Sometimes when I go on a hike, particularly a long, grueling one that leads to a payoff of a spectacular vista, I feel like naturalist John Muir or an early pioneer pushing west. I imagine their reaction when they reached the top of a peak or turned the corner and saw what it is I am now seeing for the first time — be it a panoramic ocean view, a waterfall, Half Dome or some other geographic miracle.
I bet Torah scholars sometimes feel the same way, getting to a passage of awe and inspiration, and wondering how Rambam or the authors of the Talmud reacted when they read it and thought about it for the first time.
I was thinking about this during the Days of Awe earlier this month, when I went on a journey, both physical and spiritual. It was a journey I had waited all my life to attempt, even though it had always been right there for the taking.
It was the Shabbat morning after Rosh Hashanah, the third day of 5772, and my wife, Stacey, was in Japan on business. I decided to rise early and head to an awe-inspiring sanctuary in Marin that I had never visited.
The night before, I’d researched how to get there and what I might experience, so I’d at least be a little familiar with things. I felt kind of like a non-Jew researching the rituals before going to a Jewish wedding, just to know what to expect.
I might as well say right now that my journey wasn’t to a synagogue or any house of worship, but rather to the Dipsea Trail, a seven-mile trek from central Mill Valley, up Mount Tamalpais, to the Pacific Ocean. The hike through the redwoods is both gorgeous and challenging — with a 1,700-foot gain in elevation, and a 1,650-foot loss.
Nearly every step of the way, I was thinking how my journey paralleled some sort of religious journey, like someone trying to find his or her way to Judaism.
To start, I couldn’t locate the trailhead in Mill Valley (tucked away between homes). How can you start a journey when you can’t even find the path? Voilà, a stranger, as if greeting me at the synagogue door, appeared and showed me the way.
He led me to stairs as tall as a 30-story building. Talk about every journey beginning with a single step, or in this case, 671 of them. But each small step got me closer to bigger discoveries, bigger truths.
Once on the dirt part of the trail, I saw runners and experienced hikers who knew the way, just like “the regulars” and “the more spiritual” in synagogue. Me? I had to pay attention to signs and markers. A couple of times, I needed to pause for nourishment; others didn’t seem to need any.
As I ascended “Cardiac Hill” into the fog, the valleys below and the path ahead became invisible. I felt like I was walking on the edge of the world and marching forward into the unknown.
I liked being alone. My mind wandered. I made big plans in my head. Certain verities became clear. But I also had a small pack with me; I was carrying “baggage,” if you will. Others traveled free and unfettered.
Many on the trail were clad in only shorts, T-shirts and trail-running shoes. They looked like figures from the Bible or ancient man as they whisked past me. At times, I felt unworthy of being on the same trail, but this path welcomed all equally.
The end-of-the-hike reward was a glorious view of the ocean and, for me, a special bonus: Just as I approached the beach, even though it was bright and sunny, a foghorn sounded for a good 10 seconds. A shofar! It was a shofar welcoming me! I got a rush of adrenaline.
Then I sat on the sand, tired but not exhausted, a sense of accomplishment washing away my aches. I had a tortilla folded in my small pack, and I walked to the water and threw pieces into the sea. I had never done tashlich before, but suddenly it seemed right.
Then I took a bus back to where I parked. After a journey like this, you can’t go back the same way you came. And though I returned to exactly where I started, I came back a slightly different person.
Andy Altman-Ohr lives in Oakland. Reach him at [email protected].