NH 4000 Footer Essay (Pt. 5): Hiking Paths and Moments of Transfiguration

What follows is part five of a five-part essay I'm writing for the NH 4000 Footer Club.  You can find part one here, part two here, part three here and part four here.

From Zeacliff in early morning fog, August 2012.

It's good to be almost done with this thing... it took me over eight years to hike all of New Hampshire's forty-eight four thousand foot mountains, and at a number of points, it felt like it might take nearly as long to write this essay.  But here am I, sitting in Queens nursing a coffee and looking at a blank screen nearly six months after summitting Mount Carrigain, trying to figure out how to conclude... how to write part five of five.  My general thesis when I started this whole thing, as stated in part one was: "the paths we trod in life simply serve as vehicles through which we realize the growth (or potential for growth) already stirring within and around us," an idea I still agree with.  Another key point I made in part one concerned the presence of God in the mountains: "Unfortunately, while I often marveled at Her handiwork during my mountaintop experiences, God Herself didn't seem to really want to show up... or at least it felt that way."

The path up Bondcliff, August 2012.

While I did find God over my many hikes in the Whites, although as typical, She didn't show up where I expected.  And actually, it shouldn't be all that surprising that God was around in the mountains... think about how much Jesus liked hanging out on them.  The Sermon on the Mount was well, preached from a mount.  On the night of his betrayal, shortly before his death and resurrection, Jesus visits the Mount of Olives.  Perhaps the most amazing story of Christ on the mountaintop however is the The Transfiguration.  Referenced in three of the four canonical gospels (and perhaps referenced in the other), the transfiguration is the story of Jesus taking Peter, James and John up an unnamed mountain and becoming ablaze in a bright light, shining with all the glory of God.  Elijah and Moses then decide to show up as well.  From one perspective, its the moment where God most revels Herself in Christ to humankind.  Predictably humankind however can't handle God in all Her glory... Peter tries to control the situation and asks to make three tents for Elijah, Moses and Jesus so the moment can last longer.  Before Peter really even finishes making his proposition, God proclaims, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!”  The disciples fall to the ground, and when they get up, the moment is over... Elijah and Moses are gone and Jesus is back to normal.

What I've realized, is that in a more limited sense, moments of transfiguration happen all the time in the mountains.  They're fleeting and impossible to seek out yes, but they're there, and for me at least, these moments of transfiguration don't come from gazing at the beauty of the forest or far reaching vistas... they take place in momentary and miraculous connection with the Other.  Said in less theological student language, I experience the glory of God in the mountains in moments of deep connection with another human being.  Christ is not only the intermediary between humankind and God, but also between us all... the brief moments when we see Christ in others are the only times when we can truly connect, when we can truly know what another person is all about.  And for me, these moments of transfiguration, these moments when the glory of God even in a limited way shows up in the face of another human being, are most likely to take place while atop the high places of creation.

Atop Bondcliff, August 2012.

Working with Calumet campers at the Mizpah Springs Hut, hiking the Southern Presidentials with a loved one and summiting Mount Isolation with a best friend... there were transfiguration moments on those paths.  Taking a short stroll to the top of Cannon Mountain after my first week of seminary with another close friend, essentially climbing up a waterfall with three folks to bag Moosilauke during one of the best months of my life, conquering the horseshoe of the Northern Presidentials with my brother... there were transfiguration moments on those paths.  And while hiking alone but also while waiting out a late summer storm in the Guyot Shelter with two middle-aged women who couldn't have been more in love and while speaking with an eighty year old man near the summit of Owl's Head who had just bagged his last 4000 footer with his adult son... there were transfiguration moments on those paths.

I had many moments of transfiguration while hiking the many paths and summits of New Hampshire's White Mountains, moments where I saw the glory of God in the face of the Other.  And all these moments of transfiguration helped me realize the growth that was taking place within and all around me.  And because of all these moments of transfiguration, I am truly blessed.

Dustin is currently a vicar at the Lutheran Office for World Community and Saint Peter's Church in Manhattan, having recently completed his second year of a Masters of Divinity program at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia. While seeking ordination in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, his focus is on the intersection between worship, service and justice building in de-centralized faith communities unencumbered by a traditional church building. In his free time, Dustin likes playing frisbee, hiking and pretending to know how to sing.

NH 4000 Footer Essay (Pt. 3): A Northern Presidential Traverse

What follows is part three of the five-part essay I'm writing for the NH 4000 Footer Club.  You can find part one here and part two here.

