Brother Nathaniel: Friend or Foe?

My brother and I sat in the open trunk of our family’s minivan, snacking on mini muffins in the middle of a deserted parking lot.  My dad had decided to leave our house that morning at 5:00 am in order to finish the 3 hour drive to Breckenridge, Colorado in time for the annual Fourth of July Parade.  We arrived in Breckenridge at 8:00 am; unfortunately, the parade did not begin until 11:00am.  This meant that my family now had 3 hours to kill in an empty grocery store parking lot.  My little brothers both slept in the backseat as my mom was dozed in the reclined front passenger seat.  My dad was sat in the driver’s seat, prematurely applying massive pools of sunblock to his arms and legs.  

Our view from the trunk was a vacant lot, surrounded by towering snow-capped peaks and a clear blue sky.  Everything about our surroundings was quiet, peaceful, and ordinary.  My brother and I bantered back and forth about the upcoming parade and discussed our plan to watch the fireworks that night from a nearby lake.  Unfortunately, our picturesque scene did not last long.  As is normal with my family, something appeared suddenly and abruptly, ending our peace and normality and catapulting us into the realm of the abnormal.

At first, I was too preoccupied with picking the wilted blueberries out of my prepackaged muffins to notice the approaching figure, a figure eerily out of place in this quaint mountain-town scene.  My brother slugged me in the shoulder to get my attention.  As I watched my muffin hit the pavement, I drew my hand back to retaliate; however, as soon as I caught sight of the approaching figure I immediately froze.  A stark contrast to the crystal blue sky and glistening white snow, a black robed figure walked across the parking lot directly toward our vehicle.  Immobile, my brother and I focused our eyes upon the approaching man, dressed in a straight black robe and tall black and white cylindrical hat.  Something about his gait, steady and purposeful, frightened me and my brother long before we saw the strange details of this man’s appearance.  Swiftly, my brother became alert and instructed me to get back into the car.  Usually, I would have argued with him and asserted my rights as an independent female, but in this situation, I was more than willing to follow my brother’s direction.  My brother called out to my dad, who hurriedly rushed back to the rear of our car and stood between the approaching stranger and my brother.  Looking out the back window, I could finally make out the details of this stranger.  He wore large, black rimmed glasses that accentuated his beady dark eyes.  A scraggly mane of black hair, strewn with strands of grisly grey flowed out from under his hat and cumulated in a long, matted beard.  He was wearing a pair of mismatched gloves; his white gloved hand held a crucifix and his black gloved hand held a weathered book. 

I sank deep into my seat, knowing that this was it; this was the moment my entire family was going to die.  I had unknowingly been sneaking into the living room while my mom watch shows like Law and Order and Criminal Minds late at night; by the looks of this man, my family would be the inspiration for the next episode.  But as I clenched my eyes shut and prepared for the impending doom, nothing happened.  After hours had passed, in actuality only 5 minutes, I opened my eyes and looked back through the window.  My dad was shaking the man’s hand and then the man smiled, turned, and walked away.  I ran outside the car to hug my dad, happy that we were all alive.  My mom and brothers woke up as I clambered out of the car, inquiring what exactly my problem was.  My dad told my family that he had just met “Brother Nathaniel”, a Christian man who attended the parade each year to share the gospel with the parade observers.  My brother and I cast wary looks at one another; we went to church every Sunday, and we had never seen anyone who looked remotely like this strange man.  Shrugging, we concluded that my dad had decided to show pity and compassion to this man and thought nothing more about the incident, until the parade.

Since we had arrived early, my family secured a prime spot for observing the parade.  We were seated on a set of stone stairs enclosed by black iron grates, raised above the observers on the surrounding sidewalks.  We watched the floats go by, eagerly stuffing our paper sacks with the many treasures and prizes the parade participants threw to the crowd.  I remember thinking that this was the perfect way to spend the Fourth of July when “Brother Nathaniel” decided to make another appearance. 

