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Category: the natural world

Katahdin

Katahdin

Katahdin looms — imposing, intimidating, unnerving — its implausibly enormous bulk dominating the skyline.  Katahdin is no singularly outstanding feature of this wild landscape; it is the landscape, and all the rest — forest, stream, foothill, me — we all lurk in its shadows.

The enchanting voice of my Maine muse, Carolyn Currie, cantillates from the speakers of my Santa Fe: “Red hawk’s rising on the back of the wind and she’s circling with an answer and I finally understand how to begin.”  Red hawk’s rising.  I play the song again and again as I make my resolute approach to the campground and trailhead at the base of the mountain.  Red hawk’s rising.  It is my mantra, my rallying cry, my anthem, as I steel mind and body for the quest that awaits me.  I will not soar like a hawk on the back of the wind, but I do intend to rise.  If it will allow me, I intend to rise to the top of this fabled mountain.

Fabled, renowned, iconic, Katahdin surely is, but, today, none of that matters to me.  Today, Katahdin is not Pamola’s mountain or Thoreau’s mountain or even the mountain of innumerable Appalachian Trail thru-hikers celebrating the denouement of a two thousand mile odyssey.  Today, it is my mountain.  Even surrounded by dozens and dozens of other hopeful summiteers, I climb alone — not to conquer an adversary or meet a challenge or check off an achievement on some life list.  No, any such motive would demean, demystify, devalue the majesty of this mountain.  I climb not to overcome Katahdin, but to be deemed worthy of meeting it, of learning some of its secrets, of being welcomed for a few unforgettable moments into its numinous space.

The trail begins, beguilingly beautiful, following dazzling Katahdin Stream as it ascends gently among birch and spruce and hemlock until reaching fifty-foot Katahdin Stream Falls cascading over a series of granite ledges.  The impressive cataract is well worth the mile and a quarter hike from the trailhead.  Undoubtedly, many a casual Baxter visitor ends the journey here, contented with traversing this splendid wilderness path and rewarded by the spectacular visage of the falls.

Beyond the falls, the climb begins in earnest, ascending four thousand feet in five miles.  The trail is relentlessly steep, up and up and up, not walking a steady incline, but scrambling over ledges and boulders among scattered glacial erratics.  I feel strong and stronger yet as the path grows steeper, taking some pride as my sixty-something body overtakes more than a few twenty-something or thirty-something bodies along the way.

I emerge from the trees at the base of the Hunt Spur, the crux of a Katahdin ascent via the Hunt Trail which also serves as the terminus of the Appalachian Trail.  Steep and long and difficult, the Hunt Spur is a naked ridge of jumbled boulders — car-sized, bus-sized, boxcar-sized.  Though marked by blue blazes painted on the granite, the way up is not always clear; every step must be carefully puzzled out, clambering over and around and between the massive boulders.  The climb is physically demanding, but even more mentally exhausting.  The immensity of the mountain, the unsettling exposure, the demanding route-finding, and the unrelenting steepness make an ascent of the Hunt Spur a daunting endeavor.

And a profoundly satisfying endeavor.  I crest the top of the ridge and step out onto the Tablelands, a wide, flattish, tundra-like landscape.  I walk steadily, part of the long procession of hikers following the trail roped off on both sides to protect the fragile alpine ecosystem.  We wind our way over the plateau, pass Thoreau Spring, mount the short summit ridge, and we are there.

I am there, standing atop Baxter Peak, surrounded by dozens of other happy climbers, but still very much alone, alone surveying the breathtaking panorama — Pamola and the Knife Edge, Chimney Pond and the Cathedrals, alone steeped in the joy of this moment, alone celebrating this mountain which has now become a part of my story and I a part of its story, Katahdin, my mountain.

Waterfront

Waterfront

Cedar Campus is a thin place.  A “thin place” is what George MacLeod, founder of the Iona Community, called the Isle of Iona, a place, he said, where the separation between earth and heaven, between things material and things spiritual, is tissue paper thin.

