On top of Minnesota: 7 Summits in 3 Days

Someday soon my life is going to be a lot more structured with church duties and other life responsibilities, which makes it all the more important to enjoy the time I have now. Lately, I've taken that opportunity. The Superior Hiking Trail has its own version of the "7 Summits Challenge," boasting 7 summits of varying heights but all with spectacular views and worthwhile climbs.

The view from Carlton Peak

Minnesota is sometimes mocked by people who come from more mountainous terrain. For them, I was hiking the Sawtooth "Mountains" with emphasis on the quotation marks. I understand the sentiment. I've worked in Idaho and Oregon, hiked in both the Cascades and the Rockies. What we have in Minnesota looks nothing like Mt. Hood or Mt. Rainier. That much is a given. Nonetheless, Minnesota has some genuinely challenging  terrain in the arrowhead with the Superior Hiking Trail and Border Route Trails displaying that in spades. As I climbed up Moose Mountain this past week I thought to myself how baseless it is to call this a flat state. It's not. After this trip, I can prove it.

From Lookout Mountain

Three days on the trail, over 30 miles and 3500 vertical feet, brought me a new sense of achievement. This was, finally, a trip to see the best of the north shore. From Ely's Peak in Duluth, to Lookout Mountain in Cascade River State Park, to Pincushion Mountain in Grand Marais, to Oberg Mountain, to Moose Mountain, to Carlton Peak, to Mount Trudee I traversed the length of the north shore, driving mile after mile to find the next vista. My quick advice for anybody pondering a similar trip: do it. Just go.

Oberg Lake from Oberg Mt.

At every summit was a view worth savoring. There were miles and miles of trees in varying shades of green, yellow, orange and red. Entire ridge lines of vermillion from sugar maples in the early autumn. And always there was Lake Superior 1000 feet or so below, vast and crystal clear with the odd ship off in the distance. It was heaven.

The second day I was the second car to arrive in the Oberg Mountain parking lot. It was before 8 am and the sun wasn't showing above the peak. By the time I finished with Oberg and Moose it was nearly noon and I returned to see more than thirty cars and hikers of every shape and size milling about the lot. My first thought was "Dang! I want this to myself!" But then I realized how the whole shape of the trail is due to those who have gone before and had the wisdom to build and protect the wilderness that is a part of the Superior National Forest. Finally, I was glad that there were others who had the same desire as myself to climb a summit and to see creation from a whole new perspective.

Autumn on the SHT

I would sometimes go several hours without seeing another person even on some of the most well-traveled parts of the trails. I spooked something large on the third morning that was likely a bear; I guess this not so much for the noise it caused (even squirrels sound like a herd of elephants when you're alone on the trail) but for the tracks and matted brush I spotted soon thereafter. Nature was at its best. It was, in a word, wonderful.

The last day was the perfect cap: a 3.7 mile excursion through Tettegouche State Park to the top of Mt. Trudee. I planned it this way because it was the southernmost peak outside of Ely's in Duluth, so I was closest to home. The view was merely a bonus, but what a bonus it was! Trudee, Oberg and Carlton are on my short-list for most beautiful hikes I have ever experienced and each of them is do-able in 3-4 hours. Oberg, in fact, is much quicker (an hour if you want).

From Mt. Trudee, looking back over Tettegouche State Park

I offer this all because this is a place worth celebrating. It helped to go when the colors were just beginning to peak. A dry late summer means that the leaves are changing quickly, so get out and enjoy it. Take a walk, whether it's on the SHT or in your backyard. Not everybody has the free time I currently enjoy, but everybody has a moment or two to take a break and relax. The reward wasn't just in the completion of the challenge but in the experience itself. This was no ironman; it was tough but not overwhelming. It was mostly just fun. And if that's not what it's all about, it's at least a good start.

Curiosity: Parallel Universes and... Heaven?

