beach overlook

The Badlands

Over the holiday weekend, we explored Badlands Park–an easy hike that follows the coastline above Laguna.

Hard to image that these sandstone bluffs were, at one time, a stretch of sandy beach.

Why do they call this the Badlands? I traced the origins of that term to the Lakota people, who called the weather-exposed, rugged terrain of the Black Hills “mako sica,” or “land bad.” French-Canadian fur trappers also called it “les mauvais terres pour traverse,” or “bad lands to travel through.” 

Hardscrabble trails…prickly cactus…venomous snakes and who-knows-what-else, hiding in the underbrush…no shelter from the elements or fresh water to be found. This is unknown territory, pockmarked with uncertainty and trepidation.

But also, excitement. Because once you get your bearings, you can follow the trailhead to the ocean.

We wore face masks on our hike, to protect ourselves and others from the ever-present risks associated with COVID-19. We tried to keep at least 6 feet between us and other travelers, even when they got sidetracked by their cell phones and veered into our path. Everyone’s going through a rough patch right now, so while we remained vigilant, we made allowances.

That’s the nature of our journey, in this global pandemic. We’re traversing unfamiliar ground with untold risks, exposed constantly to unseen dangers. It’s a perilous trek, one that challenges our strengths and exploits our weaknesses. The Badlands, if you will.

But while most of us are more cautious, now, we remain curious. No way will we allow COVID-19 to steal from us the joy of discovery!

What magic does this place hold at different times of the day, for instance? We saw the angled shadows of late afternoon, but I also want to see the golden glow of sunrise from those bluffs, and a fiery sunset over the water. Badlands or no, there’s always another “just around the bend,” always new vistas to explore.

Each in our own way(s), giving thanks

We stood at the railing together in reverent silence, watched the sun hover above the chapparel-covered hills before sinking into the ocean. A shoulder’s distance away, a stooped old man was mumbling to himself. He wore a plaid shirt and tan slacks, hitched at the waist with a belt several sizes too large, and his gnarled fingers were folded into a knot of resignation. Or prayer, maybe. It was impossible to read his face because his rheumy eyes were fixed on the horizon, somewhere far beyond the pewter clouds and the sun’s fading brilliance.

In the slope of the old man’s shoulders, I sensed a heavy presence. It hung in the air between us: an unspeakable grief.

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I wanted to lift his spirits somehow, wanted to ask, maybe, if he knew the name of the sweet little bird who sang from the brush as the shadows grew long and the gentle breeze turned chilly. I wanted to bridge the silence, searched without success for the just-right words to cheer him.

The streetlights flickered on, offering light but no insights. Tears welled up in my eyes when we left. In the quiet car ride home, above the sounds of the motor and whirring tires, I grew increasingly uneasy. I placed my hand on my husband’s arm, said “Turn around,” and he responded instantly. In the shared silence, we’d heard (and answered together) the call for grace.

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We found it in the twilight, but not in the form that we’d imagined. A smallish dog was bounding between a pair of gawkish boys and the lonely old man–a furry bundle of unbridled joy, with flappy ears and a trailing leash. Grace, in the shape of an ungainly mutt, who erased all traces of misery with his swishing tail and exuberant barks.

Grace. It’s the unseen hand that stitches several characters together into a greater story and reminds us of the ties that bind. It’s expressed differently for everyone, perhaps, but it’s very essence of Thanksgiving…a shared table around which we pass generous portions of love and laughter, cherished memories and favorite foods.