At the Center, or Not

The warning didn't equivocate: "Take safety seriously on this trail. People have died here."

I'm nothing if not serious, so I figured I'd be safe. I started climbing more than 350 stairs up Moro Rock. I stepped steadily, my breath quickening as the altitude and my pace increased, passing the few visitors who had arrived before me. 

I reached the top and found something rare in a national park: a premier scenic viewpoint unoccupied. For ten quiet minutes, I enjoyed the top of the granite dome alone feeling as though I occupied the center of everything. 

That solitude had eluded me the day before. 

Crowded Out

The Generals Highway in Sequoia National Park prompts curses and awe for the road engineers who developed this ridiculous road with switchbacks so sharp you nearly see your rear bumper. Vehicles barely longer than mine were discouraged from attempting it. After rising a mile in elevation, I turned off the highway and crept along an unmarked road, crowded by giant trees squeezing the pavement and forcing vehicles to pause and alternate between the tighter spots. 

Visibility had worsened as I gained elevation. As I looked westward toward the Central Valley, haze blanketed the foothills. Then, clouds started stacking around the ridges. 

A touch of claustrophobia now joined me in the forest where the tops of trees reached well beyond view from the driver's seat. The air, crowded and dense, was matched by the Sunday national park crowd with its cars parked every which way. The road curved and dipped and the congestion around it and the small parking lot nearly stopped all forward momentum. 

What were all these people doing here? Then, I saw—well, sort of. A trail headed up a big rock, only it was entirely encased in clouds, the summit obscured.

I was intrigued, but what can you see in a crowded cloud? 

Centering

I returned in the clear morning light and learned the appeal of Moro Rock. It stands high in the park's frontcountry, visible for much of Generals Highway. When you arrive at the top, a granite ledge enclosed by a sturdy railing allows you to walk out and see 360 degrees of Sierra peaks, foothills, and river valleys.

Birds fly below your gaze.

The highway kinks its way up the mountainside below.

And I had it to myself. 

I switched my camera to video mode and captured the all-encompassing view, slowly turning. Expanses spread in all directions, even below. Turning, in this place, it is easy to feel at the center of everything. 

As powerful as that feeling was, a counterforce exerted an equal and opposite pull. 

One of the greatest values of national parks and other natural spaces is the way they decenter us. I may have stood in the center of the summit, capturing my 360-degree video, but all that spread around me reminded me of my smallness.

Mountains towered. Birds soared. Giant sequoias loomed. Rivers spilled. Granite held firm.

These things belonged here for far longer than I. This expansive perspective of time and space, more visible from a spot like Moro Rock than most places, reminds us we are one of many species with no special claim to creation.

Moving on with Clarity

I moved on. Others were coming, and I wanted to give them the opportunity to be at the top of the world alone, too. Perhaps they would be able to see their position in the universe a bit clearer, as I had when I rubbed the haze from my eyes.

The sign had warned about death; it said nothing about rebirth.