"In wilderness I sense the miracle of life, and behind it our scientific accomplishments fade to trivia." ~Charles A. Lindbergh
One of our favorite vacation spots is Arches National Park in southern Utah. There is something profoundly moving about these ancient rock formations. Maybe it is their seeming timelessness. It amazes me to think that I am looking at a landscape that has changed very little over thousands of years. I think of all the people, including the ancient Indian tribes, who have come and gone, while the arches go on as if nothing has happened.
Last summer we hiked to Broken Arch. It's a rather obscure and plain-looking arch at the end of a long, flat trail off the side of the road. We walked for about half an hour along the dusty, desert trail. Most people think of the desert as being mostly dead, but the more I learn about it and experience it, the more awestruck I am with how vibrantly alive it is. I'm especially intrigued by the bacterial colonies that hold the soil together. The bacteria are essential to the existence of life in the desert. Without them, the sand would blow around listlessly, and the soil wouldn't be able to retain enough water to support the plants and animals.
To the casual observer, our little trail through the desert may have appeared boring -- just a way to get somewhere -- a means to an end. But I enjoyed every step of the way. When we came to Broken Arch, I sat down on a big, flat rock to admire the view while my husband and kids went exploring. They were gone for a long time, so I took the opportunity to meditate.
I looked at the arch for a while, trying to imagine why it was named Broken Arch, since it wasn't actually broken. It looked like a sturdy arch to me, although there was a crack in it. I felt the hardness of the rock that I was sitting on and the softness of the fine sand beside the rock. I watched an eagle circling in the sky in the distance.
I observed the lay of the land around me, following the natural ditches in the sand that had been formed by rain storms. It had rained the day before, and there was still some visible moisture in the shady places. I watched a lizard slowly climb from the base of the arch to the top. That took about fifteen minutes. I wondered if he had a pre-conceived destination in mind, or if he was simply feeling the sun on his back, like I was.
My reverie was interrupted by a man and a woman who arrived at the end of the trail. The man looked at the arch, then turned to me and said, "Do you know why it's called Broken Arch?" I smiled and shrugged, "No." He pulled out his camera and took a picture. He and the woman stood, looking at the arch for a few more seconds. Then he said, "That was a pointless, long walk." And they left.
I smiled to myself, but I also felt sad that they didn't get it. Then I went back to watching the lizard.
We saw many wonderful sights on that trip, but I will always remember Broken Arch. Incidentally, I never ended up taking a picture of it. That would have ruined the now moment. And that's why you see a picture of Double Arch at the beginning of this article.
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