I arrived at Joshua Tree National Park later than expected. I was so agog at the wildflowers along the way from my sister’s house near Escondido through Anzo-Borrego State Park and then up through the lower desert of the southern end of the park, that I kept stopping and stopping and stopping again to gawk in wonder at the blaze of speckled colors bursting from the otherwise-sandy brown desert floor.
I only had time for one good hike as I entered the heart of the park at its northern end. I decided to ascend the thousand-foot climb to the top of Ryan Mountain. It was 4:30 pm when I finally started up the trailhead, delayed by grabbing a snack, then remembering my jacket, then one more trip back for my trekking poles. Though the early afternoon in the lower desert hit the mid eighties, the temperature at this higher elevation of over 4,000 feet was cooling down to the sixties.
I had a thin short sleeve shirt on, but I knew I’d heat up as soon as I started the climb. Cagney and Lacy, my trekking poles, clacked away on the rubble mixed with sand below my dusty hiking boots. Then I hit the steps.
For good or for ill, the park had placed hundreds of steps along the path, flattish slabs of rock stair-stepping up the slope. This sounds great until you realize that many of the steps are unevenly placed two paces apart, forcing one leg to do all the pushing. Also, some are taller than others. Instead of the typical eight-inch riser, some are barely three and many are ten. My knees are unhappy but grateful for the pressure that Cagney and Lacey are taking off them as I plant and push down with the poles.
The steps remind me of my experience of recovery. I’m a 12-stepper, grateful for Bill W. and Doctor Bob and the Rev. Sam Shoemaker, creators of these steps for those battling addiction. As much as people think we can just stop, as if it is a matter of our will power, it is instead a long process, a progressive journey paced out one step at a time.
As I slowly move upward on the trail, I have to stop more and more often to catch my breath and let my heart rate slow. I miss my running days when my heart and lungs would let me fly up this mile and a half trail with far less effort. It’s humbling to be passed by younger hikers, but I’m grateful that I can hike at all.
So often when we reflect on our spiritual journey, we get too focused on the end point and fail to appreciate what the path has to offer. Steps move us upward. They can be uneven and varied in their comfort. “Surrender” is a step I take and retake often. I try not to trip on resentment, which is frequently lurking on the path like a rattler ready to strike. On rough terrain, it is crucial to focus on the steps immediately before me.
If I want to enjoy the view, I pause. I rest. I set aside the need to complete the walk at a race pace, as if there’s some great reward waiting for me if I hurry. The reward is the journey itself. The steps assist me as I move forward, giving me sure footing and pushing me upward.
The view at the top of Ryan Mountain is spectacular. Brown hazy mountains marching in every direction for miles beyond the flat desert floor. Boulders scattered like bowling balls. Joshua trees raise their arms in praise. I offer to take a picture of a family visiting from Minneapolis on Spring break. It’s nice to experience their joy as well as my own.
I cannot linger long. The sun is heading down toward the mountains in the west, the wind has picked up and the air is chilly. I put on my jacket, re-secure my backpack and head down, one careful step at a time, knowing that the path that led me upward now brings me back down to the predictability of the desert floor.
One of my favorite prayers is from the monk Thomas Merton. “My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me….” Merton knew that our faith often moves us forward into uncertainty, but believing that God leads us, guides us, journeys with us. In the midst of the unsteadiness of the path, God places steps along the way, and we are called to simply keep moving forward, one step at a time.