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The day James flew home and I flew north along the Pacific Coast to Portland, I stayed with friends who knew that I needed a bit more guidance through the geography of Washington than I had realized. I had arranged to spend Tuesday night at a cabin in the North Cascades, alright; but it turned out to be about 4½ hours from where I needed to be at 8:30 Wednesday morning. Like so many other times during our summer pilgrimage, I was given the better set of directions and sent on my way, not through Seattle as I had once thought, but through the Columbia River Gorge, north through Central Washington’s high mountain desert and to the foothills of the spectacular North Cascades.

That night in Wenatchee, I turned on the news and heard for the first time that there were forest fires raging in the mountains. That’s what all the forest service rangers were doing in the motel! I wondered, then, if I would need to change my plans and go to a different place. The next morning, after driving only 45 minutes, I arrived at the boat launch in Chelan. The fires were not in the Stehekin Valley, but I was to see the Domke Lake Fire, only 9 miles from the Stehekin Landing and spread to the shores of the lake by the time the Lady of the Lake Express passed by. Smoke that day had spread south to Chelan and filled the gorge that held the glacial lake upon which I sailed. Flames could be seen from the boat as we passed, and the smoke was thick in Stehekin Valley. I resigned myself to the likelihood that all I would see of the precipitous snow-capped mountains was the faint outline that appeared Wednesday afternoon. So I relaxed and read and wrote and prayed. I was also advised that the recommended climb for the area was McGregor Mountain, some 6,200 ft high from bottom to top with a seven mile trail that looked like it was drawn by a Geiger counter.

The sun rose to shine through clearing air and I felt more rested than I have for years. I was in a cabin with a canvass roof, a kerosene lantern for light and no electricity. I was covered with western blankets and just plain comfortable as a cool breeze passed across my face, welcoming me to the day with the aromas of sizzling bacon and cowboy coffee. How could I avoid dressing in hiking clothes and preparing my pack? After breakfast the shuttle bus came and delivered a few other hikers going various directions and me to High Bridge Camp, where a number of trails begin.

So I was off to reach toward a glaciered summit that placed majestically among others to compose some of the most rugged and awe-demanding land on the continent. A description of the day, with all its details deeply etched in my memory, would take thousands of megabytes to convey. What I will say about it, though, is that it was a physical challenge. The sites and my experiences exceeded my hopes. As I hiked higher and with each turn saw more of Creation’s raw beauty come to view I worried, “Well, this is it. The pilgrimage is almost over. This is supposed to be prayer time of my highest caliber; but is it? Will this take in all that Laura and I experienced through the summer as some kind of a gelling agent and somehow bring me closer to God?” You can’t program these things, you know. You just put yourself in the places where it might take place and then hope for the best.

I reached the trail’s end and went a bit higher above a snow field, just before a last scramble to the top which would have been a gamble to try because of the time it might take and the risk involved for a solo climber. After a lunch and some photos, I began the descent. I saw a column of smoke from the fire that still raged; it rose 33,000 ft. and created its own cumulus cloud. I descended further and stopped for some water and blueberries and drew in a deep breath of air. Then, in a song, I was overwhelmed with God’s presence. Just like that. It seemed the mountains, the small waterfalls and streams, the dancing clouds and all else before me shuddered in an act of praise. This is where the pilgrimage led.