It was August of 2010. I was with a group of other college students hiking through the Sierra Nevada wilderness with the Minarets in full view. We were only there, off the beaten trail, because well… we had lost the beaten trail. Each day, a peer was selected to be the “guide.” They were responsible for reading the map, leading the way, and taking us on the journey. On this occasion, we got lost.
I only knew the Minarets because of an Ansel Adams photo that hung in my grandparent’s house. I loved Ansel Adams’ photography. So much so, that in my high school film photography class, I tried to emulate his work. I didn’t have as much success but I suppose that’s the difference between a 16-year-old highschool kid and a professional.
We were lost. Completely off trail and made the decision to find water, have dinner, and get some sleep. The next day we hiked back up to this alpine valley to see those tall peaks against the backdrop of blue skies. I couldn’t stop smiling. While my fellow backpackers looked exhausted, I was practically dancing—getting to see gigantic heroes in real life. Something about being outside delighted my soul and became something I needed to experience regularly.
Earlier that summer I worked as a Bible teacher for a summer camp with a year of Bachelor’s level biblical studies education under my belt. I was taking an independent study on Luke and Acts to get caught up in the curriculum, because I was a transfer student and studied the miracles in the book of Acts while living in the mountains. My anticipation and expectation was high—would I get to experience a Lukian or Act(ian?) eyewitness encounter? I never did get to see something to the same tone as these canonical texts, at least not as quickly as Luke seemed to write about.
Fast forward fifteen years to last Tuesday. With the time change, slightly warmer weather, and need to regulate my nervous system, I take these weekly days to get outside and touch some water. While driving to an undisclosed location on Rock Creek to try to meet some new trout friends, I experienced hail, rain, blistering wind, a herd of 9+ deer in a field, and met a few sow bugs, stonefly nymphs, and adult hatched midges (which are like little mosquitos but they don’t bite).
Water bugs are interesting to me. The Mayfly will live as a water bug for about a year of its life, hatch and swim to the surface, fly out of the water and within 24 hours mate, lay eggs, and die. They lay their eggs a few yards upstream from where they hatched so the eggs can drift back down to their original starting place. Sustainability in life doesn’t need to be getting miles ahead of the competition, just enough to get back to the fertile riverbed.
I tied on a few different bug patterns, based on what I saw on the rocks I flipped over, and didn’t get any bites. In fishing terms we call it “getting skunked,” but I like to say that I just didn’t have enough time to catch a fish. The water was low, cold, and clear. Usually when fishing in these conditions, you’ll see a few fish under the surface and try to get an idea of what they are eating. Sometimes it looks like a flash of silver under the water… usually the scales reflecting some light as they move quickly to find food. I didn’t see any flashes of reflected light in the water and the sun was setting quickly.
I got back to the car, out of my wet wading gear, and got the heater going in the car. It was reading 32 degrees. I sat there and smiled for a few minutes and then started my drive home. As I walked and fished and made noises at the deer, something of that 2010 self is still alive and well within me. Some 15 years later and I still love what wandering in the wilderness does within me. In some ways, I’ve felt like a waterbug, spending all this time waiting to surface and experience life. Some bugs, like the Stonefly, will spend upwards of 3 years underwater before hatching into a big-winged bug. And maybe that is the timeframe we need when our expectation for the miraculous is geared toward immediacy.
Perhaps transformation wasn’t meant to be instant. Patience, like the river bug’s slow emergence, is part of the miracle itself. New life takes time. So while we wait, we might as well enjoy the view.