 The car is packed. I’ve kicked the tires. And I have more trail mix than one man can possibly eat. I’m soon leaving Los Angeles for six weeks on a solo road trip through the iconic and mythic American West. Utah. Idaho. Wyoming. Montana. Colorado. Utah. Then back to California. That’s that plan: to return in time to start my fall semester of school. It turns out to be, exactly, a 40 day wandering in the wilderness.
I’m not disconnecting completely. During this pandemic, I’ve been working from home, and there is no sign of returning to the office anytime soon. So I’ve decided to take advantage of this unique “work from anywhere” time by hitting the road for a good long time. I’m traveling solo, and staying at Air B&Bs along the way. I’ve planned the trip in such a way I can continue to work remotely while getting a long break from the glimmer and madness of Los Angeles. I’m leaving it behind for time in the desert, in the mountains, and in the wide-open spaces that allow a person to think, feel his smallness, and perhaps crack open the rusty vault of a weary heart. The philosopher Martin Buber said, “All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.” I believe this to be true. The purpose of travel is not to see the expected. It is not to tick the boxes on a Rolodex of waypoints. The purpose of journey is to step across the threshold of the ordinary and enter the unknown, a place that is elusive while living in the comforts of everyday life. It is about the dumbfounding of one’s ego and the awakening to something other. Why am I going? I’m not entirely sure. It feels right. It makes sense. I’m too proud to admit that it may be a reaction to a culmination of disappointments or some sort of middle-life crisis. Or perhaps I’m simply bored. But these explanations are far too simplistic and do not account for the complexity of a soul’s longing. I don’t believe travel needs an explanation, for the journey is reason enough. As I’ve been preparing for this trip, I’ve been pondering this poem by Rilke: God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night. These are the words we dimly hear: You, sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing. Embody me. Flare up like a flame and make big shadows I can move in. Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Don’t let yourself lose me. Nearby is the country they call life. You will know it by its seriousness. Give me your hand. Rainer Maria Rilke Book of Hours, I 59
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 Above a field near a deep royal bay,
A kingdom of birds flew, frolicked, and played. In this sky kingdom, were birds of a feather, Blue birds, red birds, some even looked heather. The blue feathers ruffled the square feathers’ tassels, Left feathers rumbled with right feather rascals. Gray feathers warbled of bright feathers’ whistle, Bright feathers squabbled at green feathers’ bristle. Though grumbles and sighs and prickles and cries, All birds held faith in the song of the sky: That all birds, all birds, have a right to fly. Among the birds, there was a special lot, Long feathers were game from every flock. Long feathers soared to a song of their own, To serve and protect flights of the kingdom. Behold, the long feathers. The hardest job of all. They are brave. They are noble. They answer the call. But alarmed word spread with tales and utters, That wings of red birds were clipped by long feathers. “How could this be?” Barked the birds of a feather. “It doesn’t make sense. Long feathers don’t fetter.” So chose many birds to ignore the sad plight. “Those red birds don’t get it, don’t put up a fight.” Yet more birds tumbled, and aloud they cried, “It’s true. Look! Another red bird can’t fly.” “No!” Said the square feathers. “Red birds don’t get it.” Follow their orders, and you won’t regret it. “Rules and flight orders,” the red birds declared. “What good do they do if they are not fair?” “Stay in your lane!” Privileged feathers retorted. “This fury is ugly and makes you revolted.” Anger, it deepened, for no one was listening, The kingdom divided with all feathers quibbling. For no one could guard against fear and distrust, It grew and spread until the kingdom went bust. Trees were uprooted, and bushes defrocked, Red birds screamed, “this injustice is a crock.” We fly and we fall while our tears we must dam, Enough. Enough! No more timid as a lamb. Sadness came, but still no understanding, Just shouts and points and further dividing. Till one day a long feather flew to the middle, Removed his long feather with offer to settle. I am here, will listen, I will not ignore, For justice, I make the first step to restore. A red bird joined him, in the act of accord, “This hurt runs deep, and will be hard to explore.” The red bird, she pointed to ghosts in the sky, “Can you see? Can you hear? Do you feel their cry?” “I can’t fly.” “I can’t fly.” “I can’t fly.” “I see. I get it. We’ll make rules to fix this. So please, settle down and stop all this protest.” “Rules? Yes! But no. It must go far beyond that. Empathy. Conversation. Transformational act.” “Break bread. Walk beside. Listen to our stories, Breakthrough. March forward. And demand just juries.” “Justice is action, a revolution of the heart, Be still, be uncomfortable, find unity through art.” “‘Love thy neighbor’ He said, is not a suggestion, It’s a command to obey, without apprehension.” The long feather, he paused, not sure what to say, The red bird proposed, “fly together this day?” Up they soared, towards heaven, the wind lifted them high, A new era was born in that wide open sky. “You are right. It is ugly and painful to admit. For so long, for too long, we’ve lain complicit.” “Frustration today, with heartache and tears, Come love. Come peace. Come justice all year.” All birds of a feather watched the two glide, Together, they flew, with nothing to hide. Behold, the long feather, the hardest job of all, With humility and action, you answered this call.  The books are piling high, and I've only just begun this new academic journey. After much deliberation, I decided to go back to school this past fall to pursue my Ph.D. in Myth Studies. I've been courting the Mythological Studies program at Pacifica Graduate Institute for the past few years, but the timing was never right. Last summer, I felt that urge, the call, that this is what I needed to do.
