How well do we know God? And what does it mean to know someone? I was thinking about how we get acquainted with people, sometimes very briefly. Later, someone will ask “Do you know that person?” and we will ask a few questions, to clarify our memory, and then say “Yes! I know him.” What are we saying? I have also been impressed when I spend time in the mountains. I have climbed to the top of a few peaks, and have felt like I really know all about that mountain. Often I don’t have a very strong urge to climb it again, since I feel like I have “checked it off the list”. But every time I am up there, I am overwhelmed with the immensity of that mass of rock. I can’t fathom the many things that I am missing, having only walked one narrow trail upon it. So many people today, it seems, have an encounter with the Lord, and that is where it stops. Still others study the Bible extensively and attend countless seminaries to learn more about Him. But after all that, how well do they really know Him? These are the opening thoughts that have inspired the following writing.
“What brings you to my mountain?” The voice was cracked and deep and I whirled around, startled to discover that I was being watched. He was a small man, and the first thing I noticed was his extremely wrinkled skin. It was tanned dark, the color of the fallen tree he sat on, and there was not a spot anywhere that I could see that was not crisscrossed with the web of furrows and creases that told of age and hours in the sun. He wore a lot of leather. Leather boots and hat, leather pouch on his belt, thick denim pants, and a leather vest with nothing underneath. He held a stick, taller than himself, with a small head carved into the top end, of a bear or a wolf, I couldn’t tell which. And on his face was not a menacing look. The question was asked not in a demanding, “who-goes-there” tone of voice, but in a curious way, and that of welcome. I saw in the first instant that the man was both friendly and of considerable authority in the place we stood.
“Oh!” a hundred possible replies cascaded through my mind. Would this man understand my reason for coming? He was obviously an old mountain man, and not familiar with the ways of the city I had left only a few hours earlier. “Just, you know, hiking a bit.” But I knew as I said it, that I was betrayed by my wingtip shoes, and the legal pad I held in my left hand, the first page already half full of scribbling that I would likely never look at again.
“Where are you from?” he asked, ignoring my white lie, and in a way that made my racing heart slow down a gear. He was so relaxed there, sitting on that log, surely I had no reason to be defensive.
I decided to just tell him part of the truth, even if it was foreign to him, so I said “I drove up from Freemont this morning, I’m from Ohio, but studying Tectonic Geology at Stafford University. I am writing a documentary on this range of mountains for my second term thesis and decided I would have more credibility if I would include a visit to the site. We are studying the tectonic activity that has formed this mountain over millions of years and my field is interested in further documenting its exact trends to be able to anticipate with greater accuracy future volcanic and seismic activity.” I was very fluid with this sort of speech, and I felt a smug tinge of superiority sweep over me as I talked. This old man probably didn’t even know all the interesting facts about this mountain, and here he was, obviously living right here near it.
He seemed to light up at my reply, so he must have caught some of what I said. “So you know about my mountain?” he asked, “You are writing of her?”
The way he said “my mountain” puzzled me a little. But I didn’t suppose that he even knew he was standing on public grounds, in one of Uncle Sam’s most treasured national parks. I forged ahead, showing off a little now. “Of course, I am a member of a Special Ops division at Stafford that is primarily focused on the Santo Alto Mountain Range and particularly its highest peak, Santa Torre. I probably know more about your mountain here than any other scholar in the nation. At the beginning of our studies we flew over this whole range and crammed in a lot of statistics that are pertinent to our line of work. Elevation 13,765 ft. and growing at a rate of 7/8” of an inch per year. Tree line between 11,500 and 11,800 ft. meaning the critical temperatures required to grow the Red Fir and Douglas Fir species aren’t met above those levels. Average rainfall below tree line 72” per year. At the summit, 105” per year. Record low temperature in recorded history -54 F on January 17th, 1943. The mountain is made up primarily of porphyritic granite, with some various mudstones flanking its eastern edge. It’s habitat for 27 animal species, including the whitetail deer, the brown marmot and the cutthroat trout. I know the names, in both English and Latin, of every one of the animal species as well as the 78 varieties of plants that are native to this mountain range. I have access to printouts of the weather trends for the past 3 decades and have spent over a hundred hours studying documentation specifically related to this mountain. Topographic maps, seismic maps, geothermal imaging, soil samples, and countless study reports written by some of the leading geologists in the country. Yes, I know all about your mountain here sir, and my thesis will be the most comprehensive and exhaustive report yet written.”
As I talked, I saw him watching me curiously, and at one point his shoulders drooped a little, but I didn’t really know why. He might have thought we were going to bombard this habitat with all kinds of intrusive equipment, but that was far from the truth. My division was intensely interested in conserving the ecosystem and we would be sure to make the least impact possible when conducting our on-site testing, which we planned to do the following year. Really we were a friend to this mountain and the man had nothing to worry about.
There was a long silence. For some reason, I felt a little sheepish having boasted about all my knowledge to this total stranger, and didn’t feel like pressing on. Before I finished speaking he had looked down at his boots and he remained in that focus for a spell afterwards. Then he looked up and asked, “Have you been here before?”