Life has been very full lately. I got engaged, I'm in the process of getting a call to a church (which is, I can say, quite the process), and tomorrow I'm heading out to do the Superior Hiking Trail's version of the 7 Summits. When I get back I plan on doing a serious, blogging recap of the journey, but for now I have had a few different thoughts that seem important to get down if for no other reason than to keep myself in the practice.

A week or so ago I saw the new Discovery Channel series Curiosity for the first time. Basically, it's big questions put before experts in the field who then do their best to simplify and explain the issue and raise new questions in turn. I can't speak to all the episodess so far (I know they did one on Is there a God with Stephen Hawking that I haven't seen and, frankly, it's hard to want to, knowing how Discovery has treated this issue in the past). Nonetheless, the two episodes I have seen were both intriguing, the kind of programming I expect from Discovery (and not this American Chopper or ghost-busting bologna).

The episode that really caught my attention was one on parallel universes. It was stuff that I had heard before but presented in a fascinating way. One of the theories offered was that there are, in fact, two realities that run parallel to each other. These two universes balance out the cosmos. In this theory, the Big Bang wasn't the creation of matter but the splitting of the two universes--one up against the other.

This is intriguing enough from a scientific perspective, but if we take the audacious step of thinking about this theologically then we have a whole new can of worms. I've heard heaven described as just a blink away, always just there an instant ahead of us. I don't know if this is scriptural--I looked briefly and couldn't find it--so if you know where this came from please do clue me in. But regardless, there is something about this that really jives with an understanding of the world down here and a spiritual world beyond.

Maybe heaven isn't so much an instant ahead of us as it is directly alongside, parallel to us. After all, in the creation story of Genesis 1, God separates the waters above from the waters below to make the earth and sky. In fact, much of cosmic creation amounts to separating similar entities. Whether it's the water from the water (Gen 1:6) or the day from the night (1:14) creation is tantamount to separation. Similarly, the first distinction in the Bible is between two different entities: earth and heaven.

"In the beginning God created the earth and the heavens."

In the beginning there was balance in this created order. Mainline Christianity has long ago given up the physical locality of heaven insofar as it can be reached in this reality, but in its place the language for heaven has become spiritual rather than scientific. Curiosity got me thinking: what if this is it? What if our language about the kingdom of God boils down to another reality opposing and yet parallel to our own? What if heaven isn't just a breath away but imminently present, parallel to us?

Suddenly, the incarnation isn't so much a break in the boundaries of heaven and earth as much as it is a rupture in the fabric of the universe. Isn't that what the gospel writers are telling us with the skies (Mark 4:10) and curtain (Mark 15:38) being torn apart?

Maybe all of this is a stretch. Things are rarely so simple that they can be summed up in a 60-minute television program, and yet I wonder... And that is what curiosity should be about.

Theology and theopoetry

I heard the worst sermon of my life this morning. Kate was there. She can back it up.

With that said, sorry I haven't posted in awhile. I'd say I've been busy, but it's been more like uninspired to write. I have other things to be doing; I always have other things. Lately, blogging hasn't been the most important thing. From now on it might be. Who knows.

Anyway, back to the subject.

This was most bizarre, unfortunate 25 minutes I have ever spent in a worship space (This wasn't my home church and I won't say where it was; even if I did say, it was a guest preacher, so it is no reflection on the church in question). The pastor preached in a way, but really it was a show that had a little bit of interpretive dance and far more singing and playing of piano than should ever occur in lieu of a message. Please understand that I have no problem with music--even music in a sermon--but there comes a point where it is simply shtick. This was shtick in spades.

This is a classic example of theopoetry gone astray. Theopoetry is an attempt to speak of God not in systematic terms, as theology is wont to do, but with language that expands the horizons of how we might view God. It is creative language; and at its best it is splendid. I say this because I love theopoets who honed the skill. Rob Bell, Barbara Brown Taylor, John Polkinghorne, Madeleine l'Engle and even Garrison Keillor are theopoets in their own ways.

