Day Sixteen: Hike to the Cross

The final three days leading up to Easter are always a time of reflection and sober thoughts for me, as Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Saturday lead up to the most joyous day the world has ever known. Yesterday, I got the idea in my head that I was going to “hike to the cross,” as they say in these parts. This refers to the Escalante Cross, a 37-foot tall set of steel crossbeams perched on a mountain in honor of two Franciscan monks who were the first white men to glimpse Utah Lake from that spot. I determined I would make this hike tomorrow, no matter what.

I set out today at 1:00, even though I was feeling achy and pekid. A sunburst through the clouds encouraged me, and I stepped out the door, red bag slung on my back, bundled up in a sweater, hoodie, and stocking cap. 

Dark blue storm clouds hovered overhead as I walked, and the sun disappeared. I hiked along the side of the road that has served as my treadmill the past few days, picking my way through mud and around puddles, saying hello to the animals I’ve come to know on my daily walks: the palomino in the round pen, the yellow and the black cows who always give me chewing-cud stares as I walk by, the duns and the bay at the crossroads, the chestnuts in the open pasture with a black goat to keep them company. The grass, bright green in the overcast weather from all the rain, was a sharp contrast to the white-and-black mountains, and I watched with some concern as wisps of cloud began to drift down over their tops, and the southern sky (the direction I was headed) began to deepen to solid gray. 

I glanced up at the clouds above me, an unsettling mix of thunderheads and clouds that couldn’t decide whether or not they were threatening. Then thunder growled in the sky right above my head, its volume echoing across the open fields. The wind fluttered restlessly about me, and in the distance, a cow let out a disconcerted mrrrroon. Two magpies flashed their white wing tips at me as they soared past, headed for cover. In the mountains to the south, lightning flickered, followed closely by thunder as the air grew damp and blustery around me. I was a good mile and a half down the road, so I decided not to turn back, come what may. 

My first turn was an asphalt road lined with poplars whose thin branches thrashed in the wind. That’s when the sky began to spit rain. At least, I thought it was rain until the wind picked up and taught me the true nature of the precipitation by driving ice pellets against my face. With a groan, I put my head down and staggered forward as winds— 60 mph, I later found out— slammed against my body, nearly knocking me off the shoulder of the road. But I looked to my right, to the north, half-blinded by the wind driving into my eyes, and saw sunshine off in the distance. The storm was on its way out, and the wind was ushering in a beautiful day.

The stinging ice-rain continued for another mile or so, but I became so caught up in the tempest-tossed countryside that I didn’t notice when it slacked off. The mountains sloped up from the plain, monochromic against the ruffled green farmland, solid and ominous in the overcast light, beautiful enough to break my heart. Somewhere along the way, I noticed that the storm clouds were receding and the precipitation had stopped, and the sun at my back began drying my damp clothes.

Within an hour and a half, I began climbing the steep winding Spanish Oaks Drive, reminding myself once again that my body does not like inclines. I spent most of my time trying not to gasp for air too hard. At last I reached the trailhead, tucked away in the corner of a park that perched on the edge of a reservoir. I turned to look at the scenery behind me, marveling at the stunning white mountains in the distance, lit by the sun that hadn’t quite reached these ranks of the range.

The trail, at first well-marked, then very confusing, was a mud path that wound between scrub and lichen-covered trees of varying shades of white-gray. Although none of the trees had leaves, delicate yellow wildflowers were strewn among the grass on either side of the trail, and the branches were alive with birdsong.

After a couple wrong turns, I found the path that led me out of the woods to the summit of a foothill, covered in rocks and lichen in a dozen subtle shades of blue, pink, green, and orange. As I crested the ridge, the wind once again nearly blasted me off the hill, but I managed to keep on the trail until I reached the foot of the Escalante Cross.

Whipped on all sides by a frigid wind (it didn’t help that I had been sweating), I stared up at the metal cross looming over me, its crossbeams gently swaying in the thrashing weather. I placed my hands on the icy steel and recited the words of the Last Supper that I have heard almost every week or my life. I didn’t have any bread to break or wine to drink, but I gazed out at the mountains circling the basin, and breathed in the wet air, and thanked God that He had brought me here.

By the time I reached the valley floor, the storm clouds had rushed on past me. I walked home in the sunshine.

~Lisa Shafter

Distance walked today: 14 miles

Money spent today: $0

Leeway so far: $110.22