That call, that instinct, that voice was the same feeling I had when twenty-two years ago, I decided to study for the ministry. It was the same call I heard when four years later, I stepped away from vocational ministry to attend film school. It was the same feeling I had when I decided to move my life to Los Angeles 15 years ago. I had not heard her voice in a very long time, but last summer, she returned with her gentle yet persistent and familiar encouragement, "go." All the rational objections surfaced in my deliberation. This is going to cost me a fortune. It will take at least five years to complete, and in the end, there is no obvious return on investment. I mean, assuming I'm able to complete the program and I'm awarded the degree, what does one do with Ph.D. in Myth Studies? Teach, maybe? I'm not looking for a new career. Disney has been good to me. So why am I doing it? Curiosity could be a reason. I enjoy learning new things, especially on a subject matter that I find so fascinating. I love story, and doing a deep dive into the myths, stories, epics of the world is exciting to me. The sense of accomplishment might be another reason. I like things that are difficult and feel a bit impossible. I find enticing the tasks that require focus and dedication over a period of time. Creative inspiration is another reason. I've struggled over the past few years to write truly original stories. I've been in a creative drought, uninspired, trying to find something to spring my imagination to life. But I don't think any of those reasons fully satisfy the question of why. The simple yet more mysterious answer is because I felt that if I didn't do this, I would be ignoring the call. I wouldn't be doing what I'm supposed to be doing with my allotted time here on earth. Honestly, I don't know what will happen at the end of this, and I'm okay with that. I don't need to know. "Go," the Spirit beckons and have faith in the journey. The destination will reveal itself in time. So every 4-5 weeks, I drive up to the school, near Santa Barbara, for three full days of classes. The rest of the work is done at home. The biggest challenge has been finding the time to complete my school work while working a full-time job and trying to maintain a semblance of social life. I'm figuring it out, and I'm getting used to the new norm. But most importantly, I'm beginning to feel that spark again. The Myth Studies program is built on three pillars: comparative religious studies, classic art and literature, and depth psychology. I'm through one term of classes, and I'm halfway through my second term. So far, I have no regrets. The content has been a lightning bolt to my storytelling mind and has enriched my soul. My cohort is comprised of smart and insightful people from diverse walks of life. I'm already thinking of dissertation subjects and mentally preparing for the work that lies ahead. I'm so glad I listened to the call.  If you want to know what fear poisons the soul of a people and plagues our collective thought, you look at the villains of our stories. Our heroes tell us who we aspire to be. Our villains tell us who we are. Mary Shelley’s classic Frankenstein was published during the golden age of the enlightenment. It tells the story of a monster that we created, not a supernatural being, but a human-made being forged from the fire of our new-found scientific knowledge. Less than 10 years after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Godzilla made its debut in Japanese cinema. It told the story of a sea monster from far away that breathes fire and can lay waste to entire cities. The monsters and villains of our stories reveal our deepest anxieties. Perhaps there is no villain as iconic in pop culture as Joker. In TV and Film, the sociopath clown-face supervillain with no superhuman abilities scourges the people of Gotham City and in doing so, reveals a lot about who we are.  Joker as Menace I grew up watching reruns of the 1960s Batman TV series as a kid. I loved the show. Episodes would end with Batman & Robin in a pickle, and I, for the life of me, could never figure out how in the world they might escape. Surely they will be eaten by sharks! Surely the laser beam will slice them in two! Oh the humanity! My anxiety was short-lived. As sure as the sun rises, the capped crusader found a way to escape the malicious clutches of his nemesis and restore justice and order - usually by returning the stolen painting to the museum. It was the 60s, communism was the enemy. In the struggle of ideologies, the lines were clearly drawn. We were the good guys. They were the bad guys. Good always prevails. The Joker of the 1960s wasn’t more than a menace and a prankster whose nefarious schemes were short-lived. There was no stopping the righteous crusade.  