When I drove up into the mountains last week for my annual spiritual retreat, I was disappointed to see muted autumn colors robbed of their usual brilliance. An unseasonably warm September devoid of any significant rainfall stifled what is typically a splendorous display of color. In the Western part of the Adirondacks, many trees were already bare, while others looked rather sickly with their pale yellow and orange leaves, and in the place of bright red was a flat pink. I enjoyed the short climb up Coney Mountain and the 360-degree view from its open summit, but it was clear from that vantage point that this was not a banner year for fall foliage.
I arrived at Silver Bay on Lake George just after sunset Thursday. The next morning, the sky was overcast. Clouds hung low around the mountains on the other side of the lake, and the wet air became misty. The fall transformation had just begun there, but as I walked the grounds around the retreat house, I noticed that some trees were showing off bright, bold hues. On Sunday, after rain had passed through giving way to sun and clouds, I made my way into the High Peaks, just about an hour from Silver Bay, and was thrilled to see vibrant
colors on the lee side of the mountains stretching down into the Champlain Valley. I hiked up Hurricane Mountain just outside of Keene. In all directions from its windy summit (the inspiration for its name) stretched out carpets of deep red, bright yellow, and orange foliage amid the evergreens as far as the eye could see.
The previous day and a half of rain cannot explain the rich color, which had been begun to turn in late September. I’m going out on a limb here, but I suspect that at least part of the reason the colors were so different in the High Peaks region than in the lower elevations of the Adirondacks was because those higher mountains make their own weather. The phenomenon is called “orographic lift.” A surface air mass is forced upward by the rising elevation, causing it to cool rapidly. Humidity rises to 100%, creating clouds and precipitation. So even when lower terrain suffers from a dearth of rainfall, the higher elevations stay hydrated. That’s why, on a perfectly sunny day, clouds sometimes encircle the tops of mountains. It’s also why hikers ascending past the tree line sometimes experience dramatic, unexpected changes in the weather.
When I was in the Holy Land several years ago, I became intrigued by the concept of “living water.” Jews at the time of Jesus were accustomed to ceremonial purification baths – acts of ritual washing to symbolize the cleansing of the whole person before rededicating oneself to God. It was essential that these ceremonies took place in “living water” – water that was flowing, such as in a stream or river. A simple pool made of stone would not do. Still water – water lacking a source and an outlet – was considered lifeless. Hence, the most famous stagnant body of water in Israel has long been known as the “Dead Sea.”
When pilgrims came to Jerusalem, they were required to undergo ritual cleansing before entering the Temple. But in the city, sitting atop a high ill, “living water” was not naturally available. While streams ran in the valleys below Jerusalem, none were to be found running through it. (As in other hilltop settlements, water had to be carried up manually or pulled up from deep wells. King Herod built a huge system of pumps and aqueducts to bring water directly into the city.) To compensate, public baths called mikvehs were constructed to
serve as places of ritual purification. Each mikveh was not only filled with water but also outfitted with a reservoir that could be tipped in order to create an overflow that emptied out the other side and lasted just long enough for one to be immersed (baptized) while the water was “living.”
The prophet Jeremiah spoke of God as “the fountain of living water.” Zechariah spoke of the day when “living waters shall flow out of Jerusalem,” no doubt echoing the vision in Ezekiel 48 of a stream flowing from the Temple – something only possible by divine intervention – trickling at first, then becoming ankle deep, then gushing down the side of the mountain and into the desert, turning the Dead Sea into fresh water and transforming the Arabian landscape into lush farmland. John the Baptist made the Jordan River his public mikveh and invited people to come and be baptized, purifying themselves in an act of repentance. Jesus said, “Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water (John 7:37),” and he told the Samaritan woman at Jacob’s well that he could give her “living water...gushing up to eternal life” (John 4:10, 14).
As I climbed Hurricane Mountain, I heard and sometimes came within view of streams of living water rushing down in the other direction. In the springtime, those are the waters of snowmelt, but later in the year, the streams are fed by rain, including the rain made by the mountains – those temples in the wilderness where God’s glory is beheld – through the process of orographic lift. The streams babble over rocks, join other streams, and flow into the surrounding forest, nourishing the roots of the trees.
On a misty afternoon not suitable for mountain-climbing, I emerged from a full morning of prayer, reading, and reflection to explore a stream of living water not far from where I was staying. Northwest Bay, a portion of Lake George between its Western Shore and a peninsula called the “Tongue Mountain Range,” is fed by a brook that features impressive falls. At the upper falls, the brook splits around large boulders and then spills into a deep ravine. Further down the stream is the lower falls, much smaller and gentler, but also quite beautiful. A well-worn trail from the highway ascends an escarpment that provides a view from above of the top of the upper falls, while a less obvious path meanders down toward the lower falls. The only way to get a straight-on view of the upper falls is to walk further down the highway to the bridge that crosses the brook and find a faint path that leads steeply up an escarpment south of the brook. It is not possible to get to the base of the falls without abandoning all good sense, but the view of the cascades crashing down into the ravine is
striking. I traipsed all around the rocky banks of the south side of the brook, finding places downstream to perch on rocks near the water’s
edge. I was content to stay awhile at a spot about halfway between the upper and lower falls. I set up my camera and tripod, but I also spent time just looking and listening.
My communion with living water, both in that visit to the Northwest Bay Brook and in my hike up Hurricane, reminded me that God is the fount of every blessing, the infinite source of all life who restores us and provides us will all we need.
©2017 by J. Mark Lawson
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