Iona is what it is because of its long spiritual history, fifteen hundred years of intentional Christian presence on the island marked by the now restored abbey dating from the 15th century and a carved stone cross that has stood in place since 700 CE.  But Iona is what is it as much because of the island itself, the landscape, the white sand beaches and steep-sided coves, the boggy moors and heather-covered rocks, and the sea.  And the sea, the ever-moving, ever-changing, ever-present sea: blowing winds, crashing waves, dazzling sunlight piercing deep green waters.  God speaks through the wind and waves and the light.

Cedar Campus is a such a place.  Cedar Campus has its own “long” spiritual history.  For seven decades, people have come — university students and lecturers and InterVarsity staff members, site managers and summer work crew members and families, all of them drawn by the promise of a transformative experience of God’s presence, in song and Bible study and meditation and prayer, but equally in simply being in this “thin” place.  Like Iona, Cedar Campus is what it is, not as much by what people have made of it, but by what God has made of it, a kingdom of cedar and rock, awesome sunsets and amazing night lights, stars and galaxies and the shimmering aurora borealis.  And the water, the waters of Lake Huron, deep and wide and wild, only slightly tamed by the encircling shores of Prentiss Bay.  God speaks at Cedar Campus too through wind and wave and light.

The agenda for a time spent at Cedar Campus, whether a week or a month or all summer long, is communion, communion with God and with brothers and sisters, and the spiritual growth that communion may yield.  That is the agenda, but woods and bays and shoreline are the arena where that growth is nurtured.  So it is that hours spent in the water or on the water or by the water are not incidental, but vital, to the mission of Cedar Campus.  Time on the waterfront is time for communion, too.

The ultimate purpose of the waterfront program — getting campers in and on the water — is that communion with God that comes by immersion in a space of God’s own making, a space that exhibits God’s extraordinary artistry, a space that is filled with God’s own presence.  To make that experience profitable, the work of waterfront staff focuses on safety and proficiency and joy.  If you can be safe on the water and make your way with some knowledge and skill, you will find joy!

A swimming test is the entry point for all waterfront activity.  To get on the water, you first must get in the water.  The test itself is not demanding: a twenty-five yard swim, treading water for one minute, then swimming the twenty-five yards back to the starting point.  Easy, right?  Except that you must factor in the nature of the water in which you are swimming.  You are swimming in Lake Huron, a Great Lake, with waters deep and cold.  Water temperatures in the mile-long, half-mile wide inner Prentiss Bay around which the camp is situated vary widely, as cold as 48º F and as warm as 72º F depending on weather and wind direction, but most commonly between 56º and 62º F.  That’s cold!  58º is bracing, 54º takes your breath away and 50º hurts!  But that is the point of the swim test.  Waterfront staff want to make sure that if you do end up in the water while rowing or canoeing or sailing, you know what to expect and can take care of yourself without panicking.

Tests are offered at the start of each camp and are good for two years.  A member of the waterfront staff rows alongside each swimmer to be close by if needed.  Not a few swimmers have had to grab onto the gunwales of the rowboat, either too tired or too cold or too scared to continue.  As an extra incentive and reward, each camper who passes the swim test is entitled to an extra dessert at that evening’s supper. 

But the true reward of passing the swim test is access to Cedar Campus’ fleet of boats.  Cedar Campus maintains a large assembly of boats.  Several power boats are kept primarily for the use of staff: for monitoring and rescue during open waterfront times when many campers may be out on the bay; for transporting campers for overnights on Whitefish Point or Rover Island which sits between outer Prentiss Bay, two miles long and a mile wide, and Lake Huron itself; and for shuttling food and cooks to Sandy Cove for cookouts.

The boats available for campers include several rowboats, used for rowing or fishing, a half dozen or so canoes, used for exploring inner Prentiss Bay and Prentiss Creek at the end of the bay, and sailboats, fifteen foot, sloop-rigged, open cockpit sailboats.  Later, Cedar Campus added kayaks and Sunfish, small flat-hulled, single sail craft, and several larger daysailer sloops in the twenty-six foot range used by waterfront staff to give sailboat rides to campers and families.