Sitting in a late-night Starbucks in Queens, my northern presidential traverse in New Hampshire's White Mountains couldn't seem further away... with required-Santa-headgear-tasseled baristas,  purposefully tacky holiday decorations and sombre Elliot Smith tunes pumping over the stereo speakers, the coffeehouse seems wrapped in a warm snuggie of self-aware commercial melancholy.  It's entirely self-reflection inducing and largely familiar in a city that seems dead-set on exuding just that feeling in anticipation of a long, cold winter.

On the presidential range in the summer of '07.

If one hones in though on that notion of reflection in the face of cresting anticipation, my tramp over Mount Madison, Mount Adams, Mount Jefferson and Old Man Washington two summers ago was quite similar.  The seven years between my first summit of NH 4000 footer on Mount Pierce and my day on hadn't treated me that well.  Then a starry eyed high school grad burning with optimism, I had grown into a weathered hospital chaplain.. while my college years at the George Washington University in Washington, DC were largely good ones, near the end of my time there the clouds had certainly rolled in.  My mother and I had been diagnosed with cancer roughly at the same time during the spring of 2008, and while I would eventually receive news of my misdiagnosis with relief, my mom wouldn't fair so lucky... she ended up passing away soon after Christmas that year.  On top of these problems, facing a job search during the worst days of the Great Recession proved difficult, although I eventually was able to a land a less than enjoyably but fairly well paying financial position.  Eventually I figured out I'd like to attend seminary and become a Lutheran pastor, thus beginning what I'd consider a recovery period after the troubles of '08.

Zealand Trail, 2012.

As my brother and I pulled into Dolly Copp campground to prep for our hike two summers ago, it felt like that "recovery period" was ending... I had slowly regained my confidence in the intervening three years and began coming to terms with the anger I felt at the Divine for everything inflicted on my family and I in 2008.  My renewed sense of confidence had emerged in a quieter, calmer manner than that of the innocently joyful days of my youth, but that didn't mean I had lost my playful sense of competition at all... which meant that although my brother Darren had never hiked in the White Mountains before, I was taking him on an introductory march over one of toughest trails in the state.  Darren was probably in better shape than I was, so I knew he could handle it, but I also knew he had no idea what he was about to get into.  Since he seemed to always think himself tougher than me, I figured it was about time to put his notion to the test.  On the other hand, I felt deeply satisfied to be spending a long day hiking with my brother.  We had only become close after my mother's death, so I considered the trip a celebration of our new found closeness... the dynamics of brotherly relationships are interesting, right?

Near the summit of Mount Guyot, 2012.

Starting out around 6:30am, we made okay time up three and a half miles of the Daniel Webster Scout Trail, although Darren was lagging a bit more than I expected.  Once we got out of the trees near Osgood Junction though, he quickly picked up his pace.  Although we had hiked fairly quietly (the stoic awkwardness of two brothers who have not been close still lingered between us), once we attained the ridge, that quickly changed... It was a bright sunny day, and having never been above treeline before, Darren absolutely loved it, yelling out that he couldn't wait to tell his buddies back home in CT about the trip.  The bummer though was that he thought this was near the peak of our adventure, so when I pointed across the Great Gulf at Washington and told him we were following the whole horseshoe-shaped ridge-line all the way around to its summit, Darren wasn't too happy we had that long to go.

After quickly bagging Mount Madison, we headed down into the col to rest awhile and had a late breakfast at Madison Hut.  As familial awkwardness retook us, there was some brief talk about the views, a conversation to which my vain attempt at sounding like an expert about the AMC hut system made a grand addition.  Heading out of the col we passed by Star Lake and joined a large number of hikers heading up to bag Mount Adams.  With Darren once again lagging near the summit, I finally came out and asked him why he was going so slow... that's when an amazing blessing came in the form of a heavy gallon jug of iced-tea Darren thought would be a good idea to bring along on the hike.  As he pulled the jug out of his day-pack and dumped the full gallon out on the side of the trail, swearing his head off all the while, I immediately started chiding him about his mistake, as any good older brother would.  He remained pretty upset with me for the next hour or so, but event completely broke the ice between us- we realized it was okay to be vulnerable around each other for the first time in years, and our relationship has never again descended into silence.

Mount Washington, 2006.

We proceeded to the top of Mount Adams quite quickly, and after descending into Edmunds Col for a short rest, we hastened to summit Mount Jefferson... the ice-tea had definitely slowed us down, and I was increasingly worried we might not make it out to Pinkham Notch before sunset.  I don't remember much about the mad-dash across the final 2.5 miles of ridge line from Jefferson, past Mount Clay and up to the summit of Washington, outside of all the brand new curse-words I learned as Darren yelled most of the way.  We eventually made it to the final summit, and astounding all the motorists who had came up on the auto-road, triumphantly pointed across the Great Gulf toward Osgood Junction to indicate where we started.  Luckily I picked up a flashlight in the summit gift shop, as making our way down Lionhead's as it got dark without one (Tucks was closed for restoration work) would have been less than ideal.  With the awkward gulf between us now gone, on the ride home we were able to reflect about our mom, our emotional recovery process after her passing, and how much we greatly looked toward the future.

