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In my dream, a giant grizzly has pressed his head into our tent and down onto my chest. His breath is deep and ragged and smells wild, except it's a dream, so there is no smell. Alexis knows something is wrong and calls my name from the sleeping bag next to me. I freeze and hold my breath, a few millimeters of flimsy tent fabric between me and the grizzly's muzzle, pressure building, hoping that my heart doesn't betray me. My heart pounds three times, and then I wake up. ----- Something about the American west denotes bigness and wildness. Weather changes in a breath. Plains stretch out endlessly, only to be hemmed in by bluish peaks even further out. In Wyoming we drive through arid desert arroyos, greenish-yellow hues rippling across the dull, brown gullies, only to climb quickly into mountains surrounded by pines and snow, the sky gone grey and the clouds obscuring the highway's next curve. Later in the same drive, we descend again to the plains, pronghorn stretched out in the grasses basking in sunshine. Fall here means rivulets of gold and red, oaks and maples that indicate hidden streams and trout-riddled rivers cutting through swatches of brown and yellow grasses. The drives are longer now. And the land itself implies reflection. The sky is big too, as they say, and the sunsets seem eternal in our westward push. Rock outcroppings jut out along ridges and at the edges of buttes, and the striated layers mark the passing of eons. The rock was here before man existed and will be long after man has gone. So too, the color of the world. In the Black Hills, Alexis and I look for mountain goats among the boulders. We climb to the highest point in South Dakota, a CCC built fire lookout called Harney Peak. A dam and small retention pond have been built nearby, which helped keep the lookout alive back when the tower was used for such purposes. The structure itself is made of rock and continues up along a sheer cliff face on one side. We push open the wooden door, and inside the wind is held at bay, exposing us to a quiet we didn't know was absent. A heavy steel ladder leads us to a narrow walkway surrounded by 360 degree views that stretch into Montana, Wyoming and Nebraska. The windows at the top are made of plastic, not glass, presumably because stronger winds will inevitably break these windows, and plastic is an easier replacement. Our teeth, our bones, behind the pits of our stomachs fire warning spasms, twinges of fear, the evolutionary hardwiring put in place to keep us from pushing our limits in high places, little bursts of adrenaline every time the wind rattles the tower's windows. I imagine the tower breaking away from the cliff face; I imagine us hurtling through nothing all the way to the flatlands east of the Black Hills. Or I imagine getting stuck in a tree halfway down. I'm not sure which is worse. But the tower holds. It is well built. Harney Peak Lookout tower is comprised of 7,000 surface stones; 15,000 hollow tiles; 200 tons of sand; 32,800 pounds of cement; 500 bricks; 500 pieces of reinforced steel, angle iron and other metal accouterment; 300 iron poles, averaging 25 feet in length; 20 kegs of nails; 1,000 feet of steel cable; 1,300 pounds of steel wire; and 800 feet of railroad track. I imagine the CCC boys from Dolan Camp, young and hopeful, working to overcome the Great Depression, climbing these steep slopes and blasting away rock here, boring into rock there - carving out a safe haven for someone they'd never know. I Imagine them being good Americans - sending part of their paycheck back home at the bequest of their country, for the good of their families. I imagine them being good Protestants and good Lutherans, quoting Psalms to one another before setting out for the day's work: Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea. I'm encouraged by their industriousness. I've hiked here and I look out as a conquerer, part of the same spirit, the same resoluteness that left such an indelible mark on the landscape. I munch on my Cliff Bar, victorious. But I'm not Protestant or Lutheran. Or anything for that matter. But maybe the Quran has it right: And they hewed their dwellings out of the mountains, feeling secure. But the shout seized them in the morning. And that which they had earned did not help them. ----- We drive up into Yellowstone through the snow. Once inside the park we see bison, bear, fox, and elk. The sunset lands on the tops of the mountains and they glow like embers from a neon fire. The sky dances purple and orange and the heavy grey of precipitation. The lake ripples a deep blue out where the wind blows the water into waves, and thin sheets of milky ice float in the shallow bays. We follow the road along the shoreline in awe. Gas and steam hiss from a crack in the earth. The lake and sky are a theatre of color and light; we are specks floating inside a terrarium of mountain and pine and snow and ice and water and cloud and light; we are the settling dust at the beginning of creation; we are fixtures in a miniature, insignificant pieces in a snow-globe shaken by some unseen hand. The earth is bigger and more defiant than we could ever know. Mystery issues forth from every crevice, peers out from behind the corners, stabs out in rays of light between the clouds. Alexis's little car behaves nobly on the snow and ice, guiding us to one of the three open campgrounds at Yellowstone. We find a spot and set up camp in the snow. We build a fire and warm ourselves. Our tent behaves nobly. And our sleeping bags too. We linger as long as we can, cocooned in warmth, before hunger spurs action. We make coffee and eggs, stamping our feet in the cold and trying to blow life into our hands. I've been to Yellowstone before a few times, but never in the cold. The earth is on fire. It smokes and churns and steams. We start at the geyser basin that includes Old Faithful. Alexis bubbles with the same excitement and wonder that she brings to all experiences, her eyes big and blue and beautiful, open and seeking; however, this is her first time to the park, so there is an added electricity, an additional burst of wonder that only a place as bizarre and other-worldly as Yellowstone can summon. There is no place quite like it. I understand, at least theoretically, how volcanic pressures create fissures in the earth, cracks that spew geysers, boiling pots of mud, or dark cavernous holes that spout steam, but to stand in front of Artist Paint Pots or to look down on Grand Prismatic Pool or to hear the roar from Black Dragon's Caldron…these things defy explanation. Experience is different than understanding. ----- We are funny creatures, us humans. We build a park and throw up signs that acknowledge change as the only constant; we erect placards to the previous times when the earth moved, when the geyser blew up