Yet, for each brilliant thinker who widens the net casting for God there are those who just don't get it. The pastor this morning just didn't get it. He destroyed the structure of the message but without offering a word that was the least bit creative. Rather than projecting us forward into what it might mean to live as human beings in God's creation, he seemed to be trying to call us back to something... something that I didn't understand; something vague and unreal. It didn't feel spiritual; in fact, it felt close to laughable.

I believe theology is useful to ground us. It is useful because it recalls the wisdom of those before and treats their witness as something spirit-filled. But many people who study theology tend to give it too much weight. To me, God hardly seems systematic. Life is poetic: the good and the bad. I love theopoetry because it admits that, lives in it, and at its best conveys what it means to be human.

My profound hope is that we stop with the gimicks; the singing preachers and half-hearted jokes, and let's start dwelling in scripture faithfully, preaching boldly and admitting that words fail. That would be a nice start.

The book is always better...

...than the movie. It's pretty much a proven fact. I haven't read every book for every big-screen adaptation I have ever seen, but the ones I have are universally better in nearly every way in print.

This is actually rather cliche. This has been the mantra of the well-read now for years, but we don't stop all that often to examine the implications. What does it mean for a culture to spend and spend for instant big-screen gratification, while all the while admitting that is pales in comparison with the written word? Imagination is the first place to start. There is this preconception in this world we now inhabit that imagination is actually an unproductive thing. When somebody says, "He has quite the imagination" it usually isn't a compliment. They mean that the person in question (especially if he or she isn't a child) needs to get with the real world. The real world, as Hollywood sells it, is full of explosions and beautiful people full of super powers in beautiful, or at least impressive, settings. Sometimes the real world is actually like that; and sometimes it's not.

Books inhabit a place that is at once more relate-able and more imaginative for their audience, but (and here's the key) it takes effort to get there. Imagination is something that requires not just absorption but relationship with the words on the page. It's a rare movie that creates a relationship between the audience and the characters or the scenery--it is not impossible for any art to get there but movies have a particularly difficult task. The biggest barrier, in fact, may be time. A relationship takes time. Love at first sight may be real, but it is certainly rare and impossibly more complicated than it ever appears from the outside. Books--like relationships--are experienced over time; movies are limited, limiting.

Movies move like a rushing river, which has both awe-inspiring power and constant fluidity. They are fun but you can never really get beneath the surface--unless you are sucked under and spit out before you realize what happened. Books are a lazy stream, inviting to the swimmer--more like visual art or a symphony. To jump in the water and float is infinitely more pleasurable and conducive to the imagination than being swept away. I enjoy both rapids and lazy rivers, but they feed very different needs. Rapids can be exhilarating, a challenge to raft or intimidating to walk along. Lazy water allows my mind to wander, to experience the entirety of nature and then move beyond  to imagine what might lie just beneath, beyond, or under what I see, breathe, touch and smell.

The book is always better, but--here's the unexpected twist--you don't need a book to read. I'm not talking about newspapers, the internet or magazines; Reader's Digest (does it still exist?) or blogs. I'm talking about reading nature, experiencing relationship as the ongoing experience of reading everything life has to offer. Recently, a lady at my mom's book club, upon learning that Kate and I were heading out camping, offered several reading suggestions--particularly for Kate--to pass the time. We nodded and smiled, then left and looked at each other, shaking our heads. We can read every leaf or tree, drop of water in a lake or fish beneath its surface. I can read everything before my eyes and beyond. The book is always better than the movie, not because it is confined to the pages but because it is bigger than we could ever have imagined. So, we're heading camping and we'll be reading all the while. Kate might crack open Bryson's A Walk in the Woods (my suggestion), but I plan on reading the water and hopefully finding a walleye at the end of the line.

It might not make for an explosive ending, but all in all it will still be quite good.

On bikers

I had a bad morning. My car was in for repairs, so I was biking to work--which isn't really unusual--and besides it was beautiful outside so I wasn't complaining. At least I wasn't until 5 miles in to the 17 mile ride when I flatted my rear tire near Cedar Lake. Flatting is no fun, but it isn't that unusual. I flat on average once every 100-200 miles. I got off and put a patch on. No problem.

