Originally published August 22, 2015
Today I was triumphant!
I returned to the trail of terror with my family, on a partly cloudy day, walking, and made it through the rock and to the overlook without dying. It was so great. And not nearly as scary as running it in the rain by myself.
We're here on this mountain, where there's a cross at the end of Tennessee Avenue that overlooks Cowan, a little town at the bottom of the mountain. The view from here changes with the season, so I'll document it periodically for you.
Left, Family at the cross.
Today's view: 8/22/15
Memorial Cross was constructed in 1922, to honor the men of Sewanee who fought in WWI. They have added a plaque for each war since, of course. Though it goes without saying, it's a really spiritual place. At the end of a roller coaster road in the woods, it stands at the edge of the mountain overlooking the valley. We sat and said a prayer for our friend, to whom the Cross holds special meaning.
After Isabel returned from the foot of the cross, she asked me what Desert Storm was. She's not that far ahead in our history yet, I guess. It's pretty recent, even though there have been wars since, as we all are painfully aware.
"That's the war your Uncle Karl was in," I told her. "In 1991."
I remember sitting in my dorm room, watching the news over spaghetti dinners, hearing about it. It was so far away, and even then the coverage wasn't as intense as it is now. Karl came home, and mostly told funny stories about how they had to carry a chair without a seat out into the desert, dig a hole, and poop. Karl's like my dad, a man of few words and weird stories. Just ask my dad about the guy in the Navy who ate pickled eggs. None of their service stories have to do with actually fighting people. I guess you don't talk about that.
On the other side of the cross, you enter the woods again, on the Morgan's Steep trail. It seems nice at first, but then you find yourself walking along the side of, and under the mountain.
Left, Iz under the mountain, and on the side of it.
Rock, everywhere.
And we made it, in no time, to Proctor's Hall, or the hole in the rock. When I was running, I saw it differently. I totally missed the opening in the rock because I had to look down, so as not to fall off the side of the mountain. But walking, with my family, the opening was clear.
I should have run through here, below right.
Iz in the rock.
It was much easier to go through the rock than over it.
The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. Psalm 18:2
We are literally surrounded by rock here. Our house is made of rock, remember? Tennessee seems like it's carved out of rock. Even driving across this state, as I've done many times as a child of the South, I've loved the rock of I-40, and the tunnels that are chiseled out of the rock. Here on the mountain, so many houses are made of rock, and just about every building at the University is as well. On this trail, we walk on the rock, under it, and in it, just as the Holy Spirit is under us, holding us up, around us, paving the way, and in us, shining outward.
Rock has taken on a whole new meaning here.
And just in case you're thirsty, the rock provides water. Literally.
If you look closely, you can see the trickle of waterfall that Michael and Isabel are walking behind. Just a little offering of water from the rock.
You ascend this trail on a set of stone steps (of course, need you even ask?),
Bottom left, I took from the top, after I caught my breath.
To another beautiful view of the valley.
We made it!
Interesting. That's a picture of my family....in front of the valley. The valley's not near as important.
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