The Joker as Mob Boss Joker showed its funny face again in Tim Burton’s 1989 film Batman. I was 10-years-old, I remember the line of people that stretched around the block of my local two-screen theater. I thought this movie must be really important. It looked like everyone in town was going to see it. The collapse of the Soviet Union in the latter half of the 1980s shifted our focus from the enemy abroad to the enemies within. In America, urban crime rates reached their pinnacle. It’s no wonder, In Batman, the Joker evolved from prankster to gangster. The charismatic character became the ultimate mob boss. His gang of thugs blighted the city of Gotham, mostly out of spite. Joker and his cronies represented the fear of urban life, specifically the dark alleys and shadowy corners where the good citizens fear to tread. The hero’s task in facing Joker was to make the streets of Gotham (and America) safe once again.  The Joker as Moral Ambiguity In 2008, 19 years after Batman, Joker returned to cinemas in the second film in Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy, The Dark Knight. This Joker, however, is not interested in being a gang leader or in the accumulation of money or power. His desire is the destruction of Batman himself, the icon of moral authority. Joker’s goal is to expose Batman (literally, “take off your mask”) and the fallacy of moral objectivity. By forcing our hero and the citizens of Gotham to make choices about who lives and who dies, the self-righteous lines we draw - we are good/they are bad - become unrecognizable. It is clear that Joker is a bad guy, but the people of Gotham (and the story’s audience) are left questioning: are we as morally right as we think we are? This was the question of the time. After the horrific events of 9/11, we thought we had the clear moral objective to bring to justice those responsible and to never let anything like it happen again. But seven years into the seemingly unending occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan, we were asking who exactly is the bad guy? We thought we knew. We thought we were justified. But our pursuit of the phantom ideology that hid in caves and exposed itself violently in public spaces came at a cost - in the lives of our soldiers and innocent civilians - but also in our moral credibility. The Dark Knight ends with Batman on the run with the citizens of Gotham believing him to be a criminal, not the righteous hero they thought he was.  Joker as Mental (and Social) Illness This brings us to the most recent portrayal of the character in this year’s film Joker, an origin film that explores the question: how did Arthur Fleck become the supervillain Joker? Was it mental illness, an abusive home life, bullying, the breakdown of civil services? All of the above? The film doesn’t answer the question. What is most striking to me about this film is the lack of moral conflict. There are no “good guys.” The “haves” are bullies to the “have nots” thus, they have no moral authority to stand in opposition to the cynical worldview of Arthur Fleck/Joker and his followers. And in Joker’s view, that means they get what they deserve. Joker is a villain for our time. Those in power have lost moral credibility. Our political leaders are bullies, not role models. The Me Too movement has exposed the abusive dark side of power. The “haves” continue to accumulate wealth, while the “have nots” struggle to keep up and live with a genuine threat that they may end up living on the streets (ahem, Los Angeles). Meanwhile, we are plagued with unconscionable terrorist attacks in the form of mass shootings. Our villain is not an agent from foreign soil but our very own citizens. Masked by the masses, we are stunned and sickened when they strike. “Why?“ We argue. Is it mental illness, broken families, a culture of bullying, the lack of social services to identify the vulnerable and potentially violent? Is it the proliferation of the tools of terror? In the film, Joker strikes chaos - and rises to godlike villainy - with the use of a simple handgun that was gifted to him. A weapon he should never have had. Like Gotham City, we are searching for a just hero. Joker does not give us that hero, but the film does foreshadow, albeit tepidly, the makings of one in the child Bruce Wayne. But the question remains, who will that hero be? What does a hero that must confront our social illnesses look like? He or she will need more than martial arts training and all those wonderful toys. The hero for our time will require a courageous humility and a “goodness” we have not seen in very long time. Note: This reflection on the Joker is not meant to be an exhaustive exploration of the character. I do not take into account the comic books, animated series, or Suicide Squad because I have not read or seen those stories.