A mile later, flat again. This time I try to adjust the patch, but it keeps flatting. I put another tube on, also flat. I realize, finally, that the tire has been ruptured and no number of new tubes will fix the problem. I end up getting picked up by my mom and missing work since I didn't have a vehicle to even show up late.

All in all, a pretty sad start to the day, but there was one thing that did make me cheery. I couldn't even count the number of bikers and pedestrians who asked if I needed help. At first I didn't, then I needed another tube and a rider gave me one (and wouldn't accept any money in return). Then, when it became apparent that I had a bigger problem, a man asked if I needed a cell phone or even a ride. I had a cell phone and was getting a ride, but it was a great gesture. I was prepared for a flat, but even if I wouldn't have been people were there to help. Random people. Maybe 20, maybe 30 people.

As it turns out it was the tire. $60 later all is well. I missed a half-day of work, but there are worse things in the world. Thanks to all the cyclists and peds who offered to help.

Can you imagine 20-30 cars stopping to help a flat tire?

On Cycling (and soccer): The charm of niche sports.

It seems like we have this discussion with a couple of sports every year. Why don't they grip America? Why is it that none of them can crack the big 3-4 major sports that ESPN and newspapers cover. It's a silly discussion, really, but I'll get to that later. For now, I want to talk about one of my favorite annual events--the Tour de France--and explain what I see in it that the majority of America does not.

In order to understand where I'm coming from I'd like to address the stumbling blocks that an American audience encounters when it comes to tuning in to the TdF.

1. Who's winning?
This is the first and biggest problem with cycling races, because it is a rather difficult question to answer. I had someone ask me this very question today upon seeing that I had live coverage of the TdF up on the computer. Well, do you mean who is winning the overall, this stage, or who is setting themselves up best for the real climbs when we get to the high Alps? Already, you're lost. Here's why:

The TdF is not just one race but a series of 21 stages that determine five different champions: the overall General Classification (GC) winner (this is the guy in the yellow jersey), the best sprinter (the guy in the Green Jersey), the best climber (the guy in the polka dot jersey), the best young rider (the guy in the white jersey), and the best team (the team with the green numbers on their backs). Some riders are going for yellow, some for green, some for polka dots, or white; some riders are part of a strong team, and other riders are going for a stage win. Personally, I find it fascinating that so much is going on at the same time, but it can also be quite confusing... which leads us to question #2...

2. Who are these guys?
Name recognition is key to any sport, especially one that is individual-oriented. Cycling is both a team and individual sport (more on that later), but if you don't know any of the guys it's hard to get the least bit involved in the action. Luckily, unlike baseball, football, soccer or even golf there are far fewer contenders. In fact, if you want to follow the yellow jersey race all you need to know is that Alberto Contador is the two-time reigning champ, Andy Schleck is his biggest challenger, and Cadel Evans is the only other rider up at their level. There's a few other contenders: Frank Schleck, Damiano Cunego, Samuel Sanchez and Ivan Basso. Thomas Voeckler currently leads the race and so he has the yellow jersey, but he isn't considered a main favorite, though when in yellow there's always a chance! Then there are a few Americans of interest: Chris Horner (crashed out earlier in the race), Levi Leipheimer (not in his best form right now) and Tom Danielson. Those are the only yellow riders to be concerned about.

As far as the green jersey goes, Mark Cavendish is the big favorite; then there are a few guys who can beat him on a given stage: Tyler Farrar (American), Andre Greipel, Thor Hushovd, Tom Boonen (crashed out earlier), Alesandro Petachhi, and then there's Philippe Gilbert, who isn't really a sprinter but he goes on crazy attacks to try to win some sprint stages; i.e., Gilbert is a guy to know even though he doesn't fit into conventional categories.

