The following essay was written by Dan Kriesberg who was featured on Episode 91 of The By Land Podcast.

You can learn more about Dan and read more of his writing at https://dankriesbergcom.squarespace.com/

Each spring my wife, Karen and I try to plan a summer that meshes together all the various things we want to do.  It is a combination of time with our families, time together, and time on our own. For me, it is some time to go backpacking. One summer turned out different than we had planned. In March, I had a seizure and was diagnosed with epilepsy. Suddenly my solo trip to the Sierras was out. We made new plans. In May, we found out Karen was pregnant. This time we happily made new plans. There would be no flying out west but we could drive somewhere. When I tried to renew my driver’s license in June, the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles informed me that due to my seizure I could not drive for three more months. We made new plans. Then, during the first week of July, Karen had a miscarriage. Our plans changed again.

We grieved. I realized how much I wanted to be a father. I was in awe of Karen’s strength and bravery. Even so, life felt overwhelming and I was desperate to disappear into the wilderness. Unfortunately, I was not able to explain to Karen why, and for the first time in our marriage, I hurt her. I was not able to explain that I was not running away from her. I needed to handle what was lost from the miscarriage and seizure in my own way. At that time the love of fatherhood and the freedom of good health seemed far away. Eventually, we talked it out, and with her blessing and despite the challenges I was off on a Sierra Club outing to Kings Canyon National Park, I could not be alone if the medication failed to do its job. 

The others in the group were interesting and like-minded, but I still wanted my time alone. So after our first dinner, I strolled away and found a boulder to sit on. The sun was setting, and the alpine glow was creeping up the mountainsides and reflecting off the bare rock above timberline.  With perfect timing, a golden eagle rode the wind in the Sierra sky. Until I broke the spell by thinking it, my body knew before my mind that this was the place to be and the right thing to be doing. But why? Why was this so right? Why did being there make me feel so much better, right down to my soul? I wanted to be able to explain this to Karen, to myself. 

It slowly came to me, Time.  Backpacker's gift is time. It is what I wish for. Backpacking does not take time it gives time. Time for the magic that comes from the freedom to be in harmony with life and present in the now. 

Backpacking strips away the unnecessary that masks itself as necessary. It leaves behind an opening in time that can be filled with what I love to do. At any given moment on a backpacking trip, I am doing something I enjoy. Even chores are not chores. Leave no trace style of washing dishes is an awareness of my impact on the earth. Hanging the food is a ritual of being attentive to my animal neighbors. I don’t rush through the day just to get to what I want. I am already there. I can say to myself “be here now,” and it works. 

In his book, The Sabbath, Its Meaning for Modern Man, Abraham Joshua Herschel explains the beauty of finding an island in time. For him, it is the Sabbath and what can be gained by taking the time it offers. “The higher goal of spiritual living is not to amass a wealth of information, but to face sacred moments.”

Backpacking is my Sabbath. 

Nowhere else can I have so many sacred moments. Moments that are strung together to become sacred time. 

Sacred moments are when I reach a mountain top, and a view spreads out into the sky, and I can feel the power of what is under my feet. 

Sacred moments are the simple rituals of preparing meals, bear-proofing food, making the pillow, 

Sacred moments are when the campsite is set, dinner done, and starshine sprinkles the sky, and I lay down in my sleeping bag, head on a perfect pillow of clothes.

Sacred moments are when cheese and tuna on a bagel mixed with mountain time and a granola bar taste better than any meal ever served in a restaurant.  

Sacred moments are when I can meet a complete stranger at a lean-to, and within one night of hanging out, it feels like old friends talking of shared experiences doing what we both love.

Sacred moments are when I can see the sunset, moonrise, the moonset, and sunrise all in one day. 

Sacred moments are when I look at the beauty that stops me in my tracks.

Sacred moments are when I learn the patterns and habits of an animal so that I can see it before it sees me.

Sacred moments are when I find a rock that fits my back and butt for a perfect seat, that instantly comforts trail legs.

Sacred moments are that feeling of power and grace as my body strides up a mountain trail.

Sacred moments are seeing a color I have never been witness to and will never see again, the same with a sound, smell, taste or texture.

Sacred moments are when I do not just watch a frog jump in but sit and wait for the frog to climb out.

Sacred moments are when I have conversations and silence with friends around the campfire. 

Sacred moments are when there is time, and one takes that time.

Dan Kriesberg

    Abraham Joshua Herschel. The Sabbath and its Meaning to Man. NY: Farrar Straus Giroux, 2005