God's peace,
Dustin

Dustin is currently a vicar at the Lutheran Office for World Community and Saint Peter's Church in Manhattan, having recently completed his second year of a Masters of Divinity program at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia. While seeking ordination in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, his focus is on the intersection between worship, service and justice building in de-centralized faith communities unencumbered by a traditional church building. In his free time, Dustin likes playing frisbee, hiking and pretending to know how to sing.

NH 4000 Footer Essay (Pt. 2): Overnight at Mizpah

What follows is part two of the five-part essay I'm writing for the NH 4000 Footer Club.  You can find part one here.

My very first trip up one of NH's big peaks took place in 2004 as a young camp counselor taking teenagers to the AMC's Mizpah Spring Hut for Calumet Lutheran Ministries.  Before that first summer I hiked up to Mizpah, the outdoors in general hadn't really ever been my thing.  I had technically been a Boy Scout for years, and even had recently earned my Eagle Scout Badge, but campouts had always been more about building fires, chopping down trees and generally screwing around with a ragtag group of friends than actually enjoying any real hiking through God's creation.  I had also been a camper at Calumet for a few years and counselor the prior summer as well, but even then I was more interested in getting a great tan or flirting with girls than soaking up the untrampled beauty of the White Mountains... when possible, I'd always go on the easy canoe trip with a few campers rather than a hike.

Boy I was goofy.

Upon first hearing I had to help lead an overnight to Mizpah, I was pretty bummed... the trip up the Crawford Path was technically categorized as one of the "hard" hikes Calumet offered, and it additionally meant two days away from my "epic love" that summer.  I was also at nearly the pinnacle of my neo-flower child phase, and thus had great concern about a long day of sweaty hiking messing up my "sweet" bleached-blonde locks.  Eventually though I came to terms with my fate and even heard from a few of my fellow counselors that it was amazing trip. The moss covered forest floor looked like some sort of fairy garden and water from the spring was supposedly the tastiest in the world.

Following my usual practice that summer, I fell asleep during the bus ride to the trailhead despite being responsible for campers.  I awoke as the bus pulled into Crawford Notch near the AMC's Highland Center to an absolutely beautiful valley all around me... I had never, ever even come to close to seeing such wondrous creation during my Boy Scout trips.  As we headed up the Crawford Path, I quickly realized that it wasn't all that bad, even with the heavy pack on my back.  The kids that usually sign up for the hard hike at Calumet tend to actually like the outdoors, and that definitely seemed to be the case on this trip.

A similar "fairy-garden" on Wildcat Mountain.

Right around hitting the Mizpah Cut-off, things seemed to flatten out pretty substantially AND the fairy garden deal started happening.  Long before getting to a summit, seeing such lush, beautiful forest for the first time already made the trip well worth my effort.  Soon enough though we reached Mizpah Hut and I was once again astounded, this time that such things existed up in the White Mountains.  The clearing around the hut was filled with birds that seemingly lacked any fear of people and I specifically remember hearing Uncle John's Band being played by the hut crew as they started preparing dinner.  Calumet couldn't afford quite such plush accommodations for our group however, so we instead found a couple platforms at the nearby Nauman Tentsite.

Eisenhower, Pierce and Jackson from Mount Monroe.

Once we set up our tents on the assigned platforms, the trip's head counselor quickly suggested we take the "optional" Webster-Cliff trail up to the summit of Mount Pierce.  Most of the campers seemed pretty enthusiastic about the idea, so we grabbed our Nalgenes and headed up a decidedly steep (although short) trail to the summit.  Despite the tough grade, I felt hungry to reach that summit... a feeling I had never felt before, and I remember it sort of surprising me.  

It didn't take our group too long to summit, and since most of us had never been above treeline before, there was a strong sense of camaraderie through our shared experience.  I felt honored to be part of that moment with my campers and fellow counselors, and we stayed above treeline for much of the afternoon.  Mount Eisenhower and even Washington seemed like a close hike away and  I remember wishing we could keep ascending up the Crawford Path to the top of New England... the whole world seemed in front of us, all-embracing and filled with adventure.  Being a sentimental fellow, I quickly realized how this reflected my own life situation as recent high-school grad soon to go off to college for the first time.