The crowds of people were packed onto the sidewalks like sardines; however, something was making these people part and create a path.  Anticipating a police officer or parade official, I looked down to investigate when I caught a glimpse of a pair of black and white gloved hands.  I tugged on my brother’s sleeve and pointed to the parting crowd.  My brother turned to my dad and motioned to the same area.  Expecting my dad to share our own worries and fears, my brother and I were shocked to see him smile at the eccentric man.  Followed by condemnations and scowls, Brother Nathaniel worked his way through the crowd shouting words of salvation and faith, approaching young children who were quickly snatched away by wary parents. When he saw our family, he stopped and beamed up at us while my dad walked down the stairs to greet him.  I stood in shock; my jaw almost hit the pavement.  My dad and Brother Nathaniel were conversing like lifelong friends, unaware or unconcerned about the disapproving glares cast in their direction. 

Our small staircase had become more interesting than the parade, drawing a crowd of observers curious about the exchange taking place between a 40 year old father and an alarming, creepy foreigner.  Just as I turned to walk away, my dad called out my name.  Reluctantly, I turned around to find myself face-to-face with Brother Nathaniel.  My dad heartily asked me to take a picture of the two of them.  Shaking I focused the camera on the strange looking man wrapping his arm around my dad’s shoulders and snapped the picture. Nearly throwing the camera back to my father, I turned to hurry away, but my dad had one more request.  He asked me to take a picture of just Brother Nathaniel.  My dad stood off to the side and I was alone facing this stranger.  After contemplating how fast Brother Nathaniel could pull out a knife to kill me, I decided to take my chances and take the picture.  Without thinking, I instructed him to smile and then snapped the picture.  Shaking hands with my father once more, Brother Nathaniel retreated into the crowds, saying farewell to my family and continued his mission work.

In the days following this incident, Brother Nathaniel began to fade from my mind, becoming nothing more than a character from a dream or nightmare.  But one day, as I booted up our family computer, I found myself face-to-face with Brother Nathaniel once again.  My dad had used the picture I had snapped on the Fourth of July as the background image of our computer’s desktop.  Every time I turned on the computer, Brother Nathaniel greeted me with his scraggly beard and gloved hands.  At first, the sight of Brother Nathaniel made my breath catch, but soon, I found myself contented and glad to see him.  The creepy glasses that rimmed his eyes began to fade as I noticed the laugh lines at the corners of his energetic eyes.  His beard, which previously consumed his face in my perspective, began to recede in prominence as I noticed his laughing, jovial smile. 

I am not sure why my dad decided to befriend this stranger, why he endured the scowls and judgments from the parade crowds, why he set the picture as our computer background; however, I believe that he has taught my brother and me an important lesson about judging others according to appearance or popular opinion.  After this incident, I began to find value in eccentricities, resisting the urge to flee every time I encounter a person who is different or unconventional.  Brother Nathaniel was certainly bizarre, but I realize now that this did not make him any less of a person.  Reflecting upon this incident, I could not be more proud of my dad;  a man willing to go against the grain and provide friendship and encouragement to a fellow human being despite the pressure from society to condemn his eccentricities.

Reading Huck Finn...Again

As I started to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, an activity that had become familiar due to high school literature courses, I found it difficult to focus my attention on the text, distracted by the past annotations marring the pages of my worn copy of the novel.  During my four years of high school, I was asked to read Mark Twain’s novel three separate times.  Each teacher assigned a different assignment to complete or concept to explore.  As I freshmen, I marked quotations from each chapter to complete the required journal entries for the course.  As a junior I marked passages of symbolism in preparation for the cumulative AP exam.  As a senior, I annotated the text in an attempt to thoroughly read the novel in preparation for a multiple choice exam.   I had read the book numerous times in the past, but I had never read it with the purpose of studying the “coming-of-age” theme.   This goal proved difficult as I read through the text, diverted by the purposes of my countless annotations from the past.  However, I soon realized that my own “coming-of-age” was reflected in my annotations, that the change in my maturity and perspectives could be seen in the scrawled writing and passage markings from my past experiences with the text.

As I read through this novel for a fourth time, focusing on the theme of “coming-of-age”, different passages jumped out at me than the passages I had previously deemed as important.  During high school, I had marked obvious passages containing major events or key characters; now, I found myself finding value in formerly untouched sections of text.  For example, I never before marked the passage at the end of chapter nineteen when Huck denounces the King and Duke; the last paragraph of this passage, exemplary of Huck’s “coming-of-age” struggle, remained free of pencil and highlighter markings.  But with the “coming-of-age” theme as my focus, this final paragraph immediately drew my interest.  In this passage Huck reveals that he knew the King and the Duke “warn’t no kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds”.  Huck divulges however that he “never said nothing, never let on” to prevent quarrelling among the group and “keep the peace in the family”.  Huck maturely writes that if Pap taught him nothing else of value, he did teach him that “the best way to get along with his (Pap’s) kind of people is to let them have their own way” (p.164).  This is an important realization that provides the reader with insight into Huck’s growth and continuing journey towards self-actualization. 

At first, I was embarrassed that I had missed the importance of this passage, not once, but three times!  I had read the novel as an honors student, an AP student, a student well practiced in the art of deciphering and analyzing text.  I began to wonder why I found value in this passage only now, after five years, when previously the passage held no value or relevance for me.  I knew the book had not changed; I was reading the exact copy I had read five years ago.  The words, characters, and events did not undergo some dramatic alteration which enabled me to see clearly that which had eluded me before.  I concluded that if the novel had not changed, it must have been I who changed.  Had my own life experiences and growth enabled me to look at the text with a new perspective?  Was my new found interest in this passage a sign that I, like Huck, am on a continuing journey of growth and discovery?  While reading the remainder of the novel, similar instances of my analytic discrepancy emerged, providing further evidence that my perspective concerning life and society had drastically changed and matured since first reading the novel five years prior.

One passage that resonated with me as I read the novel this fourth time was the exchange between Sherburn and the mob at the beginning of chapter twenty-two. This entire chapter was blank, unmarked as I began to read.  This chapter, devoid of any previous signs of interaction, revealed that I had found the content either boring or irrelevant the first three times I had read the text.   I was astonished to realize how easily I had skipped over this passage during my previous readings, shocked to discover that I had found no merit in a passage that I now viewed as critical to the development of the novel and insightful into Huck’s journey and “coming-of-age”.  In this passage, Sherburn, a man persecuted by a mob for murder, boldly declares that the men in the mob were a bunch of cowards, hiding behind masks of false bravery.  Sherburn declares that the men of the mob possess no real individual bravery, that they come to persecute him with a “courage that’s borrowed from their mass”.  Sherburn continues to denounce the mob, placing their false courage on public display and ordering the men to “go home and crawl in a hole”.  The members of the mob, stripped of their courageous façade, quickly disperse and vanish as Sherburn exposes their cowardice.

               

I now see clearly what had evaded me during prior readings of this novel.   I now realized that this denouncement of man’s tendency to hide behind the courage of others, this exposing of man’s cowardly nature is a key passage in this novel.  Throughout the novel, Huck wrestles with the decision of whether he should adhere to the expectations of society or create and follow his own moral code.  I believe that as Huck listened to Sherburn’s denunciation of the cowardice of the mob, he was forced to further question whether his loyalty should reside in society’s corrupted expectations or his own beliefs about right and wrong.  This question, whether to follow societal norms and “blend in” or to remain loyal to one’s ethical beliefs and possibly “stand out” is a core question individuals must face as they “come-of-age”; Sherburn’s speech poses this question for Huck Finn, forcing him to confront his own choices and beliefs.

                

I am glad that I had the opportunity to read this novel once more, to explore the text with a perspective formed from my life experiences and personal growth.  How I view passages and characters in this text today differs strongly from how I first viewed the same passages and characters when I first read the novel.  There is no doubt in my mind that Mark Twain forces his reader to explore the same questions and issues Huck faces himself throughout the course of the novel.  By reading the novel multiple times, I have been forced to face these questions and issues armed with different life experiences and different levels of understanding about the world around me.  For me, reading this novel proved more than a literary exercise or course requirement; instead, reading this novel was an opportunity for me to reflect upon my “coming-of-age” within the last five years and trace how my perspectives and beliefs have grown.

Mohammed: Meeting #1

The minute Mohammed mentioned his love of soccer I relaxed, knowing I had found common ground with this young man from Saudi Arabia.  It amused me how effortlessly our conversation flowed after we found this point of common interest.  Before he mentioned his love of soccer, our conversation had consisted of shallow questions and answers: our names, hometowns, majors, etc.  As we each answered these surface level questions, we seemed only to be deepening the division we knew existed between us.   In fact the only things Mohammed and I had in common were our classifications as college students and our unspoken agreement that our conversation was progressing in tedious agony.  In an attempt to move the conversation away from these surface level questions, I asked him to name one thing he missed about Saudi Arabia.  He immediately became animated as he explained his passion for soccer and disclosed how much he missed playing the sport on a daily basis.  Every trace of apprehension disappeared as he expressed his love for the sport, lamenting that he only played once a week in America.  I quickly latched onto this commonality, knowing that this basis, this piece of common ground, could provide a foundation for a deep and meaningful conversation.  We compared our favorite positions, his midfield and mine defense, and debated about the pros and cons of each.  While the first minutes of our conversation had consisted of shifting glances and nervous ticks, our common love of soccer immediately formed a bond between us, allowing our conversation to flow freely and effortlessly.

Growing more comfortable with Mohammed, I confessed to him that I did not know much about Saudi Arabia, besides its location on a map.  Without hesitation, he began explaining his country to me, eager to share his knowledge of the Middle East with me.  Instead of listing facts and figures about the country, Mohammed explained interesting and relevant aspects of Saudi Arabia.  He relied on comparisons and differences between his home country and America in order to describe his country in a context I could understand.  He told me antidotes of his travels to surrounding countries, such as the United Arab Emirates, highlighting unique cultural aspects of each country.  Since one of my close friends at TCU is from Dubai, Mohammed and I found yet another commonality to add to our growing patch of common ground.  As an aspiring mechanical engineer, Mohammed knew many interesting details about Middle Eastern architecture.  He vividly described the buildings and structures found in Middle Eastern countries, providing me with a vivid mental picture of how Middle Eastern societies look.

Our conversation eventually turned into a discussion of his experiences in the United States.  Mohammed explained to me that the Saudi Arabian government pays for his expenses while he is studying in America.  According to Mohammed, the Saudi Arabian government pays for college students to attend American universities to learn English and obtain degrees specifically in the areas of engineering and science.  Before coming to the United States, Mohammed studied at a university in Jordan; however, after a poor experience with an unreasonable professor, his father allowed him to transfer to a university in the United States.  Mohammed spent his first months in Norman, Oklahoma, studying mechanical engineering and taking English language courses at Oklahoma University.  After discovering that the “rural” setting of the university was not a fit for him, he moved to Fort Worth and began taking English courses at TCU.  I listened in fascination as he told me about his experiences and travels, amazed at his independence and courage to travel and study abroad; I have never even been out of the United States.  At this moment, I admitted to myself that I had unconsciously expected to be the superior in this conversation, doing the ESL student a favor, when in fact, I was learning more from him and his vast worldwide knowledge than I could ever reciprocate.

By the end of our meeting, Mohammed and I were conversing as friends.   We discussed everything from our love of movies to our Spring Break plans.  After telling Mohammed that I would be traveling to Washington D.C. for Spring Break, he offered me the name of a restaurant famous for its Saudi Arabian cuisine.  He told me of his weekend plans to travel to Norman to visit friends and his Spring Break plans to go to Disney World.  As our conversation came to a close, we shook hands and agreed to meet the following week, same time and same place.

