A Photo Essay
I was seeking a hiking partner, someone to accompany me onto the lava flow at the bottom of the Chain of Craters road, Volcanoes National Park, Big Island, Hawai’i. Just outside the Visitor Center main doors, I noted a fit man intensely studying the maps posted on the wall. His fingers traced a path to the current position of the surface flows. I asked if he intended to go there, Jeroen responded, and within a half hour we were off on our adventure.

This is my third time to the Big Island, and my fifth or sixth time onto the active lava flows. It is an experience I recommend for all who desire to witness the birth of stone, but only for those who have the capacity to walk for several miles over some of the most challenging and potentially deadly terrain on Earth. Even a minor fall, a surface abrasion will bleed for hours for the solidified lava is in all respects a form of glass. Jeroen and I are strong hikers, moving at a fast clip, but by the end of our journey we were exhausted, almost stumbling. When we finally returned to our truck, an estimated twelve or fourteen miles later, we laughed at the sensation of pavement beneath our feet again.

Bring 2-3 liters water, food, flashlight with extra batteries, and first aide kit (we depleted Jeroen of his bandages). At night, under a storming sky, you cannot differentiate black rock from black sky from black sea and will need a compass to find your way back again if the beacons are not visible.

Our first effort was to hike to the base of the pali where we could see an obvious plume of white. We arrived at dusk. The sulfur in the air and waves of heat beneath our feet were confirmed as signs of a recent flow when the sun set and we noted a red glow in the cracks all around us.

We headed back toward the Forest Service beacons but a mile in retreat noticed a much larger surface flow over our shoulder, a mile down hill, toward the ocean. Jeroen encouraged us to turn back, and I am pleased we did, for what we discovered was incredible.

While I have been here before, both alone and with friends, I have never experienced the intimacy with the lava that transpired last night. I am not claiming a spiritual experience nor divine intervention, rather, a sort of trance, a call of the heat which drew me in.

In the science fiction film “Sunshine” a space station orbits close to the sun, to observe and to predict. In the station is a viewing port where crew members may dial-in the computer controlled filter of the sun’s intensity. One character experiments with the intensity of the heat, increasing it beyond the recommendation which causes him to gasp for his breath. But he returns for more, increasing the intensity each time. He is more than addicted for he experiences some form of communication which ultimately leads to the film’s (typical Hollywood–disappointing) conclusion.

Last night, I felt something like this. Not a voice of intent, nor an intelligent communication, rather, a challenge, a request to come close, to reach out and touch that which is giving birth to the Earth itself.

In 1991 and again in 2006, I recall the incredible sound made by pressing a stick into the flow, into the belly of the dragon. Once pierced, it hissed and breathed fire and my stick was consumed. Last night, without a stick, I knelt on the ground with my camera just in front of me. I recorded the molten rock which had already traveled miles to arrive where I stood, less than a mile, should gravity give permission, to the edge of the ocean.

As the cooler shell of the lava tore open, it ripped, exposing a red, silver, and black scar which gave way to red, yellow, and white inside. Of its own volition, it moved steadily toward my feet. At twenty feet the heat was that of Phoenix in the summer. At ten feet it was difficult to maintain eye contact. At six feet I had to look down in order that the rim of my hat would shield my face. At three feet my whole body was consumed for I felt I was nearly on fire.

Even now, as I write, I am moved to tears for I do not know now to describe the sensation. I did not want to move. I wanted to stay there and wait for the lava to come to me, to roll over me and envelop my whole body. I wanted to join it on its journey, to move slowly, crackling, tearing, ripping, enveloping everything in its path. I was intoxicated.

When I replay the video I recorded, I hear myself saying, “Oh my god! This is incredible. But it’s so hot … my pants are melting… my legs are burning–oh! My face, it hurts. But just a little closer … just a little more … I can wait, it’s so close now.” And then, out of concern for my camera more than my skin or clothes, I stood, turned, and took a few steps back.

I did this again and again. I could not get enough. I pressed my feet onto the thick skin of the flow, causing it to bulge momentarily, but by no means distracted from its intended course. Only when the camera’s battery died was I awaken from my spell. Jeroen and I needed to start back, our journey far slower by night compounded by the availability of just one headlamp to share, his bulb burnt-out just a few minutes earlier.

How do I explain this? I don’t know. I do not desire to. It is the birthplace of stone and in that place, I desired to be consumed and then reborn.

(video footage of the flowing lava is showcased in A Study in Motion)

Prescott National Forest
Saturday evening, just after sunset

I found a quaint little spot up a steep, deeply rutted road. The tires spun to get me here, but on the second go they held. Huge fire pit and ample wood, but crawled in the back of my Subaru instead. In the back of my car, wrapped in a fleece blanket. It feels so much better here, like a fort when I was a kid. The safety of a small, well defined, familiar space.

A cool soft breeze blows across the interior of my car, from the open hatch to the driver side rear window. Children yelling in play at another campsite, just down the road. Gun shots ripple in quick succession from what I hope is some distance. (Later, at half past midnight someone unloaded an automatic gun for what I am guessing was a few dozen rounds.) The echo resounds from the canyon walls, eventually diminishing to a hushed roar. The smell of wood smoke mixes with roasted meat and sulfur.

