Temple of Mountains

The walls of my church are the jagged sides of a canyon wall crafted by Mother Nature herself. She has completed the art with such a precision that the eye carefully falls down the wall like a paintbrush on canvas. They wander from the rainy grey stone and follow along until it steadily streaks into an ember orange before it melts into the ground. The floor is a weaving dirt path strewn with loose dusty pebbles, and the ceiling is an expanse of blue sky covered partially by the dried leaves of the olive trees.

I can hear the choir of birds begin to sing as I adjust the straps on my backpack, and prepare for a Sunday worship service in Los Cahorros. I’ve heard Spaniards talk about their love of the beaches in Nerja or the Gaudi houses in Barcelona, but to me nothing compares to the balance and design of the mountains in the Sierra Nevada. Gaudí himself says, “Nothing is invented, for it’s written in nature first.”

My feet kicked up dust as I began my venture alongside the Rio Monachil. A series of steep stone stairs led me to a hanging bridge over a gorge and a crashing waterfall. I’ve never been too bad with heights, but the slots in the bridge where I could look down had my palms sweating and my head spinning—I loved every second of it.

I like the thrill of knowing in your mind that you’re safe while your body is terrified. It's similar to a roller coaster: you’re strapped in and not going anywhere, but that won’t stop your heart from racing as you scream at the top of your lungs for fear of certain death.

I crossed the bridge and greeted a group of rock climbers planning how to conquer the challenge the steep limestone presented them with. I was careful to keep my head down as I continued along the narrow path. The yearning to gaze up the sides of the gorge was matched equally by me wanting to get at least midway through the trail before the unmatched intensity of the southern Spanish sun crept its way onto my skin. I hustled onwards until I was met with an open canyon.

My temple was forever expanding.

 I created my own trail a few hundred feet up the canyon and sat on a flat, overhanging rock as I unwrapped my sandwich from its tinfoil casing. This was my favorite place on Earth. I could hear nothing but the singing of the choir mixed with the tearing of the tinfoil as it chafed against the bread of my sandwich. I could see nothing but untouched land and open sky. Most importantly I could feel nothing but the release of stress and tension as an influx of vitality recharged my system.

I sat on my rock turned pew and took in the essence of the moment: the rock below my hands, the sun spilling over the brim of my hat into my freckled face, the soft red glow of my arms that begged me for protection, the steady chatter of the stream below, and unfortunately the distinct odor of the tuna salad sandwich remnants emanating from the tinfoil in my hands.  I’d like to say that I was thinking of something profound or life changing as I gazed over the valley, but in all honestly I was simply content in this state of nothingness with no concerns whatsoever. Besides how I was going to make it down the mountainside without breaking a leg..

But as I have learned from my travels, it is necessary to take it one steep rocky dangerous step at a time. I stumbled down my self-made trail through the rocks and thorn bushes and preceded to bow down to kiss the grassy Earth when I made it to the bottom with just a few scratches. I drank my sacrament of wine turned water and doused myself in lotion. The smell of the fresh mountain air was gradually replaced by peculiar aroma of banana boat sunscreen. I lifted my arms to the sky and called out in praise as I headed back down the winding path back to the hustle and bustle and the sinful world outside the walls of my sanctuary.

Also Published in RealTalk