

clumps of grass frantically trying to root themselves in the shifting sands; they are hardly

noteworthy landmarks. I climb to one last crest and finally look out on the meager oasis from

which I started my journey. It is a welcome sight. It has been a long, hot journey, and I feel

burned. I take one, big step off the ridge and set into motion an avalanche of sand. Tumbling

forward, gravity pulling me down, I run faster, more recklessly with each step, until soon I am

soaring with great strides, my arms outstretched, in an exhilarating flight to the bottom.

I gently touch the pages of the diary. I wrote endlessly, struggling to escape the stinging effects

of a foreign way of life. The way was difficult. Row after row of silent houses all looked the

same, and the only living things around me seemed to be the avenues of trees frantically trying to

escape the confines of an imposed shape; they were hardly the landmarks for which I was

looking. I crossed one last vast expanse of the city and looked out on the vibrant valley from

which I started my journey. It was a welcome sight. It was a long, lonely journey, and I felt

scarred. I took one, big step and once again set into motion an exhilarating flight.




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