Three days of prayer, meditation, hiking, fly-fishing, rib eyes, and Busch Lite. Surrounded by chanting monks, and beautiful Fall colors. Such was the plan.
But God another plan. He always does, doesn’t He. A perpetual daily lesson.
Yesterday started well. Caught up with an old trad friend on the phone while driving to CC, about practical issues of medical ethics. Arrived at what I’m going to call the hanging bridge campsite on CC land, which is right on the banks of the majestic creek.
Took all my equipment out, made a quick fire, grilled up a steak. A brother dropped by to unload a truck full of firewood, us unloading it talking about the weather. Proceeded to setting up my brand new tent, took out the poles, one of the main poles being broken with a vital piece missing.
I knew there may be rain that night and the next day, expecting to snuggle in, dry and warm with a good book. But no such luck, with a broken pole the tent could not stand erect. Which left me with
two choices, drive into Tahlequah an hour plus round trip and buy a new tent, or try and keep dry
and warm on my bedding under the wall-less canopy I brought.
That evening after my fire and more steak, the plan did work, me all warm and dry despite the downpour, from 9pm til about 1am, when I woke up in a large puddle of water. Fortunately after Vespers, Fr. Guestmaster had mentioned if I get flooded, to go down the road to the old monastery now in part used as a men’s guesthouse. And that I did. After changing into dry clothes, I snuggled into a wool blanket covered bed in one of the guest cells. My homeostatic equilibrium regained, at least for a while.
Long story short, I did manage to do a bit of hiking with a new hiking stick immersed in an array of Fall colors. When I fished I caught one small bass, but when I put it in a stringer which I set on some rocks, I discovered just a few minutes later something had partly eaten it. Such is the food chain. Step out into the Wild, you are the one vulnerable to everything unpredictable.
Next day (today, I’m writing this in the evening sitting in my couch with a blanket keeping snug with Peanut), I attended the High Mass, bought some excellent and well priced cheese made by these traditional monks, visited one of the community’s elders perched in his little cabin, then finished the wild but renewing outing having lunch with the monks. Itself alone worth the trip and sacrifice.