As far as every other race is concerned, you don't need to know anybody. Seriously. Don't worry about learning about guys like Sandy Casar, Edouard Boassen Hagan, Ryder Hejesdal, or Jelle Vanendert. These are the kinds of guys who can win stages, but most likely won't contend for anything else. If you get behind one of two of them it makes the race more interesting, but it is by no means necessary. Also, you don't need to fret about the King of the Mountains or Young Riders--at least not at first. Those are sort of the sabermetrics competitions of the TdF--i.e., for advanced viewers only.

3. Is this a team or individual competition?
This is where cycling is at its most interesting. There is no way to win any cycling race--least of all the TdF--without the help of other cyclists. So, racers ride in teams of 9. Some teams have sprinters (HTC-High Road rides almost exclusively for Mark Cavendish), some have the GC, yellow jersey contenders (Saxo Bank rides for Alberto Contador and nothing else), and others have a mix of riders looking for stage wins. Then there's the team competition, which consists of adding up each team's top three riders to cross any traditional stage.

Riders generally ride in the peloton (a French word for the large group of riders) which helps protect them from the wind, and most stages consist of a breakaway group that tries to outlast the peloton. These riders have to work together to stay away, and since generally they are all from different teams this often becomes something of a struggle. The peloton, too, must remain organized. Generally, the peloton catches the riders, but sometimes it doesn't. Often the riders in the breakaway are more interested in showing off their form than winning the stage. The teams that believe they can win the stage or protect their leaders--especially the yellow jersey--will most often pace the peloton to make certain they catch the breakaway.

Team composition is key, because you can't have nine guys trying to win the race. Some days are suited for climbers, some for sprinters, some for break-aways. A strong team like Leopard-Trek will have two GC contenders--Frank and Andy Schleck--as well as several "strong men" who can pace them up difficult climbs before falling off the pace, then there will be a few other "domestiques" who bring water bottles, food, and rain gear to the top riders, as well as keep them out of the wind. Other teams, like Garmin-Cervelo, have rather diversified interests. They have a couple of outside contenders for the GC--Tom Danielson and Ryder Hejesdal--then they have a sprint specialist--Tyler Farrar--another sprinter who is more suited for climbing as well--Thor Hushovd (who happens also to be the world road racing champion)--and several domestiques to help those four out--one of these is the American, Christian Vandevelde, who has finished top 10 in the TdF before. If you're looking for an American team to get behind, Garmin-Cervelo is a good option; they wear the blue helmets with the stylized "c" on their shoulders.

4. Isn't it long and boring?
One of the great things about the TdF is that you can watch the last 30 minutes and understand everything that's happened. Sure, there might have been a crash early on, but how is this any different than picking up a basketball game in the 4th quarter or a golf tournament late on Sunday? In fact, Versus has compacted coverage into 2-hour segments most days.

5. Cycling will never be a popular sport in America, so why should I even bother?
This is the most important question and one of the most misunderstood ones in my opinion. People ask the same thing about soccer all the time. Americans don't like watching soccer en masse as much as baseball, football and basketball, so every time a big soccer event comes up we debate whether soccer will ever reach those levels. Frankly, it's a stupid question because soccer in America simply shouldn't strive for that and neither should cycling. They both fit into the category of niche sports. (Here I feel like I should say that more people are likely to play soccer or ride a bike than play football or baseball past the age of 20, but that's a different issue)

In the United States, there are three big sports: Football, baseball and basketball. Then, there are three second-tier sports: hockey, NASCAR and golf (soccer could fit into this category, but as I will explain below it probably shouldn't try). And finally, there are a host of niche sports that are best served outside of the limelight. Niche sports are great because they don't need the kind of coverage the top tier sports do. In fact, they are better off having a big event every few years than repeated coverage every couple of weeks. This is why the World Cup and Olympics are such a big deal. In fact, I think cycling would do well to have a World Cup every four years that is bigger than the TdF, but such a thing is probably too much to hope for.

Most importantly, niche sports are usually more entertaining than second-tier sports! It's strange but their inaccessibility in general makes them much more interesting in those few times where they come into the spotlight. This is why I believe soccer should stop trying to be a mainline sport and embrace it's niche-iness.

