Occasionally something magical can happen to us, something so unexpected it might be called an epiphany, and we are changed forever.
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January 6th is Epiphany Sunday. It finds me sitting in a padded pew in the village Methodist Church, celebrating the wind-up of the twelfth day pf Christmas.
Christians remember Epiphany Sunday as the day when three wise men of the East conclude their arduous 900 mile camelback journey using celestial navigation. They find Jesus, God Incarnate. Following stars around the heavens is difficult enough, but according to some Progressives, finding three ‘wise men’ anywhere is an impossible epiphany.
As I remember the story, my mind drifts to an epiphany of my own. It’s easy to ‘drift off’ in a dark sanctuary. Strange things are remembered during the swoons. They range from the mundane to the mystical and can even include visitations by Lucifer, the sinister minister of all mischief.
But today I remember meeting a man named Charles. He said he was a carpenter. Let me tell you about it.
It’s late May, 1989. The day is hot and dry. I’m driving on Route 24 somewhere between Los Alamos and Santa Fe. The road winds erratically through the peaks and canyons of the Bandelier Mountains of New Mexico. I pass a sign that reads: ‘Danger: Soft Shoulders and Dangerous Curves.’ Signs can be metaphorically interpreted.
It was easy to get lost on some back-road to nowhere in the decades before Google, GPS and Verizon became essential for survival. Getting lost WAS the adventure. I’ve never been lost, though I admit having sometimes been confused. But not today. This road ends somewhere. I’ll find out when I arrive. I drive on.
Ahead another sign reads, ‘Bandelier Monument Trailhead.’ It’s a scenic pull-off, the kind that often offers vistas of grandeur. All this one offers is a dusty gravel parking lot occupied by a few parked cars. I pull in, desperate for a trail run to break the monotony of driving.
A couple of distraught pilgrims from Kansas stand by their car. It has been ransacked by some mountain ne’er-do-wells. About all I can offer are my condolences. Just then a faded blue and beat-up pickup parks next to me. A man gets out, pulls off his shirt and laces on his running shoes. I do likewise.
Strangers often hold clues to life. So I introduce myself. He says his name is Charles. I ask if he knows the trail. He does, says he runs it daily. I ask if I can join him. So off we go, two total, shirtless strangers in blue jeans and Nike’s, wild with a feeling of freedom.
We run, dodging roots and rocks. When we talk it’s mostly about insignificant trivia and running experiences. The body needs oxygen, and breath comes hard in thin-air altitudes. So conversation tends to lag. The body and mind struggle to stay in sync.
Around the five-mile mark I ask Charles, “What is your astrological sign?”
He’s quick to reply: “Yield right of way.”
“Say what?”
“Yield right of way. It’s my mantra for life. I’m a Zen Buddhist.” I’m speechless. We keep running.
But his philosophy was like a brilliant flash of light, an ‘ah ha’ moment,’ you might say. It strikes me with the subtlety of a bolt of lightning. His statement pierces the stasis of my routine and for 30 years has changed everything.
Trail running was my passion for 53 years until the replacement of two hips ended it. But I keep the memories. And memories of that Bandelier Mountain trail run are as fresh now as the sweat on my back was on that day in May, 1989.
All runs end. Ours does, too. We stand in the parking lot, shake hands and wish each other the best. I last see Charles helping the hapless tourists repair their broken window.
I think of him sometimes, about the randomness of our encounter, and I smile when I see ‘yield right of way’ signs. It was the most profound run of my career.
Jerry Garcia said: “Once in a while you can get shown the light in the strangest places if you look at it right.” I saw that light on a trail in the Bandelier Mountains.
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Epiphanies can happen anywhere, anytime, even on a road to Santa Fe. His name was Charles. He was a carpenter.
Bud Hearn
January 11, 2019