Crossing Over
- for D & S
It was a beautiful late winter day in Los Angeles. After years of drought, we were fresh off several weeks of rain. The mountains surrounding us were “greened up”, thrilling my inner East Coast girl. My friend Donna & I arranged a hiking day at Wildwood, which sits at the northern edge of her town. We couldn’t wait to see the park in its glory & to get to the waterfall nestled down in the canyon.
We began our hike through the trees, chatting about our lives and rejoicing in the chance to be out of the bustle of the city for the day.
After a bit, we arrived at the first of several small creeks that meander through the park. Normally dry, on this day we found the water several inches deep.
As I came to the first creek, I flashed on a memory. Two years before, another friend & I had been discussing a daunting challenge I faced. Encouraging me to picture dealing with that challenge as if crossing a river, she asked - “What would you tell yourself about the best way to get to the other side?” Not feeling particularly brilliant that day, I spoke the only words that made sense: “One rock at a time”.
And that day in the park, as we crossed the first creek - that is exactly what I did.
Now, I am not the most coordinated or balanced person, and Donna will point out from time to time that I have a tendency to collide with her when we are walking or hiking. Given all that, I was a bit nervous at this first crossing. However, the rocks were mostly flat, the creek was narrow, I went slowly, and…success. Whew! I managed to stay upright and keep my hiking boots dry.
Close to the falls there were more creeks to navigate. Some required moving from rock to rock. At others, park rangers had placed boards across, slightly above the water level. We made it to the falls, which did not disappoint, and settled in for a lovely picnic lunch.
Soon we were off again making our way into the woods. Hikers approached from the other direction, warning us of a crossing ahead that might prove difficult. Because of the recent storms, that section of creek was now a small river. There were boards, but they were slanted inward & submerged in the middle. The hikers assured us of a crossing a few feet downstream that we could navigate, so we continued onward.
Donna and I arrived at the crossing - and my anxiety rose. This crossing was wider than the others, the river much deeper, and there before us was the board walk, collapsed midstream. My heart sank. No dry way across this one for sure. We wanted to get to the beautiful scenery beyond this river, but I did NOT want wet feet or to chance falling in the middle!
We stopped in our tracks and looked at each other, unsure of our next steps. Just then, we heard a voice. About ten feet downstream, a young woman, Dodger cap on her head and large tree branches in her hand, called to us from the far bank. Between us lay a row of rocks, their edges just above the surface of the water.
All of the negative, non-athletic tapes that play in my head got louder and louder. How am I ever going to do this without twisting my ankle or falling on my face???? Donna could see the fear in my eyes, the tension in my body. I didn’t want to turn around or disappoint my friend, but I could not fathom having the courage or ability to get to the far bank.
The young gal, still encouraging us, tossed Donna the two long sticks. I watched as my friend made her way across, slowly but surely.
Then it was my turn.
The young girl tossed the sticks to me; one broke as it landed on the bank. My anxiety rose several notches and Donna could see the fear in my eyes. Still, both she & the gal encouraged me. “Come on,” they said. “You can do it with one stick!”. A big “No” rang inside my head. Getting across the river with only one side of me supported? That was not going to happen. NO way would I keep from falling in if I only had one stick for balance; I was sure of that.
I looked around for anything else I could use to get across. I spied a large bush a few feet downstream with a large branch dangling over the water, almost broken off completely. Surprising myself, I reached out & was able to yank it off the rest of the way. Now I had my second stick - never mind it had all manner of smaller branches coming off it. Not elegant, but functional.
Did having two sticks make me less scared? That would be no, but at least I had a fighting chance for dry feet with this discovery. Gingerly, planting the sticks right in front of me, I slowly placed my foot onto the first rock. Plant sticks, step. Plant sticks, step. Soon I was mid-stream, with Donna and the young girl cheering me on. Finally, a few feet from the other bank, the Dodger girl told me to toss her the ungainly stick. With that done, she reached out her hand, helping me navigate the final few rocks. I reached solid ground.
There I was - on the far bank, my ankles intact and my boots dry. My friend and I stood expressing our relief, quickly turning to thank our young helper. She was gone. “Was she an angel?” We looked at each other and smiled. And while we did meet up with her a bit later on the trail, we just weren’t too sure she wasn’t.
Safely across, we were free to explore the rest of the park. We conquered the switchbacks beyond the river, arriving at the look-out Rock, where we feasted our eyes on flower dotted meadows and marveled at the 360 degree view of mountains upon mountains and the ability to see five neighboring cities from where we stood. Crossing a large open field, we arrived back at our starting point.
As we got back to the car that afternoon, I was grateful. We had a wonderful hike that day, but I also gained a real life object lesson to tuck into my heart. That day there were creeks I could navigate on my own - I took them on and got myself safely across. But when we made it to the river I could not handle, and couldn’t go around, I opened myself to help and had provision. Sticks, the heart and encouragement of my dear friend, a possible Dodger Angel - all there to let me know I wasn’t alone in the hardest parts of my journey.