This brings me to the final question:

6. What is the A#1 reason to watch the Tour?
To see human beings pushing themselves to a level of endurance far exceeding anything you have seen before outside of maybe an Ironman Triathlon. These guys are absolute machines. I read recently that a normal human being can pull 400 watts on a bicycle for a couple of seconds, while the average TdF rider can pull 400 watts for an hour or more. Have you ever gone 50 mph on a bike? These guys do on mountain descents with sharp curves. They push the limits of human endurance.

It's not a perfect sport; in fact, it's rather rough around the edges; but there is something about the TdF that fascinates me every year. If you've never seen it before take a look. Seriously, it's worth checking out, and this time of year it's basically on Versus all hours of the day, or online for free every morning on Eurosport or countless other services.

A Reflection on HP and my favorite moment: Always.

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I was introduced to Harry Potter a little over ten years ago when my mom was reading Prisoner of Azkaban to my brother. At first I wasn't interested. The backdrop of a magical world made me suspect; in truth, it all seemed a bit cheesy. I'm sad to admit (for the purists out there) but it was the movie version of Sorcerer's Stone that sold me on the idea. Only then did I see the appeal of a captivating world with characters and situations so extraordinarily unique.

What I saw was a world crafted with many of the same ideologies I valued. Magic wasn't an escape from the laws of this world but an extension of how this world might work bound by subtly different laws. More importantly, characters were forced to make difficult decisions with truth rarely black-and-white. I loved Snape--hated him but loved him. Harry, Ron, and Hermione weren't so much models as they were character studies for all the relationships I experienced in my adolescence. Through them I had a lens to some of the difficult positions in which I found myself.

The one time I had to put the book down and go on a run was when Harry and Ginny first kissed, because ever since Chamber of Secrets I had hoped that it would turn out that way--and it did. That's the thing about this series: Rowling had a massive task to make it all fulfilling, to bring about an ending not just satisfactory but worthy of the preceding six years of build-up. She did it without selling us a picture of the world drizzled in surreality. This was an earthy, beautiful--and yet painful--end to years of growing up with Harry alongside. Death is not avoided; that's Voldemort's job. In fact, pain and mortality were embraced in a way that is at once exceedingly healthy and, unfortunately, counter-cultural. She tapped into a need and we flocked to it. Perhaps in part we saw that the questions being raised were ones we were too scared to ask on our own. Perhaps we saw in Harry or Ron or Hermione a little of ourselves and hoped that in the end they'd live happily-ever-after.

But Rowling was clear: happily-ever-after does not mean survival. Death is not to be avoided. James and Lily Potter, Frank and Alice Longbottom, Sirius Black, Dumbledore, Regulus Black, Igor Karkaroff, Bertha Jorkins, Charity Burbage, Fred Weasley, Remus Lupin, Tonks, Colin Creevey, Severus Snape... the list goes on. Each lived fully; each gave themselves not just for Harry but for the sake of a world that matters.

We are called to fight for what is valuable in our own lives. Love translates across the Wizarding World into our own. My favorite moment of the series was Snape's vindication. He was never a good character; he was duplicitous, sometimes callous, and often unfair. But he was such a true character. The impact of Lily's death changed him, just as in our lives we are changed by myriad moments that come to define us. Some of these we can name; others have passed beyond recognition.

The legacy that Snape leaves is all any of us can hope for. He gives everything for a single love. He never received anything back. Life, as he said, is not fair--but in the end good wins. It wins triumphantly not because of its mighty power over evil but because of the deeper magic that makes a person wonder if Rowling wasn't a little C.S. Lewis in disguise. What is love finally but grace extended on behalf of one for the other? To be accepted in spite of one's faults is at the core of what these books are about. A generation of young people are better off having Harry as an example. We may never be able to levitate a single feather, but surely we can see that love is not cheap. In fact, for us it may yet cost a lot more than it ever has before, and that is a moral well worth hearing.