Stormy Stormy Night

I am addicted to the heart of darkness. Looking God dead in the eye I ask, “Is this all you got?” In the depths of chaos, the spark of life illuminates the horizon, the past, the present. I see my ancestors blindly thrusting their spears into the heart of a mammoth, I hear the blood curdling screams as they charge into certain death to protect their family from barbaric invaders. This fixation runs in my blood, passed through generations of men who risked their lives so their genetics pass on. The mighty mammoth has since met his demise, and the United States military-industrial complex only profits off foreign violence. I am on the road again, seeking discomfort like a warm pillow to rest my head. Who knows where.

A strike of luck passed from the heavens as I headed through Bighorn, Montana. The black void ahead signaled a powerful violence was brewing before me. I had earlier been meditating on the Little Mississippi and frolicking among the prairie dogs of North Dakota. My fickle soul welcomed the change; my peaceful state was becoming lethargic. The deep black horizon took on a blue shade that intensified, until the sky was so dark the devil himself dared not wander. The blood orange sunset peeked under the pitch-black curtain, saying its final goodbyes before retreating to safer horizons. I waved to the fading color as my car was sucked into the road of no return. The trees bowed down before me as I was encapsulated by the violence. The wind howled the sad and wicked stories of my ancestors. Stories of fear. Stories of perseverance. Stories of loss. I pressed on.

Spatters of water on my windshield heeded no warning before becoming heavy sheets, bending to the will of the wind. The sheets layered into blankets, and blankets wrapped my car until I felt as if a tremendous waterfall fell upon me. I could no longer see. Was there a shoulder to pull over? Not safely. My headlights did not make it to the center strip, so I followed the evil red eyes of a car before me. Certainly, it was the devil himself. I watched the eyes before me drift back and forth, maintaining just enough control to stay in their lane. I could not lose sight. I maintained tight pursuit.

Once every couple minutes, or maybe seconds, who knows in such dire straits, God struck the earth with a mighty wrath, cursing man for what he may or may not have done. It was as if my mother was waking me up for school, unrelentingly flipping the lights on before I knew what was happening. The strike encapsulated the horizon with the light of day, a flash bang to my dilated pupils. In this moment of blindness, I sent up a hasty prayer on the chance He could hear me over the rain beating me into the hills of I-94. I have few moments as clear as these. My white knuckles began to cramp, but I could not lose focus. My past flashed before me. The summer monsoons in the mountains of Arizona. The soggy night I spent in Wyoming in the Wind River Range, when I was caught by a violent storm at the pass. Or the gale that ripped through the middle of the Puget Sound on my kayaking trip, threatening my return and life.

These moments are rare and powerful. The gauntlet is thrown and must be accepted. My animal brain savagely enters the picture: survive. I am focused, and for the first time, fully present. The concoction that rushes through my veins could level armies, bring world peace, or build the world in five days and observe no rest. Who knows. Maybe I am Shackleton or Louis Zamperini. Or maybe not. Most never find out till they are on the flip side, meeting Amelia Earhart. I am fascinated by the edge; this is the way things are. We can fight the waves, or we can ride them. But we must choose carefully. Amidst the storm, I chose to ride. I am happy to be alive. What a thrill.