Campers who have passed the swim test may take out any rowboat on their own or with other passengers who have also passed the test, all wearing PFD’s, of course.  These campers may also be passengers in a canoe or sailboat.  But to sign out a canoe, to paddle solo or to take out a companion, a camper must first pass a canoeing test, and to sign out a sailboat, a skipper’s test. 

To pass the canoeing test a camper, university student or family camper, must show a basic knowledge of canoe strokes — forward stroke, reverse stroke, “J” stroke or “C” stroke, be able to paddle the canoe in a straight line, and reenter a swamped canoe and paddle it to shore.  Again, the emphasis is on safety, proficiency, and joy.

The joy comes from paddling along the cedar-lined shores of Prentiss Bay on a sparkling summer day or a serene summer evening, perhaps exploring the creek at the head of the bay, drifting among yellow water lilies and navigating tight corners, or bringing along a pole to fish for perch and smallmouth along the shoreline or above underwater rock piles.  Some paddlers have even first met their future spouses in a Cedar Campus canoe!

Canoes, rowboats, kayaks, powerboats: all provide means to explore the magnificent coves and creeks, broad bays and rocky points of Prentiss Bay.  But the best way to enjoy the water and taste its wonders of wind and wave and light is by sailboat.  The power to move a sailboat does not come from any human effort, rowing or paddling, or from any human invention, outboard or inboard motor, but from God, from the wind itself.  The skipper of a sailboat must understand the wind, its direction and force; read the wind, see gusts, cat’s paws, roiling the surface of the water in their approach; anticipate the effects of land features on the wind; and always work with the wind, use the power of wind to propel the boat in the direction the skipper chooses.  Sailing is a science, but it is also very much an art, an art that requires not subduing the forces of nature, of God’s creation, but working in harmony with them.

To access the delights of sailing a boat at Cedar Campus, a prospective sailor must show the knowledge and skill to safely pilot a sailboat and demonstrate that by passing a skipper’s test.  The skipper’s test is more comprehensive than any other waterfront test at Cedar Campus, because the demands of sailing a boat on the open bays are greater and the stakes higher.  Weather may change quickly, winds shift suddenly, and, given the right conditions, the lake can generate large waves.  Waterfront staff carefully keep track of all boats when out on the bay, and have had to rescue many a sailing crew from a capsized sailboat.

The skipper’s test requires a sailor to know the names of the parts of the boat — bow and stern, starboard and port, stays and shrouds, rudder and tiller and centerboard; the names of the parts of the sails — leech and luff and foot, head and tack and clew; and the names of the lines on the sailboat — halyards and sheets and painters.  Knowing these names matters.  Shouting, “Grab that rope!” may be met be a look of bewilderment as your boat mate looks over all the lines draped around the boat.

A potential skipper must also demonstrate a knowledge of the points of sail — reach and run, broad reach and close reach and sailing close hauled — and explain how the sails would be deployed on each point of sail. 

This first part of the skipper’s test may be done on dry land or before casting off from the mooring, but the meat of the test comes, of course, in the sailing itself.  The prospective sailor must rig the boat, securing the mainsail to boom and mast, installing the battens and attaching the main halyard, clipping the jib onto the forestay and attaching the jib halyard, and raising the sails, then successfully casting off and moving away from the mooring.  Out on the water, the sailor must show competence in reading the wind and setting the tiller and trimming the sails accordingly, be able to execute both coming about and jibing, and be able to guide the boat to a standstill at its mooring.  The procedures for piloting a boat into the wind (in irons) at the mooring are the same for rescuing an overboard crew member. 

Some campers, not many, but some, come to Cedar Campus with considerable sailing experience.  But most who wish to know the joy of sailing must be taught.  Sailing classes are one of the highlights of the waterfront program during month-long discipleship training camps.  Eager university students spend time with a waterfront staff member, first in the recreation building learning sailing terminology and tactics, and then in the boats, carefully shepherded by staff either in the boat with them or following beside them in a powerboat.  Most advance quickly; learning to sail well is a lifetime enterprise, but it does not take long to develop good basic control of the boat, enough to be able to have a great time out on the water.