I’m 40 years old. Let me tell you how it happened. I went to bed one night, and the next day I woke up and it was my birthday, my 40th birthday. It happened just like that. I remember my father’s 40th birthday very well. I was ten years old, and we threw him a surprise party. We knocked over a potted plant and rushed to vacuum the floor minutes before he arrived. I remember his “oh geez” reaction when he stepped onto the porch and realized what was going on. I thought he was old at the time. “Over the hill.” To 10-year-old Nathan 40 felt like an eternity away. A place veiled by the elder generation and by the mystique of adulthood. But here I am. I can see behind the curtain. The mystery of middle age that was hidden by my youthful eyes is now revealed. The man behind the curtain is a version of me that pops Advil for achy muscles and prefers not to stay out past 11 o’clock. I’m okay turning 40 because I have no regrets about how I lived the first four decades of my life. For sure, it hasn’t always turned out the way I expected, and there were times of real struggle, but it was all worth it. I traveled to the world. I met wonderful people. I’ve accomplished things I didn’t think were possible. I’ve loved and lost, and from it all, I grew into the person I am today. For my 40th birthday, I wish for wisdom over youth. In a culture that idolizes youth and beauty, embracing age and wisdom seems far more subversive. I used to swim in the shallow end where it was all splash and play, quick ins and outs, my feet always touching the bottom. Now I find my place in the more dangerous deep where the water is darker, the bottom unsure. I learn to breathe with the rips and the pulls and swells. When I swim with my eyes open the water reveals its secrets. An ode to all the days I have remaining: May I laugh earnestly, not insecurely May I love generously, not fearfully May I walk alongside, not ahead May I journey deeper, not higher May I grow in wonder, not doubt May I seek richness, not wealth May I run stronger, not faster So that all my days remaining may be grand  Yosemite 2018
 I recently completed a 10-week course offered by the Southern California chapter of the Sierra Club call the Wilderness Travel Course (WTC). Though I’ve done quite a few day hikes I was looking to improve my knowledge and skills at it relates to the outdoors to build my confidence to spend more time deeper in the wilderness. “Beach or Mountain?” is a common question posed to those of us living those Southern California. It is an embarrassment of natural riches to have the choice. I’m not opposed to the occasional beach day, but it doesn’t call to me like the mountains. Growing up in the landlocked prairie-lands of the Midwest, beach days were special events that only happened when we were on vacation, so I never got accustomed to having the sea be a part of my everyday life. The mountains, on the other hand, are a place that has always captured my imagination. I remember distinctly in Jr. High day-dreaming out the window of the third-floor classroom, imaging mountains in the distance. “How beautiful that would be,” I remember thinking to myself. To ancient people, the mountains were a mystical and dangerous place, a place reserved for the gods. Sacred mountains are hallmarks of religions and legends. Their proximity to the heavens made them the place where humankind would go to encounter the divine. Mount Etna was home to Vulcan, the Roman god of fire. Mount Kailash, the abode of the Hindu deity Shiva. For the Greeks, it was Mount Olympus. Moses entered the presence of God and received the ten commandments on Mount Sinai. Modern man has been on a millennia-long quest to tame the wilderness and conquer the mountains. We’ve been pretty successful at it. Thousands of people have now summited Mount Everest since Tenzing Norgay and Sir Edmund Hilary first reached its peak in 1953. Each year the list of unclimbed mountains and unclimbed routes dwindles. Yet, it is now that we need the mountains more than ever. Too much of the day, the week, the year I live with my head down staring at a pane of magic glass that lures my attention feeding me updates, opinions, photos, movies, music, and games. The more connected I am, the less connected I become. The mountain offers a remedy. Head up. Eyes forward. The breeze in my face and the warm sun on my skin. Listen to its wild silence. The WTC was comprised of 10 classroom sessions and four wilderness trips. It covered everything from equipment, nutrition, and trip planning to map & compass navigation and basic first aid. The wilderness does not adapt to you. It is wild. You must adapt to it. The course does not teach “survival skills.” It teaches you to be prepared and make good decisions so that you never need Bear Grylls’ skills to survive a trip outdoors. The philosopher Martin Buber said, “All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.” When I step into the wild, I may aim for a peak or spot on the map, but the true destination lies elsewhere. The dust on my boots and the sweat on my brow are simply the outward signs of an internal change - a humbling. Lost in the savage beauty of the wild unknown, I find myself.   