“Who is sure of their own motives can in confidence advance or retreat.” - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
I could have done without the teeth-chattering, the almost constant rain and the back-breaking hike needed to get to this place. But I’d come this far just to see it, so there was no point in turning back now.
Holy Cross Wilderness. Named so because the primary peak in this Colorado wilderness area had a deep, cross-like scar cut right into its face. From what I’d heard, the peak was majestic when the only snow left on the mountain was a vein of white embedded in the cross-formation.
It was cold here, and snow would come again soon. I looked across the valley where we had set up our tents and saw rock-like groupings of packed ice and snow from either the last winter or the last hundred. It was September, Labor Day weekend and the end of summer. But at 12,000 feet and above the tree-line, Summer never takes hold. It comes long enough to melt much of the snow and the ice on the serene Alpine lakes, but never lingers. Only the most resilient of plant and animal life are found here.
To my right, about fifty yards down the shore of the Alpine lake where we were sitting, a pair of Labrador retrievers leapt into the still freezing water. I looked down at Abby, wondering if she’d wish to join them. She sensed my glance, looked from the dogs into my eyes and yawned as if to say “Those kids are crazy, right?”
“Let them go down into the water,” I said, rubbing her head. “We’re going up. C’mon Abby.”
We stood, each stretched in our own way, and set off for our climb.
Our destination was a pass that was only a half-mile ahead, but at the end of another 500 feet of elevation gain. Our reward would be a top-down view of another alpine lake and a glimpse of the cross-stamped mountain.
On the two-hundred yard walk to the base of the pass–”Fancy Pass” they call it–we could see the almost-climb that lay ahead. Still on her leash for now, Abby looked up at me as if to ask whether I knew what I was getting us into. I smiled at her and said, “Let’s go. It’ll be worth it.” We stepped onto the first switchback and began our ascent.
The route was difficult, but passable at a slow and careful pace. Abby had long-forgotten any reservation about the trek and was now excitedly chasing Chinchillas and Pikas into tiny crevasses between the rocks. In between gasps for air, I would call her back to me, only to watch the next critter taunt her into bounding a few steps off the steep trail.
We reached the top after almost an hour. I leaned over my knees and stared at the ground to catch my breath. I knew what I would be looking up to in a moment, and wanted to address the view with full lungs.
Abby was lying on the chilly rocks, tongue fully extended and already enjoying the view.
I looked first at the lake. Treasure Vault Lake was a fitting name. The clouds had left a gap for the sun to peek through and the golden reflection on the lake was enough to make one want to run down the other side to dive in golden waters or prospect for whatever treasure was shining up from the bottom.
I turned and looked to my right. Due north of the pass, I saw Mount of the Holy Cross in the distance. Much of the snow had melted from the face of the peak over the course of the summer, but the jagged scar that formed the cross in the mountain remained white enough to create a stark contrast with the brown and grey of the rest of the rock face.
That cross seemed like a stamp to me. Or a flag, as though God himself had branded the symbol into the rock aeons ago to serve as both a claim of territory and a portent of things planned, but which had not yet come to pass.
I had one of those. A brand upon the face of my broken soul that was both a healing claim upon me, and a portent of what was to come in my own life.
I sighed, breathed deep, and began to pray.
And that morning, standing alone at 12,000 feet, with a golden lake below me and a jagged symbol of salvation before me, I was recaptured.
This is retreat, I thought. This is what the heart of mankind will always yearn for. What he will always need. Among the steel and aluminum and the plastic of his day-to-day life, this will always sustain him, even if his visits to this place–to any place–are infrequent. Because the symbol in the rock is a call to retreat and to be reborn. And then to descend from the mountain and return.
The clouds swept back in and the face of the lake returned to silver. I looked long at Holy Cross one final time and breathed in the thin mountain air, as though I could store it up for transport home. We tarried a moment longer, then began our descent back to camp.
Behind us, the Chinchillas and Pikas emerged to resume their play.
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This post was created as a part of a group writing project for the
HighCallingBlogs network and
SuccessCREEations, Inc. The theme of the project is to write about the importance of retreat. In
Mark’s own words:
If possible, think of a specific retreat you took. Where was it? What happened? What did you learn about yourself and your identity? What did you learn about the world and your priorities? What did you learn about the heavens and the person of God? (Don’t feel compelled to answer all of these questions. They’re just to get the juices flowing.)
The project this month is being sponsored by the Laity Lodge, an amazing retreat center in the Texas Hill Country. Take my word for it, I’ve been there. The Lodge is offering some nice discounts to folks who participate in the project over the next couple of weeks, so head on over to the links above to get in on the fun. That means you Jim. You’re in Houston, so this would be perfect for you guys…
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