Sailing classes last one or two weeks.  Often, as a reward, sailing class graduates are permitted to sail a fleet of several boats out of Prentiss Bay and down the lake seven miles to Government Island, a state-owned reserve where the boats are landed and secured to pilings and a picnic lunch is enjoyed.  Sometimes, on the return trip, the boats might choose to circle a lighthouse situated in Lake Huron five miles beyond the mouth of Prentiss Bay.

Cedar Campus is a thin place.  Few leave Cedar Campus unchanged.  The spirit of God speaks here, through faithful teachers and dear companions, through quiet moments spent sitting or watching or praying, and through the powerful witness of its landscape and its waters.  Moments spent silently drifting through reeds in a canoe or slicing through waves on Prentiss Bay accompanied only by the whistling wind leave an indelible mark on the soul.  This thin place, its memories and its marks, remain a part of every person who comes here and a part of every place to which they go.

A different kind of communion

A different kind of communion

This morning, in the meeting of our Deer Isle Writers’ Group, we were prompted to write about an animal encounter. This is what I wrote …

 

I was a boy.  I was a fish, swimming and diving, exploring the cerulean waters of the remote Catalina cove.

I was there because of my father.  He came to mentor university students in the way of following Jesus and brought his family of five with him.  We had driven five days from Philadelphia to Los Angeles, then taken an hour shuttle across the bay to Avalon, where we were taken by launch to Gallagher’s Bay and Campus by the Sea.

Campus by the Sea was one of several summer leadership camps developed by InterVarsity Christian Fellowship.  There was also Bear Trap Ranch in Colorado and Cedar Campus in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and Campus in the Woods in Ontario.  I had been to them all with my father, but Campus by the Sea was my favorite.

Because it was rustic and primitive and wild.  We slept in tents, one-room half-walled wooden platforms with tattered canvas roofs and no amenities: no kitchen, no shower or toilet, no running water at all.  We used outhouses and ate in a common mess tent and had to keep watch for rattlesnakes and wild boar.  I loved it.

I was there because of my father.  And I was there, in the water, because of my father.  At the age of four, he taught me to swim and the waters — the clear and soothingly warm waters of Sebago or Winnepesaukee or Saturday Pond, or the clear and exhilaratingly frigid waters of Prentiss Bay on Lake Huron or Dog Lake in Ontario or Penobscot Bay — have been like a second home, another realm for me to live in and move in and be in, ever since.

I was a boy.  I was a fish, swimming and diving and exploring.  I spied something, something bright and shiny, maybe it was a bottle cap, on the bottom, five or six feet below me, and I dove for a closer look.  As I reached for that serendipitous treasure, I happened to look up.

And I saw and I was seen.

The truth of the matter was that I straightaway swam up and away in adrenaline-infused alarm, but that is not really the truth of the matter.  There was the moment of seeing and being seen, an almost timeless moment, sharing space, sharing consciousness, sharing being with something wild … almost endearing, almost a kind of communion, almost the making in that moment of a cross-species friendship, my face and its face just inches apart, I and the stingray.

What if snow were purple?

What if snow were purple?

What if snow were purple or pink
          or robin’s egg blue
painting every spruce and fir with a pastel palette
          pleasing perhaps but pert too pert?

Or what if snow were burnt umber or raw sienna
          or van dyke brown
a seamless segue from November’s leaf-strewn landscape
          to the sucking sepia sloughs of March?

But snow is white wondrously winsomely white
          winter dressed like a bride
earth adorned in beauty and light
          a promise made and kept.

