It was eerily quiet as we unzipped our tent door and climbed down the ladder (still half asleep) into the pitch blackness of our primitive campsite. We were in grizzly bear country, and I couldn’t help wondering what creatures were watching from beyond the lantern’s glow. I hastily balled up sleeping bags and threw them into the backseat while my husband, Jordan, began the 15-minute job of disassembling the rooftop tent.
It was 3 AM, the campers slept, the woods were still, even the mosquitoes had ceased their humming.
We’d arrived at the campground the day before, a first-come-first-serve location in northern Glacier National Park just a few hundred feet from the most beautiful mountain lake I’ve ever seen. The icy blue lake sits nestled between two towering mountains, surrounded by evergreens, bright moss and vibrant ferns. The drive was long — an hour and a half from the west entrance, 7 miles on a rocky, dirt road. Driving that road in the middle of the night was daunting. But we had a mission: West Glacier by sunrise. With every bend in the road, I anticipated seeing some giant animal — maybe even Sasquatch. We drove and drove, and finally arrived at a paved road, the sky slowly lightening even at the early hours.
We made it through the entrance, turned onto the iconic Going-to-the-Sun-Road as the purple peaks caught the rising sun, and the low clouds illuminated the glorious indigos and violets of breaking dawn. We pulled over across from a blue, rushing river, unpacked our Chemex, boiled fresh water, and made, perhaps, the best cup of coffee.
The 50 mile road climbs slowly, passing ancient cedars and side-of-the-road cascades, each mile grows a little more treacherous as the road twists and turns up and up and up towards the sun. Lofty trees give way to valley views, the alpine tundra lined with a thousand little waterfalls created by melting snow. The air thins, wind picks up. We kept driving as high-elevation waterfalls grew more powerful, some even spraying the highway. We hit the highest point and slowly began a descent, foot by foot, and pulled over again. This time the sun was higher, and our stomachs were growling fiercely with hunger. So we made bacon and egg sandwiches with our little camp stove, enjoying the views of yet another majestic mountain lake.
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Henry David Thoreau said, “we need the tonic of wildness,” a reminder I felt clearly driving the road, hiking the trails, sitting in stillness (Internet free) with views I’d always dreamed of one day seeing in real life. There’s a lack of wildness today when roads are heavily trafficked and people are plentiful. And yet, even in the highly-concentrated tourist areas we caught glimpses of the wild, the mystery, the unanswerable. We found quiet trails, tip-toed through mossy forests, ventured to quiet lake shores undisturbed by voices or motors. Wendell Berry writes of “the peace of wild things,” healing and solace found in the created world. And I think we experienced moments, tonics, of peace and clarity amongst the mighty Rockies of Montana, the Grand Tetons of Wyoming, fullness and hope felt with every glimpse of nature.
There’s a certain theology I’ve grown wary of. It’s not necessarily nihilism, but it’s a lack of care, appreciation, and stewardship for the world based on a belief it’s all just going to burn. Scripture talks of a new heaven and a new earth, the redemptive ordering of this imperfect universe. We are not waiting to be rescued from a burning planet. We are stewards of a beautifully created and cultivated world that God called good. Perhaps what we see now is just a glimpse, but a glimpse can mirror the glory to come. I don’t want to live with one foot out the door, with resentment for the current world because a better one is coming.
If this world is fleeting, would it be so intricately made?
There is mystery in the world that spills over into human existence and faith. Often in search of answers we attempt to erase that mystery, impatient with the unknown and unanswerable. We Christians are sometimes guilty of poor imagination and literalism. We want everything to fit nicely into the boxes of our theology, our assumptions of a young earth and a literal interpretation of the creation story. But mystery allows us space to say “I don’t know,” to sit at the precipice of a great valley and consider: maybe the beginning is actually unknowable. Maybe this land is far older, buried layers full of story we can’t fathom.
I think back sometimes on the guilt-ridden urge for Christians to have a defense for their beliefs, though I’m not sure a defensive posture is a helpful one, especially in light of much that remains unanswerable.
But I can say I’ve hiked hundreds of feet of stunning mountain trails, stood on black beaches, dived into frigid mountain lakes, basked in the shivering golden aspens. I’ve tasted beauty that seemed otherworldly. And though there’s much I don’t know, I hold loosely and hopefully to the Truth of a world created in love.
Not accidental, fleeting or purposeless. But good.