Where the Wild Things Grow
by
Karen O'Connor
I slipped into the soft warmth of my down sleeping bag. Stars dotted the blackness above. Wind blew through the tall pines and rustled my tent. I breathed deeply. Relief swept through me. It was the last night of a week in the wilderness with fourteen other 'mountain mamas' from age thirty-three to seventy-six. And what a week it had been. Everyone had made it to the 10,000-ft. elevation where we settled in for a week beside Davis Lake in the Sierra Mountains in Northern California. It was our annual All-gals Mule Pack trip.
Mules had hauled our heavy gear--sixty pounds per person that first day--and we carried on our backs whatever else we wanted, extras like a favorite book, a special hat, snacks and water for the five-hour hike to our destination, and of course, rain gear and first aid items.
As he hiked up, up, and up--nearly three thousand feet in all--trees, tall and sturdy against the blue sky, called out to be 'hugged.' Mountains guarded sprawling meadows, home to a profusion of flowers in full color, Lupine, Columbine, Indian paintbrush, Baby Blue Eyes, Shooting Stars, Monkey Flowers, and Mule's Ears. And snowmelt spilled down the mountainside in cascading waterfalls.
Each day thereafter we hiked to a different spot--a far-off lake, a tall peak, and a high meadow. But it took some grit to get there. We scrambled over boulders, plodded through snowfields, (stopping long enough for a mid-summer snowball fight!) and walked across rushing streams. Our hearts pounded, blood coursed through our veins, sun beat down and mosquitoes nibbled whatever bit of bare skin they could find.
We'd come 'home' each night, strip off our wet and dust-caked clothing, pull on swim suits and head for the beach--yes a sandy beach just steps from our campsite--for a quick dip in the ice cold lake. Brr! But so refreshing.
As the sun set, we pulled on comfy fleece pants and jackets, caps and gloves, shared hot soups and stews, crackers, cookies, candy, soothing tea, fresh-brewed coffee. Then we settled down for a sing-along, story time, and games around the campfire before a long and much-needed sleep.
A bear wandered among our tents the first and second nights, but he didn't find enough to hold his interest. We had locked up our food in bear-proof canisters, so he went off in search of something better. Whew!
I led a journal-writing session on three afternoons. It was a special time for us to pause, reflect, write, share, and give thanks for the gifts we'd been privileged to witness and receive.
Cool water from a rushing stream had quenched our thirst, revived our spirits as well as our parched skin, and when boiled, turned dry food packets into delicious dinners.
Fire under our miniature stoves heated our food, warmed our hands, and comforted our souls on a chilly evening. And the stars and moon put on a bountiful show each night before we fell asleep.
On the last day, I realized once again why I come to the Sierra year after year after year, why I come to where the wild things grow and why I want everyone to know about its beauty and wonder. It is here that one gets to see what really matters. Not new clothes, or the latest automobile or cruise tickets or dinner at a five-star restaurant.
What we needed we (and the mules) carried. What we couldn’t carry, God through his creation, provided. A cluster of boulders and rocks and a few sturdy tree limbs were the only furniture required. A bed of Pine needles made a comfortable carpet for our tents. A broad old tree offered a fallen branch for a seat, limbs for hanging wet socks, and foliage for shade.
And hours and hours of time to be still in the silence gives one an entirely new perspective on life both in the mountains where the wild things grow, and in the city where we're too much on the go! It is here that I am able to be still, and know God.
It is here that I am able to go out in joy and be led forth in peace. And all around me the mountains and the hills burst into song before God, and the trees of the field clap their hands. (Is. 55:12 NIV)
I looked around once again on the final day, swiped at the tears rolling down my face, and whispered "Thank you, God, for this place where the wild things grow."
