Chapter 1: A Journey Above the Tree Line

As I traversed the Colorado Trail, I was uncertain about the entity I was addressing in my prayers, yet my intentions were clear.

After a day spent navigating the trails, the evening finds me cycling across the tundra. The landscape is alive with vibrant greenery, golden grasses, and the delicate Rocky Mountain bluebells, their blooms nodding gently as if in conversation with the earth. Nestled below the expansive tundra, a cozy thicket of trees offers a welcoming patch of loamy soil and pine needles, perfect for a night’s rest—especially after enduring two days of rain.

Setting up my camp among the pines, I savor a simple dinner of trail bars, mixed nuts, and dried fruit on a fallen tree at the edge of a meadow. In the distance, I can see the rugged mountains rising beneath a darkening sky, while below, willow swales intertwine with a dense, shadowy forest.

Birds, including crows, ravens, and a variety of songbirds, dance gracefully across the sky, their movements seamless and fluid. An Abert’s squirrel leaps from one lodgepole pine branch to another, and across the valley, a black bear meanders through the tundra, foraging for berries before disappearing over the ridge—much to my relief. The landscape is dotted with granite boulders, stretching out towards Searle Pass, while ominous gray clouds roll in, heralding the approach of a storm. The trees and shrubs sway gently in the breeze as the air turns chilly, and light rain begins to patter against the mountainside.

As the calm settles in, the sun dips behind Searle Pass, casting a warm glow of crimson and gold across the sky. Reclining against a smooth granite slab, the scent of pine fills the air, I take in the breathtaking evening in the highlands. As darkness encroaches, the distant thunder begins to rumble, echoing through the valleys, while flashes of lightning illuminate the horizon, intensifying with every moment.

Just as twilight deepens, I hear voices echoing up the valley, their conversation rising and falling in rhythm. Soon enough, a group of backpackers emerges from the treeline, ascending the slope with an air of nonchalance in the face of an impending storm. My heart swells with a mix of reassurance and worry.

At least someone is camping higher up than I am tonight, I think.

The backpackers wave as they pass, exchanging weary smiles.

“Howdy,” I call out, greeting them.

A man in the lead straightens up, his focus shifting from the trail to me. “Oh! I didn’t notice you there,” he chuckles, embodying a friendly Midwestern spirit. “How are you?”

“Doing well, thanks. It’s stunning up here. But aren’t you all concerned about the storm?” I ask, pointing to the darkening skies.

“Oh, a little, I guess,” he admits.

“I am,” replies a young woman with blonde hair behind him.

The man chuckles again. “Honestly, I am too. We’re just trying to make up for lost time after being rained in all day,” he confesses with a hint of embarrassment. “This really is God’s country.”

I smile back. “I suppose it is.” I hold my tongue about the storm, but its size and sound suggest it’s formidable and heading our way.

After a few more friendly exchanges, the group continues along the trail, gradually shrinking into the vastness of the landscape, akin to tiny ships navigating the turbulent seas of the mountains.

As they disappear around a bend, the rain begins to intensify. What starts as a gentle drizzle escalates into a torrential downpour, transforming the mountains into a muted gray in the distance. Lightning streaks across the sky, striking trees on the mountain where I’ve pitched my tent. Inside my tent, the world outside flickers like a strobe light, while the thunder reverberates through my body, making the ground tremble beneath me. The storm looms directly overhead, sparking concern about whether I’ve set up camp too high.

I contemplate moving my camp to lower ground for safety, but the thought of venturing out during a thunderstorm seems far riskier than remaining in place. Besides, my little enclave of pines currently provides a semblance of protection from the storm.

Chapter 2: In the Eye of the Storm

As rain pours down harder and lightning illuminates the sky with increasing intensity, I find myself doing something I rarely engage in—praying. My prayer feels somewhat half-hearted, more of a casual plea to any divine presence that might be listening: “If there’s anything resembling God out there, can you cut me some slack?”

Truthfully, I grapple with understanding my beliefs about the universe. The scientist in me is skeptical, relying solely on data and their significance. When it comes to God, as defined by any religious framework, I haven’t encountered convincing evidence.

Yet, after a few drinks, I might passionately discuss the cosmos in flowery terms, proclaiming that humans are literally made from the universe and are intrinsically tied to its endless flow of time and space.

Carl Sagan, in his book Cosmos, famously stated, “We are made of star-stuff.” The elements that constitute our bodies—hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, nitrogen—are remnants of the Big Bang, set in motion over 13.8 billion years ago.

In that initial cosmic event, all of space and time erupted from a singularity, expanding rapidly and transforming from a hot chaos of particles into atoms of hydrogen and helium. As gravity began to act upon these atoms, the universe’s first stars ignited, illuminating the vastness of space.

Over billions of years, stars lived and died, exploding in supernovae and scattering more complex atoms throughout the cosmos. Eventually, around 4.6 billion years ago, a swirling mass of cosmic dust and gas coalesced into Earth, where life began its journey.

Life evolved, from single cells to multicellular organisms, crawling from the primordial seas onto land. Bacteria evolved into archaea, fungi, plants, and animals; primates and hominids emerged, and eventually, human beings came into existence.

If we had the capability, we could trace our molecular lineage back to the Big Bang itself. We are the universe’s manifestations, expressions of its existence. As Alan Watts eloquently put it, “The universe peoples.”

Despite my scientific skepticism, when fear grips me, I often revert to the comforting notions of religious faith. It’s reassuring to surrender to forces greater than ourselves, acknowledging our limitations and insignificance in the grand scheme. This realization can be humbling, even for someone like me who doesn’t typically hold religious beliefs.

So, in that moment of uncertainty, amidst the thunder and rain, I found myself praying. I wasn’t sure who or what I was praying to, but I knew what I was asking for. I prayed for strength, bravery, and compassion—for myself and everyone I had encountered in my life, as well as those I had yet to meet.

This narrative is an excerpt from my forthcoming book, The Trail to Nowhere: Life and Death Along the Colorado Trail, set to be published on August 24, 2024, marking four years since my journey that inspired it. If you're interested in reading it before release, you can claim a free copy here. Thank you for taking the time to read my story.