Arizona Trail: 40 days in the desert 

Last night, I woke up with a yelp, sweaty, and gasping. In my dream, I was desperately searching for my backpack and unable to find it among a seemingly endless pile of backpacks. 

It’s the second nightmare this week. I emerged into reality from the first one in the same manner, as if squeezed through fabric, violently tearing it apart. Of course, I woke Richard. I tell him in hiccupy gasps that I couldn’t pack my backpack. As fast as I’d stuff something in, a new pile of gear would grow next to me as if I was the sorcerer’s apprentice of thru-hiking. 

He has this amazing ability to calm me then fall right back asleep. 

But I was afraid to sleep, wondering what awaited me in my dreams.

One might say I’m anxious. 

As I sit squeezed into a window seat on a completely full flight heading to Tucson, I go through my checklist to assure I have all I need, not that I can do much about it now. 

I’ve planned carefully, packed well and I’m taking with me years of experience. Still, failure and less-than-optimal circumstances stalk me, both sleeping and waking. Questions like, “Can I handle this? and “Do I still have what it takes?” obscure the more useful ones like “What are you looking forward to most?”

It’s not lost on me that this out-of-sorts space I’m in mimics nearly precisely the moment we’re experiencing in the Christian calendar. 40+ days of roaming in the Arizona desert sounds an awful lot like the penitential season of Lent. 

The word Lent comes from the Anglo-Saxon and means ‘spring.’ The Pagan roots represent a time of waiting and hoping, a time to plan and imagine a future without cold or snow or hardship. 

For early Christians, the six weeks before Easter prepared converts for baptism. The scripture tells us Jesus deliberately placed himself alone in the wilderness, vulnerable to temptation. Lenten contemplation and solemnity imitates this act through fasting, prayer and ‘giving up’ something all in the service of developing a deeper relationship with god. 

I find it interesting that in the beginning, we were placed in a natural place – less a wilderness than a garden, a perfect place, one of perpetual spring. We’re no longer there, both metaphorically and actually, but we long for a return – perhaps not to a life without care or worry, but to one that’s healthy, that’s connected, that’s grounded. 

The plane pulls out of the gate and rolls over ice, squashed and carved into fanciful arcs by so many wheels. 

I also am entering the wilderness and the risk of temptation – temptation to push too hard, to ignore my health, to not listen to the spirit and my higher self. 

You know that I take contemplation seriously, that I take no distractions on my walk like headphones, and pour myself wholeheartedly into making each step the priority. 

But there’s more to this season than a search for the ‘garden’ and the simplicity and rightness of that communion, and my dreams point to an anxiety beyond simply adopting a positive mental attitude.

Last Wednesday, Richard and I gathered with friends and acquaintances to read, sing and have an oily smudge placed on our foreheads. As the priest drew this cross of ashes, he said these words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” 

In other words, life is short. 

While it would be natural to interpret that message as a YOLO exhortation to live your best life and pack in all you can before it’s over, the ask is less about selfishness and more about humility. We are dust, we are nothing at least in the cosmic scheme, so what will you do with that knowledge? 

The plane lifts in a miracle of weight vs. the laws of gravity. In the back I feel it especially, a momentary flicker of fear as we bank sharply over frozen lakes and minuscule trees. Flying is truly awesome when you stop to think about it. So is life.

I ponder the questions nervously buzzing around me  – Richard always says I have a ‘backup worry’ – then sharpen the lens through this moment of Lent. Part of the reason I walk in beautiful, wild places is to reconnect with the earth, a place that always extends its invitation openly, unreservedly, and without judgement. 

I’ll have 40 days of spring unfolding from slushy trails and frigid nights to blooming cactus and more daylight. I’m a visitor just passing through, leaving behind footsteps that touch the very dust I come from and will return to. 

I remember a set of flights I took several years back, from Minneapolis to New York then Paris to Geneva. I got off the plane, hopped on a train, found the local bus then walked up a country road heading south to the Mediterranean. I camped in a damp field that night above Lac Lemàn, just me and some slugs, cowbells tinkling in the distance. 

“Who does that?” Richard reminds me often. I do. I guess when you’re on your way, it’s best to just get going, 

My plan is to do the same today, walking as soon as I’m dropped off and going as far as I can go before dark. 

As anxiety sneaks in and tries to pull up a chair, I tell it ok, but stay over there out of view because I have more important things to focus on today. I’m starting my Lenten journey on the Arizona Trail, answering the call for a right relationship to the spirit with each step I take. 

The man next to me leans into my space, his head flopped forward in sleep. I’ll join him soon. This was a very early flight. 

But will I get to Tucson on time? Will I be so wrecked from travel I can’t hike well or relax into the challenge? 

One of my favorite passages pops in my head. It’s from Philippians and goes something like this, “Rejoice in the lord always, again I say rejoice! Let your gentleness be known because the goddess is here with you. Don’t worry about anything, but in all things through prayer and thanksgiving, speak your truth. And the peace which transcends all understanding will guard your heart and mind.”

The trail awaits me, and I’m pretty sure the goddess is there, her arms spread wide.