It sort of made me feel dumb, getting asked that question after I had claimed to know everything about this place, but I still meant what I had said. One doesn’t have to go to a place to learn about it. Many scientists before me had scouted this terrain, and had written an overwhelming amount of information about it. I had simply dove into the fray and read virtually everything that had been written, to the point where some pretty renowned scientist had been writing to me asking questions about this area. Still, here I was visiting for the first time and frankly, not getting much out of seeing the place that I couldn’t find out back at the library. I said, “No, this is the first time to visit the area in person. It really looks a lot like the pictures though. A year ago, some of my friends came and climbed it. I was busy that weekend, but they brought back some really good shots of the summit and the rock formations up there. That’s something I would like to do yet, climb to the top. Then I’d really feel like I knew the mountain.” I said this last part to make him feel better. I was talking his language now, feeling a little guilty for trumping him so bad with all the stats.
He looked at me for just long enough for me to squirm again, and then he spoke.
“Yes, that’s what they do.” His voice was as soft as he could make it, but it still cracked and there was an extra fervency in the tone. “They come here on the weekends, park their Jeeps over there in that parking lot, and then they climb to the top. Most of them use this trail here, because it is the easiest route as they say to the top. They only spend a few minutes up there, and then I see them winding down, on the same narrow trail they used on the way up. And I see them photographing each other at the top and at different points on the trail. They seldom photograph the flowers by the trail, or the rocks, or the majestic views. They walk with their heads bent to the trail, eyes fixed a few feet ahead of them. They hurry down, and when they get back, they are worn out. And they drive away. I seldom see the same people returning to climb it again on one of the other routes. Why should they? They have “done” this mountain and they are on to the next. They have conquered it. And that is true, in a way, that if one stands on the highest point of something, he has overcome it. But look at the narrow thread leading to the top. They have touched that thread, and if they stopped often enough, they may have seen some of the wonders that so many walk right by.” His voice took on a bit of sadness. I was listening intently, impressed how old and seasoned this man was.
“I have climbed this mountain” he continued, “using this same trail dozens of times. Each time I see new things along the way. I see it in a different light, a different time of day, or a different season. I take a lot of rests, sometimes sit on rocks I’ve used before, and sometimes finding new perches with different views. But then, that is only one of the trails that lead to the top. That is only one side of the mountain. They say there are four sides, a top and a bottom to everything. But my mountain seems to have a dozen or more sides. There are ridges and there are canyons. I have reached the top by countless routes, and descended on still others. There are places on this mountain that I have found only once, and then it’s as if they have vanished for I can never find them again.”
He looked at me kindly and I almost saw pity in his eyes. “You know the names of all the plants that grow here. But have you seen them all face to face? Have you plucked each type of flower, and held it to your face, experiencing that delicacy with every sense? Those herbs are gifts, each one a remedy that heals a different wound or illness. To me, they’re so much more than just a Latin name. And you say you know the animals. But have you ever named a squirrel? Or put a bandage on a wounded deer? Have you caught a fish, cleaned it, dressed it, and relied on it for nourishment to give you strength to get back home? Have you spent an afternoon just watching marmots play together? Each one has a personality it seems and no humor in your city’s shows makes me laugh as much as these small creatures.”
He wasn’t condescending in the things he said. He was genuine, and I was riveted to his friendly countenance. “You talk of weather trends” he went on, in earnest now, “Those thirty years of storms and snow and sunny times. And I was here. Caught sometimes, beneath the shelter of a rock, or towering fir tree. With lightning flashing, thunder crashing all around me, I waited. And I saw the fury give way to gentle rain. I saw the showers pass, and smelt the fresh and pungent odors of the forest. Sage, and cedar, and fresh dirt that takes your step silently as you pass.”
“I have been inside the caves up there near Capella Ridge. I’ve learned to read the hieroglyphs that Indians have painted on the sheer rock walls up there. And legends tell of other times, of wars and famine. They hint of treasures, still hidden in this mountain, and I have searched and found, not hidden loot of gold or gems, but treasures that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Have you ever wondered what’s inside this mountain? We see the surface, or perchance we enter into caves. But all the mass of rock beneath, it speaks of depth that I can’t fathom. I taste her springs and know they come from deep inside.”
I thought of telling him about the things that were going on beneath the surface. Of seismic movement and just which direction things were shifting. I knew the movements to a sixteenth of an inch. But serenity had overcome me. The college was so far away. And something in me longed for something that this old man possessed. I let him talk on.
“I’ll never know all there is to know about this mountain.” He spoke longingly.”I have travelled away from here at times, and there are periods when I wasn’t here. What have I missed? Day after day, night after night, year after year, she is out here. She hasn’t moved. When I go away, and then return to her, she gives me all the same rich gifts she always has. She has more to give than people take from her. So many sunsets go to waste, and each sunrise could accommodate a million viewers, but I watch them all alone. I spend each day among the trees and flowers, but I’ll never see them all. Seasons come and go and there’s a million blades of grass untouched, unnoticed. I love this mountain, for she has given me so much.”
I was speechless after this last testimony. The longing within me was strange, but stronger than before. Did I know anything the way he knew his mountain? We stood in silence for a while. I finally found a few words.
“What does it mean to know something? I know this mountain from the things I’ve read. I know things that you don’t know, and don’t seem to wish to know. You know things about it that I never thought about before. I thank you for the things you’ve told me. I have always thought of mountains in terms of statistics, and you have shown me the personal side of their grandeur. I will leave now, to continue with my studies. But I will remember you, and will be slow to say I know your mountain. I will come back often, not to study, but to learn.”
He rose and smiled. “Young man, to know is to keep discovering and learning. I wish you well in all your studies on that topic.”
I shook his hand, and thanked him again. But as I started to turn and walk away, he grabbed my arm and asked as he pulled me back, “Do you know my Jesus?”
