Waypoint 1.5: No Shortcuts to Now

From Chapter 1, “Standing in The Ancient Shadow“

“We live only now. Everything else is either passed or unknown.”

— Marcus Aurelius

We welcomed our first break at the first switchback, where a posted sign warned hikers: Stay on the trail. Like an open history book, it traced a scar across the mountain’s face — a record of shortcuts taken too often.

Lassen Peak’s upper switchbacks — where the trail cuts a scar into the mountain, and a shaded sign warns: “Stay on the trail.” The path veers right, behind the hill and the trees.
(Photo by David Hitchcock © 2016, via HikingProject.com)

We mortals often mistake our destination for our goal. In our haste, we take straight razors to the stubbled moment, and cut what only patience can reveal. In our rush toward the summit — toward some triumph, seeking some applause, or posting that perfect photo — in our rush, we shave off the Now, which is never more or less than what eternally Is.

History, also, Is.

It’s present. It’s the coextensive shape of things. It’s the territory; it’s the trail; it’s the face of the mountain.

Yet, in our haste to the top, it’s not so much the mountain’s face we scar, though this we certainly do. We also distort a deeper face, whose lines reveal another kind of tectonics, and another kind of topography. These lines reveal the procreant urge, the ancient contraction, the struggle to surface, and become conscious. 

This is the hike. This is life. This is revelation and this is creation. It’s the trailhead. It’s the switchback. It’s the summit. It’s the warm bead of sweat pooling on the forehead, swelling to stream and then free-falling into the high, crisp, midmorning mountain air, to hit the soil and soak in: There are no shortcuts to Now.

“There are no shortcuts to now.”

At this first switchback, the peak didn’t seem so far off. Other hikers, who had started their ascent at sunrise, were already descending — and happy to tell us we still had a way to go.

It was still morning. The mountain air carried the cool, crisp scent of ancient Septembers. Even in ascent, we could feel the tilted earth turning once more toward its eternal endings.

So we settled in, and set a pace — watching how our little squirrels were doing, taking care not to tire them out.

Pausing here to take some photos. Pausing there to eat some jerky, or chips, or cookies.

Pausing, to sip some water.

Pausing, to catch our breath.

Pausing, to begin again.

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