Soul

Soul

Another poem, written today …

Soul

          wind, rock, shoreline, bay, mountain, island,
soul
          breath, horizon, ocean, headland, sun, tide,
soul
          Cadillac, Newbury Neck, Long Island, Naskeag, Isle au Haut, Megunticook,
soul

          what if soul is not contained within me
but me within soul?
          what if soul does not belong to me, “my soul”
but I belong to soul?

          what if I am what I appear to be
animated body: breathing, moving, lifting, eating, thinking, feeling, writing,
swimming, hoping, crying, laughing, reaching, growing, aging, dying, being?
          what if me is not some hidden, ethereal, immaterial , immortal soul
but what you see is what you get is me
          and soul, far from hidden, ethereal, immaterial, immortal
is like me, made of the same substance, made like me or me like soul?
          what if we are made not merely of the soil of the earth
but of the soul of the earth?

          when I look out from the outcropped granite on the southern flank of Blue Hill
          I do not merely see a view that pleases me
I see me,
          the me that is part of something much larger than me
soul
          and I am not merely in a place, but of a place
of this place

          wind, rock, shoreline, bay, mountain, island,
soul
          breath, horizon, ocean, headland, sun, tide,
soul
          Cadillac, Newbury Neck, Long Island, Naskeag, Isle au Haut, Megunticook,
soul
          in this moment, in this place, woods, pond, boulder, tree, you, me,
soul
          alike made of the soul of the earth
          in the image of God

Little Splat

Little Splat

A poem I wrote today …

Little Splat

silent and still and slow,
    very slow
        is this what it is like to die?
silent and still and slow,
    very slow?

I am here for joy
    for the joy of emerald water
        pouring and twisting among grey boulders
        churning over drops and plunging into holes and piling up in frothy mounds
    for the joy of the dance
        pas de deux, me and the river
        lean, glissade, pirouette
    for the joy of comradeship
        eight days and eight of us, two thousand miles of road and sixty miles of stream
        paddling and paddling some more, talking paddling and dreaming paddling
    for the joy of the adventure
        Zoom Flume and First Island, Little Splat and Wonder Falls, Wonder Falls!
        launching boat and body over the lip of eighteen-foot Wonder Falls, exult!

and now,
silent and still and slow,
    very slow

not able to breathe, but able to see
    seeing only the subaqueous darkness
not able to move, but able to feel
    feeling canoe and me stuck, stuck between rocks, between foot pegs and saddle
able to think, but silent and still and slow,
    very slow
no panic, no terror, no dread, no self-pity, no despair, no regret
    only silence and stillness and slowness
and watching, watching myself, watching myself from outside myself
    and wondering, wondering, wondering
        is this what it is like to die?

I try again to move
    and I am out

there will be no dying today
    no second-guessing or rueing or wishing myself somewhere else
because I am here
    because I am here
because I am here for joy!

Timothy Ensworth

 

(In April 1991, I traveled to West Virginia with seven other members of the Maine Appalachian Mountain Club whitewater canoeing group. Along the way, we paddled the Indian and Hudson rivers in New York, and Stony Brook and Dark Shade and Shade Creeks in Pennsylvania. In West Virginia, we ran the Shavers Fork of the Cheat, the Middle Fork of the Tygart and Tygart Gorge, the Upper and Lower Big Sandy River, and the Cheat River. This poem comes from my descent of the Lower Big Sandy and a capsize at Little Splat.)

Blue Hill

Blue Hill

This is living in Blue Hill …

Friday: Singing Ola Gjeilo, Morten Lauridsen, Karl Jenkins, Moses Hogan and more with the Bagaduce Chorale in concert at the Blue Hill Congregational Church.

Saturday: Reprise of Friday’s concert.

Sunday: Breakfast and worship at Deer Isle/Sunset Congregational Church in the morning, and in the evening, attending a recital in Deer Isle by Jillian Gardner, a twenty-six-year-old internationally acclaimed organist.

Monday: Kayaking in Blue Hill Bay, seeing ten seals swimming and sunning.

Tuesday: Sailing with friends off Deer Isle. More seals. And in the evening, going to Kneisel Hall in Blue Hill (“the cradle of chamber music teaching in America”) to hear eight young artists, eight young world-class artists perform. First we heard Liyuan Xie, Camille Poirier, Lydia Grimes and Zoe Lin played Béla Bartók’s “String Quartet No. 3.” It absolutely blew me away, had me one the edge of my seat the whole time, had me in tears. And then, an exquisite “Piano Quartet No. 2 in A major” performed by Yu-Ming Ma, Ao Peng, Yifei Li, and Leon Bernsdorf.

Wow!