What I will remember most about this first conversation is how transparent Mohammed was when conversing with me.  When he did not know the correct English word, he would apologize, ask if I knew it, and then move on.  He animatedly talked with no inhibitions, revealing to me personal aspects of his life without a second thought.  He explained to me about the Mecca pilgrimage, which actually takes place in his home city of Hijaz, and his Muslim faith.  I thought this was an extremely brave move on his part, openly talking about his faith and culture to complete stranger.  As I was walking back to my dormitory, I forced myself to reflect on my own honesty in our conversation.  Had I offered Mohammed the same level of honesty and trust as he had extended to me?  No.  I had not.  I was so worried about selecting my words and avoiding offense that I doubted whether Mohammed left the meeting as enriched as I was.  My goal for our next meeting is to reciprocate his offer of trust and honesty; to be as open and transparent with him as he was with me, allowing our conversation to grow deeper and our friendship to grow.

The Razor's Blade: Coming-of-Age (1920s/1930s)

The time period lasting from 1920 to 1929, an age of dramatic social and political change, acquired the nickname of the “Roaring Twenties” due to its promotion of individuality and prosperity. As America began to explore its recently established industrialized economy, business boomed, and in the words of Calvin Coolidge, “America’s business was business.”   In a time of dramatic economic growth and prosperity, McGraw-Hill Publishing recognized an opportunity to capitalize on the growing business sector of America and published Bloomsberg Businessweek magazine.  This magazine, intended for a predominantly male audience, informed readers of the economic and political issues existing in America’s expanding business sector.  As I flipped through the September edition of Bloomsberg Businessweek from 1929, I uncovered articles examining a variety of business-related topics; these articles included discussions of foreign markets (Japan, Europe, Mexico), analyses of new technologies intended to increase production, investigations of both growing and declining industries, and reports on political issues which could potentially affect the American economy.  Most of the articles were above my head, filled with unfamiliar business terminology; the words and paragraphs ran together, a blur of markets, margins, and profits.  I was about to close the periodical when a bold advertisement caught my eye.  Immediately, I knew that this advertisement, cleverly embedded in the pages of monotonous text, was a perfect representation of coming-of-age during the “Roaring Twenties”.

“A smooth shave depends upon the correct stroke…Which do you use…?”  Emblazoned in bold print and bordered with thick black lines, this tagline stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding pages of repetitive text.  An image of four identical razors, each clearing away a path of shaving cream in a unique way, serves as the backdrop for this critical question.  Each razor approaches the shaving cream in a distinctive way; the first razor is tilted at a slight angle, the second razor is perfectly straight and precise, the third zigzags in a random and artistic path, and the last razor produces a sweeping arc.  This image, combined with the bold tagline, instantly draws the eye to the advertisement, immediately securing the reader’s interest.

The bottom half of the advertisement consists of paragraphs of text explaining the significance of the Gillette Razor; enlightening the reader as to why Gillette Razors are different from every other razor.  Gillette claims that 8 out of 10 men shave with a Gillette Razor, with only half of the users utilizing the correct stroke (first razor described above).  While the advertisement provides the definition of the “correct” stroke, the advertisement also proceeds to acknowledge shaving as a unique experience.  Gillette recognizes that a man finds value in his unique shaving stroke.  As a company respectful of individuality and personal preference, Gillette continues to advocate individuality, informing readers that the company has constructed a razor blade capable of adapting to each shaver’s personal needs and preferences. 

Gillette claims that the company is attentive to intricate detail, leading to the production of the perfect blade.  According to the advertisement, Gillette invested $12,000,000 on blade improvements from 1919-1929.  To conclude, Gillette urges readers to use a Gillette Blade the next morning, recommending the correct stroke, but understanding the user’s right to create their own stroke, to forge their own path. 

Growing up with an older brother, and two younger brothers, I observed firsthand how shaving symbolizes the “coming-of-age” experience for males.  I remember the day when my mom and dad decided it was time for my older brother to begin shaving.  My dad presented my brother with his first razor, complete with carrying case and replacement blades.   He took my brother to the bathroom mirror and spent hours instructing him on the “correct way” to shave.  For my brother, and other adolescent males, this is a defining moment in their journey towards maturity, a representation of their transformation from childhood to manhood.  In an instant, they are thrust into the world of men. 

This advertisement depicts the male “coming-of-age” during the 1920s, a time period in which individuality was encouraged, by promoting an individualized shaving experience, reflective of the equally “coming-of-age” experience of each reader.  Surrounded by pages of text promoting the standardization of industry and models of the “ideal businessman”, Gillette refreshingly reminds readers of their individuality during this decade of social freedom.  Attitudes of freedom and individuality in this time period were especially prevalent in younger generations, reflected in the rebellion against Prohibition, the establishment of the “Jazz Age”, and the development of the “new woman” (flappers).  Gillette preys on this youthful movement advocating individuality and free will, presenting the “coming-of-age” experience of shaving as a unique expression this rising individuality.  Gillette offers readers the “proper method” of shaving, symbolizing “proper” traditions and the standard “coming-of-age” experience, but also acknowledges the value in individually unique strokes.  Gillette does not criticize those who break from tradition and the social norms; on the contrary, the advertisement encourages the individual to rejoice in their individuality, forging their own distinctive path both in shaving and in life. 

Some may argue that I am reading too much into this advertisement, contending that my previously established agenda (finding a “coming-of-age” example) resulted in misinterpretation a simple advertisement for razor blades. However, if I, as a woman in the 21^st century discovered this underlying representation of the male “coming-of-age” experience, wouldn’t it be reasonable to assume that others, especially males of this decade, consciously or unconsciously discovered this same message?  One reader, guided by past direction and tradition, may find security in doing things as they have always been done, symbolized by the first, “proper” razor stroke.  Another reader, intent to follow a clear and straight path, might see himself reflected in the firm, straight stroke of the second razor.  Another reader, comfortable with experimentation and unconcerned about precision, may branch out, breaking patterns and traditions like the third razor stroke.  Another reader, happy to bend the rules of society and break free of all patterns and guidelines may see his independence in the final arcing razor stroke. 

Just like the Gillette Razor advertised in the September 1929 Businessweek magazine, every individual is unique, forging a path in the world based on their experiences, preferences, and individuality. As they forge their path, individuals “come-of-age”, an experience as unique and individualized as the razor strokes in the advertisement.  As an individual grows and matures, even in our world today, it is important to remember an important and very cliché, concept: there are different strokes for different folks, that individuals “come-of-age” in different ways, maturing through their uniquely personal experiences and personalities.

A Day at the Dunes: Sand, Sun and Tears

From our picnic area, the massive sand dunes did not look too big; in fact, the sandy dooms, resting against the backdrop of blue snow capped mountains and a cloudless sky appeared tranquil and inviting on the warm summer day.  After visiting the dunes years before, my brother Andy and I decided to drive the 5 hours from Colorado Springs to Alamosa, Colorado so that our visiting extended family could experience this internationally known tourist attraction.  After eating a hearty picnic lunch, we decided to leave my grandmother to her reading and take my cousins (10 and 6 years old), my aunt, and my uncle across the river to hike the dunes.  Our goal was simple: to conquer the highest dune.  But this “simple” goal was about to become one of the most difficult physical feats any of us had ever endured; only two would make it to the top.

As I said, from a distance, the “highest dune” did not appear to be that tall.  You could see armies of microscopic people scaling the dune, reassuring that the trek could not possibly be that challenging.  Armed with water bottles and towels, we started towards the dune, eagerly anticipating the view from the top.  But even before we reached the base of the dune, we faced our first obstacle: the Medano Creek.  This temptress lures in hikers with its cool, refreshing water, offering relief from the hot sand.  Unable to resist the temptation, we stopped to dip our feet in the slow moving currents; however, our refreshment was quickly replaced with dismay as we realized how easily the surrounding sand clung to our wet skin.  Unable to completely dry off our feet, we forced our socks and shoes onto sandy feet, feeling the grind of gritty particles against our skin with each step.

When we finally reached the base, a 15 minute walk through a flat plain of sand, we discovered that the dune, a mere hill from the distance, loomed above us at a height of 650 feet.  To add to our dismay, there were no trails, merely vanishing footprints marking the path of your predecessors.  After choosing a pair of rapidly retreating footprints, we began to hike.  At first, the climb was fun.  The warmth of the sand and low incline reminded you of walking on a beach. But after only 10 minutes, everything changed.  I began to notice the heat of the direct sun on my neck, the heat of the sand piling up in my shoes, the strain on my legs as the path grew increasingly steep.  My uncle, over 6 feet tall and an avid hockey player, quickly gave and began to make his way back down the dune.  My little cousin, aware of her father’s discomfort, was persuaded to continue only after I offered to carry her on my back. 

For the next 20 minutes, we hiked without words; my brother forging the way as the rest of us breathlessly fell behind.  When we finally stopped for a water break, we were exhausted.  From this point, we could see that what we thought was one dune was actually multiple dunes, converging to create deep valleys and steep ridges.   In order to go any higher, we would be forced to walk down a bowl-shaped valley and climb the almost vertical wall to the top of the next dune.  Going down was easy, climbing back up that proved nearly impossible.  The sand of the dunes could reach up to 150 degrees Fahrenheit, a fact our bare legs quickly discovered as sand caved in with every step.  Our only relief was at the top of the bowl we were stranded inside.  After placing our cousins on our backs, my brother and I crawled up the wall, enduring the burn of the sand which now engulfed both our arms and legs.  It took us 20 minutes to scale this wall, using every last ounce of energy (and water) we had left.  At the top, my aunt decided to take the two cousins back down the dune, knowing there was no way they could make it to the top. 

Only my brother and I remained.  After catching our breath, we began to hike the last half of the dune.  We were forced countless times to walk on narrow ridges, surrounded by plunging depths and plummeting valleys, which threatened to consume us.  Finally we reached the top of the “highest dune”, but sadly, this dune was not the actually the highest.  After scaling the infamous “High Dune”, actually the second highest dune, we were able to see the hidden “Star Dune”, indistinguishable from the parking lot but discernable at this close distance.

We pondered turning back, but we had come this far; we were resolved to conquer the dunes.  At this point in the hike, the masses of hikers had dwindled to only one or two in sight. The dunes had conquered hundreds of hikers who had flocked to them that day, but digging into an unknown energy reserve, my brother and I set out to climb this final peak.  Every hardship we had faced only multiplied as we climbed the last dune.  The sand was hotter and more abundant, pouring into our shoes from every crack and hole; the sun was hotter as the elevation climbed.  Our water was gone and so was our strength.  The “ground” we walked on became increasingly unstable, forcing us to take five or six steps to gain one yard. 

Finally, only one last wall of sand stood between us and the peak.  My brother set out, eager to reach the peak, relying on his cross country endurance to pull him through.  I straggled behind, until he became a dot in the distance.  Exhausted, I sat down on the burning sand, out of energy, and decided to wait for him to return.  I simply could not go any farther.  After a few minutes passed, I heard energetic voices coming towards me.  I looked up, and squinting, I could distinguish a pair of hikers approaching in the sandy haze.  When they finally reached me, one of them reached down a weathered hand to help me up, speaking to me in rapid Spanish.  They beckoned me to follow them up the peak, and having no energy to argue, I did.  I was astonished to find that as I walked in their footprints, the sand became firm, requiring less energy to climb.  So literally, in the footsteps of these two unknown hikers, I was able to scale the peak.

The top of the dune was breathtaking.  From the parking lot, a person could only see a ridge of dunes with one discernable summit; however, from the top, one could see sandy dunes stretching out in every direction.  The sweat and tears that had led to this summit made the view all the more breathtaking.  My brother and I lost track of time as we sat at the summit, looking over the wide expanse of sand, allowing our fatigued bodies to finally rest.  

The trip back was almost entirely downhill.  My brother and I would lean forward, allowing gravity to pull us down with avalanches of sand, making the trip back down quick and easy.  We took pictures and videos as our legs spun out of control, causing us to tumble down embankments of sand.  In retrospect, I am positive that this is the most trying physical feat I have ever participated in; however, it also remains one of the most memorable experiences of my life.  The best part?  I have pictures from the summit on that day to remind myself that I conquered the dune, and that more importantly, the dune failed to conquer me.