unexpectedly, when the hillside gave way to pressure; we pay lip-service to the fact that someday the geyser will blow again, but we build lodges and visitor centers on the living earth and lay out boardwalks over the surface like we were meant to walk there. It's probably this same boldness that enables tourists to get out of their car and point their camera in the face of a bison. It's probably the same look of entitlement that washes over the face of a politician who's about to accept a bribe, that peculiar human trait that makes people think they're an exception to the rule, that helps them believe that they'll beat the odds. But so too, the mountains shall crumble into the sea. ----- I remember, as a kid, taking out the trash after dark had fallen. The dumpster was on the north side of our property, down a stone staircase and up a dirt driveway, maybe 100 hundred yards from the house. I had done this chore before, but something about the dark and having to turn my back on the accumulated clutter beneath the house made me wary. I ran the rest of the way, somehow both highly aware of everything around me while also afraid to look too closely into the darkness. We grow into fear. We wake one day to encounter it, to entertain the idea that the shadows hold something sinister. But in waking, we also encounter a world of mystery. We open our eyes to wonder. If we're careful, if we choose to move consciously, if we choose to look closely at the world around us. ----- In Yellowstone, Alexis and I abandon our plans to backpack. In some ways, this decision is weather related, although it warms up and the snow melts as the week wears on. In other ways, we don't quite feel comfortable in our preparation: our two-season tent, non-waterproof boots, our inexperience in grizzly country. Maybe fatigue is part of it as well. I've been camping and crashing at friend's for over two months now. Alexis and I have been on this journey longer than any of the tours that I went on during my stint as a professional musician, which is no easy feat. I continue to be amazed by the simple nature of our journey, where hardships, indecision, or disparate moods reveal themselves momentarily, only to become insignificant passages that we walk through together. This is a gift. In Montana we camp along Rock Creek. Most of the national forest campgrounds have closed for the season, but there are a few individual, roadside primitive spots left open and we set up for a few nights. Fly fishermen in waders occupy the creek's picturesque bends hoping to catch trout. Our site is nestled in close to the bank, and the constant gurgle of water over rocks both comforts and obscures. We build a fire and drink hot toddies and try to learn songs late into the night, or at least what passes as late when you've become accustomed to letting the sun set your schedule. In the morning, we wake cold and hike across Welcome Creek among the pines and over rock scree and in the quiet radiance that is summer's dying splendor - the grasses gone dry and the long-dead blooms of plants whose names I haven't learned, plants that twist and curl and delicately surrender to the changing of the season. We walk and talk loudly. We stay vigilant for bears. In the afternoon we play cards and warm ourselves in the sun. I set up the hammock and read. A bald eagle makes a pass along the creek. We gather firewood and organize it for the evening. These are moments of respite, easygoing and slow. At night, the sky stays clear, the Milky Way overhead, and at times I lean back from our conversation, from the beautifully whirling way that Alexis speaks, from the fire and the whiskey and the warmth, and I lean my head back and look straight up to see stars and galaxy and darkness in unison, and I think, "How lucky am I?". ----- What is this thread between fear and wonder? Where does it lead? Does fear exist without mystery? Does wonder? What does it feel like to be seized by a shout? So much of our lives are spent in routine, in the rituals that safeguard us from fear: the trips to the coffee shop, the radio DJ on the way home from work, the gym, the peck on the lips as you head out the door. But often we feel most alive when the ritual is interrupted: when the car careens from its lane and time slows to a crawl, when the morning kiss becomes a whirlwind. However, neither ritual, nor routine are the enemies of wakefulness, of living. Instead, I'm convinced that both the roadblock and the way forward exist within. Like a child, we must open our eyes and look in earnest. Can we observe without fear? Can we wonder in joy? Can we engage with the world around us with rapture and glee? Or maybe the child is a poor metaphor here, especially since a child looks to its elders as guideposts and soaks up their insecurities, their idiosyncrasies, their fears. Especially since a child can't articulate or share in the full experience of the world, but only observe, only look forward to joining the ranks of adulthood. Maybe we have to grow beyond innocence and become students of the world, looking and learning, testing out new ideas and asking questions that matter. Or maybe that's not right either. Don't we know that the accumulation of knowledge is also the accumulation of fear? The gathering of an ideology or worldview that, if broken and damaged, would also shake us to our core. Don't we know, that sometimes as students we purport to know the answers already? That we ask questions to make ourselves look good in the eyes of teachers? Colleagues? Don't we fear asking the wrong questions? Maybe all the metaphors are poor. From the self-same well spring fear and wonder, and we are merely passing through. Look. For in looking we see the world. Seek and ye shall find. But we won't find answers, or at least, we'll be sorely disappointed if answers are what we seek. Instead, look at the light on the hills. Look at the color in the cornfield. Listen for the woosh of eagle's wings. Smell the dank richness of rotting wood. Feel the strong embrace of a friend or shiver in the cold that lingers just beyond the fire. See how the rock stands poised on the cliff, defiant towards time and the law of gravity. Listen for the chickadee among the pines and hear how big the chipmunk sounds in the underbrush. And if the chipmunk emerges from the underbrush as a bear, snarling and charging, teeth ragged and neck bristled, then try to meet the bear's eyes with your own and see what rages in its depths. Brace yourself and look straight at it. Look to see if the mountains are indeed crumbling to the sea. Look at how lucky you are to be this close. Try to feel the earth, alive and hissing, beneath you. Try to smell the wildness on its breath. The blood in its fur. Then, goddammit, use your bear spray. ----- Thank you internet…Wikipededia for the metrics on Harney Peak Lookout tower Psalm 46:2 Surah Al-hijr 82-84