Atalaya Mountain

It’s hard to believe that it's been a little over a month here at Mountain Cloud Zen Center. Time is passing with an incredible swiftness that I’m not sure I’ve experienced before. I attribute that to a few factors: 1) the days here are bookended with structure—a morning block, typically concluding around 10:30am, and then an evening sit/talk, ending around 6:30pm. This gives the day quite a nice routine with some hours in between for other aspects of life—groceries, meals, emails, exercise, etc. 2) I’m moving through the day more slowly, with much more intention, so the activities that are taken up are being done with additional ‘being;’ more mindfulness and attention on the task at-hand, which naturally lends itself to the sense of flow. 3) I’m not looking forward to or anticipating a future event, such as a weekend or holiday, thereby needing to ‘endure’ something in the meantime (a feeling I know well). Rather, and crucially, the living of it is itself the outcome and the reward—simultaneously the journey and the point of arrival. An expression of the Li of Life.

One of those ‘rewards’ is a burgeoning relationship with Atalaya Mountain. We like to label things and talk in ‘facts,’ so let’s get those out of the way, and then tap into the essence: Atalaya Mountain peak is located within the Santa Fe National Forest, and is part of the Sangre de Cristo Range; a subrange of the Southern Rocky Mountains. Its peak reaches into the sky to around 9,125 feet. ‘Atalaya’ is a Spanish word meaning watchtower. Given the mountain’s proximity to Santa Fe, it’s easy to see why it would have been called as such; however, I can’t, as of yet, find any historical details as to why/how/when it received the designation as a watchtower.

The day after arriving to Mountain Cloud, I set out to run/hike the ‘lollipop’ trail that ascends and descends the west side of the mountain, with a beautiful traverse of its ridge-line. The trail starts in an arroyo and quickly kicks up into some nice, fairly runnable elevation, before really jutting up into a significant climb to its ridge. This particular route is a little under nine miles with about 2,300 feet of total climb (including another little ascent to Picacho Peak). I’ve taken to running/hiking this same route every Tuesday since being here.

There’s something particularly satisfying and enriching about exploring this trail with regularity. Rather than seeking out novelty, which is certainly possible in the Santa Fe area, this is a choice to get to know the route and the landscape with some intimacy. A simple expression of this is the ability to navigate the route. The first time around, my phone with the AllTrails map was frequently in-hand to help ensure the correct orientation and turn. It wasn’t fully successful—I ended up popping out onto a dirt road quite a ways off the intended trail. The second pass was a little better, with a few turns remembered. On the third attempt, I made it to the peak without referencing the map. And, on the fourth, the totality of the route without phone in-hand once. There’s a particular dissatisfaction that comes along with pausing to handle an electronic device while out enjoying/communing with the landscape, so this fourth pass was rather enjoyable (although not without the wonderful physical challenge the trail provides).

Navigational ease aside, what comes with knowing the mountain paths is the freedom to start really seeing the landscape—not conceptually in terms of turns and ‘things,’ but as a part of the whole; part of the relationship of the journey. A familiarity develops that transcends ‘climber’ and ‘climbed;’ the mountain a reflection of mind, and mind a reflection of the mountain. It reminds me of David Hinton’s wonderful book, Hunger Mountain—a series of essays/meditations on his frequent walks up Hunger Mountain near his home in Vermont. Through the partnership and interconnectedness with the mountain, he explores the deep ontological framework of ancient traditions, particularly Taoism and Ch’an; the generativity of the cosmos through the female principle of form arising out of emptiness.

I feel incredibly fortunate to have the opportunity to get to know Atalaya Mountain, from the sandy arroyo to the snow-covered peak. It’ll be a unique pleasure to watch it change with the seasons; how its colors, its aromas, its terrain go-with its shifting environment. When we set aside our conceptions, our labeling, and begin to see in the deeply connected sense of a mutual arising—a mutual ascent/descent—the landscape, and our place within it, as it, reveals itself with each successive encounter. And yet always already known. A deeply spiritual ecology; distinct but never separate.