The Path of Most Resistance

"I'm going for a hike."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise and look at my son, Ari, just turned four a few days ago. The first blush of desert light radiates through his golden hair making him look like a small angel. This is a far different vision than the whining, crying little boy who had to be coaxed and coerced into the short backpack through the “bad, yucky cactus” yesterday. Having awakened in the heart of the Sonoran desert and Organ Pipe National Monument on a bright new day, however, he now seems to have revitalized his spirit of adventure.

"Oh, okay,' I tell him. "Can I come?"

"You can come, dad, but not mom."

 

 

Ah, male bonding. With no further adieu, he starts off. The desert is an open place and hiking here is a matter of picking a direction and walking. Open, but not empty. Here, we are privileged visitors in a spectacular stone garden filled with odd and wonderful plants. Huge awesome saguaro and multi-limbed organ pipes are the main features, but we have also grown to fear and enjoy the smaller, deadlier cholla, the aptly named prickly pear, and the sharp spears of agave. Clumps of more benign plant life-- the lovely palo verde tree, mesquite and other small clumps of shrubs and grasses-- also dot the stony floor for maximum artistic effect. Small, snaky washes weave their way through this peaceful setting making the desert only appear flat and level. Hike a mile or two into it and it becomes obvious it’s really a labyrinth of arroyos, sand hills, stony outcrops and gullies.

Walking then, I should correct, is a matter of pointing a rough direction and weaving forward through the spiny obstacle course like a drunk through a parking lot, to a destination that really has no meaning in such a wide-open place.

Ari weaves with the best of them. At first his turns seem aimless, but out of the chaos comes a pattern. With every turn he makes-- a conscious decision. At four-years-old, Ari is headed uphill. I follow along behind him and think how men are somehow the opposite of water. Following the path of least resistance, water always finds the truest course downhill. Men, however, like Sir Edmund Hillary pulled to the highest point of the world, have gravitated uphill, usually attempting the steepest, hardest, most direct route. A perverse, but undeniable trait of human nature. Well, make that male nature.

And Ari is no exception.

Here, we are surrounded by desert crags—- heaps of dark volcanic rock, steep loose talus, and lots of thorny obstacles. Ari’s swerves quickly bring him to a direct path up the slope of the nearest peak. Avoiding all subtlety, he takes the steepest, most direct route and soon comes to class four climbing. Hand over hand. For the first time I think it dawns in his toddler mind that he is climbing a mountain. He turns to me and grins.

"Come on, dad, its not so hard."

He climbs. I follow. Up through the Mormon tea that erupts miraculously through the basalt rock. Delicately around the prickly pear. To the left, to the right, I see gentler routes. But Ari goes straight up. Climbing with the fearlessness and confidence of innocence. "Come on dad, its not so hard," he repeats. And I watch him in utter amazement, that this child so young and new to the world should already possess these many skills. This much determination.

It shouldn't. Children are born with a certain toughness. A ready-to-do mentality. In many ways we hold them back. We spoil them mercilessly. We think of them as a helpless newborn, when in reality, once they are mobile, they are tough and terrific little creatures. Already Ari likes to help wash dishes, to vacuum the floor, to walk around behind me as I mow the lawn. Four years old and he's capable of so much. I look around at all the children I know, little packages of talent and potential, and what do we do with them? Park them in front of a television filled with idiotic video games and cartoon network trash and let them slide slowly into ruin.

I've been watching. Once you become a parent you start noticing children and start taking notes. In the past year I'd met preteen girls who could drive tractors, handle cows four times their size and play all-star quality softball. Next door we have a fourteen-year-old who dismantles and rebuilds engines in his spare time and drives the contraptions over to our house to give Ari a ride. We went kayaking with another teenage boy, quarterback of his football team, who bonded immediately with Ari and made sure he caught his first fish. I've also, however, met many, many kids who were unable to converse about anything other than television or video games. I've seen kids who are not yet out of junior high and are barely locomotive. I've heard teenagers whining like kindergarteners about a half hour chore. Kids who eat junk food from breakfast to midnight or whenever they decide to go to bed…

It's sad. I believe that all children want to be active. And I believe that all parents love their children. We want life to be pleasant for them. We want life to be pleasant for ourselves. We don't want to be bad guys. Mean parents. Uncool. Yesterday Ari was an unhappy little boy having to do "this stupid hike through all this mean cactus." And anybody who thinks it's easy to backpack with a four-year-old has never done it. But we do it because its something we love and want to share. And because the alternative is to let him retreat to his room or the TV because it's an easy way to avoid conflict. That's the path of least resistance. The downward trickle of water seeking the lowest plane.

The desert doesn't see much water. In Organ Pipe less than four inches a year. Life is rough here, but undeniably beautiful. It's a Zen garden where simplicity dominates. Where life adapts in strange and novel ways. The saguaro shrinks and swells as it holds the yearly downpour, soaks it up and stores it for the rest of the entire year. The tiny leaves on the ocotillo are designed to sip up the morning dew. The desert shrew utilizes water so efficiently that it actually passes urine that is moist air. Life is hard here and, because of that, each individual life form stands out in a unique and dynamic way.

In his own unique way, Ari climbs steadily towards the top. Our campsite far below is already a speck. I point out the view to Ari, who's interested for a moment, but then is back, scrambling towards the top of the mountain. My love for him is so intense. There are so many things I want to do for him. So many things I want to teach, explain, help him avoid. But right now, I realize my duty is get out of his way and watch him climb. There is one last rocky spot to the top. He picks the worst possible line, but the rock is hard and filled with fissures. I help him with his footing, point out the handholds and then, before we know it, he is on top. And I am beside him.

It is a glorious February Morning. From our view at the summit we can see miles in every direction. To the east is a rocky pass in the Ajo mountains—- a favorite route for smugglers. North of us is a bigger peak. To the west we can see for miles across the desert flats and plainly see the fan-shaped networks of washes that run away from us. And south lays the smoky haze of Mexico, the border just miles from where we stand. Ari is triumphant and joyous. He waves to his mother, a speck in camp below us. I shake my head in wonder. I know for a fact there are few four year olds who have summited, on their own power, a desert mountain.

 

I know for a fact there are very few who are given the opportunity.

--February 6, 2000 Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument