TIME STAND STILL

I should have known better.

It had been a dusty, gusty day, and despite my general concern regarding the stamina and skill required for the climb and hike, I wanted to go. I was on a photographic trip and I knew I wouldn't get the shot I wanted without going on the hike.

The trip had started like any other--I wanted pictures of one of the many ancient ruins sites found in the southwestern United States. I went to the store and bought a roasted chicken, some fruit and bottled water. I camped near the site the night before, and by no accident it was August 10, the night of the Perseid meteor shower. This particular meteor shower was sometimes called the tears of St. Lawrence for the man who was martyred in Rome on August 10, 258 A.D. It was quite a light show, and I felt somehow humbled for having seen this spectacular show. That night I dreamt of how the Anasazi, the ancient ones, who once lived in this area must have reacted to this shower year after year. It surely must have held great spiritual significance to them, as it does to me now.

Everything so far had been splendid. I awoke at dawn and patiently waited for the optimum light for the photos I wanted to take. I finally got away from paperwork for a day or two to clear my head. I already had some amazing photos, but I was waiting for evening to get the shot that I was here to get—a shot from the cliff overlooking the ruins in the golden light of the sunset.

I realized with a piercing gaze into myself on this trip that I was undergoing a change. Not a dramatic "before and after photo" type of change, but a change of heart. I was in the process, albeit more like a war of attrition than the casual flipping of a light switch, of becoming what I always wanted to be. In a matter of time I would become one of the people I think of as being quiet contributors to this place we call earth and this condition we call humanity.

As the day wore on I knew that if I wanted to make the climb to the cliff top overlook and back down before dark I'd better get going. I also knew better than to go. I knew that it was foolish to hike that far and that high alone, and especially on a day when it was this hot and dry and windy. It was one of those days when even the breeze is hot and brings no relief.

The dust in the air, and in my eyes, felt like sandpaper. I began to understand how erosion could wear something down. Maybe it was the altitude, or dehydration or heat, but I felt as though I were being shaped, not accidentally but rather toward some higher design, indeed, by some Higher Being. The ruins tend to collapse with their corners, the strongest parts, more in tact than the walls and from a distance this creates an illusion of pointing toward Heaven. I knew that if anyone allowed it to happen, the strongest part of their soul would start to point toward Heaven.

In magnificent insolence of my misgivings about the whole expedition, I decided to go for it. I was in a national historic site only 40 minutes from home, and knew every inch of the trail.  There were nine rangers on duty who knew where I was going. They knew every feature and every snare the park had to offer, and in order to do the hike I had to file a plan so they'd know where I was and when to expect me back. If I got in trouble, they'd come and bail me out. They knew every bit of history and myth, and every historical theory regarding the disappearance of the ancient people who lived here. The theory is that there was a long, widespread and deadly drought that drove the people away despite their advanced farming and irrigation techniques.

Doubtless someone in antiquity had endured a mid-August day in this canyon and concluded with whatever point of reference available him that he understood how erosion could wear something down. Not long after that he and the other people in the community probably met, debated the options, and decided that life on the road was a better gamble than possibly dying where they were of starvation and dehydration. Did they know that the drought covered nearly the entire southwest? Does that explain their disappearance?
I began the hike and was surprised again at how steep the first two to three hundred yards felt. The trail zigzagged right up the cliff with trail markers placed every 5 or 10 feet rather than every 75 to 100 yards apart like usual. Perhaps it was because I was trying to hurry in order to make it back by dark, but I was growing very tired within just a few hundred feet. I knew that I hadn't brought enough water and that it was a rougher hike than I had imagined even in my trepidation, but still I went on.

Luckily at the "one lane bridge" section, a part of the trail that goes between two enormous rocks with only enough room for one person to squeeze through, there were people coming down and that forced me to stop and rest for a moment while they passed. Once they were by I was up and moving again and made good time to the top of the climb. It seemed by the temperature, even though I'd only climbed 90 feet or so, that I was closer to the sun. I was exhausted, but now it was just a mile or so to the overlook, and it was a relatively flat hike along the cliff. I was tired but knew that the photographic results would be well worth the podiatric effort. I reached what I thought was the best spot, and was absolutely amazed by the view. After just sitting there quietly for a while, I set up the tripod and began looking for the right framing. I waited for the golden light and finally shooting what I knew would be those kind of pictures we've all heard about—the kind that are "worth 1,000 words".

I imagined, just for moment, that I was a member of the team that uncovered and eventually helped to protect these ruins. I daydreamed of what it must have been like before there were semi-glossy print park guides and before 'The History of the Region' DVD went on sale at the gift shop.

Then I traveled further back, back to the man who had lived here and left because of drought, lamenting that even with their advanced farming and architecture techniques, and even with their written history chiseled out on rock, they had been unable to stay. He didn't know that he'd left his mark, and that his system was so advanced that there would be significant portions of his culture still standing, literally, 1000 years in the future and that people would still be using his methods for planning for the most efficient building orientation. He didn't realize that they'd left an impression greater than they possibly could have dreamed when he dreamt of me. And I doubt he could have survived the shock of knowing that I had spent my day capturing what was left of his world electronically, to a digital camera and would share those images over wires and even wirelessly with those who can't go see his world for themselves.

Suddenly I wondered how long I'd been sitting there. I felt an unexplained wave of panic and assumed that it was because I was in imminent danger of not getting back down from the cliff before dark. A decision would have to be made. Would I try to scale down the cliff after dark, or would I spend the night up on the cliff with no camping equipment?

When the truth about the panic hit me, it was as if I'd fallen asleep and woken up in the middle of a bad dream unable to tell if I was awake or still dreaming. There was peace, yet a very real sense that life on this earth was over. A gust of wind had caught me and I was in mid-air, on my way to what I considered to be a very untimely demise. Time seemed to stand still as if these last few seconds would last an eternity.

I reached for the ledge with no success. It seemed to be right there within reach and 100 miles away at the same time. I wondered how long I'd been falling, and how much of my last few seconds had been spent daydreaming, wishing I was someone else or wondering what someone else would think of me. For some reason I remembered from physics class that falling objects accelerate at 9.8 meters per second and thought of meteors falling. I wished my fall could be slowed by the atmosphere, and thought of St. Lawrence and how strange it is for someone to be the patron saint of both librarians and comedians.

I needed a priority overhaul in a hurry, and I got it. I remembered all that really mattered to me. I thought of family, friends, and dreams not yet fulfilled. I thought of my wife, and my parents and brother and sister, my in-laws, of some extended family and of friends. There was no checklist of tasks that hadn't been completed and not even a checklists regarding whether or not I'd told the people closest to me that I loved them. If anyone doubted that I loved them I probably hadn't done a very good job with my time here. Given the opportunity I would do better.

Henry Van Dyke once wrote, "Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve and too short for those who rejoice. But for those who love, time is not". I'd found myself in a most peculiar situation--because I loved, time stood still.