Check out Nisha's work at nishashankarart.com or IG @nishashankarart I commissioned my first piece of art. I needed a splash of color for my office wall so I asked my friend Nisha Shankar, a talented artist hailing from Vancouver Canada if she could do a piece for me that captures my love of travel and the mountains. The process took a few weeks. After meeting to chat about what I was looking for, we communicated via text message, Nisha sharing her work-in-progress and soliciting my feedback. She wanted me to be happy with the piece. I expressed what was working for me and what wasn’t, but tried to stay away from art directing. I wanted it to be 100% Nisha. In the end, we were both delighted with the result. I love her depiction of the world as a place of colorful beauty where borders bleed together. The compass rose, and the mountain range incites a sense of exploration and adventure. When I picked up the piece, Nisha told me that she names her paintings. She called this one “The Explorer” and she wrote this poem to accompany it. The Explorer
The Explorer sets off to discover great heights The mountain ahead feels a lifetime away The sweat of his palms fills him with doubt The glisten of white caps blinds his momentum But as the clouds part revealing an incandescent sun Birds sing in harmony This heavenly chime is a sign from God: It is time to awaken your heart This is only your start The path may be long but no dream is too steep For the Explorer has wisdom that can never be beat He breathes in life and ascends his climb One step at a time, one mile at a time Dawn to dusk to sunset to sunrise Mountains and hills, vast and steep Beyond what his grandeur expectations had been This is better because this is real To look down is no option His compass gives him direction Insight and assurance While the darkness watches patiently in the distance Night comes and day breaks until The Explorer reaches his peak He looks down at this Journey The path may be long but dean is too steep A map of trails and roads leads to memories and tears A gust of wind to his back, a whisper in his ear The Explorer finally listens to silence and hears: You have conquered the world.  Last Sunday, I spoke at Central Avenue Church in Glendale, CA. It was the first sermon I’ve given since I moved to Los Angeles in 2005. In the early 2000s, I regularly spoke when I was on part-time staff at churches in New Hampshire and Connecticut. A lot has changed since then. I’m older. I've grown from life experiences. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I would say. Here it is. I spoke on the Parable of the Wedding Feast. You can listen to it below.
 A hand-drawn map given to us the night before our trek began. What to say? I’ve been pondering what to write about the mountain since I returned. We’ll start with the facts. It was a 49-mile trek up and over the world tallest freestanding mountain. We took the Rongai route to the summit, a drier but less popular route because of its starting location on the north side, the Kenyan side, of the mountain. It took four days to reach the summit. We trekked through diverse climate zones including rain forest, moorland, alpine desert, and artic. It was cold at the top, especially at night, wind chill around 0 degrees. There were 21 people in our group. 17 reached the crater rim. We descended the mountain on the Marangu route, a popular route on the southeast side of the mountain. A crew of 75 guides and porters assisted us at varies times along the way. Those are the facts, but the experience is something I’ll be thinking about for the rest of my life. Mornings on the mountain began with a guide knocking on our tent and a choice of tea or coffee - a hot drink to enjoy in our tent while our bodies woke to a new day. The guide would return later with “washy washy,” a bowl of warm water for which we could try to maintain some semblance of hygiene. Around 7am a breakfast consisting of porridge, bread and jam, eggs, and fruit was served in the mess tent. After breakfast, we packed and set-off for the day's journey. I carried a daypack with three litters of water, extra clothing layers, snacks, and essentials, like sunscreen. My duffle bag, which contained the rest of my gear, was carried by a porter… on her head. The stamina the porters demonstrated was remarkable. They did everything we did (except for the summit) only much faster and with a heavier load. When we reached camp in the afternoon, our tents were set-up and ready for us, and a snack of popcorn and hot tea awaited in the mess tent. The operation was seamless. It made the time on the mountain not only bearable but also enjoyable. Mountain living, it turns out, wasn’t so bad (except for the not showering for days and having to use a toilet tent). For the first couple days, the pace was excruciatingly slow. “Pole pole” (pronounced poll-e, poll-e) the guides would implore us. “Slowly Slowly” It is how you acclimatize to the mountain. It is how you reach the top. By day four, they wouldn’t have to remind us to "pole