This article recounts a recent soothing peaceful journey across America in which my wife and I encountered the spirit of our country in a profound and unusual way; through the recurring voice of the wind. It gave us a renewed sense of the sacred ground on which we live.
The Voice of the Wind
David Barstow
On a recent cross-country driving trip of 8300 miles, we discovered, quite by accident, that we were listening to the breath of the country; we were tuning in to the breath of life which blows across this vast and varied land.
It all began on the first evening of our journey on a visit to the Biltmore mansion in Asheville, NC. After dinner, we came out into a lovely cool evening and noticed a large corn field directly across from us. What caught our attention was the gentle sound of the wind touching the leaves and tassels of the unharvested corn. We sat down and simply listened; it was as if the corn were dancing, flowing in rhythm to the faint whispers of the wind.
The next night, at a bed and breakfast in Virginia dating back to Colonial times, we felt a strong powerful wind whistling through our cottage; singing through the chimney and open windows.
At this point, we thought nothing of these experiences, except that they had a kind of appeal and fascination, a kind of gentle accompaniment to our days of discovery and exploration.
The next clear awareness of the wind came while in a restaurant in Bayview on Lake Superior, near the Apostle Islands. The metal masts and steel halyards on the sailboats anchored in a marina outside were chiming in response to the wind. A subtle lovely bell-like sound, as the wind spoke through the rigging.
In stopping at an old abandoned wooden grain elevator in eastern Montana the wind was fierce and unrelenting, warning us that life in such a setting was harsh and demanding.
The wind spoke to us next on Logan Pass in Glacier National Park as it tore at the tiny summit building and lashed it with snow in mid-September. The wind was blowing horizontally at speeds up to 45 miles per hour, and seemed quite clearly to be telling us that this was her mountain, and visitors were neither wanted nor welcome.
Our first sight of the mighty Columbia River was accompanied by an onslaught of wind roaring down the canyon, so strong that tears came to our eyes, as we marveled at the sheer size and magnificence of this mighty river.
Our time at Mendicino coincided with a strong wind off the ocean caused by a violent storm in Alaska. The rocky headlands seemed to shake from the impact of mighty waves spawned hundreds of miles out to sea. The crash of these waves on the huge rocks beneath us was deafening; their power overwhelming.
A very different kind of wind greeted us in the Great Basin National park in Nevada as we hiked on the wooded slopes of Mt. Wheeler. The leaves of the brilliant yellow aspens and cottonwoods fluttered happily in the breeze, and the wind appeared light-hearted and playful.
Not so in a small park in the middle of Nevada where ancient petrogliphs were on view. There was a mystery concerning these symbols and what they signified. It seemed clear, however, they were female, and the conjecture was they they could represent an age-old fertility goddess. The wind was blowing lightly as we left the car, but suddenly increased in strength as we make our way to the petrogliphs. It whipped at our clothing and tore off my hat. The message seemed clear; remove your hat, you are standing on sacred ground!
On crossing eastern Colorado, we noted the sky split in two, half bathed in sunlight, the other darkened by menacing black clouds. The wind became so strong that cars and trucks pulled off the highway, taking shelter beneath an overpass. A friendly truck driver came up to us, knocked on the window, and informed us that via his CB radio he learned that tornadoes had touched down only five miles away. He said the direction they were taking was parallel to the direction we were driving, and suggested we wait a bit before traveling on. The wind was sovereign here, announcing for all to hear that there is something bigger in the universe than our cars and trucks, than our carefully arranged travel plans.
Our final encounter was surprisingly soothing and peaceful. Having stopped at Paducah, KY, where the Tennessee river flows into the Ohio; we realized that the small lake on which we live in North Carolina flows into the Cullasaja river, then into the little Tennessee, then the Tennessee, before emptying out into the Ohio before us. We had returned to the same waters which graced our lives at home. The wind spoke softly through the barely moving Cottonwood leaves on the banks of the Ohio, as if bidding us adieu for now, on the final evening of our journey.
In reflecting on our journey, we at first recalled the events which seem to mark any journey, reunions with family and friends, encounters with unexplored cities and countrysides. But we had been touched by something more profound. What resonated most deeply, what awakened our sense of awe and wonder, were our encounters with the sound of the wind, with the breath of the continent, with the living spirit of this magnificent land.
If you enjoyed these reflections, we invite you to discover other thoughtful and personal writings in the pages of The Best of Pilgrimage and Pilgrimage Vol. 26 and Vol. 27. These can be ordered directly from this website; please click on " How to Order."
Copyright © 2004-2007 David Barstow. All rights reserved.