Mount Sentinel

Two naked, treeless goddesses stand watch over the Missoula valley. Mount Sentinel and Mount Jumbo (seen at right) rise to heights of 5158’ and 4768’ respectively. Together, they each loom two thousand feet above the valley floor. They are the ancient guardians of the valley. The eastern traveler who enters Missoula cannot miss either one. Interstate 90 passes through the narrow gap that separates these two giants. Historically, the squeeze is known as Hell Gate Canyon. The Blackfeet Indians would lie in ambush for the numerous western tribes who would use the pass on their way to the fertile buffalo ground of eastern Montana. Mounts Sentinel and Jumbo stand witness to a long and proud history. I wonder what their futures will bring?

Yesterday, I climbed Mount Sentinel. This was my second hike to the summit since I moved to Missoula. The last time was during the previous May. I went with a friend, and we both had just completed a year of graduate courses at the university. As I climbed yesterday, I couldn’t help but think about how much has changed since last May. My friend went on to further graduate school in New England. I spent an entire season in the heart of the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, where I fell in love with the most wonderful woman I have ever met. As I climbed, I thought if the juxtaposition of timelessness and change.

Certainly the mountain I climbed has seen its changes. Missoula is at the confluence of five glacial valleys. Where I now sit and type at my computer was once covered by an ancient lake. At some point, the glaciers gave way, and the contents of the lake spewed to the west. I’ve heard it said that not even the rocks live forever. But the land, even though it changes, seems to outlast us all. As I put one foot in front of the other and climbed, I wondered how many countless people have summited this mountain before me. What were their hopes and dreams? Who did they love? I felt a strange connection to these unknown individuals.

As I climbed, I saw tracks in the snowy mud. Deer (likely mule deer), elk, dogs (likely pets) and even a mountain lion where scattered among the human footprints. Few people other than avid hikers and backpackers realize that animals also use the trails created by man through the wilderness. Like flowing water, animals will also follow the path of least resistance. I will admit, the fresh mountain lion tracks did make me glance over my shoulder every few dozen yards. Having encountered them before, little scares me more than the prospect of being stalked by a mountain lion (not even grizzly bears). Nevertheless, I climbed upward. There is a certain risk in hiking and backpacking. It’s something I am perfectly willing to accept.

I stood at the summit and beheld the fog shrouded valley below. Here I felt at home. I don’t belong in the valley. I realized this when I returned last summer, having not used the internet, had a phone conversation, watched a television or used an automobile for an entire season. That world makes no sense to me. Missoula is a high altitude desert. Yet the university insists on keeping the grass green and well groomed throughout the summer season. The sight of sprinklers and riding law-mowers made me livid last September. I spent considerable time watching people. Everyone was in a hurry, on a phone, on a computer, talking about the latest Hollywood movies. I don’t understand that world. Perhaps I never did.

As I stood at the summit of Mount Sentinel and beheld the valley, I couldn’t help but smile and laugh. The rocks may not last forever, but one thing is for sure. These mountains will outlast our civilization. There is nothing sacred about our culture or democracy. Ask the Greeks who outlived Pericles. Or the Romans who saw the end of the Republic. America, too, will fall. The history our students fail to learn in school is stacked against us. No civilization has yet endured beyond geological forces. The mountains will live on. What will they overlook in a thousand years? Will Mount Sentinel silently stand guard over the ruins of our civilization?

The Balance of History

What is the opposite of history? Everyone knows (or at least should know) what history is. This field is more than the simple study of the past. Ultimately, history is the creation of meaning where there is only the raw and lived existence of the present. We can look back on the past, tell our stories, and give meaning to events. Among animals, this uncanny ability makes humans unique. Without the ability to remember and create meaning, we are nothing more than Nietzsche’s belly-oriented herd of goats grazing on a mountainside.

But what force stands in opposition to the historical records and interpretations? If history is meaning given to events that have already happened, then its opposite force cannot also be located in the past. The moment we live in –– the present –– has no meaning until it is over and we begin to tell stories and analyze our experiences. History can only come in retrospect. Therefore, whatever stands opposed to history must be neither in the past nor in the present. History’s opposition must be in the future. This conclusion seems the most logical.

The opposite of what happened in the past must invariably look to the future. History has already taken place and we mine its events and biographies to give meaning to the present world in which we live. But the future has not yet happened. The future offers untold variables and courses of action. It should be understood that the opposite of past is future. The former world of history is littered with skepticism and negative critique. Therefore the opposite must offer a different alternative and vision of the world in which we live.

