When we were younger, Josh and I spent nearly ever weekend in the backcountry of Banff, Kootenay, Yoho and Jasper National Park, or in the front range peaks and foothills of Kananaskis Country, in Alberta. With Jim and Jack from Lake Louise, with Kathleen, and many other family members and friends, we logged uncountable miles, on trail, but mostly off, striding out across the vastness of the Rocky Mountain wilderness.
Josh still gets out a great deal, but this month’s sojourn into the hills was my first backcountry trip in three years! I’ve let a lot come between me and the mountains. Children, family obligations, writing books, various work endeavours, a new business, all stand as reasonable excuses for not putting one damned foot in front of the other and putting some distance on what Edward Abbey used to call “syphilization.”
Our four days in Strathcona were all spent along the convoluted spine of Phillips Ridge. We didn’t set any records for distance or heroics. Nobody will call us “he-men” after this trip. Its unlikely that the Canadian Alpine Journal will be asking me to pen something for this years cover section.
For me the most remarkable part of the experience was rekindling the memory of how powerful a connection a person can have with God while surrounded by wide, open country.
Now, before we go jumping to any conclusions, let me explain that my definition of God has changed dramatically over the last twenty years. I grew up in a Catholic household where church was reserved for Christmas and Easter, and even then, only sporadically. When I was in high school I read the little Gibbons version of the bible nearly every night, turning to its pages for solace during tumultuous times. There were many. By collage I had given up on most of what I had read, and when I moved to the mountains in 1992, I discarded the rest, replacing theology with science as an explanation for everything I could see, hear, touch and taste.
I couldn’t perceive then that science, particularly quantum physics, would lead me back to God.
For the record, I never believed the line that God created the universe in seven days, even if the first four of those lasted billions of years. I had a hard time swallowing the white-bearded dude in the flowing robes image, and now its only during sexual ecstasy, or deep depression that I invoke God’s name, as in “Oh, God,” with either an exclamation or definitive period as punctuation.
But returning to the mountains was a reminder of the true nature of God. Here’s my take, at least for now. This is subject to change without notice:
God is the sum of all possibilities that exist in the universe. The universe, according to quantum mechanics, is primarily made up of energy and information, hurdling across space at the speed of light, taking form here and there as solar systems, stars, planets, possums, porpoises, platypuses, people and other equally unlikely critters. Physicists argue these days that it is a conscious universe, where matter takes shape with intention, where the thing formed and the will to form it are one in the same.
All of creation is connected (see entanglement theory) through a unified field of energy and information. This is God’s playground. God, the creator, is just another word for conscious possibility. We (the possums, platypuses, and people) are all part of God, consciously creating the unfolding universe.
In both the Vedic, and Taoist tradition, we are urged to spend time in direct communion with nature in order to see this field of all possibilities. To feel it. To be a part of its consciousness. Through connection with nature’s abundance we are able to sense, in our hearts, the magnificence of creation. What we are learning now is that we too are part of that creation. That we too are part of God.
There is one place on Mount Doug, in Victoria, where I am always reminded of this: It’s a trail on the east side of the hill where I find myself opening to the bounty of nature in order to fuel my legs and lungs up the steep track. I consciously invite the splendour of nature into my lungs, up through my legs, so that it is not a man running up a hill; rather, it is simply one part of all nature, all creation, all possibility, moving over another. Running becomes easier. I feel singularly connected with creation, with the field of all possibilities that I am inseparably a part.
I feel it overlooking distant ranges of mountains along the knotted spine of Phillips Ridge.
That feeling is love. Its not love for something. Its not love for nature. For the mountains. It is simply love of existence, of the inseparability of things.
"God is Love" it says in 1 John 4:8. Full stop.
That’ where is should have ended, before we started talking about “whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life (John 3:16)” which just muddied the waters, and started putting conditions on love. “God will love you if….”
God is love. Period. Love is the energy that binds the universe together. It is what causes creation. It makes solar systems and planets and platypuses. We are a part of that love, its creators, its destiny.
When we are in nature, we are simply a little bit more conscious of our part in God, in creation, in love.
