The day of the bear (Part 1)
Thursday morning, July 15
I have stood out on the rim of the Grand Canyon looking out over that broad expanse in
amazement and wonder. I have stood looking out over the emerald-green sea waters of Alaska, those glassy and mysterious waters hemmed in by majestic, snow-capped mountains. I have admired the changing mosaic leaves of fall from the midst of the regal Smoky mountains, to which we’ve gone to absorb for decades now – but I have never been more inspired, more touched deeply in the soul, than the morning of looking out over Yellowstone's cool flowing Snake River on Thursday morning, the fifteenth day of July, 2021. I never will forget this day.
Wednesday provided the turning point we needed, almost desperately, and we were able to rest from the time we came to the campsite on that Wednesday afternoon until the dawning of the fifth day. That elusive campsite to which we had come, with much thanksgiving, had two sections, perhaps twenty feet apart. The section nearest the river had two long logs across from each other, about ten feet apart, with the dirt floor in between. You could sit on or against the logs to rest or to put your shoes on or off. After Todd and I had gotten settled, I sat on the ground against the log looking northward to rest, then decided to lean my head against my new small backpack and try to take a nap. The sun was shining through the trees occasionally, and the tiny mosquitos were overly friendly, as usual, so I put my hat over my face and tried to rest. Todd did the same on the other side ten or twelve feet away. We both slept for a time. After a while, we got a chance to talk (I think it may have been the first time we really had talked since we put on our backpacks), and I asked about his family. He told me of his wife Staci, whom I had known for years from our Houston days, and his two girls – Kayla and Kelsey – whom I would be blessed to meet a few weeks later and tell of all of our adventures. I talked of my family, too—the amazin’ blonde, of course, my son Malachi making his way so well out in California, our fourth-grade teaching Rachel with husband Michael, along with the two other lights of our lives, Connorman, my hiking and reading partner, and Audrey Lyn, the one who lets me coach her some in basketball. For a time, sitting there in that wilderness, life seemed almost normal.
As evening approached, we made our way to the other section of the campsite that contained a pit where you could build a campfire, had there not been a ban this summer due to fire danger. That section had the long pole high above across two trees where you hung your bags during the night. It was there that Todd and I communed together with our first hot meal of the journey. Todd boiled water on a burner that Randy Butler had let us use for fixing our packaged meals, and he served me first. That night I had chicken alfredo, and it was the best meal I had had in a while. It was the only meal I had had in a while, for that matter. I could not finish the entire package, but I ate most of it, and Todd ate all of his. The only thing either of us had eaten since Sunday was a few bites at a time of the protein bars we packed. I did have a Payday bar that I nibbled on Sunday and Monday, and it was more of a blessing than I could have known when I packed it at the bottom of my backpack. In that altitude, and with the fatigue, food had little appeal. But I knew the sodium and potassium in that Wednesday evening hot meal was good for our bodies and muscles, so I was glad to have it.
After the meal, we soon made our way back to the tent at the other section, nearer the river, and there we would spend our fourth night in the wild, but not as remote of an area as the past two eerie nights. Thinking back, I think the time we had to rest that afternoon and night must have been another life-saver for us. We still were almost twenty miles from walking out of our wilderness; so, the next three days would be long, long days; and there still was plenty of uncertainty regarding the paths we would take up ahead, as the correct trails sometimes are hidden; and animal trails often appear deceptively to increase the danger of a wrong turn. There were other dangers that we still would face, but we were thankful to have made it safe thus far.
My hope was that, barring getting lost once more, my legs had restored enough that perhaps we would be able to make those eighteen or so miles without injury. Turning in early that night, and sleeping in a place where we felt much more safe, we were able to refresh ourselves significantly. The previous two nights had not provided that luxury. I was up with the sun almost every morning, and this Thursday morning I was up and dressed before Todd got up. He was not far behind me, and you could feel a much more peaceful and optimistic state of mind. But my mind was filled with something else, too.
—Down by the riverside ...
Soon after Todd got up and around, I made the trek down to the river to wash my face, brush my teeth, and re-fill our water bottles. The river was so beautiful that morning, its water flowing swiftly and churning over the rocks at a small waterfall a few feet downstream. By this time, we did not worry about walking out into the water early in the morning, as our feet and shoes were going to be wet all day anyway. Todd had asked me to wash out the empty food bags at the river when I went down, so I did that while he did his own work at the camp. One of the water bottles got away in the swift current, and I almost had to dive in to get it. That was something we could not lose. I was glad I did not have to take a swim to retrieve it.
After I had finished my chores, I paused there on the rocky river island and looked out over the flowing water of the Snake River as the sun was barely getting its head above the trees on the surrounding mountains. It was one of the most peaceful, serene scenes of our trip.
I mentioned that it is hard to know how the mind works. I stood out on the edge of that flowing river that morning, even as we had stood on the edge of so many dangers – seen and unseen – over four full days; and the world seemed to fall down on me. I do not remember ever having a moment quite as that one before. The realization that the Lord had gone before us and behind us, He had sent His guardians to surround us every tired, weary step of the way, He had directed any of the dangerous wild creatures – bear and moose alike, and others, no doubt – from invading wherever our feet would trod or our exhausted bodies would lie down to rest; He had orchestrated every move, every element of this most unexpected and unparalleled journey; and He even had preserved these muscles from injury, just one injury would have jeopardized our lives even more than before.
And, now, looking out in the coolness of another morning, absorbing all the blessings that the river seemed to represent and provide, I felt overwhelmed. I had to show the Lord my thanksgiving and deep devotion, if, somehow, I could. I stood there, out of the earshot of Todd or any other human – but not of the angels watching about us, I know, nor of our ever-watchful God who holds us in His unchanging hand, nor of our blessed Lord whose grace sustains us through every storm and down every trail, nor of that Spirit of Promise who would intercede even then at this sweetest and most precious hour of prayer – and I attempted to sing that song that always goes with me:
O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder … I tried to get the words out, but they faltered in the emotion of those moments. I could only stumble over them, my voice shaking at each word … consider all the world thy hands have made …” … another pause, to gather myself, and to take in more of the peaceful flow of that morning river, and to soak in God’s greatness as that marvel rolled along and churned at my feet … I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder, thy pow’r throughout the universe displayed … Feebly, I came to that resounding chorus, taking my time, for the world seemed to have stopped at that moment, pausing along with us to give the Lord this moment of honor and praise … Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to thee … Oh, I scarce could take it all in … How great Thou art, how great Thou art … I managed to get those words out, more meaningful than ever before, then gathered myself to repeat that grand declaration once but needing to do so a thousand times, and a thousand times a thousand. I managed the final words … Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee, how great Thou art, how great Thou art.
With a few more deep breaths to gather in the grandeur of God’s presence deep within the soul as much as I could do, I washed my face once more in that cold, pristine water, and made my way back up, reluctantly, to my unsuspecting friend to continue our journey, for, again, there were miles to go before we sleep.
I thought of something else as another day’s traveling began, and my good friend took his place faithfully some distance ahead as usual:
I had come to that lovely river that morning, its roar still making its presence known behind us, just as we had come to it over and over in our traveling and searching. But it was a different river that morning, far different than it had ever been. No man comes to the same river twice, my friend Roy had said, what seems now months ago. He was right. It was so different that morning, different than I had ever known it.
And so was I.
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