This opposition of history must be positive. The chroniclers and critics of historical events speak of wars, politics gone astray, and the darker side of human nature. Simply stated, history is the record of the world in which we live. That world is most often recorded as harsh and brutal. It is littered with scores of names that evoke strong emotions: Caesars, The Terror, Waterloo, Solferino, Verdun, Auschwitz. Even our own individual experiences and stories tell us that life is hard and will eventually end. What, then, can be the opposite of such a bloody, raped, and cratered landscape?

Perhaps Hope is the single human force which stands in opposition to the events of the past. Hope is a world of the future tense. The events of the future have not yet transpired, and hope allows us to believe that anything is possible. There are two kinds of hopes that humans experience. The first is simple and fleeting. This is the hope that asks for puppies at Christmas and cakes on birthdays. It’s the second type of hope that counter-balances the historical experience. These are the hopes that are too big to fit into this world, the impossible hopes that may or (more likely) may not be realized in our lives. These are the Hopes which keep us looking to a future where the ever upsidedown world is turned on its head.

But why do we do it? Why do we hope when there is ample historical evidence which speaks to the failure of such hopes? Countless times throughout history the hopes of nations, peoples, and individuals have been utterly dashed against the stones of human reality. Perhaps hope is the necessary balance to the craziness of our world.

Let’s ponder these questions and thoughts until we’re old and wise grandmothers and grandfathers. Perhaps then we will have a better understanding of the mysteries of life, and we will be more qualified to offer answers to such questions.

Notes from a Night on a Bald Mountain

Recorded Sept. 4, 2005

From the eastern summit of the ridge line west of Sheep Mountain, Missoula County, Montana. Elevation approximately 7600 feet. Distance covered about 10 horizontal miles and about 4000 vertical feet in elevation.

The sun went down. To one side I saw the encroaching darkness of night, to the other was the last ray of light falling behind the Bitterroot Mountains. Night’s hand cradled the valley below. I stood at 7600 feet above sea level. The night’s grip grew tighter as daylight vanished. I was alone, without another person for at least ten miles. Soon the world would be clenched in a dark, cold fist.

I made camp on the eastern summit of a barren ridge line. There were only a few shabby trees for shelter, and the ground was covered in shale. I anchored my tent with a stone tent ring. I put on my long sleeve shirt, sweatshirt, and wool beanie. The temperature had already dropped several degrees since my arrival that afternoon. And the wind speed had increased dramatically. This would be a cold, windy, and solitary night.

I watched the world as the sun set. Blackness covered the land behind me. To my left, the barely visible lights of Missoula were beginning to flicker as if in battle against the coming dark. To my right, the sun still reflected off of glacial capped peaks on the northern horizon. In front of me, the sun inched its way over the Bitterroots.

In this harsh altitude, I was overcome with thoughts. I recalled something I recently read. From the epilogue of Elie Wiesel’s play The Trial of God:

“So great is humanity’s capacity for evil that the God of justice is indeed silenced by humanity’s evil deeds––but the God of the sun and moon and stars, of time and space and the fifteen billion years that brought humanity into being, the God of life itself, of the horses and lions and mountain goats that caught Job’s attention––that God is not silenced. The God of cosmos is not silenced.”

Suddenly, I felt captured by the physical and visual wonders that surrounded me. Beautiful and malevolent forces that never cease. And it was for me alone. I had no one with whom I could share this spectacle. It was all mine, just as if this moment was created solely that I might witness these things.

I suddenly had words rushing through my mind. I needed to write. I grabbed pencil and the only paper available to me, my copy of Wiesel’s Night which I brought for reading material. I opened to the last page and began scratching the paper with lead. Prompted by the wonder before me, and by the above passage that had been on my mind for over a month, I wrote the following words.

“HaShem Elohim: Blessed is your name. The sun rises every morning and falls every night. The moon and stars are in their courses and never fail. The wind blows across my face and the aurora dances in the north. It is twilight, a chance to begin again. Blessed is your name for these constants engulfed in a world of chaos, madness, insanity. Because the constants never fail, I will know that you are haShem. Blessed is your name.”

I said these words as the last rays of sun fell behind the Bitterroots. The temperature dropped to freezing. The wind blew across the bare peak like a freight train. After watching a show of the aurora borealis, I returned to my tent in the darkness both happy and content to weather the frigid and cloudless wind storm.

In the morning, I watched the sun rise over the valley. For the first time in many months, the world looked beautiful. What had changed? I spent a night in the frigid wind. Yet I knew the sun would return in the morning. Night is only a season. The sun will always rise in the morning. Yet those who lived through the night have an obligation to tell their story. Those who didn’t experience a night such as this (or any other metaphorical night) will never understand what the minutes and moments were like. Yet those who are willing to listen to the stories will, hopefully, become better individuals having heard and reflected on them. The stories of such nights provide countless others a chance to learn. Perhaps the greater gift in life is to listen to the stories.