The national forest was designed and designated for these function: people doing what they please, where they will, with no immediate supervision. Sometimes it scares me, but it is what I cherish most about the American southwest, the sensation of open space even within the confines of well mapped and over used territory.

I love going for hours, even days without hearing my own voice.

It is so grounding for me to walk at dusk or dawn in search of boulders to climb, a block of cheese in hand, carving off pieces to mix with bites of an apple. Apples always taste cool even when they have been in the sun. I never tire of the sound of pine needles beneath my feet. Lately, I walk barefoot even on the trails, my feet growing accustomed to their natural state.

If someone were to tell me I could never again use the Internet, I would smile. If someone were to tell me I would never again venture into a city, hear the sound of a car, eat from a restaurant or enter a crowded bar, I would feel relief. if someone were to tell me I could never write again, I would be horribly sad but take up singing, painting, and playing guitar.

If, however, someone were to tell me I could never again sleep on the ground, under the open sky, I would prefer to die.

Six months ago, I ran away from home after thirteen years in Loveland, Colorado. This was a reaction more than a decision as I needed to climb up and out of a dark, scary place. An exercise in self-awareness and self-control, I learned to let go.

I landed in Squamish, B.C. where I lived in a tent, climbed, and worked from local cafes. I attended the Supercomputing trade show in Seattle and worked as a volunteer staff member at the isolated Holden Village in the Washington Cascades. Since the beginning of 2012, I have lived every other few weeks in Phoenix, Arizona and Boise, Idaho with family and with friends. I met amazing people and experienced a challenging mix of pleasure and pain through new friendships. I rediscovered total, full mind and body peace at Joshua Tree and wonderful isolation in the Superstition Wilderness yet wrestle with anxiety still.

The contrasts are intense but the experience rich. Where I once saw my journey as an exercise in recovery, I now see that I learned to flow from place to place, to find “home” no matter where I set my bags. Where I am now is neither behind nor beyond where I started, but on a different path altogether.

What I learned in this process is not only a means to work through challenging times, but how one may live every day, for a lifetime. I found freedom in mobility which I will continue to employ, no matter how stationary I may someday live.

Live in the moment.
Engage the future but only a few days at a time. Intend for things to unfold but with limited attachment to outcome. If you find yourself in that place which is out of reach and full of fear, pull back, let go, and trust that it will come to you when the time is right.

Live for people, not things.
Spend less time in relationship with things and more time in relationship with people. Reduce the clutter of ownership in order to make time for you and for other people in your life. Practice minimalism every day. Become self-reliant not through the acquisition of more, but through the desire for less such that you are comfortable without concern for what you left behind.

Live in a mobile home …
Find “home” within yourself so that no matter where you go, no matter where you end up, no matter what is given to you or taken away, you will be grounded and able to give freely of yourself to others.

… and care for it too.
This is the only body you will have, in this lifetime. Treat is as the finely tuned machine it is. We have changed what we put into our bodies more in the past 40 years than in the past 40,000 (“Fast Food Nation” by Eric Schlosser). If it wasn’t available in markets just four or five decades ago, it’s not real food and should not pass between your lips. Exercise each and every day because your body is designed to walk, run, jump, and climb. As the longest distance running animals on this planet (“Born to Run” by Christopher McDougall), sitting in a chair all day will, slowly, kill you.

Give freely.
The greatest freedom we employ is not the freedom to do what we want (for that is in fact a burden in disguise) but the freedom to give of ourselves without concern for what we gain in return.

Choose your friends wisely.
Who we choose to accompany us on our journey both reflects and amplifies who we are. Welcome those who encourage your best habits, who cause you to laugh, who support you in reaching your goals.

Listen.
Trust those who ask questions more than they do speak. In return, ask questions and share only when asked for your experience or opinion. If you spend an entire day not speaking, that is a day well spent.

Do it wrong.
If everyone says you are doing it wrong, you may be doing it right. Pay attention to the context, listen carefully, and you’ll hear the difference between someone who shares their opinion out of fear and someone who expresses concern through love. In the end, however, the ones who likely have the “correct answer” are the ones who ask you what you need, and simply return your words to you.

Try … or walk away.
Work hard to achieve what you believe but do not be afraid to stop, step back, and try again from a new angle. Do not be afraid to walk away completely, for often is the case that those things we pursue without reward are the ones that come back to us when we no longer give chase.

Trust.
When fear drives you to make decisions, stop, back up, slow down —don’t jump! Instead, look at the situation from other points of view until you find a means of moving from a place of trust. Wait, it will unfold. You’ll feel the difference when you get there, you’ll just know.

Think.
Make time to just think, every day. Disconnect from the Internet. Turn off the TV. Walk away from the cell phone and just be. Close your eyes and enjoy your brain’s capacity to take you to places your body may never go. Inside the nucleus of an atom or to the distant reaches of a binary star. You may find reason to gasp or smile or simply breathe. Discover the joy which may be reached only through contemplation.

Never stop learning.
All research shows that the very act of learning a new language, a new activity (ie: juggling, climbing, dancing), or reading new subjects changes the wiring of your brain. Open new pathways before the old ones become frozen and resistant to change.

Make love to the setting sun.
Get outside early. Stay outside late. Feel the rays of the sun warm your entire body, not just your bare face, arms, or hands. Share yourself with someone you love as the shadows grow long.