Not So Fast. Again.

Reposted from January, 2006, for reasons I shall endeavor to make clear shortly.

NOT SO FAST. AGAIN.

About a year after my first fasting boondoggle (see Sunday's post), I was ready to try it again. I was about to turn 21 years old. I had a lot figured out, I thought.

THIS TIME was going to be different. THIS TIME the awesome spiritual blessing was going to flow. THIS TIME, my ministry and spiritual life were going to get to the next level. So I thought.
Mindful of the virtual omnipresence of eating establishments in any sort of civilization, I figured I'd go where food would be pretty hard to come by, thus avoiding temptation. I had a friend drop me, a Bible, a sleeping bag, and a canteen of water at the one of the Brush Mountain hiking trails near Blacksburg, Virginia, where I was due to begin my junior year at Virginia Tech the following week. My plan was to spend a weekend in prayer and fasting, up in the mountains. Then, wow, surely the spiritual blessings would flow in. I wondered if my face might shine similarly to Moses' when he came down from Mount Sinai. I was psyched!

For the umpteeth time, my friend asked me if I was sure I wanted to do this. I assured him I did, and he drove off, probably shaking his head. Up the (rather small in height) mountain I went. Within a half an hour I was hiking along an undulating trail atop the ridge of Brush Mountain. I wanted to get to the remotest, most isolated spot I could find.

After a couple of miles I got to a pretty good-looking spot, and set up camp, eager to get into some serious Bible study. By the time I had camp set up, though, it was almost dark. It was impossible to read. Ah, but there was always prayer.

I was about to close my eyes to pray when from behind me I heard a youthful but robust, “Howdy, Mister!”

I turned to see three children, two boys and a girl. “Whatcha doin' up here?” the oldest boy queried.

I responded, “I am hiking the trail and camping. The question is, what are YOU doing way up here?”

”Oh we live right over yonder, in that there house!” the boy responded as he pointed through some brush. Sure enough, I could see a porch light. I had come to a remote place on the trail alright, right behind not one but three houses. My wilderness had just transmorgrified into suburbia.

My heart sank. It was almost dark.

”You know what you need, Mister?” (I wondered why he kept calling me “Mister”.)

”No – what?”

”Why, you need a RADIO! We's a-gonna go have some dinner, then we'll a-come on out here with our radio and a lantern, we can play some rock and roll, and you know, have some campfire stories or sump'n!”

This. Is. Awful. I thought to myself.

Off they went to have their dinner. I rolled up the sleeping bag, packed up what little stuff I had, and was about to head further down the trail, but by now the trail was getting very dark and it would be impossible to continue. So I decided find my way to a road and to head back to town.

The problem was, once I found the road (not far from the kids' house) I had only a vague idea which way town was. I figured I was southwest of town by ten or twelve miles, and so I headed off in what I thought might possibly be in a northeasterly direction. It was hard to tell, though, because now it was pitch dark and there was little or no moon. I figured as long as I could hike on a roadway I had a chance to make it back to town, SOME town anyway, by morning.

It was so dark, I could not even see the roadway. I tried to keep my feet on pavement, and tried to keep walking, by feel. I was amazed at how absolutely pitch dark it was. It was just inky blackness. Every once in a while I would amble off the side of the road, and I would have to feel my way back on.

After some time I guessed I had covered about two miles. The problem was, I was getting very tired, and I was, as nearly as I could tell, still out in the middle of absolutely nowhere. There were no street lights out there, and there were no country-house porch lights on as it was now past 1am.

Then, I heard it. A dog barking. He sounded like a German Shepherd or something. He was a big one judging by the throaty roar of his alarmed, enraged, I-am-going-to-kill-you-once-I-catch-you barking. He was running right toward me. I could hear his claws skip along the pavement. By the hostile tone and sheer deafening pitch of his barking, I felt sure he was going to tear me to shreds. He came up to within inches of me, and his barking doubled in both volume and speed. I could not see him in the pitch dark, but I sure could hear and feel him. Death. Gore. Slaughter was sure to ensue any second, I thought.


I stood there, stock still, and prayed as hard as I had ever prayed in my life, asking God to please calm this dog before he sank his fangs into my leg. I continued to stand stock still even through his hail of unceasing barking. I felt calm, even though this dog seemed to have nothing on his mind other than murder, mayhem, and dinner. In roughly that order.

In a calm, cheery, friendly voice, I said, “Well Hi, Mister Dog! How are you?” (At least I could call someone else “Mister” for a change).

The rage in his barking abated, albeit almost imperceptibly.

”My name is Ron, and I LOOOOOVE dogs!” I even smiled as I said it.

His barking slowed and muted a tiny bit more. Maybe, I thought, he would just settle for a modicum of carnage and mayhem, and then leave me in peace to quietly bleed to death.
I kept talking to him, pretending I had known him all my life. I told him about Heidi, my parents' dog. I told him about our cat who ran away when I was six. Good riddance! Who needs cats?
After several minutes of this, his barking gradually morphed into benign snuffling. I could feel his nose sniffing my legs and feet.

”Yes, yes, YES! I'm Ron, and I AM YOUR GOOOOOOD FRIEND!”

I reached out my hand, and found and patted him and stroked him on the head. I scratched him behind the ears. He loooooved that! He panted happily. I was now his best buddy! I could feel him vigorously wagging his tail. He felt like a Doberman.

After a few more minutes of soothing conversation, he apparently decided he was content to go back to his porch and go back to sleep.

I gave profound thanks to God for sparing my life. Or at least the flesh on my legs. Off I trudged into the inky blackness, feeling my way along the roadway with my feet. After another couple of miles, I began to see the faint glow of morning light. I could now see a bit. I was tired.

I came to a what appeared to be a fork in the road. As Yogi Berra would recommend, I “took it” -- meaning, I hopped a barbed-wire fence at the cusp of the fork and unrolled my sleeping bag down in a nice soft wheat field, and went to sleep. After two and a half hours of glorious sleep, I awoke shortly before 7am.

I looked around, trying to get oriented. The terrain was hilly, so I could not see the horizon or any landmarks. But judging by the position of the rising sun, I was glad to realize I had been basically heading in my desired northeasterly direction throughout my night of walking in the dark.

And then, I heard it. A car! Then saw it! A red one! And the guy behind the wheel does not look like an ax-murderer! I stuck my hand up, and he stopped. I told him I was lost and trying to get back to Blacksburg. I asked if he could he at least tell me if I was heading along the shortest way there. He said yes, and also offered me a ride, which I gratefully accepted. We were back in town within five minutes.

He let me off at a shopping center, and I walked back to the apartment I was staying in.
I began to realize some things. For one thing, I began to realize that prayer and Bible study are things that bring us spiritual blessing wherever we are. For another, I began to realize that we do not need to go to some mountaintop to have fellowship with God. For yet another, I began to realize afresh that the Christian life is not a few thunderbolts from Heaven, it is a daily walk in sweet communion with God, through prayer and His Word wherever we are.

I also realized I was hungry.