The Slow Path

When I was younger, faster, and stronger, I’d try to run through places as quickly as I possibly could. I ran past hikers who seemed pissed off that I was running. I lived by the mantra of “hike your own hike” and I felt like I was enjoying nature in the best possible way, the way that made me feel good, and alive.

My friend Ben described it as worshipping in a church. You choose how you want to worship. Some people go in, eyes wide open, in awe of the ornate altar, the details of stained glass and how the bright colors splinter through and dance on the walls, and the paintings of blood, suffering, and miracles. This is how they worship. Others sit down and close their eyes as their heart expands inside. This is how they worship. Nobody is doing it wrong.

We ran across Joshua Tree together. It was an amazing day, 40 miles on deserted singletrack through one of my favorite places in the world. It felt like what worship is supposed to feel like.

I don’t regret going fast. That is how I connected with the terrain around me. I pushed. I shared suffering and formed bonds with people and places, strong bonds that have lasted years.

At the time, I didn’t feel like I missed anything when I ran the John Muir Trail. But if I were to do it again, I’d take more time. I wouldn’t run it. I’d slow down and take afternoon naps in the shade of big pines, and I would fish and eat more, and watch the sun rise with my morning coffee.

I took a long walk with my dog a few weeks ago. I walk her twice a day, but they are usually short walks, just enough time for her to do her business. I usually rush her because she likes to stop and sniff. Every bush.

This time I was feeling generous, so we took a long 3 hour walk together. Walk is an overstatement. It wasn’t continuous. We stopped at every bush. And we appreciated it. When she sniffed, I pulled a leaf or a piece off the bush and crushed the green in my fingers, smelling the sage, the pine, the mint, the eucalyptus. We stopped at a tree and I admired the bark. We were slow, noticing so much of what I usually miss when I run or bike those same trails.

As I write, the Big Bear livestream Eagle cam is playing in the background. I switch over when I hear the hungry chirps. I see the mom rip pink flesh from the fish and gently drop it into the mouths of her hungry babies. She lets out a call, screeching beautifully as the father looks over them and occasionally picks through some dropped scraps, before he protectively snuggles the chicks underneath him. It’s his turn. They should put that on a flag.

A few days ago, I watched as the third chick tried to use its small beak to crack through the egg. The parents didn’t help. If they help, the chick will probably die. It has to be strong enough to break through on its own. On its own time. There is so much they could teach us about parenting, patience, and the slowness of life.

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine invited me to do a mountain bike ride with him and a couple other guys. We started high above Palm Springs and descended 30 miles through flowy singletrack trails to the desert floor. This friend, Toby, and I had some time to talk as we climbed through one of the harder sections of the route, a 3-mile deep-sand uphill slog. We took it slow. We talked about some of the runs and through hikes we had done together, the suffering we have shared. Before we started, he gave me a sticker for the toptube of my bike, a small hourglass that read “Smooth is Fast.” That was the mantra, and I tried to keep it smooth on the descent, slowing for corners, not crashing, and trying to avoid the cacti lining the trail.

I wasn’t able to enjoy the top part of the trail, even though I appreciated how beautiful it was. I was gripping the bars hard, my whole body tense, as I slowed through the corners and over rock gardens, just doing my best not to crash into the cactus at every turn. It was not smooth, and it was not fast. A few miles in, I was able to relax and enjoy the ride. I noticed snow-capped San Gorgonio in the distance and the Coachella Valley below.

Photo credit: Ryan Denner

My wife and I took a trip to Vegas last week. We go every year to climb, and then after a good session, eat some good food. My wife and I climb easy. It’s harder for her. A few years ago we were on an easy route, a local route, and she stopped after the first move, about 8 feet off the ground and hugged the rock as much as you can hug the face of a cliff, and she started crying. She asked to be lowered.

We planned to do the first pitch of some multi-pitch routes in Red Rocks, just outside of Vegas. Multi-pitch routes go higher. For those who don’t climb, this is how it works. I climbed first and placed draws through the hanging bolts, then clipped the rope through the draws on the way up. When I reached the top of the first pitch, I set up and anchor and pulled the rope up until it became tight because the other end of the rope was attached to my wife. I put her on belay from the top and she climbed the route.

She was attached to the rope at all times, so there was no risk of her falling more than a few inches. But fear doesn’t give a fuck about logic, especially when you are 100 feet off the ground and are then going to climb another 100 feet to the top. Her brain was telling her that if she fell, it would be a 200 foot drop. When she got to the anchor, I talked her through the next pitch, and gave her the option to continue up. We climbed this long route together surrounded by a beautiful sandstone amphitheater. When she reached the top of the 2nd pitch, it felt like we were the only people in Red Rocks, and I couldn’t have been more proud or more in love.

Photo credit: Karsten Delap

Difficulty is relative, and this was an easy route, but I imagine the feeling we had at the top, the joy, the payoff, would be the same as if we had just done the hardest route in Red Rocks. It’s the feeling of surfing 3-4 foot waves under a beautiful blue sky when the spray gets in your eyes, it’s skiing blues, zigzagging back and forth and digging the edges in the snow to slow you down as the snowboarders fly by, it’s mountain biking down 30 miles of desert singletrack with friends that wait every couple of miles for you, it’s an easy jog through well-worn trails with the promise of pizza and beer at the end.

We’re all out there with our different motivations, different challenges, and different ways we choose to move through nature. The way I worship is changing. Slower, usually with people I love, taking more time to look around while still striving for the sweet spot where joy and suffering meet.