pole." The most challenging days of the trek were days 4 and 5, which felt like one long day. On day four we walked 5 hours across the barren wilderness called “the saddle.” It was a moonlike landscape of dirt and rocks and few hardy floras. The views were sweeping, the distances deceptive. The winds howled, piercing our wool and nylon layered defenses. It was a taste of what was to come, but we didn’t know it yet. We arrived at Kibo Hut, base camp, early in the afternoon. We ate lunch and then were sent to our tents to rest for the afternoon. We would make our push to the summit that night. At dinner, we learned that one of our fellow trekkers would leave the mountain immediately because of altitude sickness. Struggling the last couple days with nausea, headaches, and fatigue his condition was not improving. He had become incoherent, and a blood/oxygen reading had indicated that it was serious. They gave him emergency oxygen, put him on a stretcher, and three guides rushed him to a camp at a lower altitude. There, a vehicle would take him to a hospital where he could be monitored by doctors. Fortunately, he would be fine. Once off the mountain and at a lower altitude he returned to his usual self. That’s the thing about altitude sickness; you never know how it’s going to affect you. Age and fitness level have little to do with it. I was fortunate. I experienced only minor effects from the altitude. After dinner, we returned to our tents to rest. I was restless, wondering camp, snapping pictures, looking up at the snow-covered carter. I spoke to one of the guides who implored me, “My friend. Please try to get some rest.” I heeded his advice and returned to my tent and tried to get some sleep. At 11pm the guide knocked on our tent. It was time to go. We met in the mess tent, where they tried to feed us again, but nobody had much of an appetite. At midnight we lined up, headlamps blazing, and began our slow march up the crater wall. I’ve been asked why we started the final ascent in the middle of the night. I’m not entirely sure, but I think it is a combination of factors. The weather is more predictable. It provides the opportunity to see the sunrise from the peak. It saves time, only needing to spend one night at high altitude base camp instead of two. But I think a primary reason is that in the dark, you can only see what’s right in front you. It forces you to stay in the moment, one foot in front of the other. I wore five layers over my torso: a long-sleeve polyester base layer, a wool sweater, a synthetic down jacket, a zip-up fleece, and the water-resistant windbreaker. On the bottom, I wore a pair of leggings and thick hiking pants. Covering my head was a wool skullcap and a thicker stocking cap. I was cold. Very cold. Though I was wearing gloves, I had to limit the use of my trekking poles because they exposed my hands to the elements. When we were moving, the cold was uncomfortable but tolerable. When we stopped for a short rest, my body started shaking. At one point, I asked a fellow trekker if we could cuddle for a few minutes and share our body heat. This was the challenge of Kili, different from any other endurance challenge I’ve faced. It was not the fitness required that made it difficult. It was the fatigue and the cold, intensified by labored breathing in the thin air that tested my mental fortitude. There was a moment about halfway up the seeming never-ending switchbacks that I thought to myself, “Man was not made to be on mountains like this.” Yet there I was. I could hear the sound of my fellow trekkers pausing to vomit. Feeling better, they got back in line and continued on their way. Our guides were wise. At just the right moments they would sing, all of them, in harmony. They sang in English and Swahili, old hymns and spirituals and the occasional pop song. Their voices lifted our spirits. At times, it was a transcendent; my body trembling in the wind-blown cold, my mind wavering between determination and doubt, the infinite depths of glittering night sky blanketing us from horizon to horizon, our guides singing to us Leaning on the Everlasting Arms. I’m near the lead guide when calls out, “Do not give up. I can see the top!” I knew we had to be getting close. The horizon was glowing. The sun was about to make its appearance. After five-and-a-half hours, the long journey into night was almost over. There was a release of emotion when we stepped onto the crater rim at Gillman’s Point. Each person arrived to hugs and tears. Our guides poured cups of hot tea to revive us. The joy of reaching this point, of no longer climbing in the darkness, was euphoric. The sun broke the horizon, and I got my first peek into the snow-covered crater. I will be a sight I never forget. The thrill of the moment was short-lived. The realization dawned that we were not finished. We had summited the crater rim, but Uhuru Peak, the highest point on Kili, at 19,340 feet, was on the opposite side of the crater rim. We still had a ways to go. If I’m honest, I could have been talked out of continuing. It felt like an accomplishment getting to where we were. Some did