After heading back into the trees and down to our tents, I suppose we had dinner, told a few stories and went to bed... I frankly don't remember much more about the trip.  Looking back on it though, that trail up Mount Pierce helped me recognize two things.  First, I realized that much like the ecstasy of looking forward to the summit of Washington for the first time, the joy I felt during my last summer before college, the joy of having a bright, untarnished future ahead of me, was fleeting.  Second, I comprehended the great hunger for future mountaintop experiences within me for the first time.

Dustin is currently a vicar at the Lutheran Office for World Community and Saint Peter's Church in Manhattan, having recently completed his second year of a Masters of Divinity program at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia. While seeking ordination in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, his focus is on the intersection between worship, service and justice building in de-centralized faith communities unencumbered by a traditional church building. In his free time, Dustin likes playing frisbee, hiking and pretending to know how to sing.

NH 4000 Footer Essay (Pt. 1): It's Not the Path That Changes Us

A path over Mount Pleasant.

What follows is part one of the five-part essay I'm writing for the NH 4000 Footer Club.  You can find part two here.

I first heard about having to write this application essay for NH's Four Thousand Footer Club sometime about a third of the way through hiking all of the Granite State's forty-eight peaks, and frankly, I've been trying to figure out what to put down on paper ever since.  I really enjoy pretending to be a good writer and thus I fancied whatever I'd come up with to be a sort of 'road tale,' a frequently employed plot device- sort of coming of age story where the protagonist sets off searching for maturity or meaning and generally ends up finding it... think Huckleberry Finn or in a more contemporary form Easy Rider... even Homer's Iliad, the oldest narrative in the Western canon, reflects much of what's in a road tale.  An inherent part of the road tale though is not just personal growth and discovery, but growth and discovery through experience.  A central message of such stories then is that the road literally does something to you... whether left wounded, reborn or somewhere in between, one cannot help but be changed by the beauties and terrors of the road.

From Mount Tripyramid.

With the grandiose notion of becoming the best White Mountain road tale writer since Brad Washburn lodged firmly in my noggin, I set off on every subsequent hike enthusiastically trying to answer the question "how is this exactly changing me?"  I sure experienced a whole lot of beauty (afternoon clouds billowing over Mount Isolation for instance) and even a couple minor terrors (realizing its almost 9pm with two miles to go coming off Middle Carter with a bum leg and a freshly dead headlamp) but unfortunately, trying to figure out how such experiences were changing me became a distracting and fruitless effort.  Especially after I began solo hiking in the summer of 2011, one could often find me standing on a mountaintop trying to convince an increasingly skeptical inner-self that I was experiencing something profound and life-changing.  After each of these sort of episodes, I'd usually leave the summit both proud of my accomplishment and frustrated that nothing was happening.  I'm currently a seminarian studying to be a pastor in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, so I wasn't seeking just growth or meaning in those mountains, but God as well.  Unfortunately, while I'd often marveled at Her handiwork during my mountaintop experiences, God Herself didn't seem to really want to show up... or at least it felt that way.

On top of Mount Carrigain's fire-tower.

I'm now sitting in a Starbucks in Queens, far away from my cherished mountains.  I deeply miss those stoic old giants... especially over this past summer, they became some my closest friends.  Still though, I can't honestly say the path over them changed me.  I met some amazing folks and some annoying folks, I marveled at God's creation and stood helpless against Her fury, I even learned a lot in the mountains, but no, they didn't change me.  It wouldn't be accurate though to say I wasn't growing and changing during the eight years I took to hike the Whites.  I started my journey on top of Mount Pierce in 2004, freshly out of high school and working for my second summer as a camp counselor for Calumet Lutheran Ministries.  I finished my journey late this past August atop Mount Carrigain's fire-tower, at the end of a longer summer break and two years into a Masters of Divinity degree.  Many of the kids who were with me back in 2004 later grew up to be counselors themselves... some even became good friends of mine.  I definitely changed over that period, perhaps I even came of age, but it wasn't the mountains that changed me.  Rather, my path over NH's forty-eight big peaks ended up providing the space I needed to reflect on my relationship with God, the course of my growth and my relationship with the ever-evolving world all around me.  While not the rule, I do think this is typical... it's not the road, the journey or the path that usually changes us.  Instead, the paths we trod in life simply serve as vehicles through which we can realize the growth (or potential for growth) already stirring within and around us.  What follows then, perhaps isn't road tale at all, at least in the traditional sense... it's a collection of a few stories in which I realized that since the last time I was up above the clouds, things looked pretty different...
 
Dustin is currently a vicar at the Lutheran Office for World Community and Saint Peter's Church in Manhattan, having recently completed his second year of a Masters of Divinity program at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia. While seeking ordination in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, his focus is on the intersection between worship, service and justice building in de-centralized faith communities unencumbered by a traditional church building. In his free time, Dustin likes playing frisbee, hiking and pretending to know how to sing.