choose to head down at that point, but 11 of us soldiered on. The path of gravel and rock turned to snow and ice about a third of the way. And though the sun was up, the cold and wind had not relented. We staggered forward. Each step was a grind. It took another 90 minutes, but eventually, we looked up and saw the signpost. “Congratulations. You are at the Roof of Africa.” We waited for our turn to take pictures. I put a smile on my face. Our group crowded together to document the moment. Once the cameras were down, we turned to our guides and told them to get us off this mountain. The descent was fast. It took about three hours. Most of the time made up by avoiding the switchbacks and sliding down the long scree slopes. It was skiing with our feet, a tiring exercise for the legs, but much faster. And we were down for faster. I arrived back at my tent mid-morning. The summit trek had been a 10-hour ordeal. Out of the wind into the warmth of my sleeping bag, my body rested, and my mind tried to process what just happened. Our hiking for the day was not over. We ate lunch at around 1pm then set-off for a three-hour hustle to our camp for the night on the south side of the mountain. There we were able to sit in the warmth of the sun, out of the wind, and at a lower elevation. The white-capped rim visible in the distance, I kept thinking, “I was there this morning.” The next day, we experienced the ritual tipping ceremony. Our guides and porters sang songs, and in the form of tips we thanked them for sharing their mountain with us and expressed our gratitude for their kindness and help. The tips were divided among the crew allocated to individuals based on their responsibilities. We ended our trek with a 12-mile descent through beautiful moorland and rainforest. I couldn’t wipe the silly smile off my face when I turned the corner and saw the gate exiting the park. It was over. Our time on the mountain had come to an end. We bought cold beers at the gift shop and toasted to our time on the mountain. A lager never tasted so good. It has been nearly a month since I was on Kili. I’ve thought about it every day. I’m reminded of something Jesus said about faith that can move mountains. In my experience, the only thing moving mountains is the massive tectonic plates beneath the earth’s crust. Perhaps he meant that with faith you can move through mountains. You can transcend the immovable obstacle, ascend to its sun-kissed summit, and feel the Spirit alive in you once again. That is the power of the mountain. That was Kili for me.
In just a few weeks, if all goes according to plan, I will be breaking camp slightly after midnight, in below freezing temperatures and dizzying thin air, to begin the final push to Uhuru Peak, the highest point on Mount Kilimanjaro. I’ve been anticipating this moment for months. I’ve spent more time at REI than Target purchasing supplies and clothing. I paid a visit to the travel doctor to get my shots and malaria medicines. I’ve gone through my packing list a ridiculous number of times to be sure I’m not missing anything. I'm ready. This past Sunday I trecked the 10.5-mile round-trip hike up Mt. Baldy, a popular 10,000+ foot peak in Southern California. This was an opportunity to test new gear, spend a little time at altitude, and think about what the perfect playlist might be for the trip. (I’m leaning towards sticking with classical music. Something without words, something that conjures the feeling of scale and awe.) The hike was great, even the section of the trail called the “Devil’s Backbone” - because of the narrow path with steep drop-offs – rewarded with the sweeping views of the desert in the distance. After Kilimanjaro, I’ll spend a few days on Safari which raises an important question that I’ve spent a good deal of time pondering: Will I get eaten by a lion? I’ve concluded that, no, it is unlikely that a lion will eat me. That said if the unlikely happens…what a way to go! Sure, it’s messy – definitely a closed casket funeral - but people will be telling my story for years to come: “Did you hear what happened to the Davis boy?” “He lived out in California, right? Worked in entertainment? “Yeah, him.” “What happened?” “Eaten by a lion.” “You don’t say.” “Simba got him.” “Hey Frank, did you hear this!? Gerald says the Davis boy was lion eaten by a lion!” “You don’t say!” (In the stories in my head, people still say, “You don’t say!”) As you can see, I’ve had too much time to think about these scenarios. Fortunately, I won’t have to wait much longer. I’m still raising funds for safe drinking water, sanitization, and hygiene education. When I arrive in Tanzania, I will be visiting areas that will be supported by the donated funds. It is easy to give at my fundraising site: http://causetrek.compassion.com/nathandavis I will provide a full report on the safe water projects our donations are supporting when I return. My next post will likely be after the trip. Stay tuned for pictures, descriptions, and accounts of the journey.  Here is proof that I made it to the top of Mt. Baldy.
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